AUTUMN FILLS OUR BASKETS

WITH MEMORIES GALORE

TO WARM OUR HEARTS WHEN WINTER

COMES TAPPING AT THE  DOOR.

MAPLES LEAVES TURN SCARLET-

THEIR SHOCKING COLORS STUN.

PANSIES DECK THE GARDENS

AND THE MUMS ARE BRIGHT AS SUN.

A BUSH TURNS FLAMING ORANGE-

IT'S BRIGHTER THAN A TORCH.

SCARECROWS GUARD THE HARVEST

AND PUMPKINS LIGHT THE PORCH.

AUNTUMN FILLS OUR BASKETS

WITH MEMORIES TO LAST

THROUGH MANY AN ICE AND SNOWSTORM

TILL WINTER WEEKS HAVE PASSED.

Isn't it funny how some special people don't realize they're special at all?

They're thoughtful without even thinking about it.

They're always right there when you call_

They share, not expecting a thing in return,

Yet always seem richer for giving-

Isn't it lovely how those special people can teach us so much about living!

YOU'RE ONE OF THOSE SPECIAL PEOPLE

THANKS FOR BEING MY FRIEND!

  I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me. 'Hello Barry, how are you today?' 'H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good.' 'They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?' 'Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time.' 'Good. Anything I can help you with?' 'No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas.' 'Would you like to take some home?' asked Mr. Miller. 'No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with.' 'Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?' 'All I got's my prize marble here.' 'Is that right? Let me see it' said Miller. 'Here 'tis. She's a dandy.' 'I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?' the store owner asked. 'Not zackley but almost..' 'Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble'. Mr. Miller told the boy. 'Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller.' Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, 'There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store.' I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado, but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles. Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. < BR>They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could. Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...all very professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket. Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes. Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket .. 'Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim 'traded' them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size....they came to pay their debt.' 'We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,' she confided, 'but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho ' With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles. The Moral : We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.. Today I wish you a day of ordinary miracles ~ A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself...An unexpected phone call from an old friend...Green stoplights on your way to work...The fastest line at the grocery store...A good sing-alon g song on the radio...Your keys found right where you left them. Send this to the people you'll never forget. I just Did... If you don't send it to anyone, it means you are in way too much of a hurry to even notice the ordinary miracles when they occur. IT'S NOT WHAT YOU GATHER, BUT WHAT YOU SCATTER THAT TELLS WHAT KIND OF LIFE YOU HAVE LIVED

BEAUTIFUL CHRISTIAN SISTER

By Maya Angelou

---

  'A woman's heart should be so hidden in Christ That a man should have to seek Him first to find her.' When I say... "I am a Christian" I'm not shouting "I'm clean living'' I'm whispering 'I was lost, Now I'm found and forgiven.' When I say... "I am a Christian" I don't speak of this with pride. I'm confessing that I stumble and need Christ to be my guide. When I say... "I am a Christian" I'm not trying to be strong. I'm professing that I'm weak and need His strength to carry on. When I say... "I am a Christian" I'm not bragging of success. I'm admitting I have failed and need God to clean my mess. When I say... "I am a Christian" I'm not claiming to be perfect, My flaws are far too visible but, God believes I am worth it. When I say... "I am a Christian" I still feel the sting of pain... I have my share of heartaches, so I call upon His name. When I say... "I am a Christian" I'm not holier than thou, I'm just a simple sinner Who received God's good grace, somehow! Pretty is as Pretty does... But beautiful is just plain beautiful! TODAY IS BEAUTIFUL CHRISTIAN SISTERS DAY - I'm supposed to send this to BEAUTIFUL WOMEN, and you are one of them!!! If you share this with other women, you will boost another woman's self esteem, And she will know that you care about her.

The Old Man and the Dog by Catherine Moore "Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can't you do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle. "I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him? Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man. Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he ha d a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, the n finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone. My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog. I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons,too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gestured helplessly. As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're going to kill him?" "Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog." I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. "I'll take him," I said. I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly. Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house. Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal. It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet. Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night. Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind. The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pasto r turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers." "I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said. For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article... Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. . .his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father. . and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity. Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.

Words of Wisdom for the New Year The most destructive habit........Worry The greatest joy.......Giving The greatest loss.......Loss of self-respect The most satisfying work.......Helping others The ugliest personality trait.....Selfishness The most endangered species.....Dedicated leaders Our greatest natural resource.....Our youth The greatest "shot in the arm"......Encouragement The greatest problem to overcome......Fear The most effective sleeping pill......Peace of mind The most crippling failure disease......Excuses The most powerful force in life......Love The most dangerous pariah......A gossiper The world's most incredible computer......The brain The worst thing to be without......Hope The deadliest weapon.....The tongue The two most power-filled words......"I Can" The greatest asset.....Faith The most worthless emotion......Self-pity The most beautiful attire.....SMILE! The most prized possession.....Integrity The most powerful channel of communication.......Prayer The most contagious spirit......Enthusiasm

 Heaven Written by a 17 Year Old Boy .
> > >
> > >This is excellent and really gets you thinking about what will happen
> > >In Heaven.
> > >
> > >
> > >17-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 Teays Valley High School in
> >
> > >Pickaway County.
> > >
> > >Brian had been dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted
> > >Every piece of his life near them, notes from classmates and teachers,
> > >And 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 Moore's 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.
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >
> > >Here is Brian's essay entitled "The Room." Page 1
> > >
> > >
> > >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 a 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 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 such a 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 deeper than my own. He seemed to
> > >intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read everyone?
> > >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.
> > >
> > >"For God so loved the world that He gave His only Son, that whoever
> > >believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16
> > >
> > >If you feel the same way forward it to as many people as you can so the
> >
> > >love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My "People I shared the
> > >gospel with" file just got bigger, how about yours?

In Memorian...

Body:

Chris Benoit, a popular WWE wrestler, died today, June 25, 2007 due to a murder/suicide attempt. Chris Benoit's achievements are: CWA World Tag Team Champion ECW Tag Team Champion IWGP Junior Heavyweight Champion Super J Cup Winner 1993 Top of the Super Juniors 1995 Best of the Super Juniors Pro Wrestling Illustrated (PWI) awards: #69 of the 500 best wrestlers of the PWI years (2003) PWI Feud of the year with Triple H (2004) PWI Match of the year with Shawn Michaels and Triple H (2004) PWI Wrestler of the year (2004, won with a record of 73%) Ranked #1 of the PWI 500 in 2004. Other awards: Stampede British Commonwealth Mid Heavyweight champion (4 times) Stampede International Tag Team champion (4 times) WWF Light Heavyweight champion WCW World Heavyweight champion WCW United States Heavyweight champion (2 times) WCW World Tag Team champion (2 times) WCW World Television champion (3 times) WWE Tag Team Champion WWE United States champion (3 times) WWF/E Intercontinental champion (4 times) WWF/E World Tag Team champion (3 times) World Heavyweight champion Royal Rumble 2004 winner Twelfth Triple Crown champion Wrestling Observer Newsletter awards: Best Technical Wrestler (1994, 1995, 2000, 2003, 2004) Most Underrated Wrestler (1998) Most Outstanding Wrestler (2000 and 2004) Match of the year award: Him and Kurt Angle vs. Edge and Rey Mysterio (2002) Wrestling Observer Newsletter 2003 Hall of Fame Best Brawler Award (2004) Feud of the Year with Triple H and Shawn Michaels (2004) Chris Benoit was found dead with his wife Nancy Daus, and their son, Daniel at around 2:30 P.M. WWE Raw was supposed to air a tribute to Mr. McMahon, but instead went to Chris Benoit, airing superstars talking about him, and clips from his Hard Knocks Movie. It is believed that Chris Benoit killed his wife and son over the weekend, and later killed himself on Monday. More details will come shortly.