A Thanksgiving Story . . .

 

 

The Rolling Coin

A wise old man once owned a precious golden coin. One day, as he sat gazing at this precious coin and rejoicing in its beauty, a thought occurred to him: ‘It isn’t right that I should be the only person to have the pleasure of possessing this golden coin. What use is it if no one shares it?’ And he went out and gave the coin to a passing child.

The child couldn’t believe her luck. She couldn’t take her eyes off this shining coin. Then she had a sudden idea: ‘I’ll give this coin to my mother. She needs so many things. This coin will make her very happy.’

Of course, the child’s mother was delighted with the coin – such an unexpected solution to so many of her problems. She pondered in her mind as to how to spend it and what to buy first.

As she was thinking about this there was a knock at the door, and there stood a street beggar. ‘Poor soul’ she thought. ‘He has nothing, and we are just about getting by.’ And she gave the gold coin to the beggar.

The beggar was speechless. This coin could be turned into food for a month. He made his way back to the subway where he slept, and there he noticed a new resident, just arrived. The poor guy was blind and disabled. No chance of getting anywhere near to the folks who might have spared him a coin or two.

‘I guess he needs it more than I do,’ he thought to himself. And he pressed the gold coin into the blind man’s thin, cold fingers.

That evening, a wise old man walked through the dark subway. He noticed the blind, disabled beggar and stopped to speak to him. The beggar couldn’t remember the last time anyone had bothered to speak to him.

After a while, the wise old man put his arm around the beggar’s shoulder.  ‘I’ve nothing left to give you, except my friendship,’ he murmured.

A tear rolled across the cheek of the blind beggar. How could he ever repay this gift of human kindness that had changed a dark night into a new dawn? With his shaking, aching hands, he reached into his pocket, brought out the golden coin and gave it to his new-found friend.

‘Thank you for loving me,’ he said.

Source unknown

A Story . . .

 

The Investment

There once lived a rich man who had no greater desire than to do good to those around him, and especially to those who worked for him.

He noticed that one of his workmen, a carpenter, was very poor, and was struggling to feed his family. He could see for himself that the hovel in which the man lived with his wife and children was falling into disrepair, and was no longer a match for the cold and the rain that beat down upon it. He felt great compassion for the carpenter and his family, and he had an idea.

He called the carpenter to him one morning and gave him these instructions:
‘I want you to build me a beautiful house,’ he said. ‘I want you to spare no expense, and to employ only the very best craftsmen for every job that is needed. I have to make a journey, and I will be away for a while, but when I come back, I want you to have the house ready for me.’

The carpenter was delighted to be given this task. Immediately, he set to work, and, knowing that the master would be away, he decided to make a good profit on this enterprise. Instead of hiring the best craftsmen, and using the finest materials, he cut corners wherever he possibly could. The master would never know, and he could keep the difference, and make a lot of money for himself.

And so the house was built. From the outside, it looked beautiful, but as the carpenter well knew, it was not at all sound. The timbers in the roof were weak and badly fitted. The bricks were seconds, which would soon begin to crumble. The roof titles were rejects from the quarry. The building had been carried out by inexperienced workers for low pay.

When the master returned, he came to inspect the house. ‘I have done as you instructed,’ the carpenter told him. ‘I have used the best materials and the finest craftsmen.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ said the master. ‘Here are the keys. The house is yours. It is my gift to you and your family.  May it be a fine home for the rest of your life.’

And in the years that followed, the carpenter could often be heard to mutter, under his breath, ‘If only I had known that the house was meant for
me . . .’ (Author Unknown)

A Tree Story . . .

The Forever Tree

Once, a long, long time ago, a little tree was growing in the forest. As the little tree grew taller and stronger, she began to notice the wide expanse of sky stretching far above her head. She noticed the white clouds scudding across the sky, as if on some great journey.  She watched the birds wheeling overhead. The skies, the clouds, the birds in flight – they all seemed to speak of a land of forever.  The more she grew, the more she noticed these forever things, and the more she longed to live forever herself. 

One day, the forester happened to pass close by the little tree. He was a kindly old man, and he sensed that the little tree was not entirely happy. ‘What’s the matter, little tree?’ he asked. ‘What troubles your soul?’ The little tree hesitated, and then told the forester about the deep desire in the core of her being: ‘I would so much like to live forever.’ ‘Perhaps you shall,’ replied the forester. ‘Perhaps you shall.’

Some time passed, and once again the forester passed close by the little tree, now grown tall and strong.  ‘Do you still want to live forever?’ he asked the tree. ‘Oh, I do, I do,’ the tree replied fervently. ‘I think I can help, but first you must give me your permission to cut you down.’ The tree was aghast: ‘I wanted to live forever.  And now you say you are going to kill me?’ ‘I know,’ said the forester. ‘It sounds crazy.  But if you can trust me, I promise you that your deepest desire will be fulfilled.’

After much hard thought, the tree gave her consent. The forester came with his sharp-bladed axe.  The tree was felled. The sap of life streamed away and was lost in the forest floor. The tender wood was sliced into strips. The strips were planed and shaped and smothered in a suffocating layer of varnish. The tree screamed silently in her anguish, but there was no way back.  She surrendered herself to the hands of the violin-maker, all dreams of foreverness vanished in a haze of pain.

For many years, the violin lay idle. Sometimes, she remembered better days, when she was growing in the woods. What a bad bargain it had been, surrendering herself to the forester’s axe.  How could she have been so naive as to believe that this would enable her to live forever?

But the day came – the right and perfect moment – when the violin was gently lifted from her case and caressed once more by loving hands.  She held her breath in disbelief.  She quivered, as the bow tenderly crossed her breast. And the quivering turned into a pure sound that reminded her of how the wind had once rustled through her leaves, how the clouds had once scudded by on their way to forever, how the birds had wheeled overhead, shaping circled of eternity in the blue sky.

A pure sound.  Pure notes. The music of Forever. ‘My wood has turned into music!’ the tree gasped, deep inside herself. ‘The forester spoke the truth.’

And the music resounded, from listening heart to listening heart, down through all the ages until at last, when all the listening hearts had made their own journey home, it rolled through the gates of eternity, where the little tree became a Forever Tree.
                                                                         Story by Margaret Silf       

Ponderings:
• What are the desires deep down in the core of your being?
• How does the story make you feel?
• What is disturbing for you in the story?
• What is true for you in the story?
(Questions adapted from Megan McKenna)

Source Unknown

Remember November . . .

 

A November sunrise

 

 

 

November Meditation

I do not know if the seasons remember their history or if the days and nights by which we count time remember their own passing.

I do not know if the oak tree remembers its planting or if the pine remembers its slow climb toward sun and stars. . . .

I do not know if the air remembers November or if the night remembers the moon.  I do not know if the earth remembers the flowers from last spring or if the evergreen remembers that it shall stay so.

Perhaps that is the reason for our births -- to be the memory for creation. Perhaps salvation is something very different than anyone ever expected. 
 
Perhaps this will be the only question we will have to answer:  "What can you tell me about November?"

~ Burton D. Carley ~

 

 

. . . make the difference. . .

 

 

End Time ~ Make a Difference!

If each grain of sand were to say:
One grain does not make a mountain,
There would be no land

If each drop of water were to say:
One drop does not make an ocean
There would be no sea

If each note of music were to say:             
One note does not make a symphony,
There would be no melody

If each word were to say:
One word does not make a library
There would be no book

If each brick were to say:
One brick does not make a wall,
There would be no house

If each seed were to say:
One seed does not make a field
There would be no harvest

You do make the difference
Begin today and make the difference
~ Author Unknown

Be and be better. . .

 

 

Maya Angelou’s ~ When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
 
When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.
 
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.
 
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.
 
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly.  Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed.  They existed.
We can be.  Be and be
better.  For they existed.

Guide me, Teach me, Forgive me . . .

 

 

 

Breathe Into Me the Courage to Make Something New

Thank you for all I forget are gifts, not rights.
Forgive me for all the grievances I remember too well.
Save me from the self-pity, the self-seeking,
the fat-heartedness which is true poverty.

Guide me, if I’m willing, (drive me if I’m not),
into the hard ways of sacrifice which are just and loving.
Make me wide-eyed for beauty, and for my neighbor’s need and goodness;
wide-eyed for peace-making,
and for the confronting power with the call to compassion;
wide-hearted for love and for the unloved,
who are the hardest to touch and need it the most.
Dull the envy in me which criticizes and complains life
into a thousand ugly bits.

Keep me honest and tender enough to heal
Tough enough to be healed of my hypocrisies.
Match my appetite for privilege with the stomach for commitment.

Teach me the great cost of paying attention that,
naked to the dazzle of your back as you pass,
I may know I am always on holy ground.

Breathe into me the restlessness and courage
to make something new, something saving, and something true
that I may understand what it is to rejoice.

Author: Ted Loder, Guerrillas of Grace