"Don't be. The Lord has been good. I have lived a long life. I'm ready to go. You know that."
"I know," Jim whispered with a reassuring nod.
"But I do want to talk with you about my funeral. I
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have been thinking about it, and there are things that I know I want."
The two talked quietly for a long time. They talked about Martha's favorite hymns, the passages of Scripture that had meant so much to her through the years, and the many memories they shared from the five years Jim had been with Central Church.
When it seemed that they had covered just about everything, Aunt Martie paused, looked up at Jim with a twinkle in her eye, and then added, "One more thing, preacher. When they bury me, I want my old Bible in one hand and a fork in the other."
"A fork?" Jim was sure he had heard everything, but this caught him by surprise. "Why do you want to be buried with a fork?"
"I have been thinking about all of the church dinners and banquets that I attended through the years," she explained. "I couldn't begin to count them all. But one thing sticks in my mind.
"At those really nice get-togethers, when the meal was almost finished, a server or maybe the hostess would come by to collect the dirty dishes. I can hear the words now. Sometimes, at the best ones, somebody would lean over my shoulder and whisper, 'You can keep your fork.' And do you know what that meant? Dessert was coming!
"It didn't mean a cup of Jell-O or pudding or even a dish of ice cream. You don't need a fork for that. It meant the good stuff, like chocolate cake or cherry pie! When they told me I could keep my fork, I knew the best was yet to come!
"That's exactly what I want people to talk about at my funeral. Oh, they can talk about all the good times we had together. That would be nice.
"But when they walk by my casket and look at my pretty blue dress, I want them to turn to one another and say, 'Why the fork?'
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"That's what I want you to say. I want you to tell them that I kept my fork because the best is yet to come."
Roger William Thomas
Submitted by Mrs. Marie E. gilchrist
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There are no Wheelchairs in Heaven
My grandfather was a Buddhist priest. At the time of his death, he was the highest-ranking Caucasian priest in the world. But it was not the distinction of his accolades that one noticed in grandfather's presence; it was the energy that emanated from within. Grandpa's clear green eyes sparkled with a mysterious vitality. Although a quiet man, he always stood out in a crowd. Grandfather had a radiance that emanated from within. Silence seemed to speak profoundly around him.
His wife, my grandmother, was a High Roman Catholic. Brilliant and energetic, she was a woman ahead of her time. I called her "Gagi' because the first word that came out of my mouth as a baby was "gaga,' and she was sure I was trying to say her name. So Gagi it was, and is to this day.
Gagi had wrapped her life around her husband, becoming the source for all the income for themselves and their five children during their 50 years of marriage. Grandfather was thus freed to fulfill his mission as a priest and minister to the needy, as well as a host to the visiting dignitaries that frequented his temple from around the world. When Grandpa died, the light went out in Gagi's life, and a deep depression set in. Having lost her central focus, she retreated from the world and entered the stages of mourning and grief.
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During those days, I made a habit of visiting her once a week, just to let her know that I was there for her.
Time passed, as always, and the healing of the heart took its true and natural course.
One day, some years later, I went to pay my usual visit to Gagi. I walked in to find her sitting in her wheelchair, beamingalive with fire in her eyes. When I didn't comment soon enough about the obvious change in her demeanor, she confronted me.
"Don't you want to know why I'm so happy? Aren't you even curious?"
"Of course, Gagi," I apologized. "Tell me, why are you so happy? What has given you this new disposition?"
"Last night I got an answer. I finally know why God took your grandfather and left me behind," she declared.
"Why, Gagi?" I asked.
Then, as if imparting the greatest secret in the world, she lowered her voice and leaned forward in her wheelchair and confided in me. "Your grandfather knew the secret of a good life and he lived it every day. Your grandfather had become unconditional love in action. That's why he got to go first, and I had to stay behind." She paused thoughtfully, and then continued.
"What I thought was a punishment was, in fact, a gift. God let me stay behind so that I could turn my life into love. You see," she continued, "last night I was shown that you can't learn the lesson of love out there." She pointed to the sky as she spoke. "Love has to be lived here on earth; once you leave it's too late. So I was given the gift of life so that I can learn to live love here and now."
From that day on, my visits with Gagi were filled with a unique combination of both sharing and constant surprises. Even though her health was failing, she was really happy. Indeed, she finally had a reason for her life and a goal worth living for again.
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Once, when I went up to see her, she pounded the arm of her wheelchair in excitement and said, "You'll never guess what happened this morning."
I responded that I couldn't and she continued with growing enthusiasm, "Well this morning your uncle was angry with me over something I had done. I didn't even flinch. I received his anger, wrapped it in love and returned it with joy!" Her eyes twinkled as she added, "It was even kind of fun, and naturally, his anger dissolved."
Day after day passed, and visit after visit added up, while Gagi practiced her lessons in loveand all the while age continued to run its relentless course. Every visit was a new adventure as she shared her stories. She conquered mountains of habits within her and made herself constantly new. She was honestly giving birth to a new and vital being.
Over the years, her health gradually worsened. She went in and out of the hospital a lot. Finally, when she was 97, she entered the hospital just after Thanksgiving. I rode the elevator to the fourth floor and went to the nurses' station. "Which room is Mrs. Hunt in?" I asked.
The nurse on duty looked up quickly from her work, pulled her glasses off and replied, "You must be her granddaughter! She's expecting you and she asked us to keep an eye out for your arrival." She came out from behind the nurses' station saying, "Let me take you to her." As we started down the hallway, the nurse suddenly stopped, and looking directly into my eyes she said quietly, "Your grandmother is a special lady, you know. She's a light. The nurses on the floor all ask for her room when they're on duty. They love to take her medication to her because they all say that there's something about her." She paused, almost embarrassed at the thought of having said too much. "But, of course, you know that."
"She's special all right," I reflected, and a small voice
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whispered within, "Gagi has accomplished her goal. Her time is nearly done."
It was two days after Christmas. Having spent a couple of hours visiting with Gagi earlier that day, I was home in the evening relaxing when a voice suddenly came to me, "Get up! Go to the hospital, now! Don't hesitate! Go to the hospital now!"
I threw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, jumped into the car and sped to the hospital. Parking the car quickly, I broke into a run, racing the rest of the way to the elevator and up to the fourth floor. As I hit the door of her room, I looked in to see my aunt holding Gagi's head in her hands. She looked up with tears in her eyes. "She's gone, Trin,' she said. "She left five minutes ago. You're the first one here."
My mind reeled as I moved to Gagi's bedside. In prayerful denial, my hand went out to test her heart. It was silent; Gagi was gone. I stood holding her still warm arm, looking down at the beautiful old body that had housed the soul of the woman I had adored. Gagi had cared for me during my early years. She
had clothed me and paid my way through school when my parents were young and struggling to make ends meet. I was at a loss, unable to believe that my beloved grandmother, my dearest Gagi, was gone.
I remember the aching emptiness as I walked the floor around her bed that night, touching every part of her precious body. I was overwhelmed, flooded with impressions I'd never experienced before. Here were the arms and legs I knew so well, but where was she? Her body was vacant; so where had she gone? Deep in inner thought, I begged for an answer. One moment the body is animated by the soul and in the next moment it is gone, and nothing on earth can cause it to move or have life again. Where was Gagi? Where had she gone?
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Suddenly there was a flash of light and a burst of energy. My grandmother was hovering near the ceiling above her empty body. The wheelchair was gone and she was dancing in light.
"Trin, I'm not gone!" she exclaimed. "I left my body but I'm still here. Look, Trin, I've got the use of my legs back. There are no wheelchairs in heaven, you know. I'm with your grandfather now and my joy is boundless. As you look down at my vacant body, realize the secret of life. Always remember that you cannot take anything physical with you when you leave. I couldn't take my body with me, nor all the money I earned in life, nor any of the things that I amassed. Even my most prized possession, your grandfather's wedding ring, had to stay behind when I left."
Gagi's light was very bright as she continued, "You're going to meet a lot of people, Trin, and you must share this truth with all whom you meet. Tell people that the only thing that we take with us when we leave is a record of how much love we gave away. Our life, my child, is measured in giving, not in taking." And with that my grandmother's light dissolved and disappeared.
Many years have passed since that bedside moment, yet my grandmother's message remains. It is indelibly inscribed on my heart, and written in the little things I try to do to improve my character daily. Gagi loved me with all her heart. In the course of her lifetime she had showered me with gifts, but I knew that she had just given me her final and greatest gift. In her death she renewed my life.
D. Trinidad Hunt
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5
A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE
Things don't change. You change your way of looking, that's all.
Carlos Castaneda
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Christmas
He had been inspecting the church before the parishioners arrived for the first mass and had noted with approval that the aisles and pews had been swept and dusted after the midnight mass, and that any lost purses, prayer books and gloves had been collected and sent to the parish rectory.
It was a little before five in the morning. Outside it was dark, and in the church, where only the old priest moved about, the yellow light from the candles flickered and threw shifting shadows on the arches and the stone floor. Occasionally, a transient beam of candlelight dimly picked out the rich colors of the stained glass windows. It was cold, and except for the priest's slow tread, it was silent.
On his way back to the sacristy, he paused beside the crèche to say a Christmas prayer of greeting to the Christ Child. On the little model stage, with admirable realism, the sacred scene was shown. Through the open door you could see the night sky and the star that had led the shepherds to the stable; the shepherds, in fact, were just entering, in attitudes of adoration; livestock were in the stalls; and in the center was the Holy Family, looking down into the manger.
The priest frowned and leaned closer. The whisper of his exclamation rustled through the church. The manger
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was empty. The Christ Childthe little plaster doll that represented the infant saviorwas gone.
Hurriedly, and with growing agitation, the priest made a search that started in the vicinity of the manger and then took him, bent and peering, through the aisles again. He called the church sexton, then the assistant pastor and all the parish fathers. But none of them could offer any explanation. They discussed it long; and in the end, shaking their heads and surveying one another sorrowfully, they accepted the truth they had been trying to evade. The figure of the infant savior had not been mislaid, or lost; it had been stolen.
With a solemnity befitting the occasion, the pastor reported the theft to the congregation that assembled for the first mass. In a voice stern and yet trembling with outraged emotion, he spoke of the shocking nature of the deed, and of the dreadful sacrilege that had been committed. His gaze swept the congregation, as if searching the innermost thoughts of each man and woman. ''The Christ Child," he said, "must be returned to the crèche before this Christmas Day is over." Then, in silence, he strode from the pulpit.
At each succeeding mass he repeated this adjuration, but to no avail. The manger remained empty. Toward the end of Christmas afternoon the pastor, gray-faced and heavy-hearted, set out on a meditative stroll through the wintry streets of his parish.
It was while he was on this walk that he saw ahead of him one of the smallest members of his flock, a little boy of five or six named Johnny Mullaney. Shabbily bundled against the cold, Johnny was trudging up the sidewalk, dragging proudly behind him a toy express wagon, bright red and obviously Christmas new.
The priest was touched by the realization of the sacrifices and the scrimpings that the purchase of a toy like
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this must have entailed; for the family was poor. Here was a needed glow to warm his heart and to renew his faith in human nature. He quickened his step and overtook the little boy, intending to wish him a Merry Christmas and to exclaim admiringly over the beauty of the wagon. But as he drew nearer, this benevolent plan was suddenly put out of his mind by the discovery that the wagon was not emptyit contained, in fact, the figure of the Christ Child, now wrapped and blanketed, but not quite hidden.
Grimly the priest stopped Johnny. Severely he lectured him. The boy was only a little boy, and one must, of course, make allowancesbut nevertheless he was old enough to understand that stealing was a sin, and that to rob the church of a sacred image was a very great sin indeed. Now, in ringing tones, the priest made this plain to Johnny, who stood looking up at him with clear eyes that seemed guiltlessfilling now, however, with what must be penitent tears.
"But, Father," the small boy quavered, when at last the priest had finished his tirade, "I didn't steal the Christ Child. It wasn't like that at all." He gulped, and went on: "It was just that I've been praying to Him for a red wagon for a Christmas presentand I promised Him that if I got it, I'd take Him out for the first ride."
Author Unknown
Submitted by Carolyn Bower
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The Cookie Thief
A woman was waiting at an airport one night,
With several long hours before her flight.
She hunted for a book in the airport shop,
Bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop.
She was engrossed in her book, but happened to see,
That the man beside her, as bold as could be,
Grabbed a cookie or two from the bag between,
Which she tried to ignore, to avoid a scene.
She read, munched cookies, and watched the clock,
As the gutsy "cookie thief" diminished her stock.
She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by,
Thinking, "If I wasn't so nice, I'd blacken his eye!"
With each cookie she took, he took one too.
When only one was left, she wondered what he'd do.
With a smile on his face and a nervous laugh,
He took the last cookie and broke it in half.
He offered her half, as he ate the other.
She snatched it from him and thought, "Oh brother,
This guy has some nerve, and he's also rude,
Why, he didn't even show any gratitude!"