November 15, 2007
IF GOD SHOULD GO ON STRIKE
How is it that God above
Has never gone on strike
Because he was not treated fair
In things He didn't like.
If only once He'd given up,
And said, 'That's it, I'm through!
I've had enough of those on earth,
So this is what I'll do;
I'll give my orders to the sun -
'Cut off the heat supply!'
And to the moon - 'Give no more
Light, and run the ocean dry.'
Then just to make things really tough
And put the pressures on,
'Turn off the vital oxygen
Till every breath is gone!'
You know, He would be justified
If fairness was the game.
For no one has been abused
Or met with more disdain
Than God, any yet He carries on
Supplying you and me
With all the favors of His grace
And everything for free.
Men say they want a better deal
And so on strike they go.
But what a deal we've given
To God to whom all things we owe.
We don't care whom we hurt
To gain the things we like.
But what a mess we'd all be in
If God should go on strike!!
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
November 13, 2007
The Legend of KILROY
The young James Kilroy was working on the docks of Boston harbor in the 1940s, loading the freight ships of the time with big crates filled with blue jeans, destined for the far reaches of the world.
One early November morning the day started as so many before it. The wind was blowing, the weather was gray and drab, and James Kilroy was not in a mood for anything but staying inside, sheltered from wind and rain.
"So, Kilroy, are you dreaming again? Not much you get done today." Kilroy not even blinked, he was used to the foreman and his insults. And the boxes with 100,000 pairs of blue jeans were waiting to be loaded. No way around it, he better get it over with.
But when Kilroy bent down to lift one of the crates he suddenly got a bright idea -- an idea so brilliant that it couldn't be withheld. He grabbed a piece of chalk out of his pocket, and with big, visible letters he marked each box with: "KILROY WAS HERE."
And through those boxes -- appearing in harbors across the whole planet --KILROY's spirit reached the whole world. Indeed an effective way of getting around! After that, whenever the foreman shouted to Kilroy that he never got anything accomplished, he just smiled. He knew better. In harbors across the globe boxes were appearing every day to prove the foreman wrong. Kilroy knew that one could transcend borders and break through barriers many ways, and thereby feel free and independent.
The Legend of KILROY
The young James Kilroy was working on the docks of Boston harbor in the 1940s, loading the freight ships of the time with big crates filled with blue jeans, destined for the far reaches of the world.
One early November morning the day started as so many before it. The wind was blowing, the weather was gray and drab, and James Kilroy was not in a mood for anything but staying inside, sheltered from wind and rain.
"So, Kilroy, are you dreaming again? Not much you get done today." Kilroy not even blinked, he was used to the foreman and his insults. And the boxes with 100,000 pairs of blue jeans were waiting to be loaded. No way around it, he better get it over with.
But when Kilroy bent down to lift one of the crates he suddenly got a bright idea -- an idea so brilliant that it couldn't be withheld. He grabbed a piece of chalk out of his pocket, and with big, visible letters he marked each box with: "KILROY WAS HERE."
And through those boxes -- appearing in harbors across the whole planet --KILROY's spirit reached the whole world. Indeed an effective way of getting around! After that, whenever the foreman shouted to Kilroy that he never got anything accomplished, he just smiled. He knew better. In harbors across the globe boxes were appearing every day to prove the foreman wrong. Kilroy knew that one could transcend borders and break through barriers many ways, and thereby feel free and independent.
Monday, November 12, 2007
November 12th, 2007
What Is A Veteran?
(Marine Corp chaplain, Father Denis Edward O'Brian)
Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye. Others may carry the evidence inside them, a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg - or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity.
Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem. You can't tell a vet just by looking. What is a vet?
A vet is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.
A vet is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th Parallel.
A vet is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang.
A vet is the POW who went away one person and came back another - or didn't come back at all.
A vet is the drill instructor who has never seen combat - but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account punks and gang members into marines, airmen, sailors, soldiers and coast guardsmen, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.
A vet is the parade-riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.
A vet is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.
A vet is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb Of The Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.
A vet is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket - palsied now and aggravatingly slow - who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.
A vet is an ordinary and yet extraordinary human being, a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.
A vet is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more that the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.
So remember, each time you see someone who has served our country, just lean over and say, "Thank You." That's all most people need, and in most cases it will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were awarded.
Again, two little words that mean a lot to any Veteran -- "THANK YOU."
Addendum -- John 15:13 (KJV) "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
What Is A Veteran?
(Marine Corp chaplain, Father Denis Edward O'Brian)
Some veterans bear visible signs of their service: a missing limb, a jagged scar, a certain look in the eye. Others may carry the evidence inside them, a pin holding a bone together, a piece of shrapnel in the leg - or perhaps another sort of inner steel: the soul's ally forged in the refinery of adversity.
Except in parades, however, the men and women who have kept America safe wear no badge or emblem. You can't tell a vet just by looking. What is a vet?
A vet is the cop on the beat who spent six months in Saudi Arabia sweating two gallons a day making sure the armored personnel carriers didn't run out of fuel.
A vet is the barroom loudmouth, dumber than five wooden planks, whose overgrown frat-boy behavior is outweighed a hundred times in the cosmic scales by four hours of exquisite bravery near the 38th Parallel.
A vet is the nurse who fought against futility and went to sleep sobbing every night for two solid years in Da Nang.
A vet is the POW who went away one person and came back another - or didn't come back at all.
A vet is the drill instructor who has never seen combat - but has saved countless lives by turning slouchy, no-account punks and gang members into marines, airmen, sailors, soldiers and coast guardsmen, and teaching them to watch each other's backs.
A vet is the parade-riding Legionnaire who pins on his ribbons and medals with a prosthetic hand.
A vet is the career quartermaster who watches the ribbons and medals pass him by.
A vet is the three anonymous heroes in The Tomb Of The Unknowns, whose presence at the Arlington National Cemetery must forever preserve the memory of all the anonymous heroes whose valor dies unrecognized with them on the battlefield or in the ocean's sunless deep.
A vet is the old guy bagging groceries at the supermarket - palsied now and aggravatingly slow - who helped liberate a Nazi death camp and who wishes all day long that his wife were still alive to hold him when the nightmares come.
A vet is an ordinary and yet extraordinary human being, a person who offered some of his life's most vital years in the service of his country, and who sacrificed his ambitions so others would not have to sacrifice theirs.
A vet is a soldier and a savior and a sword against the darkness, and he is nothing more that the finest, greatest testimony on behalf of the finest, greatest nation ever known.
So remember, each time you see someone who has served our country, just lean over and say, "Thank You." That's all most people need, and in most cases it will mean more than any medals they could have been awarded or were awarded.
Again, two little words that mean a lot to any Veteran -- "THANK YOU."
Addendum -- John 15:13 (KJV) "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
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