There once was a little boy who wanted to meet God. He knew it was a long
trip to where God lived, so he packed his suitcase with Twinkies and a
six-pack of root beer, and he started his journey.
When he had gone about three blocks, he met an old woman. She was sitting in
the park just staring at some pigeons. The boy sat down next to her and
opened his suitcase. He was about to take a drink from his root beer when he
noticed that the old lady looked hungry so he offered her a Twinkie. She
gratefully accepted it and smiled at him. Her smile was so pretty that the
boy wanted to see it again, so he offered her a root beer. Once again, she
smiled at him. The boy was delighted! They sat there all afternoon eating
and smiling, but they never said a word.
As it grew dark, the boy realized how tired he was and he got up to leave
but before he had gone more than a few steps; he turned around, ran back to
the old woman, and gave her a hug. She gave him her biggest smile ever. When
the boy opened the door to his own house a short time later his mother was
surprised by the look of joy on his face. She asked him, "What did you do
today that made you so happy?" He replied, "I had lunch with God." But
before his mother could respond, he added, "You know what? She's got the
most beautiful smile I've ever seen!"
Meanwhile, the old woman, also radiant with joy, returned to her home. Her
son was stunned by the look of peace on her face and he asked, "Mother, what
did you do today that made you so happy?" She replied, "I ate Twinkies in
the park with God." But before her son responded, she added, "You know, he's
much younger than I expected."
Too often we under estimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a
listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of
which have the potential to turn a life around. People come into our lives
for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Embrace all equally!
------------------------------------------------------------ ----------------
----
by Max Lucado
The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved
by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their
village. Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large
eyes. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore
coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village.
And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each
other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of
gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people could
be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.
The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars.
But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots. The
talented ones got stars, too. Some could lift big sticks high above their
heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or could sing
very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars.
Some Wemmicks had stars all over them! Every time they got a star it made
them feel so good that they did something else and got another star.
Others, though, could do little. They got dots.
Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he
always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around and give him
dots. Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would
give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say something
silly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots.
After a while he had so many dots that he didn't want to go outside. He was
afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the
water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many
gray dots that some people would come up and give him one without reason.
"He deserves lots of dots," the wooden people would agree with one another.
"He's not a good wooden person."
After a while Punchinello believed them. "I'm not a good wemmick,"he would
say. The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who had a
lot of dots. He felt better around them.
One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he'd ever met. She had no dots
or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lulia. It wasn't that people
didn't try to give her stickers; it's just that the stickers didn't stick.
Some admired Lulia for having no dots, so they would run up and give her a
star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on her for having no
stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn't stay either.
"That's the way I want to be," thought Punchinello. "I don't want anyone's
marks." So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it.
"It's easy," Lulia replied. "every day I go see Eli."
"Eli?"
"Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him."
"Why?"
"Why don't you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He's there." And with
that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away.
"But he won't want to see me!" Punchinello cried out. Lulia didn't hear. So
Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as
they scurried around giving each other stars and dots.
"It's not right," he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli. He
walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big
shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as
tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the top of the
workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowed hard. "I'm
not staying here!" and he turned to leave. Then he heard his name.
"Punchinello?" The voice was deep and strong.
Punchinello stopped.
"Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a look at you."
Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman.
"You know my name?" the little Wemmick asked.
"Of course I do. I made you." Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him
on the bench. "Hmm," the maker spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray
circles "Looks like you've been given some bad marks."
"I didn't mean to, Eli. I really tried hard."
"Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me, child. I don't care what the
other Wemmicks think."
"You don't?"
"No, and you shouldn't either. Who are they to give stars or dots? They're
Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn't matter, Punchinello. All
that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special."
Punchinello laughed. "Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My
paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"
Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders,
and spoke very slowly. "Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."
Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this-much less his maker.
He didn't know what to say.
"Every day I've been hoping you'd come," Eli explained.
"I came because I met someone who had no marks."
"I know. She told me about you."
"Why don't the stickers stay on her?"
"Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what they
think. The stickers only stick if you let them."
"What?"
"The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my love,
the less you care about the stickers."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"You will, but it will take time. You've got a lot of marks. For now, just
come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care."
Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground. "Remember,"
Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. "You are special because I made
you. And I don't make mistakes."
Punchinello didn't stop, but in his heart he thought, "I think he really
means it."
These are blatant, racially motivated attacks. Please contact the victims
and let them tell you what is transpiring.
Gloudina - ek het nog altyd vermoed dat die naam Gloudina sy oorsprong het
in sanitêre doekies - maar jy het dit nou bevestig. Bepaal jou by jou nuwe
tuisland en by sake waarvan jy iets mag weet - soos Ferdie se resitasies...
skryf in boodskap news:3B2A5588.8B8F09B@home.com...
Bruno wrote:
> Le racisme antiblanc existe. Il est distinct d'autres formes de racisme par
> sa capacité de réduire ses victimes au silence
So from where do you hail, Bruno? Belgium or France? Farmattacks are not
racist
acts. They are forms of economic terrorism.
You find the same kind of thing in countries where the elite land-
owners are not necessarily white. So stop talking of "antiblanc."
Your own racist bias is showing.
>
> En nog niks van die anakefalitiese MCP en "internet koordineerder" wat
> by Beeld werk nie. Moontlik skryf/lees jy net gedurende werksure,
> sodat jy net Beeld en jou landsgenote se belasting geld kan mors?
>
> Kom nou seuntjie - Che sou nie so lamsakkig en papbroekig gewees het
> nie!!!!
So komies (en lekker!) dat twee vròumense die twee kommuniste op die
NG 'poppey' maak!
Dag se
Ek is op soek na die woorde van 'n gedig met bo staande woorde - of iets
soos "die jaar word ryp in goue akker blare, in wingerd wat verbruin ....."
Dalk geur N P van Wyk Louw geskryf. Kan iemand my met die woorde voorsien?
By voorbaat dankie.
Rodney Tucker
Dag se
Ek is op soek na die woorde van 'n gedig met bo staande woorde - of iets
soos "die jaar word ryp in goue akker blare, in wingerd wat verbruin ....."
Dalk geur N P van Wyk Louw geskryf. Kan iemand my met die woorde voorsien?
By voorbaat dankie.
Rodney Tucker
Koos Kombuis wil beweer hy is André le Toit ( dink ek - ek weet daar is nie
'n du nie)
Hy het gereeld by die Spur en die Tuine Inkopiesentrum gesit en koffie drink
en sy gedagtes neergeskryf.
Moes Lisa se Klavier gewees het, want hy was gewoonlik saans daar:))))
Nee, ek ken hom nie. Het hom net daar gesien en vir hom hallo gesê voordat
ek geweet het hy beroemd sou raak:))))
Annette
Danielle skryf in boodskap news:sjpcitok4v0st80tsf9sf96qcir7jffh66@4ax.com...
>
> Is dit kopiereg skending om lirieke te plaas op 'n nuusgroep as dit
> reeds openlik beskikbaar is op die Internet?
>
>
> SWART SEPTEMBER
>
> Plant vir my 'n Namibsroos, verafgelee Velvitchia
> hervestig hom in Hillbrow en doop hom Kayalitcha
> September is die mooiste, mooiste maand
> viooltjies in die voorhuis en riots oral in die land
> Die aand was vrolik om die vure, Gatiep was olik by die bure
> Die tyres het gebrand daar aan Mannenburg se kant
> al die volk was hoenderkop, die Caspers was vol guns gestop
> en die vroue by die draad het eerste die gedruis gehoor
> tjank maar Ragel oor jou kind, die boere het hom doodgemoer
> Groot masjiene oor die land, September '84
> die seisoen wat brand en aanhou brand,'n lente bleek en dor
> waar swartes sonder pas nog skuifel langs die mure
> en Niemandsland se as nog waai oor Niemandsland se vure
> Die swarte sonder pas, ja die swarte sonder pas
> skuifel langs die mure, verlustig hom in derde klas
> In Langstraat waar die cafes nog oop is tot laat in die angry nag
> het ek my dolla slap tjips gaan koop ek moes half an hour staan en wag
> Van Tafelbaai tot in Transvaal loop hensoppers weer deesdae kaal
> maar is jy wit, bruin, swart of geel, kak almal in die symste taal
> Sou jy haar nog liefhe, die ongerymde moedertaal
> besef jy sy's met clones en pigeons landwyd op die paal
> Oooe, die hart is bitterkos, oooe, met pap en wors
> dat liefde so tot haat kon gis, dat reforms so kon afwas
> Gonna, AIDS en sifillis groei wild waar eens beloftes was
> Groot masjiene oor die land, September '84 wat oorkook in 'n
> noodtoestand
> 'n lente bleek en dor
> waar swartes sonder pas nog skuifel langs die mure
> en Niemandsland se as nog waai oor Niemandsland se vure
>
>
>
>
> -----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =-----
> http://www.newsfeeds.com - The #1 Newsgroup Service in the World!
> -----== Over 80,000 Newsgroups - 16 Different Servers! =-----
Supertaal
Blog
Soek
Hulp
Lede
Registreer
Teken aan
Tuis
RSS
