Chicken Soup

[nChrist]

Emergency Numbers

When in sorrow
call John 14

When men fail you
call Psalm 27

If you want to be fruitful
call John 15

When you have sinned
call Psalm 51

When you worry
call Matthew 6:19-34

When you are in danger
call Psalm 91

When God seems far away
call Psalm 139

When your faith needs stirring
call Hebrews 11

When you are lonely and fearful
call Psalm 23

When you grow bitter and critical
call 1 Corinthians 13

For Paul's secret to happiness
call Colossians 3:12-17

For idea of Christianity
call 2Corinthians 5:5-19

When you feel down and out
call Romans 8:1-30

When you leave home for labor or travel
call Psalm 121

When your prayers grow narrow or selfish
call Psalm 67

For a great invention/opportunity
call Isaiah 55

When you want courage for a task
call Joshua 1

How to get along with fellow men
call Romans 12

When you think of investments/returns
call Mark 10

If you are depressed
call Psalm 27

If your pocketbook is empty
call Psalm 37

Hello Grammyluv,

Sister, I've been missing these and copied all I missed to enjoy at my leisure. We take so many nice things for granted, so missing something you enjoy for even a short time is a good reminder to be thankful.

I've missed everyone and the posts without a computer. It's really surprising how uplifting it is to use great Christian materials every day in such a variety. It could be compared to the health benefits of a balanced diet, but in this case we're talking about Spiritual Health and Vitality for ETERNITY.

Love In Christ,
Tom

[HisDaughter]

Hello Grammyluv,

Sister, I've been missing these and copied all I missed to enjoy at my leisure. We take so many nice things for granted, so missing something you enjoy for even a short time is a good reminder to be thankful.

I've missed everyone and the posts without a computer. It's really surprising how uplifting it is to use great Christian materials every day in such a variety. It could be compared to the health benefits of a balanced diet, but in this case we're talking about Spiritual Health and Vitality for ETERNITY.

Love In Christ,
Tom

I agree.  And it is so good to see you back.  I know what you mean though about the fellowship here.  When my computer is on the blink or I miss getting on here for even a day because my schdule is busy I just don't feel the same all day long.  My computer is where my friends are and it's where I get all my daily news too since I don't have the TV anymore.
Missed you!
In Christ,
Yvette

[HisDaughter]

Clair de Lune

A few days after my dad died, my sister Cathy called and said, “Dad had a request for you to play some music at his funeral. Would you be willing to do it?”

I said, “You know I would.”

I figured she was going to tell me about some hymns he was particularly fond of. But what she said next took me totally by surprise. She said, “He’d like you to play Clair de Lune!”

I said, “Clair de Lune?”

She said, “Yup. That was the piece he asked for.”

I said, “I didn’t think he even knew the piece, let alone the title!”

She said, “Apparently he did, and he asked that you play it during Communion.”

I told her, “I’ll be happy to do it” and hung up.

Then I thought, "Clair de Lune?" I had not played that piece since I was 18 and back then it was one tough cookie. The mere mention of it drew me straight back to the living room of my childhood home on Dixon Avenue. I saw myself practicing at the piano, with dad listening from his favorite chair in the den, a little alcove just around the corner.

Every night after dinner dad would wander into that den, which was an appropriate name for the room. It really was a den, a cave where dad settled into his favorite chair like an old lion.

He loved music. Only his idea of a classic was Glenn Miller. He really enjoyed the likes of Nat King Cole and Lena Horne and of course, Frank Sinatra. He had a good sized collection of LP’s and a decent hi-fi set. So every night he’d put a stack of records on the turntable, relax in that chair of his, and listen.

Now, it didn’t take the mind of an Einstein to figure out that his lounge time was definitely not the time to practice the piano in the living room. So when I was young, if I was going to make any kind of music, I headed for the basement. There was this old upright piano in the game room down there and I played the daylights out of it. In fact, you could say I spent most of my musical gestation in that room on that piano. I didn’t graduate to the living room until I was reasonably accomplished as a pianist and even then I harbored a twinge of guilt for horning in on the old lion’s den time, though he never once complained about it. He would sit in his chair reading the newspaper and listening. Listening... but for what I don’t know. Half of the time what I was playing didn’t even make sense to me so he couldn't possibly have known what I was striving to master. I was doing major doses of Beethoven Sonatas, Bach Fugues, Chopin Etudes and not one morsel of Gershwin or Cole Porter. He had to be one lost soul awash in a clamor of crescendos, scales, and arpeggios.

I wasn’t aware of it at the time, but all the while he was listening as I fumbled through the notes of sonatas, listening to etudes and concertos, listening to me working my fingers into a frenzy, trying my best to learn enough music to make a respectable appearance at my weekly lessons with Joe Esposito.

Clair de Lune was not one of my lesson pieces. I heard it one day on the radio and I fell in love with it at once. I just had to learn it myself. It would be the first piece of classical music I had mastered without the aid of my teacher. I drove to the music store and bought the music. That was the easy part, learning it was another story. It was a tricky piece that required the lightness of a butterfly on the keys, and my touch seemed more like that of a jack hammer.

I had my work cut out for me. I went at it with the discipline of a soldier and the passion of an artist... note by note, color by color. I learned the whole thing by myself. It took months. Dad must’ve listened to it all.

Which brings me back to Cathy’s phone call. Dad’s request gave me a minor anxiety attack that whisked me back 40 years to my childhood home, slaving away at those notes, trying to master the music and make it into something Debussy might actually enjoy hearing.

Right after I hung up the phone I went over to my piano and prepared myself to slave away at the piece again. I dug through my pile of music and found the Debussy book. It had been a long time... a very long time. I put the music on the stand, opened it up, and began to play. I actually surprised myself. Apparently, 50 years as a pianist does something to the hands. My fingers found their way automatically to the keys. Just like riding a bike after a long hiatus, the music came out of my fingers as naturally as breathing, I hardly needed to look at the music. When I played it for dad’s funeral, I hardly needed to look at it then. It's a good thing because I couldn’t see it very well through my tears.

Funny, I always wondered why dad never complimented me on my playing. For the longest time I thought it was because he didn’t really care. I now understand that it was because he was just waiting for the right moment.

[HisDaughter]

Through the Window

               

A young couple moves into a new neighborhood.  The next morning while they are eating breakfast, the young woman sees her neighbor hanging the wash outside.
               
"That laundry is not very clean", she said. "She doesn't know how to wash correctly.   Perhaps she needs better laundry soap"  Her husband looked on, but remained silent.

Every time her neighbor would hang her wash to dry, the young woman would make comments about the laundry.
               
About one month later, the woman was surprised to see a nice clean wash on the line and said to her husband:
"Look, she has learned how to wash correctly. I wonder who taught her?"
               
The husband said, "I got up early this morning and cleaned our windows."
               
And so it is with life.  What we see when observing others, depends on the purity of the windows through which we look.

[HisDaughter]

Lucky the Dog

Anyone who has pets will really like this.  You'll like it even if you
don't and you may even decide you need one!

Mary and her husband Jim had a dog  named 'Lucky.' Lucky was a real
character. Whenever Mary and Jim had company come for a weekend visit
they would warn their friends to not leave their luggage open because
Lucky would help himself to whatever struck his fancy. Inevitably,
someone would forget and s omething would come up missing.

Mary or Jim would go to Lucky's toy box in the basement and there the
treasure would be, amid all of Lucky's other favorite toys. Lucky always
stashed his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his toys
stay in the  box.

It happened that Mary found out she had  breast cancer. Something told her
she was going to die of this disease....in fact, she was just sure it
was fatal.

She scheduled the double mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders. The night
before she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky. A  though t
struck her....what would happen to Lucky? Although the  three-year-old
dog liked Jim, he was Mary's dog through and through. If I die, Lucky
will be abandoned, Mary thought. He won't understand that I didn't want
to leave him.  The thought made her sadder than thinking of her own
death.

The  double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors had anticipated
and Mary was hospitalized for over two weeks. Jim took Lucky for his
evening walk faithfully, but the little dog just drooped, whining and
miserable.

Finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she arrived
home, Mary was so exhausted she couldn't even make it up the steps to her
bedroom.  Jim made his wife comfortable on the couch and left her to nap.
Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn't come to her when she called.  It
made Mary sad but sleep soon overcame her and she dozed.

When Mary woke for a second she couldn't understand what was wrong.  She
couldn't move her head and her body felt heavy and hot. But panic soon
gave way to laughter when Mary realized the problem. She was c overed,
literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned!  While she had
slept, the sorrowing dog had made trip after trip to the basement
bringing his beloved mistress all his favorite things in life.  He had
covered her with his love.

Mary forgot about dying.  Instead she and Lucky began living again,
walking further and further together every day. It's  been 12 years now
and Mary is still cancer-free.  Lucky? He still  steals treasures and
stashes them in his toy box but Mary remains his  greatest treasure.

Remember . . .  live every day to the fullest. Each minute is a blessing
from God. And  never forget . .. . the people who make a difference in our
lives are not  the ones with the most credentials, the most money, or the
most awards.  They are the ones that care for us.

If you see someone without a smile today give them one of yours!  Live
simply. Love seriously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to  God

[HisDaughter]

A LOAN FROM GOD


God promised at the birth of time,
A special friend to give,
His time on earth is short, he said,
So love him while he lives.

It may be for eight or ten years,
Or only two or three,
But will you, till I call him back,
Take care of him for me?

A wagging tail and cold wet nose,
And silken velvet ears,
A heart as big as all outdoors,
To love you through the years.

His puppy ways will gladden you,
And antics bring a smile,
As guardian or friend he will,
Be loyal all the while.

He'll bring his charms to grace your life,
And though his stay be brief,
When he's gone the memories,
Are solace for your grief.

I cannot promise he will stay,
Since all from earth return,
But lessons only a dog can teach,
I want you each to learn.

I've looked the whole world over,
In search of guardians true,
And from the folk that crowd life's land,
I have chosen you.

Whatever love you give to him,
Returns in triple measure,
Follow his lead and gain a life,
Brim full of simple pleasures.

Enjoy each day as it comes,
Allow your heart to guide,
Be loyal and steadfast in love,
As the dog there by your side.

Now will you give him all your love,
Nor think the labor vain,
Nor hate me when I come to call,
To take him back again?

I fancy each of us would say,
Dear Lord, thy will be done,
For all the joys this dog shall bring,
The risk of grief we'll run.

We'll shelter his with tenderness,
We'll love him while we may,
And for the happiness we've know,
Forever grateful stay.

But should the angels call for him,
Much sooner than we've planned,
We'll brave the bitter grief that comes,
And try to understand.

If by our love we've managed,
God's wishes to achieve,
In memory of him that we have loved,
And to help us while we grieve;

When our faithful bundle departs,
This earthly world of strife,
We'll get yet another pup,
And love him all his life.

~ Author Unknown ~

[HisDaughter]

Strongest Dad in the World
Sports Illustrated
By Rick Reilly

I try to be a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay for their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots. But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck.

This love story began in Winchester , Mass. , 43 years ago, when Rick was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain-damaged and  unable to control his limbs. "He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life;"  father, Dick, says doctors told him and his wife, Judy, when Rick was nine months old. "Put him in an institution."

But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was anything to help the boy  communicate. "No way," Dick says he was told. "There's nothing going on in  his brain." "Tell him a joke," Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain.

Rigged up with a computer that allowed him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? "Go Bruins!" And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an  accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, "Dad,  I want to do that." Yeah, right. How was Dick, a self-described "porker" who never ran more than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, he tried. "Then it was me who was handicapped," Dick says. "I was sore for two weeks."

That day changed Rick's life. "Dad," he typed, "when we were running, it felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!" And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly shape that he and  Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.

"No way," Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair competitor. For a few years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then they found a way to get  into the race officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made  the qualifying time for Boston the following year.

Then somebody said, "Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?"   How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick tried. Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15-hour Ironman in Hawaii   . It must be a buzz kill to be a 25-year-old stud getting passed by an old guy  towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you think?

Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on  the handlebars--all in the same day. Dick's also pulled him cross-country  skiing, taken him on his back mountain climbing and once hauled him across the  U.S. on a bike. Makes taking your son bowling look a little lame, right? Hey,  Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? "No way," he says. Dick does it  purely for "the awesome feeling" he gets seeing Rick with a cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride together.

This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston Marathon , in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best time'?  Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992--only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in  case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was  not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.

"No question about it," Rick types. "My dad is the Father of the Century." And what has Rick done for his father? Not much--except save his life. And Dick  got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack  during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. "If you  hadn't been in such great shape," one doctor told him, "you probably would've  died 15 years ago." So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston , and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland , Mass. , always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every weekend, including this Father's Day.

That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he really wants to give him is a gift he can never buy. "The thing I'd most like," Rick types, "is that my dad would sit in the chair and I would push him once."

[HisDaughter]

HOW TO OBSERVE THANKSGIVING

Count your blessings instead of your crosses;
Count your gains instead of your losses.
Count your joys instead of your woes;
Count your friends instead of your foes.
Count your smiles instead of your tears;
Count your courage instead of your fears.
Count your full years instead of your lean;
Count your kind deeds instead of your mean.
Count your health instead of your wealth;
Count on God instead of yourself.

[HisDaughter]

Make A Difference

My day started just like all the other days for the past 15 years where I get up, make some coffee, shower, get dressed and leave for the train station at preciously 7:35 A.M. to arrive at work by 8:30. While on the train I would always choose a seat away from the crowd so I can read the newspaper in peace and quiet. At work I am always being bombarded with questions from coworkers, suppliers, telephone and then those dreaded meetings so the last thing I need is some stranger to sit beside me and make small talk.

I don’t know why but for some reason when I got on the train today it was unusually full, something I don’t recall ever happening in the past. With hesitation I sat down in the only seat available beside a middle aged man that had his head down and seemed to be lost in his thoughts. I was glad that he didn’t notice when I sat next to him as he just continued to look down towards the floor.

Shortly after the train left for my 30 minute ride downtown I found myself wondering what this man was thinking about. What could be so important that he didn’t even see me sit next to him? I tried to forget about it and started to read my paper. However, for some strange reason this “inner voice” kept prompting me to talk to this man. I tried to ignore the “voice” as there was no way I was starting a conversation with a complete stranger.

As you probably guessed I eventually broke down and came up with an excuse to ask him a question. When he raised his head and turned his eyes towards me I could see that he must have been really upset as he had red eyes and still had some tears rolling down the side of his face despite his feeble attempt to wipe them away. I can’t describe the sadness I felt seeing someone in so much pain.

We talked for about 20 minutes and in the end he seemed to be doing better. As we were leaving the train he thanked me profusely for being an angel by taking the time to talk. I never did find out what was making his heart so heavy with pain but was glad I listened to the “voice” that day.

Several weeks had passed when I noticed an envelope on my desk after returning from lunch. It was not addressed to anyone and only had the word “Angel” written on it. My receptionist attached a note saying a gentleman dropped it off saying he did not know my name but had described me well enough that the receptionist knew it was for me. When I read the note inside the envelope I was so filled with emotions that I couldn’t contain myself. It was a letter from the man I met on the train thanking me again for talking to him and saving his life that day. Apparently he had some very hurtful personal problems that were so overwhelming he was planning to take his life that day. In his letter he went on to explain that he was a religious person and in desperation screamed out to god that if god really cared about him he would send someone to prevent him from taking his life. In his eyes I was that someone, that Angel sent by god.

Not being a religious person myself I don’t know what that “voice” was that made me take a chance and talk to a stranger but I do know that it made a difference in someone’s life that day. So the next time you feel prompted for no apparent reason to talk to a friend, relative, neighbor or even a complete stranger please remember my story, you just may make a difference in someone’s life when you listen to your inner voice.

[HisDaughter]

BE THANKFUL

Be thankful that you don't already have everything you desire. If you did, what would there be to look forward to?

Be thankful when you don't know something, for it gives you the opportunity to learn.

Be thankful for the difficult times. During those times you grow. Be thankful for your limitations, because they give you opportunities for improvement.

Be thankful for each new challenge, because it will build your strength and character.

Be thankful for your mistakes. They will teach you valuable lessons. Be thankful when you're tired and weary, because it means you've made a difference.

It's easy to be thankful for the good things. A life of rich fulfillment comes to those who are also thankful for the setbacks. Gratitude can turn a negative into a positive.Find a way to be thankful for your troubles, and they can become your blessings.

~~Author Unknown.~~

[HisDaughter]

Letter to Ruth

Ruth went to her mailbox and there was only one letter. She picked it up and looked at it before opening, but then she looked at the envelope again. There was no stamp, no postmark, only her name and address. She read the letter:

Dear Ruth:

I'm going to be in your neighborhood Saturday afternoon and I'd like to stop by for a visit.

Love Always, Jesus

Her hands were shaking as she placed the letter on the table. "Why would the Lord want to visit me? I'm nobody special. I don't have anything to offer." With that thought, Ruth remembered her empty kitchen cabinets. "Oh my goodness, I really don't have anything to offer. I'll have to run down to the store and buy something for dinner," She reached for her purse and counted out its contents, five dollars and forty cents. "Well, I can get some bread and cold cuts, at least."

She threw on her coat and hurried out the door. Ruth bought a loaf of French bread, a half-pound of sliced turkey, and a carton of milk, leaving Ruth with a grand total of twelve cents to last her until Monday. Nonetheless, she felt good as she headed home, her meager offerings tucked under her arm.

"Hey lady, can you help us, lady?" Ruth had been so absorbed in her dinner plans she hadn't even noticed two figures huddled in the alleyway.

It was a man and a woman, both of them dressed in little more than rags. "Look lady," the man explained, "I ain't got a job, ya know, and my wife and I have been living out here on the street, and, well, now it's getting cold and we're getting kinda hungry and, well, if you could help us, lady, we'd really appreciate it."

Ruth looked at them both. They were dirty, they smelled bad and frankly, she was certain that they could get some kind of work if they really wanted to.

"Sir, I'd like to help you, but I'm a poor woman myself. All I have is a few cold cuts and some bread, and I'm having an important guest for dinner tonight and I was planning on serving that to Him,"

"Yeah, well, okay lady, I understand. Thanks anyway."

The man put his arm around the woman's shoulders, then turned and headed back into the alley. As she watched them leave, Ruth felt a familiar twinge in her heart, "Sir, wait!" The couple stopped and turned as she ran down the alley after them. "Look, why don't you take this food. I'll figure out something else to serve my guest." She handed the man her grocery bag.

"Thank you lady. Thank you very much!" "Yes, thank you!" said the man's wife, and Ruth could see now that she was shivering. "You know, I've got another coat at home. Here, why don't you take this one." Ruth unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it over the woman's shoulders.

Then smiling, Ruth turned and walked back to the street, without her coat and with nothing to serve her guest. "Thank you lady! Thank you very much!" the grateful husband said.

Ruth was chilled by the time she reached her front door, and worried too. The Lord was coming to visit and she didn't have anything to offer Him. She fumbled through her purse for the door key. But as she did, she noticed another envelope in her mailbox.

"That's odd," she thought, "the mailman doesn't usually come twice in one day."

She took the envelope out of the box and opened it:

Dear Ruth,

It was so good to see you again. Thank you for the lovely meal. And thank you, too, for the beautiful coat.

Love Always Jesus

The air was still cold, but even without her coat, Ruth no longer noticed.

[David_james]

Matthew 25:35-40

 35 For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home.

 36 I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’

 37 “Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink?

 38 Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing?

 39 When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

 40 “And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters,[f] you were doing it to me!’

[HisDaughter]

Matthew 25:35-40

 35 For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home.

 36 I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’

 37 “Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink?

 38 Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing?

 39 When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

 40 “And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters,[f] you were doing it to me!’

These are beautiful verses Brother that definately apply and what I thought about as I read the story below.  Thank you for posting them!

[HisDaughter]

No Left Turns

This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize foreditorial writing. Well worth reading. And a few good laughs are guaranteed.

My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car. He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 yearsold, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: "Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse."

"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the  VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth , the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop,meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none."No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that. But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one."

It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first.

But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother. So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, theplace where I learned to drive the following year and where, and a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving.

The cemetery probably was my father's idea.

"Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage. (Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning.

If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home. If it wasthe assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio.

In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'd explain: "The Cubs lost again.  The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream.

As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?

"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

"No left turns," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."

"What?" I said again.

"No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."

"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support.

"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing. "Loses count?" I asked. "Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."

I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.

"No," he said. "If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90. She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102. They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom -- the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us thathe was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news. A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than
the second hundred." At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."

"You're probably right," I said.

"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.

"Because you're 102 years old," I said.

"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night. He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: "I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet."

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:

"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have." A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life or because he quit taking left turns.

[HisDaughter]

Someday

A friend of mine opened his wife's underwear drawer and picked up a silk paper wrapped package: "This, - he said - isn't any ordinary package." He unwrapped the box and stared at both the silk paper and the box. "She got this the first time we went to New York , 8 or 9 years ago. She has never put it on, was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is it.

He got near the bed and placed the gift box next to the other clothing he was taking to the funeral house, his wife had just died. He turned to me and said: "Never save something for a special occasion. Every day in your life is a special occasion".

I still think those words changed my life. Now I read more and clean less. I sit on the porch without worrying about anything.I spend more time with my family, and less at work.

I understood that life should be a source of experience to be lived up to, not survived through. I no longer keep anything. I use crystal glasses every day. I'll wear new clothes to go to the supermarket, if i feel like it. I don't save my special perfume for special occasions, I use it whenever I want to.

The words "Someday..." and "One Day..." are fading away from my dictionary. If it's worth seeing, listening or doing, I want to see, listen or do it now. I don't know what my friend's wife would have done if she knew she wouldn't be there the next morning, this nobody can tell. I think she might have called her relatives and closest friends. She might call old friends to make peace over past quarrels. I'd like to think she would go out for Chinese, her favorite food.

It's these small things that I would regret not doing, if I knew my time had come.I would regret it, because I would no longer see the friends I would meet, letters... that I wanted to write "One of these days". I would regret and feel sad, because I didn't say to my brother and sisters, son and daughters, not times enough at least, how much I love them.

Now, I try not to delay, postpone or keep anything that could bring laughter and joy into our lives.. And, on each morning, I say to myself that this could be a special day.. Each day, each hour, each minute, is special.

Remember that one day is far away....or might never come.