The Giver is much much bigger than the Receiver

Once when I was a teenager, my father and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus.

Finally, there was only one other family between us and the ticket counter. This family made a big impression on me.

There were eight children, all probably under the age of 12. The way they were dressed, you could tell they didn't have a lot of money, but their clothes were neat and clean.

The children were well-behaved, all of them standing in line, two-by-two behind their parents, holding hands. They were excitedly jabbering about the clowns, animals, and all the acts they would be seeing that night. By their excitement you could sense they had never been to the circus before. It would be a highlight of their lives.

The father and mother were at the head of the pack standing proud as could be. The mother was holding her husband's hand, looking up at him as if to say, "You're my knight in shining armor." He was smiling and enjoying seeing his family happy.

The ticket lady asked the man how many tickets he wanted? He proudly responded, "I'd like to buy eight children's tickets and two adult tickets, so I can take my family to the circus." The ticket lady stated the price.

The man's wife let go of his hand, her head dropped, the man's lip began to quiver. Then he leaned a little closer and asked, "How much did you say?" The ticket lady again stated the price.

The man didn't have enough money. How was he supposed to turn and tell his eight kids that he didn't have enough money to take them to the circus?

Seeing what was going on, my dad reached into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill, and then dropped it on the ground. (We were not wealthy in any sense of the word!) My father bent down, picked up the $20 bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket."

The man understood what was going on. He wasn't begging for a handout but certainly appreciated the help in a desperate, heartbreaking and embarrassing situation.

He looked straight into my dad's eyes, took my dad's hand in both of his, squeezed tightly onto the $20 bill, and with his lip quivering and a tear streaming down his cheek, he replied; "Thank you, thank you, sir. This really means a lot to me and my family."

My father and I went back to our car and drove home. The $20 that my dad gave away is what we were going to buy our own tickets with.

Although we didn't get to see the circus that night, we both felt a joy inside us that was far greater than seeing the circus could ever provide.

* That day I learn the value to Give. *

* The Giver is bigger than the Receiver. *

* If you want to be large, larger than the life, learn to Give. *

* Only if you Give can you Receive more. The Givers heart becomes the Ocean, in tune with the Almighty - The Source *

* Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you are expecting to give - which is everything. *

-- Katherine Hepburn

A Beautiful Heart

One grandfather quipped about his grandchildren: "My grandkids are four and six. The Pulitzer Prize winner is four and the brain surgeon is six."

Parents and grandparents are understandably proud of the quick minds and impressive talents of their little ones. But let me tell you about another quality, perhaps even more important. A grandmother wrote to me and told me this story about her four-year-old granddaughter Skylar.

It was Christmastime. Skylar had saved coins in a piggy bank all year and decided to buy presents for her family with her savings. But she also learned from announcements on television about a local homeless shelter called "The Road House." She repeatedly asked her mother what "homeless" meant and why those children needed coats and warm clothes. The concept of people in such physical need deeply affected her.

Skylar’s mother took her to the store to buy Christmas presents. But instead of buying for herself or her family, she decided to use her savings for somebody at the shelter. They learned that there was a little girl staying there about Skylar’s age, and she purchased a warm coat, socks, gloves and crayons for the child. She also wanted to buy her a doll (a "baby," as she called it), but when she discovered she didn't have enough money, she left the doll behind. When Skylar got home, she selected one of her own much-loved dolls to give away. The baby went into a box with the other items.

She could hardly wait for Christmas. Skylar was not thinking about Santa Claus or any presents she might be getting. She was thinking only about going to the shelter and giving her carefully selected gifts to a little girl she had never met.
On Christmas Eve she and her family finally made the trip Skylar had been anticipating for so long. They drove to the shelter. There she presented her Christmas box to a grateful child. She was so filled with joy at truly touching someone else’s life that her family decided to make the journey to the shelter an annual tradition.

"Perhaps it's good to have a beautiful mind, but an even greater gift is to have a beautiful heart," says Nobel Laureate John Nash ("A Beautiful Mind"). He would have appreciated young Skylar’s heart.

Beautiful hearts don’t just happen. Nash calls it a gift, but it’s a gift in the way that faith or hope or love are gifts. And I’m convinced we have each been endowed with a beautiful heart. We may not always see it. We may not even believe it. But it’s a gift that came with birth and, every time we act selflessly, it grows a little.


– Steve Goodier  (Life Support System)

Power of a Thrashed Pencil

She was a janitor at a school in India.   Her husband died soon after her marriage, she didn't have any family in the area.  She struggled with the responsibility of raising her kids.  For the last twenty years, she's continued to sweep classrooms at local schools.

One day, though, she had a radical idea:  I want to give.  It was followed-up by a reasonable yet confusing thought:  But what can I possibly give?

When she narrated her desire to a friend, he told her a story.  "Gandhi used to write many letters.  One day, Kakasaheb Kalelkar, a famous Indian author, saw him writing with a tiny pencil and immediately offered Gandhi a bigger pencil from his pocket.  Gandhi politely said that he didn't need it.  The next day, he saw Gandhi scrambling to find his pencil and Kakasaheb again offered him a pencil saying, 'Your pencil was so small anyway.'  Gandhi gently replied, 'But a child had given me that pencil.'  And he carried on the search for that small pencil."

Sharing this story, he tells this sweeper woman: "You sweep schools everyday.  And so, you must see all kinds of small pencils that kids throw away.  Why don't you collect those and I'll give them to little kids who can't afford pencils and teach them how to write and draw."  She liked that idea.  In addition to pencils, she even collected erasers, sharpeners, and a few miscellaneous oddities.  And every so often, when her bag gets full, she hands it off to her friend to give away to the needy.

That was her ritual.

When she found out that I was in town (I'm good friends with her kids), she insisted that I come over for a meal.  Due to my hectic set of commitments, I wasn't able to go over for a meal but told her that I'd definitely join her for some snacks.  So I went for breakfast one day, with my friend who originally shared Gandhi's story with her.  She had cooked up a simple feast of love, which we thoroughly enjoyed!  We gave her a shawl, explaining that someone had gifted it to us the night before and we couldn't really use it.  And as we were leaving, she handed us a pink, almost ripped, and heavy plastic bag.

Confused, I opened up that plastic bag, and saw those small pencil, erasers and sharpeners.

Wow.

It's hard to stay balanced, in the presence of something so valuable.  In the next hour, I had to address a couple hundred people, and shared the story of a sweeper woman.  As I opened up that pink plastic bag and held a fistful of these small pencils and erasers, it was hard for even the emcee to hold back the tears!  I left the bag out for people to keep a material token of this sweeper woman's lesson -- it matters not what you give, but the amount of love you put into that giving.  Everything, including the ripped plastic bag, was gone before I could take a second look.

The humble offering had a certain power that simply can't be bought.  I felt it, everyone felt it.


-- Author Unknown

Give of Yourself

“Before you ever receive the wonderful treasures of a happy life, you must first give.

Give of yourself. Be of service to others. Only what you give can be multiplied back into your own life.

That is the law of the harvest, the law of the ten-fold return. If you give nothing, even if it is multiplied, you receive nothing.”

-- Mary Kay Ash

The Stone Soup

Many years ago three soldiers, hungry and weary of battle, came upon a small village. The villagers, suffering a meager harvest and the many years of war, quickly hid what little they had to eat and met the three at the village square, wringing their hands and bemoaning the lack of anything to eat.

The soldiers spoke quietly among themselves and the first soldier then turned to the village elders. "Your tired fields have left you nothing to share, so we will share what little we have: the secret of how to make soup from stones."

Naturally the villagers were intrigued and soon a fire was put to the town's greatest kettle as the soldiers dropped in three smooth stones. "Now this will be a fine soup", said the second soldier; "but a pinch of salt and some parsley would make it wonderful!" Up jumped a villager, crying "What luck! I've just remembered where some's been left!" And off she ran, returning with an apronful of parsley and a turnip.

As the kettle boiled on, the memory of the village improved: soon barley, carrots, beef and cream had found their way into the great pot.

They ate and danced and sang well into the night, refreshed by the feast and their new-found friends.

In the morning the three soldiers awoke to find the entire village standing before them. At their feet lay a satchel of the village's best breads and cheese. "You have given us the greatest of gifts: the secret of how to make soup from stones", said an elder, "and we shall never forget." The third soldier turned to the crowd, and said: "There is no secret, but this is certain: it is only by sharing that we may make a feast". And off the soldiers wandered, down the road.

-- Author Unknown

Giving abundantly

"It is one of the most beautiful compensations of life, that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

"Realize that true happiness lies within you. Waste no time and effort searching for peace and contentment and joy in the world outside. Remember that there is no happiness in having or in getting, but only in giving. Reach out. Share. Smile. Hug. Happiness is a perfume you cannot pour on others without getting a few drops on yourself." -- Og Mandino

"We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give." -- Norman MacEwan

"Wherever you go, whomever you meet, look for an opportunity to help, to inspire, to lend support." -- Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson

"The charity that is a trifle to us can be precious to others." -- Homer

"Love only grows by sharing. You can only have more for yourself by giving it away to others." -- Brian Tracy

"The duty of helping one's self in the highest sense involves the helping of one's neighbors." -- Samuel Smiles

"One of the greatest gifts you can give to anyone is the gift of attention." -- Jim Rohn

"You can't be too kind or too generous." -- Patricia Fripp

Something for Stevie

I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react. Stevie was short, a little dumpy, with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried about most of my trucker customers. Truckers don't generally care who buses tables as long as the food is good and the pies are homemade.

The ones who concerned me were the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truckstop germ;" and the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truckstop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie, so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger. Within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truckstop mascot. After that I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought.

He was a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was convincing him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto the cart and meticulously wipe the table with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met. Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks.

Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Down syndrome often have heart problems at an early age, so this wasn't unexpected. There was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months. A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war whoop and did a little dance the aisle when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, grinned. "Okay, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked. "We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay,” she responded. “I was wondering where he was," said Belle.

Frannie quickly told him and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed. "Yeah, I m glad he is going to be okay," she said, "but I don't know how he and his mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is." Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables.After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face. "What's up?" I asked. "That table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting," she said, "this was folded and tucked under a coffee cup." She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it.

On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed “Something For Stevie.” "Pony Pete also asked me what that dance was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie and his mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply, "Truckers."That was three months ago.

Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy.

I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. We met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back. Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting. "Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you two is on me. I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession.We stopped in front of the big table; its surface covered with a mess of coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. "First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said, trying to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at dozens of napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it.

I turned to his mother. "There's over $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving!" Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, too. But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table ... best worker I ever hired.

-- Author Unknown

One Person

Dr. Frank Mayfield was touring Tewksbury Institute when, on his way out, he accidentally collided with an elderly floor maid. To cover the awkward moment Dr. Mayfield started asking questions, "How long have you worked here?"

"I've worked here almost since the place opened," the maid replied.

"What can you tell me about the history of this place?" he asked.

"I don't think I can tell you anything, but I could show you something."

With that, she took his hand and led him down to the basement under the oldest section of the building. She pointed to one of what looked like small prison cells; their iron bars rusted with age, and said, "That's the cage where they used to keep Annie."

"Who's Annie?" the doctor asked.

"Annie was a young girl who was brought in here because she was incorrigible - which means nobody could do anything with her. She'd bite and scream and throw her food at people. The doctors and nurses couldn't even examine her or anything. I'd see them trying with her spitting and scratching at them. I was only a few years younger than her myself and I used to think, 'I sure would hate to be locked up in a cage like that.' I wanted to help her, but I didn't have any idea what I could do. I mean, if the doctors and nurses couldn't help her, what could someone like me do?

"I didn't know what else to do, so I just baked her some brownies one night after work. The next day I brought them in. I walked carefully to her cage and said, 'Annie, I baked these brownies just for you. I'll put them right here on the floor and you can come and get them if you want.' Then I got out of there just as fast as I could because I was afraid she might throw them at me. But she didn't. She actually took the brownies and ate them.

"After that, she was just a little bit nicer to me when I was around. And sometimes I'd talk to her. Once, I even got her laughing. One of the nurses noticed this and she told the doctor. They asked me if I'd help them with Annie. I said I would if I could. So that's how it came about that every time they wanted to see Annie or examine her, I went into the cage first and explained and calmed her down and held her hand. Which is how they discovered that Annie was almost blind."

After they'd been working with her for about a year - and it was tough sledding with Annie - the Perkins Institute for the Blind opened its doors. They were able to help her and she went on to study and became a teacher herself.

Annie came back to the Tewksbury Institute to visit, and to see what she could do to help out. At first, the Director didn't say anything and then he thought about a letter he'd just received. A man had written to him about his daughter. She was absolutely unruly - almost like an animal.

He'd been told she was blind and deaf as well as 'deranged'. He was at his wit's end, but he didn't want to put her in an asylum. So he wrote here to ask if we knew of anyone - any teacher - who would come to his house and work with his daughter.

And that is how Annie Sullivan became the lifelong companion of Helen Keller.

When Helen Keller received the Nobel Prize, she was asked who had the greatest impact on her life and she said, "Annie Sullivan." But Annie said, "No Helen. The woman who had the greatest influence on both our lives was a floor maid at the Tewksbury Institute."

History is changed when one person asks, what can someone like me do?

-- Author Unknown

Actions Speaks Loudest

Vincent Van Gogh was not always an artist. In fact, he wanted to be a church pastor and was even sent to the Belgian mining community of Borinage in 1879. He discovered that the miners there endured deplorable working conditions and poverty-level wages. Their families were malnourished and struggled simply to survive. He felt concerned that the small stipend he received from the church allowed him a moderate life- style, which, in contrast, seemed to him unfair.

One cold February evening, while he watched the miners trudging home, he spotted an old man staggering toward him across the fields, wrapped in a burlap sack for warmth. Van Gogh laid his own clothing out on the bed, set aside enough for one change, and decided to give the rest away. He gave the old man a suit of clothes and he gave his overcoat to a pregnant woman whose husband had been killed in a cave-in.

He lived on starvation rations and spent his stipend on food for the miners. When children in one family contracted typhoid fever, though feverish himself, he packed up his bed and took it to them.

A prosperous family in the community offered him free room and board. Van Gogh declined the offer, stating that it was the final temptation he must reject if he was to faithfully serve his community of poor miners.

He believed that if he wanted them to trust him, he must become one of them. And if they were to learn of the love of God through him, he must love them enough to share with them.

He was acutely aware of the wide chasm between words and actions. He knew that our lives always speak louder and clearer than our words. Maybe that is why Francis of Assisi often said to his monks, "Wherever you go, preach. Use words if necessary."

Others are "listening" carefully to your actions. What are you saying to them?


-- Author Unknown

What Are You Planting?

If you plant honesty, you will reap trust;
If you plant goodness, you will reap friends;
If you plant humility, you will reap greatness;
If you plant perseverance, you will reap contentment;
If you plant consideration, you will reap perspective;
If you plant hard work, you will reap success;
If you plant forgiveness, you will reap reconciliation;
If you plant faith in God , you will reap a harvest.

So, be careful what you plant now; it will determine what you will reap later.
Whatever You Give To Life, Life Gives You Back.

-- Author Unknown

A Good Lesson

A young man, a student in one of our universities, was one day taking a walk with a professor, who was commonly called the students' friend, from his kindness to those who waited on his instructions. As they went along, they saw lying in the path a pair of old shoes, which they supposed to belong to a poor man who was employed in a field close by, and who had nearly finished his day's work.

The student turned to the professor, saying: "Let us play the man a trick: we will hide his shoes, and conceal ourselves behind those bushes, and wait to see his perplexity when he cannot find them."

"My young friend," answered the professor, "we should never amuse ourselves at the expense of the poor. But you are rich, and may give yourself a much greater pleasure by means of the poor man. Put a coin into each shoe, and then we will hide ourselves and watch how the discovery affects him."

The student did so, and they both placed themselves behind the bushes close by. The poor man soon finished his work, and came across the field to the path where he had left his coat and shoes. While putting on his coat he slipped his foot into one of his shoes; but feeling something hard, he stooped down to feel what it was, and found the coin. Astonishment and wonder were seen upon his countenance. He gazed upon the coin, turned it round, and looked at it again and again. He then looked around him on all sides, but no person was to be seen. He now put the money into his pocket, and proceeded to put on the other shoe; but his surprise was doubled on finding the other coin. His feelings overcame him; he fell upon his knees, looked up to heaven and uttered aloud a fervent thanksgiving, in which he spoke of his wife, sick and helpless, and his children without bread, whom the timely bounty, from some unknown hand, would save from perishing.

The student stood there deeply affected, and his eyes filled with tears. "Now," said the professor, "are you not much better pleased than if you had played your intended trick?"

The youth replied, "You have taught me a lesson which I will never forget. I feel now the truth of those words, which I never understood before: 'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'"

-- Author Unknown

Happiness Comes from Giving

This story is about a beautiful, expensively dressed lady who complained to her psychiatrist that she felt that her whole life was empty; it had no meaning.

So the counsellor called over the old lady who cleaned the office floors, and then said to the rich lady, "I'm going to ask Mary here to tell you how she found happiness. All I want you to do is listen."

So the old lady put down her broom and sat on a chair and told her story: "Well, my husband died of malaria and three months later my only son was killed by a car. I had nobody ... I had nothing left. I couldn't sleep; I couldn't eat; I never smiled at anyone, I even thought of taking my own life.

Then one evening a little kitten followed me home from work. Somehow I felt sorry for that kitten. It was cold outside, so I decided to let the kitten in. I got it some milk, and it licked the plate clean. Then it purred and rubbed against my leg, and for the first time in months, I smiled. Then I stopped to think; if helping a little kitten could make me smile, maybe doing something for people could make me happy. So the next day I baked some biscuits and took them to a neighbour who was sick in bed. Every day I tried to do something nice for someone. It made me so happy to see them happy. Today, I don't know of anybody who sleeps and eats better than I do. I've found happiness, by giving it to others."

When she heard that, the rich lady cried. She had everything that money could buy, but she had lost the things which money cannot buy.

-- Author Unknown

No Santa?

I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit my Grandma on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything.

She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go" "Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked.

"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through it doors, Grandma handed me twenty dollars. That was a bundle in those days "Take this money and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. Suddenly I thought of Bobbie Decker. He sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobbie Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. I fingered the twenty-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat. I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons, and write, "To Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it - Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobbie Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobbie's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. From there we watched Bobbie come to the door and pick up his present from "Santa."

Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. "Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team."

I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.

-- Author Unknown

What It Really Means to be a Friend

One day a boy of about 16 years of age named Kyle was walking home from school. He was carrying many books and other items and was seemingly have a lot of trouble making it.

Eventually, he tripped, and all the books and items fell from his arms. At that moment a young man named Will saw him from the other side of the road and walked over to see if there was anything he could do. He helped the boy pick up his things and carry them home.

In the next three months, him and the boy became very close. And then on the last day of school, Will found a note in his locker. It read:

"Will,

You don't know this, but on that day three months ago, I had just cleaned out my locker. I was going to commit suicide. I thought no one cared about me. However, when you came over, I realized that someone did. So you see Will, when you picked up my books, you really picked up my life.

Thank You,
Kyle"

-- Author Unknown