THE AWAKENING
A time comes in your life when you finally get it...when, in the midst of
all your fears and insanity, you stop dead in your tracks and somewhere the
voice inside your head cries out - ENOUGH!
Enough fighting and crying or struggling to hold on. And, like a child
quieting down after a blind tantrum, your sobs begin to subside, you shudder
once or twice, you blink back your tears and begin to look at the world
through new eyes.
This is your awakening.
You realize it's time to stop hoping and waiting for something to
change...or for happiness, safety and security to come galloping over the
next horizon.
You come to terms with the fact that neither of you is Prince Charming or
Cinderella and that in the real world there aren't always fairy tale endings
(or beginnings for that matter) and that any guarantee of "happily ever
after" must begin with you...and in the process a sense of serenity is born
of acceptance.
You awaken to the fact that you are not perfect and that not everyone will
always love, appreciate or approve of who or what you are ... and that's OK.
They are entitled to their own views and opinions.
And you learn the importance of loving and championing yourself...and in the
process a sense of new found confidence is born of self-approval.
You stop complaining and blaming other people for the things they did to you
(or didn't do for you) and you learn that the only thing you can really
count on is the unexpected.
You learn that people don't always say what they mean or mean what they say
and that not everyone will always be there for you and that it's not always
about you.
So, you learn to stand on your own and to take care of yourself...and in the
process a sense of safety and security is born of self-reliance.
You stop judging and pointing fingers and you begin to accept people as they
are and to overlook their shortcomings and human frailties..and in the
process a sense of peace and contentment is born of forgiveness.
You realize that much of the way you view yourself, and the world around
you, is as a result of all the messages and opinions that have been
ingrained into your psyche.
And you begin to sift through all the junk you've been fed about how you
should behave, how you should look, how much you should weigh, what you
should wear, what you should do for a living, how much money you should
make, what you should drive, how and where you should live, who you should
marry, the importance of having and raising children, and what you owe your
parents, family, and friends.
You learn to open up to new worlds and different points of view.
And you begin reassessing and redefining who you are and what you really
stand for.
You learn the difference between wanting and needing and you begin to
discard the doctrines and values you've outgrown, or should never have
bought into to begin with ... and in the process you learn to go with your
instincts.
You learn that it is truly in giving that we receive.
And that there is power and glory in creating and contributing and you stop
maneuvering through life merely as a "consumer" looking for your next fix.
You learn that principles such as honesty and integrity are not the outdated
ideals of a bygone era but the mortar that holds together the foundation
upon which you must build a life.
You learn that you don't know everything, it's not your job to save the
world and that you can't teach a pig to sing.
You learn to distinguish between guilt and responsibility and the importance
of setting boundaries and learning to say NO.
You learn that the only cross to bear is the one you choose to carry and
that martyrs get burned at the stake.
Then you learn about love.
How to love, how much to give in love, when to stop giving and when to walk
away.
You learn to look at relationships as they really are and not as you would
have them be.
You stop trying to control people, situations and outcomes.
And you learn that alone does not mean lonely.
You also stop working so hard at putting your feelings aside, smoothing
things over and ignoring your needs.
You learn that feelings of entitlement are perfectly OK....and that it is
your right to want things and to ask for the things you want ... and that
sometimes it is necessary to make demands.
You come to the realization that you deserve to be treated with love,
kindness, sensitivity and respect and you won't settle for less.
And you learn that your body really is your temple.
And you begin to care for it and treat it with respect.
You begin to eat a balanced diet, drink more water, and take more time to
exercise.
You learn that being tired fuels doubt, fear, and uncertainty and so you
take more time to rest.
And, just as food fuels the body, laughter fuels our soul.
So you take more time to laugh and to play.
You learn that, for the most part, you get in life what you believe you
deserve...and that much of life truly is a self-fulfilling prophecy.
You learn that anything worth achieving is worth working for and that
wishing for something to happen is different than working toward making it
happen.
More importantly, you learn that in order to achieve success you need
direction, discipline and perseverance.
You also learn that no one can do it all alone...and that it's OK to risk
asking for help.
You learn the only thing you must truly fear is the greatest robber baron of
all: FEAR itself.
You learn to step right into and through your fears because you know that
whatever happens you can handle it and to give in to fear is to give away
the right to live life on your own terms.
And you learn to fight for your life and not to squander it living under a
cloud of impending doom.
You learn that life isn't always fair, you don't always get what you think
you deserve and that sometimes bad things happen to unsuspecting, good
people.
On these occasions you learn not to personalize things.
You learn that God isn't punishing you or failing to answer your prayers.
It's just life happening.
And you learn to deal with evil in its most primal state - the ego.
You learn that negative feelings such as anger, envy and resentment must be
understood and redirected or they will suffocate the life out of you and
poison the universe that surrounds you.
You learn to admit when you are wrong and to build bridges instead of walls.
You learn to be thankful and to take comfort in many of the simple things we
take for granted, things that millions of people upon the earth can only
dream about: a full refrigerator, clean running water, a soft warm bed, a
long hot shower.
Slowly, you begin to take responsibility for yourself by yourself and you
make yourself a promise to never betray yourself and to never, ever settle
for less than your heart's desire.
And you hang a wind chime outside your window so you can listen to the wind.
And you make it a point to keep smiling, to keep trusting, and to stay open
to every wonderful possibility.
Finally, with courage in your heart and God by your side you take a stand,
you take a deep breath, and you begin to design the life you want to live as
best you can.
-- Author Unknown
Monday, March 16, 2009
the Cab Ride
THE CAB RIDE
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a life
for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it was also a
ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving
confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and
told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me,
ennobled me, made me laugh and weep. But none touched me more than a woman I
picked up late one August night.
I responded to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town.
I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone who had just
had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some
factory in the industrial part of town. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the
building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.
Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait
a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who
depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation
smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be
someone who needed my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the
door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something
being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small
woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one
had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There
were no clocks on the walls, no knick-knacks or utensils on the counters. In
the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said.
I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took
my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my
kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I
would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive
through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice".
I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have
very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through
the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd
ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm
tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building,
like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been
expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.
The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me
tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a
door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in
thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman
had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What
if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a
quick review, I don't think that I have done very many more important things
in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But
great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others
may consider small ones.
-- Author Unknown
Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a life
for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it was also a
ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a moving
confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total anonymity, and
told me about their lives. I encountered people whose lives amazed me,
ennobled me, made me laugh and weep. But none touched me more than a woman I
picked up late one August night.
I responded to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town.
I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone who had just
had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early shift at some
factory in the industrial part of town. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the
building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window.
Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait
a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who
depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation
smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be
someone who needed my assistance, I reasoned to myself. So I walked to the
door and knocked.
"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something
being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small
woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a
pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one
had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There
were no clocks on the walls, no knick-knacks or utensils on the counters. In
the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said.
I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took
my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my
kindness.
"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I
would want my mother treated."
"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.
When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive
through downtown?"
"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.
"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice".
I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.
"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have
very long."
I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through
the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were
newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had
once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd
ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit
staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm
tired. Let's go now."
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building,
like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were
solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been
expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door.
The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.
"Nothing," I said.
"You have to make a living," she answered.
"There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me
tightly.
"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."
I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a
door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in
thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman
had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What
if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away? On a
quick review, I don't think that I have done very many more important things
in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But
great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what others
may consider small ones.
-- Author Unknown
Friday, March 13, 2009
What are you doing with your weekend.........
SUNDAY COMPOSERS
By Dr. Michael A. Halleen
"We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. . . . (Let us) use it in proportion to (our) faith." (Romans 12:6)
Alexander Borodin was a nineteenth century Russian composer, a member of "The Mighty Handful," a group of that nation's five leading composers dedicated to producing a distinctly Russian music. His opera, Prince Igor, is thought by some to have been his most significant work.
Borodin, however, always considered himself no more than a part-time musician—a "Sunday composer," as he called himself. His training and professional career were in organic chemistry. He worked as a researcher in that field, writing scholarly articles and delivering lectures in Russian universities and throughout Western Europe. But on weekends, as a hobby, he wrote string quartets and symphonic poems—and Prince Igor. It's that music that became his legacy to the world. Likewise . . .
- Socrates was a stonemason who made a good honest, living. But he was a curious man, and in his off hours he asked questions and challenged people to think. Today he's remembered as the founder of Western philosophical thought.
- Alexander Graham Bell was a teacher whose wife was nearly deaf, and at least in part as an effort to assist her to hear better, he invented the telephone. What started as weekend tinkering to solve a domestic communication problem revolutionized communication for all.
- The Wright brothers built bicycles in Ohio, but when business was slow they fiddled around with the idea of flying. It was just a sideline. Then came that December day in Kitty Hawk, and the Wrights would forever be associated with flight.
- Jimmy Carter was, in many ways, an undistinguished, garden-variety U.S. president. Since leaving office, however, he has achieved greatness in still another career as an international diplomat and humanitarian.
The gifts that lie within many are too great to be confined to a single avenue of expression. The interests that drive some spirits are too varied and rich to be satisfied with punching the same clock for forty years. And, for a certainty, the needs of the world go well beyond the contribution any of us can make to meet them in a mere eight hours per day. We need more "Sunday composers."
Are there dreams still hidden in you? What are you doing next weekend?
By Dr. Michael A. Halleen
"We have different gifts, according to the grace given us. . . . (Let us) use it in proportion to (our) faith." (Romans 12:6)
Alexander Borodin was a nineteenth century Russian composer, a member of "The Mighty Handful," a group of that nation's five leading composers dedicated to producing a distinctly Russian music. His opera, Prince Igor, is thought by some to have been his most significant work.
Borodin, however, always considered himself no more than a part-time musician—a "Sunday composer," as he called himself. His training and professional career were in organic chemistry. He worked as a researcher in that field, writing scholarly articles and delivering lectures in Russian universities and throughout Western Europe. But on weekends, as a hobby, he wrote string quartets and symphonic poems—and Prince Igor. It's that music that became his legacy to the world. Likewise . . .
- Socrates was a stonemason who made a good honest, living. But he was a curious man, and in his off hours he asked questions and challenged people to think. Today he's remembered as the founder of Western philosophical thought.
- Alexander Graham Bell was a teacher whose wife was nearly deaf, and at least in part as an effort to assist her to hear better, he invented the telephone. What started as weekend tinkering to solve a domestic communication problem revolutionized communication for all.
- The Wright brothers built bicycles in Ohio, but when business was slow they fiddled around with the idea of flying. It was just a sideline. Then came that December day in Kitty Hawk, and the Wrights would forever be associated with flight.
- Jimmy Carter was, in many ways, an undistinguished, garden-variety U.S. president. Since leaving office, however, he has achieved greatness in still another career as an international diplomat and humanitarian.
The gifts that lie within many are too great to be confined to a single avenue of expression. The interests that drive some spirits are too varied and rich to be satisfied with punching the same clock for forty years. And, for a certainty, the needs of the world go well beyond the contribution any of us can make to meet them in a mere eight hours per day. We need more "Sunday composers."
Are there dreams still hidden in you? What are you doing next weekend?
the Barber.......
THE BARBER
After twenty years of shaving himself every morning, a man in a small Southern town decided he had enough. He told his wife that he intended to let the local barber shave him each day. He put on his hat and coat and went to the barber shop, which was owned by the pastor of the town's Baptist Church. The barber's wife, Grace, was working that day, so she performed the task. Grace shaved him and sprayed him with lilac water, and said, "That will be $20."
The man thought the price was a bit high, but he paid the bill and went to work. The next morning the man looked in the mirror, and his face was as smooth as it had been when he left the barber shop the day before.
Not bad, he thought. At least I don't need to get a shave every day. The next morning, the man's face was still smooth. Two weeks later, the man was still unable to find any trace of whiskers on his face. It was more than he could take, so he returned to the barber shop.
"I thought $20 was high for a shave", he told the barber's wife, "but you must have done a great job. It's been two weeks and my whiskers still haven't started growing back."
The expression on her face didn't even change, expecting his comment. She responded, "You were shaved by Grace and once shaved, always shaved!"
-- Author Unknown
After twenty years of shaving himself every morning, a man in a small Southern town decided he had enough. He told his wife that he intended to let the local barber shave him each day. He put on his hat and coat and went to the barber shop, which was owned by the pastor of the town's Baptist Church. The barber's wife, Grace, was working that day, so she performed the task. Grace shaved him and sprayed him with lilac water, and said, "That will be $20."
The man thought the price was a bit high, but he paid the bill and went to work. The next morning the man looked in the mirror, and his face was as smooth as it had been when he left the barber shop the day before.
Not bad, he thought. At least I don't need to get a shave every day. The next morning, the man's face was still smooth. Two weeks later, the man was still unable to find any trace of whiskers on his face. It was more than he could take, so he returned to the barber shop.
"I thought $20 was high for a shave", he told the barber's wife, "but you must have done a great job. It's been two weeks and my whiskers still haven't started growing back."
The expression on her face didn't even change, expecting his comment. She responded, "You were shaved by Grace and once shaved, always shaved!"
-- Author Unknown
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