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Our Lord Jesus Christ loves you.
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Author Topic: Chicken Soup  (Read 101690 times)
HisDaughter
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« Reply #45 on: December 14, 2007, 11:09:57 AM »

Papa's Sermon
Author Unknown

     Busy in his study, a minister was preparing his sermon for the coming Sunday.  He reached to the shelf at his side for a book, and then remembered that he had left it downstairs.  His little daughter was playing in the bedroom, and he called her.  She came, running, eager and delighted at the throught that Papa needed her.  He explained carefully where she could find the book, and she went gladly, returning in a moment with a book which he saw at a glance was the wrong one.  But he hardly looked at the book as he took it and laid it on the table.  He looked only at the eager face of his daughter, wreathed in smiles.  Gathering her close to his heart, he kissed her and said, "Thank you, darling."  And when she had gone back happy and contented to her play he went quietly for the book he needed.  I think I should like to listen to the sermons that man would preach.



Fitting Description

There are many ways to measure success;
not the least of which is the way your child describes you
when talking to a friend.

author unknown.
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« Reply #46 on: December 15, 2007, 11:06:05 AM »

A Street Vendor Named Contentment
by Max Lucado

     Ahhh...an hour of contentment.  A precious moment of peace.  A few minutes of relaxation.  Each of us has a setting in which contentment pays a visist.
Early in the morning while the coffee is hot and everyone else is asleep.
Late at night as you kiss your six-year-old's sleepy eyes.
In a boat on a lake when memeories of a life well-lived are vivid.
In the companionship of a well-worn, dog-eared, even tear-stained Bible.
In the arms of a spouse.
At Thanksgiving dinner or sitting near the Christmas tree.
     An hour of contentment.  An hour when deadlines are forgotten and strivings have ceased...
     But unfortunately, in our squirrel cages of schedules, contests, and side-glancing, hours like these are about as common as one-legged monkeys.  In our wourld, contentment is a strange street vendor, roaming, looking for a home, but seldom finding an open door.  This old salesmans moves slowly from hours to hourse, tapping on windows, knocking on doors, offering his wares: an hour of peace, a smile of acceptance, a sigh of relief.  But his goods are seldom taken.  We are too busy to be content...
     "Not now, thank you.  I've too much to do," we say.  "Too many marks to be made, too many achievements to be achieved, too many dollars to be saved, too many promotions to be earned.  And besides, if I'm content, someone might think I've lost my ambition."
     So the street vindor named Contentment moves on.

     My list of things was, for the most part, undone.  My responsibilities were just as burdensome as ever.  Calls to be made.  Letters to be written.  Checkbooks to be balanced.
     But a funny thing happened on the way to the rat race that made me slip into neutral.  Just as I got my sleeves rolled up,, just as the old engine was starting to purr, just as I was getting up a good head of steam, my infant daughter, Jenna, needed to be held.  She had a stomachache.  Mom was in the bath so it fell to Daddy to pick her up.
     She's three weeks old today.  At first I started trying to do things with one hand and hold her with the other.  Your're smiling.  You've tried that too?  Just when I realized that it was impossible, I also realized that it was not at all what I was wanting to do.
     I sat down and held her tight little tummy against my chest.  She began to relax.  A big sigh escaped her lungs.  Her whimpers became gurgles.  She slid down my chest until her little ear was right on top of my heart.  That's when her arms went limp and she fell asleep.
     And that's when the street vendor knocked at my door.
     Good-bye, schedule.  See you later, routing. Come back tomorrow, deadlines...hello Contentment, come on in.

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« Reply #47 on: December 15, 2007, 04:11:16 PM »

A Street Vendor Named Contentment
by Max Lucado

     Ahhh...an hour of contentment.  A precious moment of peace.  A few minutes of relaxation.  Each of us has a setting in which contentment pays a visist.
Early in the morning while the coffee is hot and everyone else is asleep.
Late at night as you kiss your six-year-old's sleepy eyes.
In a boat on a lake when memeories of a life well-lived are vivid.
In the companionship of a well-worn, dog-eared, even tear-stained Bible.
In the arms of a spouse.
At Thanksgiving dinner or sitting near the Christmas tree.
     An hour of contentment.  An hour when deadlines are forgotten and strivings have ceased...
     But unfortunately, in our squirrel cages of schedules, contests, and side-glancing, hours like these are about as common as one-legged monkeys.  In our wourld, contentment is a strange street vendor, roaming, looking for a home, but seldom finding an open door.  This old salesmans moves slowly from hours to hourse, tapping on windows, knocking on doors, offering his wares: an hour of peace, a smile of acceptance, a sigh of relief.  But his goods are seldom taken.  We are too busy to be content...
     "Not now, thank you.  I've too much to do," we say.  "Too many marks to be made, too many achievements to be achieved, too many dollars to be saved, too many promotions to be earned.  And besides, if I'm content, someone might think I've lost my ambition."
     So the street vindor named Contentment moves on.

     My list of things was, for the most part, undone.  My responsibilities were just as burdensome as ever.  Calls to be made.  Letters to be written.  Checkbooks to be balanced.
     But a funny thing happened on the way to the rat race that made me slip into neutral.  Just as I got my sleeves rolled up,, just as the old engine was starting to purr, just as I was getting up a good head of steam, my infant daughter, Jenna, needed to be held.  She had a stomachache.  Mom was in the bath so it fell to Daddy to pick her up.
     She's three weeks old today.  At first I started trying to do things with one hand and hold her with the other.  Your're smiling.  You've tried that too?  Just when I realized that it was impossible, I also realized that it was not at all what I was wanting to do.
     I sat down and held her tight little tummy against my chest.  She began to relax.  A big sigh escaped her lungs.  Her whimpers became gurgles.  She slid down my chest until her little ear was right on top of my heart.  That's when her arms went limp and she fell asleep.
     And that's when the street vendor knocked at my door.
     Good-bye, schedule.  See you later, routing. Come back tomorrow, deadlines...hello Contentment, come on in.


Hello grammyluv
     The Secret of Love
As the Lord was creating the world
He called upon His archangels.
The Lord asked His archangels to help
him decide where to put the Secret of Life.

"Bury it in the ground," one angel replied.
"Put it on the bottom of the sea," said another.
"Hide it in the mountains," another suggested.

The Lord replied,"If I see to do any of those
only a few will find the Secret of Life.
The Secret of Life must be accessible to
EVERYONE!"

One angel replied," I know: put it in each
man's heart.
Nobody will think to look there."
"Yes!" said the Lord."Within each man's heart."
And so it was­­­­---
The SECRET OF LIFE lies within all of us.
                                           Author Unknown
Love in Jesus Def(';')
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But to us There Is But one God,  the  Father, of  whom  Are  all  things, and we in Him; and one Lord Jesus Christ by whom Are all things and we by Him(1Cor 8:6  KJV)
I believe that Jesus died for my sins  was buried rose again and is sitting at the right hand of God Almighty interceding for me Amen
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« Reply #48 on: December 15, 2007, 09:26:19 PM »

Hello grammyluv
     The Secret of Love
As the Lord was creating the world
He called upon His archangels.
The Lord asked His archangels to help
him decide where to put the Secret of Life.

"Bury it in the ground," one angel replied.
"Put it on the bottom of the sea," said another.
"Hide it in the mountains," another suggested.

The Lord replied,"If I see to do any of those
only a few will find the Secret of Life.
The Secret of Life must be accessible to
EVERYONE!"

One angel replied," I know: put it in each
man's heart.
Nobody will think to look there."
"Yes!" said the Lord."Within each man's heart."
And so it was­­­­---
The SECRET OF LIFE lies within all of us.
                                           Author Unknown
Love in Jesus Def(';')

I like that very much!  Thank you Def!
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« Reply #49 on: December 16, 2007, 12:08:03 PM »

Gossip
by Billy Graham

    There is story of a woman in England who came to her vicar with a troubled conscience.  The vicar knew her to be an habitual gossip --she maligned nearly everyone in the village.
     "How can I make amends?" she pleaded.  The vicar said, "If you want to make peace with your conscience, take a bag of goose feathers and drop one on the porch of each one you have slandered."
     When she had done so, she came back to the vicar and said, "Is that all?"  "No," said the wise old minister, "you must go now and gather up every feather and bring them all back to me."
     After a lone time the woman returned without a single feather.  "The wind has blown them all away."  she said.  "My good woman," said the vicar, "so it is with gossip.  Unkind words are easily dropped, but we can never take them back again."

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« Reply #50 on: December 17, 2007, 10:54:18 AM »

A Tender Warrior
by Stu Weber

     What does a healthy man look like?  I can't help but recall a statement from a young man who lives near us--- a sixteen-year-old high school sophomore.  His parents divorced when he was eight years old.  His father left and has never returned.  His stepdad, a tyrannical and poor excuse for a man, treats him poorly.  Tells him to "shut up" all the time.  Tells him he's worthless, stupid, and will never amount to anything.
     But just ask the boy about his dream and his eyes will light up.  This is what he'll tell you:  "I'd like to find out where my real dad lives.  And I'd like to move in next door without him knowing who I was.  And---I'd like to just become his friend.  Once I had become his friend, then maybe it would be OK for me to move on."
     This same young man who has had all kinds of difficulty in his life was asked to write an essay on the subject, "What is a man?"  The following is his brief essay---written by a boy who has never really been around a man, never really seen one.  But I think there is something so inherent, so ingrained, so intrinsic, so fundamental, that even a young boy who has never seen it modeled can put it into words.  Here's what he wrote:
A real man is kind.
A real man is caring.
A real man walks away from silly macho fights.
A real man helps his wife.
A real man helps his kids when they are sick.
A real man doesn't run from his problems.
A real man sticks to his word and keeps his promises.
A real man is honest.
A real man is not in trouble with the law.

     It's one lonely boy's vision of a man who stays.  A man who is both in authority and under authority.
     It's a vision of a Tender Warrior.

Character is what you are in the dark.

Dwight L. Moody
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« Reply #51 on: December 18, 2007, 11:01:54 AM »

The Mender
by Ruth Bell Graham

     He had built for himself a great house on one of the Caribbean islands.  It is a thing to behold.  Tall rusty iron columns, collected and resurrected with an ingenious homemade device.  The Great House is a masterpiece of salvaged materials.
     A collector and seller of scrap metal as well as antiques, he was also fascinated with broken bits and pieces of china dug from his front yard.  His friends, John and June Cash, laughingly remarked it was the first time they had heard of a yard sale where the man had sold the yard itself.  Carefully he fitted and glued the pieces together.  Few ever came out whole.  They remained simply a collection of one who cared.
     When I expressed interest, he gave me a blue-and-white plate, carefully glued together--pieces missing.
     "You remind me of God," I said.  By the look on his face, I knew I had shocked him, and I hurriedly explained.
     "God pieces back broken lives lovingly.  Sometimes a piece is irretrievably lost.  But still He gathers what He can and restores us."



Faith is...
Remembering
I am God's
priceless treasure
when I feel
utterly worthless

Pamela Reeve
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« Reply #52 on: December 19, 2007, 12:11:48 PM »

Don't Forget What Really Matters
adapted from Paul Harvey

     Carl Coleman was driving to work one morning when he bumped fenders with another motorist.
     Both cars stopped, and the woman driving the other car got out to survey the damage.
     She was distraught.  It was her fault, she admitted, and hers was a new car, less than two days from the showroom.  She dreaded facing her husband.
     Coleman was sympathetic; but he had to pursue the exchange of license and registration data.
     She reached into her glove compartment to retrieve the documents in an envelope.
     On the first paper to tumble out, written in her husband's distinctive hand, were these words:
     In case of accident, remember, Honey, it's you I love, not the car"

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« Reply #53 on: December 20, 2007, 10:59:56 AM »

Words for Your Family
by Gary Smalley & John Trent

I'm proud of you.
Way to go!
Bingo!  You did it!
Magnificent.
I knew you could do it.
What a good helper.
You're very special to me.
I trust you.
What a tresure.
Hurray for you!
Beautiful work.
You're a real trooper.
Well done.
That's so creative.
You make my day.
You're a joy.
Give me a big hug.
You're such a good listener.
You figured it out.
I love you.
You're so responsible.
You remembered.
You're the best.
You sure tried hard.
I've got to hand it to you.
I couldn't be prouder of you.
You light up my day.
My buttons are popping off!
I'm praying for you.
You're wonderful.
I'm behind you.



Fair Exchange

Let the wiife make the husband glad to come home, and let him
make her sorry to see him leave.

Martin Luther
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« Reply #54 on: December 21, 2007, 11:40:43 AM »

Behind the Quick Sketch
by Joni Eareckson Tada

     My are instructor, an excellent craftsman, told me a compelling story about the benefits of diligent work.
     Many years ago there was a famous Japanese artist named Hokusai, whose paintings were coveted by royalty.  One day a nobleman requested a special painting of his prized bird.  He left the bird with Hokusai, and the artist told the nobleman to return in a week.
     The master missed his beautiful bird, and was anxious to return at the end of the week, not only to secure his favorite pet, but his painting as well.  When the nobleman arrived, however, the artist humbly requested a two-week postponement.
     The two-week delay stretched into two months----and then six.
     A year later, the nobleman stormed into Hokusai's studio.  He refused to wait any longer and demanded both his bird and his painting.  Hokusai, in the Japanese way, bowed to the nobleman, turned to his workshop table, and picked up a brush and a large sheet of rice paper.  Within moments he had effortlessly painted and exact likeness of the lovely bird.
     The bird's owner was stunned by the painting.
     And then he was angry.  "Why did you keep me waiting for a year if you could have done the painting in such a short time?"
     "You don't understand," Hokusai replied.  Then he escorted the nobleman into a room where the walls were covered with paintings of the same bird.  None of them, however, matched the grace and beauty of the final rendering...
     This must also be true of the canvas of our lives.... If we want to have something of real worth and lasting value in our character, it won't come easy.
     It never does.

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« Reply #55 on: December 23, 2007, 01:22:40 PM »

Love is a Grandparent
by Erma Bombeck

     A preschooler who lives down the street was curious about grandparents.  It occured to me that, to a child, grandparents appear like an apparition with no explanation, no job description and few credentials.  They just seem to go with the territory.
     This, then, is for the little folks who wonder what a parent is.
     A grandparent can always be counted on to buy all your cookies, flower seeds, all-purpose greeting cards, transparent tape, paring knives, peanut brittle and ten chances on a pony.  (Also a box of taffy when they have dentures.)
     A grandparent is the only baby-sitter who doesn't charge more after midnight -- or anything before midnight.
     A grandparent buys you gifts your mother says you don't need.
     A grandparent arrives three hours early for your baptism, your graduation and your wedding because he or she wants a seat where he or she can see everything.
     A grandparent loves you from when you're a bald baby to a bald father and all the hair in between.
     A grandparent will put a sweater on you when she is cold, feed you when she is hungry and put you to bed when she is tired.
     A grandparent will brag on you when you get a typing pin that 80 other girls got.
     A grandparent will frame a picture of your hand that you traced and put it in her Mediterranean living room.
     A grandparent will slip you money just before Mother's Day.
     A grandparent will help you with your buttons, your zippers, and your shoelaces and not be in any hurry for you to grow up.
     When you're a baby, a grandparent will check to see if you are crying when you are sound asleep.
     When a grandchild say, "Grandma, how come you didn't have any children?" a grandparent holds back the tears.

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« Reply #56 on: December 24, 2007, 12:01:46 PM »

Beauty Contest
by Carla Muir

     A successful beauty product company asked the people in a large city to send pictures along with brief letters about the most beautiful women they knew.  Within a few weeks thousands of letters were delivered to the company.
     One letter in particular caught the attention of the employees and soon it was handed to the company president.  The letter was written by a young boy who was obviously from a broken home, living in a run-down neighborhood.  With spelling corrections, an excerpt from his letter read:  "A beautiful woman lives down the street from me.  I visit her every day.  She makes me feel like the most important kid in the world.  We play checkers and she listens to my problems.  She understands me and when I leave she always yells out the door that she's proud of me."
     The boy ended his letter saying, "This picture shows you that she is the most beautiful woman.  I hope I have a wife as pretty as her."
     Intrigued by the letter, the president asked to see this woman's picture.  His secretary handed him a photograph of a smiling, toothless woman, well advanced in years, sitting in a wheelchair.  Sparse gray hair was pulled back in a bun and wrinkles that formed deep furrows on her face were somehow diminished by the twinkle in her eyes.
     "We can't use this woman," explained the president, smiling.  "She would show the world that our products aren't necessary to be beautiful."

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« Reply #57 on: December 25, 2007, 11:47:02 AM »

Distant Relatives
by Carla Muir

     A certain old recluse lived deep in the mountains of Colorado.  When he died, distant relatives came from the city to collect his valuables.  Upon arriving, all they saw was an old shack with an outhouse beside it.  Inside the shack, next to the rock fireplace, was an old cooking pot and his mining equipment.  A cracked table with a three-legged chair stood guard by a tiny window. and a kerosene lamp served as the centerpiece for the table.  In a dark corner of the little room was a dilapidated cot with a treadbare bedroll on it.
     They picked up some of the old relics and started to leave.  As they were driving away, an old friend of the recluse, on his mule, flagged them down.  "Do you mind if I help myself to what's left in my friend's cabin?" he asked.  "Go right ahead," they replied.  After all, they thought, what inside that shack could be worth anything?
     The old friend entered the shack and walked directly over to the table.  He reached under it and lifted one of the floor boards.  He then proceeded to take out all the gold his friend had discovered over the past 53 years --- enough to have built a palace.  The recluse died with only his friend knowing his true worth.  As the friend looked out of the little window and watched the cloud of dust behind the relative's car disappear, eh said, "They shoulda got to know him better."

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« Reply #58 on: December 26, 2007, 11:50:51 AM »

The Final Bid
by Robert Strand

     The very wealthy English Baron Fitzgerald had only one child, a son, who understandably was the apple of his eye, the center of his affections, an only child, the focus of this little family's attention.
     The son grew up, but in his early teens his mother died, leaving him and his father.  Fitzgerald grieved over the loss of his wife but devoted himself to fathering their son.  In the passing of time, the son became very ill and died in his late teens.  In the meantime, the Fitzgerald financial holdings greatly increased.  The father had used much of his wealth to acquire art works of the "masters."
     And with the passing of more time, Fitzgerald himself became ill and died.  Previous to his death he had carefully prepared his will with explicit instructions as to how his estate would be settled.  He had directed that there would be an auction in which his entire collection of art would be sold.  Because of the quantity and quality of the art works in his collection which was valued in the millions of English pounds, a huge crowd of prospective buyers gathered, expectantly.  Among them were many museum curators and private collectors eager to bid.
     The art works were displayed for viewing before the auction began.  Among them was one painting which received little attention.  It was of poor quality and done by an unknown local artist.  It happened to be a protrait of Fitzgerald's only son.
     When the time came for the auction be begin, the auctioneer gaveled the crowd to attention and before the bidding began, the attorney read first from the will of Fitzgerald which instructed that the first painting to auctioned was the painting of "my beloved son."
     The poor quality painting didn't receive any bidders...except one!  The only bidder was the old servant who had known the son and loved him and served him and for sentimental reasons offered the only bid.  For less than an English pound he bought the painting.
     The auctioneer stopped the bidding and asked the attorney to read again from the will.  The crowd was hushed, it was quite unusual, and the attorney read from the Fitzgerald will:  "Whoever buys the painting of my son gets all my art collection.  The auction is over!"


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« Reply #59 on: December 27, 2007, 10:20:27 AM »

Michael's Story Begins at Age Six
by Charlotte Elmore

     In desperation, I asked if he could be retested.  She shook her head and said no.  In an attempt to show her just how "normal" Michael really was, I began telling her about all the things that Michael did well.  But she brushed my comments aside and stood up, dismissing me.  "Michael will be all right," she said.
     Later that evening, after Michael and his three-year-old sister, Linda, were in bed, I tearfully told Frank what I had learned that day.  After talking it over, we agreed that we knew our son much better than an IQ test.  We decided that Michael's low score must have been a mistake.
     Like me, Frank could not believe that ou son was "nearly retarded."  Instead, he told me about some of the things Michael recently had done that he felt proved Michael was intelligent... He said that one night Michael showed an interest in the blueprint sketches he was working on, so he found Michael's set of odd-shaped blocks and quickly sketched two-dimensional drawing of each of them.  Frank then asked Michael to match each block with it's corresponding drawing.  Frank said he was pleased with how easily Michael made things with his toy construction sets from the diagrams that came with the toys.
     We moved to Fort Wayne, Indiana, in 1962, and Michael entered Concordia Lutheran High School.  His grades warranted his selecting collage preparatory courses, including biology, Latin, and algebra--- the subject we had been told, when he was in first grade, he would never be able to handle.  Biology soon became his favorite subject.  He started telling everyone he was going to be a doctor.
     Michael entered Indiana University at Bloomington in 1965 as a premedical student.  By midyear, with a 3.47 grade point average, he had made the dean's list, and his faculty counselor gave him special permission to take more than the recommended number of course hours.  He earned enough credits to be accepted into the Indiana University School of Medicine in Indianapolis at the end of his junior year in college.
     During his first year at medical school, Michael took another IQ test and scored 126, an increase of 36 points.  An increase like that was supposed to be impossible.
     On graduation day, May 21, 1972, Frank, Linda, and I attended the ceremony and hugged our Dr. Mike!  After the ceremony, we told Michael and Linda about the low IQ score Michael had received when he was six---- as we had planned to do all along.  At first, both of them thought we were joking.  Since that day, Michael sometimes will look at us and say with a big grin, "My parents never told me that I couldn't be a doctor-- that is, not until after I graduated from medical school!"  It's his way of thanking us for the faith we had in him.
     It has been said that children often live up to what adults expect of them--- tell a child he is "dumb" and he may play the part.  We often wonder what would have happened if we had treated Michael as "nearly retarded" and imposed a limit on his dreams.

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