The Muslims

They’re not happy in Gaza ..

They’re not happy in Egypt ..

They’re not happy in Libya ..

They’re not happy in Morocco ..

They’re not happy in Iran ..

They’re not happy in Iraq ..

They’re not happy in Yemen …

They’re not happy in Afghanistan …

They’re not happy in Pakistan ..

They’re not happy in Syria ..

They’re not happy in Lebanon ..

SO, WHERE ARE THEY HAPPY?

They’re happy in Australia ..

They’re happy in Canada ..

They’re happy in England ..

They’re happy in France ..

They’re happy in Italy ..

They’re happy in Germany ..

They’re happy in Sweden ..

They’re happy in the USA ..

They’re happy in Norway ..

They’re happy in Holland ..

They’re happy in Denmark ..

Basically, they’re happy in every country that is not Muslim and unhappy in every country that is!

AND WHO DO THEY BLAME?

Not Islam.

Not their leadership.

Not themselves.

THEY BLAME THE COUNTRIES THEY ARE HAPPY IN!

AND THEN- They want to change those countries to be like,

THE COUNTRY THEY CAME FROM WHERE THEY WERE UNHAPPY!

Excuse me, but I can’t help wondering…

How damn dumb can you get?

The Sandpiper by Robert Peterson

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. She was building a sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.

(I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me.)

“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,” she said.

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.”

The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings,
and an ailing mother. 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 uttered 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 sent out 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 read by many and now I share it with you..

May God Bless everyone who 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?

I wish for you, a sandpiper

I am standing upon the seashore.

I am standing upon the seashore.

A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch until at last she hangs
like a speck of white cloud
just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says,
“There she goes! “Gone where? Gone from my sight . . . that is all.

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the place of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment
when someone at my side says,
“There she goes!”
there are other eyes watching her coming . . .
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout .. .

“Here she comes!”

A Poor Scottish Farmer

His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer.

One day, while trying to make a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog. He dropped his tools and ran to the sound.

There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming and struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death.

The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman’s sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

‘I want to repay you,’ said the nobleman. ‘You saved my son’s life.’

‘No, I can’t accept payment for what I did,’ the Scottish farmer replied waving off the offer. At that moment, the farmer’s own son came to the door of the family hovel.

‘Is that your son?’ the nobleman asked.

‘Yes,’ the farmer replied proudly.

‘I’ll make you a deal. Let me provide him with the level of education my own son will enjoy If the lad is anything like his father, he’ll no doubt grow to be a man we both will be proud of.’

And that he did.

Farmer Fleming’s son attended the very best schools and in time, graduated from St. Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of Penicillin.

Years afterward, the same nobleman’s son who was saved from the bog was stricken with pneumonia.

What saved his life this time? Penicillin.

The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill .. His son’s name?

Sir Winston Churchill.

 

 

 

Sears – Christmas shopping this year.

I know I needed this reminder, since Sears isn’t always my first choice. It’s amazing when you think of how long the war has lasted and Sears hasn’t withdrawn from their commitment. Could we each buy at least one thing at Sears this year?

What commitment you say?

How does Sears treat its employees who are serving in our military? By law, they are required to hold their jobs open and available, but nothing more. Usually, people take a big pay cut and lose benefits as a result of being on active duty.

Sears is voluntarily paying the difference in salaries and maintaining all benefits, including medical insurance and bonus programs, for all employees who are serving.

I submit that Sears is an exemplary corporate citizen and should be recognized for its contribution. I suggest we all shop at Sears at least once this year. Be sure to find a manager to tell them why we are there so the company gets the positive reinforcement & feedback it well deserves.

He Who Knows Not…

“He who knows not and knows not he knows not: he is a fool – shun him.

He who knows not and knows he knows not: he is simple – teach him.

He who knows and knows not he knows: he is asleep – wake him.

He who knows and knows he knows: he is wise – follow him.”

Proverbs

How Old Is Grandma?

Stay with this — the answer is at the end…

One evening a grandson was talking to his grandmother about current events.

The grandson asked his grandmother what she thought about the shootings at schools, the computer age, and just things in general.

The Grandmother replied, “Well, let me think a minute -

I was born before:

‘ television, ‘ penicillin, ‘ polio shots, ‘ frozen foods, ‘ Xerox, ‘ contact lenses, ‘ Frisbees and, ‘ the pill

There were no:

‘ credit cards, ‘ laser beams or ‘ ball-point pens

Man had not yet invented:

‘pantyhose, ‘ air conditioners, ‘ dishwashers, ‘ clothes dryers, ‘ and the clothes were hung out to dry in the fresh air and ‘ man hadn’t yet walked on the moon

Your Grandfather and I got married first, and then lived together.

Every family had a father and a mother.

Until I was 25, I called every man older than me, “Sir.

“And after I turned 25, I still called policemen and every man with a title, “Sir.”

We were before gay-rights, computer-dating, dual careers, daycare centers, and group therapy.

Our lives were governed by the Ten Commandments, good judgment, and common sense.

We were taught to know the difference between right and wrong and to stand up and take responsibility for our actions.

Serving your country was a privilege; living in this country was a bigger privilege.

We thought fast food was what people ate during Lent.

Having a meaningful relationship meant getting along with your cousins.

Draft dodgers were those who closed front doors as the evening breeze started.

Time-sharing meant time the family spent together in the evenings and weekends, not purchasing condominiums.

We never heard of FM radios, tape decks, CD’s, electric typewriters, yogurt, or guys wearing earrings.

We listened to Big Bands, Jack Benny, and the President’s speeches on our radios.

If you saw anything with ‘Made in Japan ‘ on it, it was junk.

The term ‘making out’ referred to how you did on your school exam.

Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, and instant coffee were unheard of. We had 5 &10-cent (5 and dime) stores where you could actually buy things for 5 and 10 cents.

Ice-cream cones, phone calls, rides on a streetcar, and a Pepsi were all a nickel.

And if you didn’t want to splurge, you could spend your nickel on enough stamps to mail 1 letter and 2 postcards.

You could buy a new Ford Coupe for $600, but who could afford one? Too bad, because gas was 11 cents a gallon.

In my day:

‘ “grass” was mowed, ‘ “coke” was a cold drink, ‘ “pot” was something your mother cooked in and ‘ “rock music” was your grandmother’s lullaby. ‘ “Aids” were helpers in the Principal’s office, ‘ “chip” meant a piece of wood, ‘ “hardware” was found in a hardware store and ‘ “software” wasn’t even a word.

We were the last generation to actually believe that a lady needed a husband to have a baby.

We volunteered to protect our precious country.

No wonder people call us “old and confused” and say there is a generation gap.

How old do you think I am?

Read on to see — pretty scary if you think about it and pretty sad at the same time.

Are you ready?????

This woman would be only 60 years old.

She would have been born in late 1952.

GIVES YOU SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT.