Your mind is a cupboard...

Too often when I look at my husband and children I see the things I wish they would change...like cleaning up after themselves in the kitchen or putting away their shoes or coats instead of leaving them in the middle of the floor or tossed on a chair in the living room.

What about drivers that don't signal then suddenly pull into the lane or turn without warning, or people that walk slowly down a crowded hallway or sidewalk when I'm trying to hurry past. Before long I feel irritated, grumpy, and am having a bad day.

"Focus on the positive" something we've all heard applies just as much for the little irritations in life as it does for the big things. When I take time to be grateful I have a family to love and care for, or remember some days I'm the distracted driver, or the one moving at a leisurely pace, I'm less apt to react negatively towards others. Not because they've changed--my thoughts have.  

Expressions of Love

Find out what these couples do...Happy Valentines Day!

be kind...

Let's be thankful we live in a world where little things make a difference--today be that difference for someone else!

Reflections on a Self-Check

It's 10:30 am and I wave goodbye to departing visitors and close the front door, embraced again by the temporary silence of an empty home. My mind, sluggish from lack of sleep ignores the tempting call for a nap. Instead I click "play" successfully ending the flashing red light signaling waiting messages on my answering machine. I listen while I load the dishwasher-glad there is nothing pressingly important that very moment.

The last few days, filled with faces and memories from the past has made me reflective. Reunions can do that. I'm reminded more starkly of the passing years as I gaze in the eyes of others faces. Once so familiar, now lined with age. I muse on a self-check. How fleeting life is, including my own. I hope the wisdom of age is progressing my focus on what matters most-the same thing it's always been-giving and showing love freely.

"None of us need one more person bashing or pointing out where we have failed or fallen short... when we are kind to each other, when we don't judge or categorize someone else, when we simply give each other the benefit of the doubt or remain quiet... accept someone's differences, weaknesses, and shortcomings; have patience with someone who let's us down; resist the impulse to become offended when someone doesn't handle something the way we might have hoped...forgive someone whose hurt us...expect the best of each other and believe we're trying to do the best we can, in spite of our weaknesses."― adapted by a quote from Marvin J. Ashton

Christmas Day in the Morning

He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o'clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o'clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.

Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father's farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

"Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He's growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone."

"Well, you can't, Adam." His mother's voice was brisk. "Besides, he isn't a child anymore. It's time he tok his turn."

"Yes," his father said slowly. "But I sure do hate to wake him."

When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children--they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought him something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.

He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had semed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.

"Dad," he had once asked when he was a little boy, "What is a stable?"

"It's just a barn," his father had replied, "like ours."

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come...

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o'clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He'd do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he'd see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he musn't sleep too sound.

He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match to look each time to look at his old watch -- midnight, and half past one, and then two o'clock.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father's surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He'd go to the barn, open the door, and then he'd go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn't be waiting or empty, they'd be standing in the milk-house, filled.

"What the--," he could hear his father exclaiming.

He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.

Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

"Rob!" His father called. "We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas."

"Aw-right," he said sleepily.

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

The minutes were endless -- ten, fifteen, he did not know how many -- and he heard his father's footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

"Rob!"

"Yes, Dad--"

His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.

"Thought you'd fool me, did you?" His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

"It's for Christmas, Dad!"

He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father's arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each other's faces.

"Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing--"

"Oh, Dad, I want you to know -- I do want to be good!" The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

"The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I'll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live."

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.

It occured to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again. This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love...

Such a happy, happy Christmas!

THE END
...By Pearl S. Buck

The Burnt Biscuit

When I was a kid, my mom liked to make breakfast food for dinner every now and then. And I remember one night in particular when she had made breakfast after a long, hard day at work.On that evening so long ago, my mom placed a plate of eggs, sausage and extremely burned biscuits in front of my dad. 

I remember waiting to see if anyone noticed! Yet all my dad did was reach for his biscuit, smile at my mom and ask me how my day was at school. I don't remember what I told him that night, but I do remember watching him smear butter and jelly on that biscuit and eat every bite!

When I got up from the table that evening, I remember hearing my mom apologize to my dad for burning the biscuits. And I'll never forget what he said: "Honey, I love burned biscuits."

Later that night, I went to kiss Daddy good night and I asked him if he really liked his biscuits burned. He wrapped me in his arms and said, "Your Momma put in a hard day at work today and she's real tired. And besides - a little burnt biscuit never hurt anyone!"

Life is full of imperfect things.......and imperfect people. I'm not the best at hardly anything, and I forget birthdays and anniversaries just like everyone else. But what I've learned over the years is that learning to accept each others faults - and choosing to celebrate each others differences -is one of the most important keys
to creating a healthy, growing, and lasting relationship.

And that's my prayer for you today. That you will learn to take the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of your life and lay them at the feet of God. Because in the end, He's the only One who will be able to give you a relationship where a burnt biscuit isn't a deal-breaker!

We could extend this to any relationship. In fact, understanding is the base of any relationship, be it a husband-wife or parent-child or friendship!

"Don't put the key to your happiness in someone else's pocket - keep it in your own."

-author unknown

For One Day

She had a problem common to most of us, she found it easy to be critical of others. After meditating on Romans 14:13 she became aware of the Lord nudging her not to be critical for one day.

She tried to shove it off. But she couldn't get it out of her mind. So she tried to rationalize her critical attitude. After all, aren't we to use the intelligence God gave us to analyze and evaluate---even though the results is not always positive? The nudging continued right through the debate going on in her mind until she finally agreed to give the experiment a try---but just for the one day would stop criticizing.

Through most of the morning she kept wondering what the result would be at. The lunch with her husband and friends was normal except for the unusual silence of one person---her. She had not committed to silence, just to not criticizing. It surprised her to realize how much of her conversation was usually critical and judgmental. She was silent only because she couldn't contribute to the conversation without judging. So, she kept quiet and no one seemed to notice. A sting to the pride as well.

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that something special began to happen. The floodgate of ideas began to open and creative thoughts flowed through in a way she hadn't experienced in a long time.

At day's end she marveled at all that had transpired simply because she refused to entertain a critical attitude. A letter to encourage a friend, insight into praying for a college student, seeking her child's forgiveness, all filtered through her freely because there was no negative thoughts to stop them. She turned her one-day experiment into a lifetime habit.

Catherine Marshall, Retold by Marilyn K. McAuley

Pickup in the Rain

One night, at 11:30 PM, an older African American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young white man stopped to help her - generally unheard of in those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote down his address,thanked him and drove away. Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant console color TV was delivered to his home. A special note was attached. It read: "Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others."

Sincerely, Mrs. Nat King Cole

A Test of Love

John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station.

He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose. His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind.

In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II.

During the next year and one-month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A Romance was budding.

Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like.

When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York.

"You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel."

So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.

I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:

A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive.

I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.

"Going my way, sailor?" she murmured.

Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.

I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own.

And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her.

This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment.

"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"

The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile.

"I don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"

Author Unknown

Pay it Forward

This morning my 14 year-old-son who loves to sleep got up early and made breakfast for his 9 year-old-sister.

She had no idea why. It was one of her favorites-egg on toast. He also made bacon. We usually only have bacon for breakfast if it's a holiday or something special. He put the plate, neatly arranged with a folded napkin, silverware and a glass of juice in her bedroom. When she came out of the bathroom a minute later and went back to her room she was pleasantly startled to find it.

Someone knocked on my door.

"Yes?" I said sleepily.

"Mom, you've got to see this," my daughter exclaimed from the hallway.

I yawned. "What is it?"

Disbelief accented her words. "I have to show you."

She walked in, carrying a plate of delicious-looking food and thrust it underneath my gaze. For a second I thought she was bringing me breakfast. Sweet!

"Some one put this in my bedroom."

Her words instantly popped that thought, but it was okay.

"Really?" her dad asked. "It looks great. Who made it?"

"Zach," she said, with puzzlement.

My husband and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows."Zach? why would he make you breakfast?"

"I don't know," she giggled, holding the plate in front of her like a treasure.

"That was really nice of him," her dad said. "Why are you so lucky this morning?"

"I don't know..." her eyes sparkled and a huge grin filled her face. "I even checked the calendar

to see if it's a special day today." She suddenly looked confused. "But, it isn't."

"Guess that means you're the special one today. Go eat it before it gets cold, sweetie."

She nodded and left the bedroom, walking like she owned the world.

Later that morning we gathered together in the living room for scriptures, and family prayer. Afterwards, she turned to her brother. "Why did you make me breakfast today?"

Everyone got quiet.

"Because I love you."

She stared at him, looking as if she might tumble off the couch in disbelief and mine and her dad's mouths practically dropped to the floor. Had we heard him right?

Zach just smiled.

When was the last time you did something nice for someone, unexpectedly?

The Hairbrush

April 20, 2005, at the Airport in Knoxville, waiting to board the plane, I had the Bible on my lap and was very intent upon what I was doing. I'd had a marvelous morning with the Lord. I say this because I want to tell you it is a scary thing to have the Spirit of God really working in you. You could end up doing some things you never would have done otherwise. Life in the Spirit can be dangerous for a thousand reasons not the least of which is your ego. I tried to keep from staring, but he was such a strange sight.

Humped over in a wheelchair, he was skin and bones, dressed in clothes that obviously fit when he was at least twenty pounds heavier. His knees protruded from his trousers, and his shoulders looked like the coat hanger was still in his shirt. His hands looked like tangled masses of veins and bones. The strangest part of him was his hair and nails. Stringy, gray hair hung well over his shoulders and down part of his back. His fingernails were long, clean but strangely out of place on an old man.

I looked down at my Bible as fast as I could, discomfort burning my face. As I tried to imagine what his story might have been, I found myself wondering if I'd just had a Howard Hughes sighting. Then, I remembered that he was dead. So this man in the airport...an impersonator maybe? Was a camera on us somewhere? There I sat; trying to concentrate on the Word to keep from being concerned about a thin slice of humanity served on a wheelchair only a few seats from me. All the while, my heart was growing more and more overwhelmed with a feeling for him.

Let's admit it. Curiosity is a heap more comfortable than true concern, and suddenly I was awash with aching emotion for this bizarre-looking old man.

I had walked with God long enough to see the handwriting on the wall. I've learned that when I begin to feel what God feels, something so contrary to my natural feelings, something dramatic is bound to happen and it may be embarrassing.

I immediately began to resist because I could feel God working on my Spirit and I started arguing with God in my mind. "Oh, no, God, please, no." I looked up at the ceiling as if I could stare straight through it into heaven and said, "Don't make me witness to this man. Not right here and now. Please. I'll do anything. Put me on the same plane, but don't make me get up here and witness to this man in front of this gawking audience.

Please, Lord!"

There I sat in the blue vinyl chair begging His Highness, "Please don't make me witness to this man. Not now. I'll do it on the plane." Then I heard it... "I don't want you to witness to him. I want you to brush his hair." The words were so clear, my heart leapt into my throat, and my thoughts spun like a top. Do I witness to the man or brush his hair? No-brainer. I looked straight back up at the ceiling and said, "God, as I live and breathe, I want you to know I am ready to witness to this man.
I'm on this Lord. I'm your girl! You've never seen a woman witness to a man faster in your life. What difference does it make if his hair is a mess if he is not redeemed? I am going to witness to this man." Again as clearly as I've ever heard an audible word, God seemed to write this statement across the wall of my mind. "That is not what I said, Beth. I don't want you to witness to him. I want you to go brush his hair." I looked up at God and quipped, "I don't have a hairbrush. It's in my suitcase on the plane. How am I supposed to brush his hair without a hairbrush?" God was so insistent that I almost involuntarily began to walk toward him as these thoughts came to me from God's word: "I will thoroughly furnish you unto all good works."
(2 Timothy 3:17)

I stumbled over to the wheelchair thinking I could use one myself. Even As I retell this story, my pulse quickens and I feel those same butterflies. I knelt down in front of the man and asked as demurely as possible, "Sir, may I have the pleasure of brushing your hair?"

He looked back at me and said, "What did you say?"

May I have the pleasure of brushing your hair?"

To which he responded in volume ten, "Little lady, if you expect me to Hear you; you're going to have to talk louder than that."

At this point, I took a deep breath and blurted out, "SIR, MAY I HAVE THE PLEASURE OF BRUSHING YOUR HAIR?"

At which point every eye in the place darted right at me I was the only thing in the room looking more peculiar than old Mr. Longlocks. Face crimson and forehead breaking out in a sweat, I watched him look up at me with absolute shock on his face, and say, "If you really want to." Are you kidding? Of course I didn't want to. But God didn't seem interested in my personal preference right about then. He pressed on my heart until I could utter the words, "Yes, sir, I would be pleased. But I have one little problem. I don't have a hairbrush." "I have one in my bag," he responded.

I went around to the back of that wheelchair, and I got on my hands and knees and unzipped the stranger's old carry-on, hardly believing what I was doing. I stood up and started brushing the old man's hair. It was perfectly clean, but it was tangled and matted. I don't do many things well, but must admit I’ve had notable experience untangling knotted hair mothering two little girls. Like I'd done with either Amanda or Melissa in such a condition, I began brushing at the very bottom of the strands, remembering to take my time not to pull.

A miraculous thing happened to me as I started brushing that old man's hair. Everybody else in the room disappeared. There was no one alive for those moments except that old man and me. I brushed and I brushed and I brushed until every tangle was out of that hair. I know this sounds so strange, but I've never felt that kind of love for another soul in my entire life. I believe with all my heart, I - for that few minutes - felt a portion of the very love of God. That He had overtaken my heart for a
Little while like someone renting a room and making Himself at home for a short while. The emotions were so strong and so pure that I knew they had to be God's. His hair was finally as soft and smooth as an infant's.

I slipped the brush back in the bag and went around the chair to face him. I got back down on my knees, put my hands on his knees and said, "Sir, do you know my Jesus?"

He said, "Yes, I do." Well, that figures, I thought. He explained, "I've known Him since I married my bride. She wouldn't marry me until I got to know the Savior." He said, "You see, the problem is, I haven't seen my bride in months. I've had open-heart surgery, and she's been too ill to come see me. I was sitting here thinking to myself, what a mess I must be for my bride."

Only God knows how often He allows us to be part of a divine moment when we're completely unaware of the significance. This, on the other hand, was one of those rare encounters when I knew God had intervened in details only He could have known. It was a God moment, and I'll never forget it. Our time came to board, and we were not on the same plane. I was deeply ashamed of how I'd acted earlier and would have been so proud to have accompanied him on that aircraft.

I still had a few minutes, and as I gathered my things to board, the airline hostess returned from the corridor, tears streaming down her cheeks. She said, "That old man's sitting on the plane, sobbing. Why did you do that? What made you do that?"

I said, "Do you know Jesus? He can be the bossiest thing!"
And we got to share.

I learned something about God that day He knows if you're exhausted, you're hungry, you're serving in the wrong place or it is time to move on but you feel too responsible to budge. He knows if you're hurting or feeling rejected. He knows if you're sick or drowning under a wave of temptation. Or He knows if you just need your hair brushed. He sees you as an individual. Tell Him your need!

I got on my own flight, sobs choking my throat, wondering how many opportunities just like that one had I missed along the way . . . all because I didn't want people to think I was strange. God didn't send me to that old man. He sent that old man to me.

Beth Moore

How do we know?

I saw her across the crowded grocery store. She looked perfect. Each hair on her head smoothly in place, expertly applied make-up, beautifully manicured nails, clothes freshly ironed. I glanced in her cart as I came closer, grabbing a plastic bag to fill with tomatoes. Even her cart was organized. Three boxes of whole grain cereal, several kinds of fruit, frozen corn and peas, and two cans of frozen orange juice concentrate neatly arranged. She reached for a bag of mixed green salad and I noticed the large sparkling diamond on her left hand. How was I to know, inside, she was falling completely apart?

Are we really seeing those around us? Those in ordinary situations we meet everyday? How do we know who needs a warm smile, a hello, a few words of friendly conversation? Do we think it couldn't be the ones crossing our path looking as if they have it all together. Is it really just the ones whose countenance is more obviously down or looking needy in some way?

January first, the beginning of a brand new year. We're faced with a declining economy, increasing loss of homes and jobs, an unfinished war, and the leading baton of our government is passing hands. In some ways the future seems more uncertain in many of our lifetimes than ever before. Money may be tight, and worries heavy--but kindness, what is most important--is still free.

The very nature of kindness
Is to spread.
If you are kind to others,
today they will be kind to you,
and tomorrow to somebody else.

- Sri Chinmoy

Remember...

Christmas is just around the corner, 2008 almost gone. My hopes for 2009 is that I can remember what I've learned, again.

If your house is not as clean as it could be, your husband has a wife, and your children have a mother, who has more time for them.

Unconditional love is much more important than harsh judgement.

Fear of speaking to groups diminishes if you forget yourself and look into the listeners eyes. Then you can connect with their hearts.

Never forget how important it is to laugh, instead of cry.

Being friendly is better than saying nothing.

Everyone gets scared sometimes.

Listening teaches the most.

It's impossible to make time for everything, but you can make time for what is most important.

Trusting completely in God each day is the only way to face whatever comes.

One seed...

Last week I walked out to the parking lot of one of my favorite local grocery stores with several bags in my cart. It was mid-afternoon and I was anxious to get home. The list of items I needed to buy for the week were now complete.

I found my car and popped the trunk with the automatic button on my key fob. It was only a few minutes before I had everything loaded inside. I turned to return the cart and a man approached me. He looked at me with tired eyes, his clothes disheveled, his face needing a good shave.

I was hesitant,certain he was going to ask me for money.

He didn't. "Excuse me...I hate having to ask strangers, but I don't know what else to do." he stopped, probably noting my wary expression.”I was wondering...could you spare any food? My children are at home and they haven’t eaten anything all day. We have nothing in the house to feed them. We’re out of food stamps and I can't get any more until 6 am tomorrow morning. Could you give us anything...for my kids? I don’t want them to go to bed hungry.”

His question surprised me. I quickly ran through a mental list of what I had purchased. Nothing came to mind immediately. Then something did.

"What about some apples? I just bought some." It wasn't a lot but I couldn't remember anything else I purchased that didn't need other ingredients and preparation first.

He nodded slightly, looking hopeful. "Apples?" He stared at me. "Sure."

I re-opened the trunk and began to rifle through the bags for the crisp fruit. I had planned to make a pie. In the second bag I looked in, I found a large package of frozen burritos. I had forgotten those. They would be more substantial. I pulled them out, feeling the thick plastic cool my fingers instantly. I turned to face him again and held them up.

"Would this help?" I asked.

His eyes quickly scanned what I held, seeming unsure as to what it was. There now was a woman standing near him, her eyes also on the package in my hand. I assumed she was his wife. She looked similarly; tired, unkempt and discouraged. She nodded, smiling slightly. Something glimmered in her face. Hope? I handed the food to her. They both thanked me profusely.

"Good luck." I added as they moved away. I re-closed the trunk, seeing its contents now in a different light. I had so much. My family wouldn't miss the burritos.

One seed can start a garden.
One smile can lift a spirit.
One candle can light a room.
One conversation can start a friendship.
One person can make all the difference... (Author unknown)