LOSS

MY INNER FAERIE

              
You are a faerie of the flame. You tend to lose
your temper at the littlest thing, hot-headed.
You're a loyal friend to those who can understand your raging moods. You're social though claim not to be. You are no one else but yourself and sometimes you try too hard to be just that. You're a passionate friend, and would do almost anything for those you care for.

What's your inner Faerie?
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BRIAN'S STORY

Seventeen year-old Brian Moore had only a short time to write something for a class. The subject was what Heaven was like.  "I wowed 'em," he later told his father, Bruce.  "It's a killer.  It's the bomb. It's the best thing I ever wrote."   It also was the last.

Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's locker at Teary Valley

High School.  Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted every piece of his life near them - notes from classmates and teachers, his homework. Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay about encountering Jesus in a file room full of cards detailing every moment of the teen's life.  But it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce Moore realized that their son had described his view of heaven.  It makes such an impact that people want to share it.  "You feel like you are there, "  Mr.Moore said.


Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after Memorial Day.  He was driving home from a friend's house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in Pickaway County and struck a utility pole.  He emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a downed power line and was electrocuted.


The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung it among the family portraits in the living room.  "I think God used him to

make a point.  I think we were meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs. Moore said of the essay.  She and her husband want to share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm happy for Brian.  I know he's in heaven.  I know I'll see him."


Brian's Essay:


The Room...

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room.  There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order.  But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings.


As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read  "Girls I have liked."   I opened it and began flipping through the cards . I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one.  And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.  This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life.  Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in detail my memory couldn't match.  A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content.  Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.


A file named "Friends" was next to one-marked "Friends I have betrayed."  The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird. "Books I have Read,"  "Lies I Have Told,"  "Comfort I have Given," "Jokes I Have Laughed At."   Some were almost hilarious in their exactness:  "Things I've yelled at my brothers."  Others I couldn't laugh at:  "Things I Have Done in My Anger",  "Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents."   I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.


Often there were many more cards than I expected.  Sometimes fewer than I hoped.  I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived.  Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards?  But each card confirmed this truth.   Each was written in my own handwriting.  Each signed with my signature.


When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have watched," I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file.  I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.


When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts,"  I felt a chill run through my body.   I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size,  and drew out a card.  I shuddered at its detailed content.  I felt sick to think that sucha moment had been recorded.


An almost animal rage broke on me.  One thought dominated my mind:  No one must ever see these cards!  No one must ever see this room!  I have to destroy them!"   In insane frenzy I yanked the file out.  Its size didn't matter now.  I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card.  I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.


Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot.  Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.


And then I saw it.  The title bore "People I Have Shared the Gospel With."  The handle was brighter than those around it, newer, almost unused.  I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands.  I could count the cards it contained on one hand.


And then the tears came.   I began to weep.  Sobs so deep that they hurt.  They started in my stomach and shook through me.  I fell on my knees and cried.  I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all.  The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes.  No one must ever, ever know of this room.  I must lock it up and hide the key.  But then as I pushed away the tears,  I saw..... Him.



No, please not Him.  Not here.  Oh, anyone but Jesus.  I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards.  I couldn't bear to watch His response.  And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face,  I saw a sorrow greater than my own.


He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes.


Why did He have to read every one?  Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room.  He looked at me with pity in His eyes.  But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again.  He walked over and put His arm around me . He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word.  He just cried with me.


Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.  Starting at one end of the room,  He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. "No!"  I shouted rushing to Him.  All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him.  His name shouldn't be on these cards.   But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, and so alive.


The name of Jesus covered mine.  It was written with His blood.  He gently took the card back.  He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.  I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.  He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is finished."


I stood up, and He led me out of the room.  There was no lock on its door.  There were still cards to be written.


"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me."- Phil. 4:13

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life."

LOSS OF HOPE

If we might have a second chance
To live the day's once more,
And rectify mistakes we've made
To even up the score.
If we might have a second chance
To use the knowledge gained,
Perhaps we might become at last
As fine as God ordained.
But though we can't retrace our steps,
However stands the score,
Tomorrow brings another chance
For us to try once more.

author unknown

my car was repo'd tonight.......totally a shock...........since i was informed the lienholder would be in touch with me over restarting payments..............guess i was hoodwinked.........so now, no car, and i don't have a clue as to what to do.  that car was my only way to and from work.........not sure what God is trying to teach me here, but obviously i am not getting it.........

THE MESSAGE BOARD MASSACRE

But anyway, my point is, let's all get passed this and move on :)

(((hugs to all)))

 

several days ago, i sent my farewell letter to the journal board.  there was so much drama, so much meanness, i decided it was in my best interests to move away from it at least for awhile.  i apologized to the one who was hurt, as well as to everyone who felt i had somehow offended them.  yet, i open the journal message board today, and there are 20 new posts about this issue.  as jes states above.........get past this and move on...........

i was not born with a hurtful nature, nor was i taught to be mean and hateful and hurtful.  amazing what a bad life can do to you............but.........what hurts me more is that people cannot forgive and forget.  and that some people feel that they have to keep the fires going to feel self important.  this is the last time i will mention this journal board incident.  it was heavy on my heart, and i felt the need to write what i was feeling.  to those who feel they must carry this torch forward, i pray you will let go of it, and instead, pick up the torch of forgiveness, and move forward. 

thanks to those who made some nice comments about moving on and letting go of this.

HER CAR

well, the daughter came by today, to show me the new car.........she was very very ecstatic over it.  i have to admit, it is a great looking car.  has alot of the extras she wanted.  but of course, i do worry about her........it is a sports type car, and she is a maniac lol.  but, she has been driving for 2.5 years and is still alive........so i just have to relax and pray.  yeah, right, lol.  there were a few things wrong with the car, like a busted out blinker light in the front, and moisture accumulating in two of the light wells.   but overall, a nice car.  i was really surprised that my ex-inlaws bought it for her.........they felt all she needed was a chevy cavalier. 

daughter was very pleasant, mostly because she was so ecstatic over the car.  now, all she has to do is spend the next week looking for a job to pay for the car.  $7000.14...........for 3 years..........$194.00 a month.............hope the ex-inlaws know what they are in for, lol.  well, it was good to see her happy anyway.  don't know how long it will last........probably till the first time something goes wrong with it.  it has a 30 day guarantee........i have to give my ex-fatherinlaw that much..........he is a great dealer with automotive places..........was in the autobody business for many years, and knows most of the dealership owners. 

well, guess i better log off here, and get some shut eye.  had to make this comment about my daughter, since i never know from one day to another if she is still speaking to me...................ahhhhhhhhh..........PARENTHOOD!!

THE SANDPIPER

        

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.

"Hello," she said.

I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child. 

               

"I'm building," she said.

"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.

"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.

"That's a joy," the child said.

"It's a what?"

"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."  

The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned to walk on.
I was depressed, my life seemed completely out of balance.  

"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.

"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."  

"Mine's Wendy... I'm six." 

"Hi, Wendy." 

She giggled. "You're funny," shesaid.

In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.

"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."  

After a few days of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother, I knew I would be back.

The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.

The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.  

"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"  

"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

"I don't know, you say."  

 

"How about charades?"  I asked sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."   

"Then let's just walk."

Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.

"Where do you live?" I asked.

"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.

Strange, I thought, in winter.

"Where do you go to school?"

"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."

She chattered "little girl talk" as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.

"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today."  She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.

"Why?" she asked.

I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying this to a little child?

"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."

"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and--oh, go away!"  

"Did it hurt?" she inquired.  

"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.  

"When she died?"

"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.

A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.

"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."

"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."  

"Not at all -- she's a delightful child." I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said.  

"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath

"She loved this beach so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered, "She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"  

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.

Underneath was carefully printed: A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.  

               

Tears welled up in my eyes and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.

The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for each year of her life -- that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of love.

                              

NOTE: This is a true story by Robert Peterson.   It happened over 20 years ago and the incident changed his life forever. 

It serves as a reminder to all of us that we need to take time to enjoy living and life and each other.

The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less. Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or crisis. 

This week,  be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug, and by all means, take a moment...even if it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses. This comes from someone's heart, and is shared with many and now I share it with you.

     May God Bless everyone that receives this!
     There are NO coincidences!
     Everything that happens to us happens for a reason.
     Never brush aside anyone as insignificant.
     Who knows what they can teach us?