₦airaland Forum

Duchaello:
Brainhack!!! Where are you?

Kilode, You didnt reply my message. Why are you shouting my name in the middle of the night.

I shouldnt be here, i have Agoraphobia

ROTFL
@op I wish I could give you 100 likes

xtervaganza: Question for d op





How did u manage to have an archive of such disturbing pictures?





How do u manage to sleep?

You should sleep better, with appreciation for where you are/what you have. knowing that some people were in more difficult situations at some point in their life

onila: especially the ones that asked u for sex in the past

this morning in the library, I just met a guy who asked me to sleep with him last semester when I went to his house

when we used to see each other before
he used to smile and treat me properly

but now, he acts so cold
so much tension

its not easy dealing with a guy that you hurt his ego in the past

I didn't mean to hurt you, sweerie

What happened between you two in the past should be a private matter. It should be handled with maturity, I know for sure he is a matured guy; you strayed into his house and he didnt rape you but here you are afflicting his already battered ego.

Dont cry foul when he rallies his friends to get back at you, before you can spell "maltina" it will be your ego shattered on the floor.

Well its just my thought anyway.

Dolphins

Follow the circle

*Kails*:
lol that story literally has me teary eyed

lol...i shed tears while reading some of 'em.

*Kails*:
part of me believes this.
like God gave us all duties to be filled prior to our birth.

but in another realm. We don't remember it while on earth.

.....now that is so deep, i totally agree with you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwLl5nY5WPI

THE BAND PLAYED ON

''The Musicians of the RMS Titanic all perished with the ship when it sank in 1912. They played music, intending to calm the passengers, for as long as they possibly could and all went down with the ship. All were recognized for their heroism.

Members of the Titanic orchestra
The ship's eight-member orchestra boarded at Southampton and travelled as second-class passengers. They were not on the payroll of the White Star Line, but were contracted to White Star by the Liverpool firm of C.W. & F.N. Black, who placed musicians on almost all British liners. Until the night of the sinking, the orchestra performed as two separate entities: a quintet led by violinist and official bandleader Wallace Hartley, that played at teatime, after-dinner concerts, and Sunday services, among other occasions; and the violin, cello and piano trio of Roger Bricoux, George Krins and Theodore Brailey, that played at the À La Carte Restaurant and the Café Parisien.[1]

.......Wallace Hartley, the ship's band leader (who like all the musicians on board, went down with the ship), was known to like the song and to wish to have it performed at his funeral. He was British and Methodist, and would have been familiar with both the "Horbury" and "Propior Deo" versions, but not with "Bethany". His father, a Methodist choirmaster, used the "Propior Deo" version at church for over thirty years. His family were certain he would have used the "Propior Deo" version,[26] and it is this tune's opening notes that appear on Hartley's memorial.[25][27]

However, a record slip for a 1913 Edison cylinder recording of "Nearer, My God, to Thee", featuring the "Bethany" version, states that "When the great steamship 'Titanic' sank in mid-ocean in April 1912, it was being played by the band and sung by the doomed passengers, even as the boat took her final plunge."[28] George Orrell, the bandmaster of the rescue ship, RMS Carpathia, who spoke with survivors, related: "The ship's band in any emergency is expected to play to calm the passengers. After the Titanic struck the iceberg the band began to play bright music, dance music, comic songs – anything that would prevent the passengers from becoming panic-stricken ... various awe-stricken passengers began to think of the death that faced them and asked the bandmaster to play hymns. The one which appealed to all was 'Nearer My God to Thee'."[29]''

source - wikipedia

''As the final plunge begins, the orchestra give a final performance of Nearer, My God, to Thee, to the tune of Bethany, even when the water is up to their feet and even when they about to be washed off the deck. In real life, there has been much speculation about what their last song was. First-class Canadian passenger Mrs. Vera Dick, and several other passengers, alleged that the final tune played was that of the hymn "Nearer, My God, to Thee"

source - wikia

ONE SOLITARY LIFE
Author - Unknown

"Here is a man who was born in an obscure village, the child of a peasant woman.
He grew up in another village, and that a despised one.
He worked in a carpenter shop for thirty years, and then for three years He was an itinerant preacher.

He never wrote a book.
He never held an office.
He never owned a home.
He never had a family.
He never went to college.
He never put His foot inside a really big city.

He never traveled, except in His infancy,
more than two hundred miles from the place where He was born.
He had no credentials but HIMSELF.
While still a young man, The tide of popular opinion turned against Him.

His friends ran away.
One of them betrayed Him.
He was turned over to His enemies.
He went through the mockery of a trial.
He was nailed upon a Cross between two thieves.

His executors gambled for the only piece of property He had on earth, His seamless robe.
When He was dead, He was taken down from the cross and laid in a borrowed grave through the courtesy of a friend.

Nineteen wide centuries have come and gone,
and today Jesus is the centerpiece of the human race, and the leader of all human progress.

I am well within the mark when I say that
all the armies that ever marched,
all the navies that were ever built,
all the parliaments that have ever sat, and
all the kings that have ever ruled put together
have not affected the life of man upon this earth like this one solitary personality.

All time dates from his birth, and it is impossible to understand or interpret the progress of human civilization in any nation on earth apart from his influence.

Slowly through the ages man is coming to realize that the greatest necessity in the world is not water, iron, gold, food and clothing, or even nitrate in the soil; but rather Christ enshrined in human hearts, thoughts and motives.

More poems have been written, more stories told,more pictures painted, and more songs sung about Christ than any other person in human history, because through such avenues as these the deepest appreciation of the human heart can be more adequately expressed."

THE EAGLE AND THE GRASSHOPPER
Author - Rev. John Brian

Once upon a time there was a grasshopper, who through diligent practice, became one of the best hoppers in the land. She loved hopping so much, she began teaching other grasshoppers how to hop. She was very disciplined and required they faithfully follow her commands. She told her students what to eat, when to eat and how to eat. During their practice sessions, she barked out orders telling them exactly what to do.

Soon, baby grasshoppers that had never hopped before were learning how to hop, adults that could barely hop were hopping much better, and even those who already were good hoppers could now hop much higher. The teacher felt very fulfilled.

Then one day a creature showed up that she had never seen before - an eagle. She was determined to teach the eagle how to hop, as she was certain that hopping was the path to fulfillment and enlightenment. But every time she approached the eagle, he just said, "There is no need." She kept trying, but the eagle insisted,

"There is no need." Finally, at a large gathering of all the grasshoppers,she pointed to the eagle and announced angrily,

"No matter what I say or do, this stupid eagle will never learn how to hop. He does not understand us."

The eagle looked at the grasshoppers and said,"You are content with hopping, but I can fly."

"Stop this foolish talk of flying!" screamed the teacher.

"Flying is just imagination and fantasy."

She turned to the grasshoppers and said,

"Any time such thoughts arise, immediately focus your energy back on your hopping - this is how you will become enlightened."

"You know nothing about flying!" said the eagle with a commanding voice that silenced the grasshopper.

The eagle turned to the grasshoppers. "I can show you a world far beyond your grass fields. If you listen to me, I will teach you all to fly."

The eagle waited for them to respond, but when he looked around, incredibly, all he saw were blank looks on the faces of the grasshoppers. He walked away, very sad.

Later that day, while soaring far above the tall grass of the fields, an insight emerged from deep within the eagle's innermost being. He realized that to communicate with the grasshoppers, he would have to speak the grasshopper's language - the language of hopping.

The next day, the eagle returned to the grasshoppers' world and began hopping with them. The grasshoppers were surprised. Not only could the eagle hop, but he could hop as well as any of them.

The teacher kept a wary eye on the eagle. She feared her grasshoppers would get swept away by the eagle's stories.

But the grasshoppers were curious and some of them began to sneak away to talk to the eagle.

"How is it that you know how to hop and yet you talk of flying? It goes against our teacher's orders."

"Hopping is useful, but when you can fly, it is no longer necessary."

"Tell us more," said the grasshoppers.

The eagle began describing the world beyond the grass fields, a world that included mountains, rivers and oceans. He sensed they were nervous but assured them was nothing to fear.

The grasshoppers asked, "What's it like to fly?"

"When you are flying, you are totally at peace. Sometimes, I feel like I am connected with everything and watch as everything happens automatically without any effort on my part. I am no longer an eagle flying, but I become flying itself."

Later that day, a solitary, brave grasshopper approached the eagle and asked, "Can you take me flying?"

The eagle nodded and gently took the grasshopper in his powerful talon. With a few beats of his wings they were aloft. Circling overhead, the grasshopper could see the mountains, rivers and ocean that the eagle had described, far beyond the familiar grass fields.

Careful not to go too high, the eagle soon returned the grasshopper to the ground. Hearing the commotion, the other grasshoppers rushed over to find out what had happened.

"He took me flying!" announced the brave grasshopper proudly, but then admitted, "I got dizzy. I didn't like it."

"But our teacher has told us that flying is just imagination." said another grasshopper.

"Bless your teacher and be grateful to her, for she has taught you to hop," said the eagle.

"But now you know the truth."

The eagle looked deep within the eyes of the brave grasshopper. Though she was still a bit dizzy, he saw a spark within her very being. He looked at the others and saw that the spark was already spreading to them. Soon, they would no longer be content with just hopping - they would all want to fly.

"My work here is done," announced the eagle abruptly. "Some day you will all learn to fly!"

"But if you leave, who will teach us?"

"Rest assured, as it has always been, when the student is ready, the teacher will appear."

With that, the eagle unveiled his powerful wings and soared off into the sky.

IT ALL DEPENDS ON WHOSE HANDS IT'S IN
Author - Paul Ciniraj Mohamed

A basketball in my hands is worth about $19.
A basketball in Michael Jordan's hands is worth about $33 million.
It depends on whose hands it's in...

A baseball in my hands is worth about $6.
A baseball in Mark McGuire's hands is worth $19 million.
It depends on whose hands it's in...

A golf club is useless in my hands.
A golf club in Tiger Wood's hands is a 4 Major Golf Championships
It depends on whose hands it's in...

A rod in my hands will keep away a wild animal.
A rod in Moses' hands will part the mighty sea.
It depends on whose hands it's in...

A sling shot in my hands is a toy.
A slingshot in David's hands is a mighty weapon.
It depends on whose hands it's in...

Two fish and five loaves in my hands is a couple of fish sandwiches.
Two fish and five loaves in Jesus' hands will feed thousands.
It depends on whose hands they're in...

Nails in my hands might produce a bird house.
Nails in Christ Jesus' hands will produce salvation for the entire world.
It depends on whose hands they're in...

As you see now it depends on whose hands it's in.
So put your concerns, worries, fears, hopes, dreams, families
and relationships in God's Hands.
Because, It depends on whose hands they're in.

PARABLE OF THE PENCIL

The Pencil Maker took the pencil aside, just before putting him into the box. "There are 5 things you need to know," he told the pencil, "Before I send you out into the world. Always remember them and never forget, and you will become the best pencil you can be."

One: You will be able to do many great things, but only if you allow yourself to be held in God's hand. And allow other human beings to access you for the many gifts you possess.

Two: You will experience a painful sharpening from time to time, by going through various problems in life, but you'll need it to become a stronger person.

Three: You will be able to correct any mistakes you might make.

Four: The most important part of you will always be what's on the inside.

And Five: On every surface you walk through, you must leave your mark. No matter what the situation, you must continue to do your duties.

THE WINDOW

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.

The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation. And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.

The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.

As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene. One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.

Days and weeks passed. One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside.

Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself. He strained slowly turned to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.

The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."

TODAY

Outside my window a new day I see and only I can determine what kind of day it will be.

It can be busy and sunny, laughing and gay
Or boring and cold, unhappy and gray.

My own state of mind is the determining key
For I am only the person I let myself be.

I can be thoughtful and do all I can to help
Or be selfish and think just of myself.

I can enjoy what I do and make it seem fun
Or gripe and complain and make it hard on someone.

I can be patient with those who may not understand Or belittle and hurt them as much as I can.

But I have faith in myself and believe what I say.

I personally intend to make the best of each day.

*Kails*:
beautiful!!

esp. the bolded

*kails* has a beautiful mind

TO REMEMBER ME
Author - Robert N. Test

The day will come when my body will lie upon a white sheet neatly tucked under four corners of a mattress located in a hospital busily occupied with the living and the dying.

At a certain moment, a doctor will determine that my brain has ceased to function and that, for all intents and purposes, my life has stopped.

When that happens, do not attempt to instill artificial life into my body by the use of a machine and don't call this my deathbed. Let it be called the Bed of Life, and let my body be taken from it to help others lead fuller lives.

Give my sight to the man who has never seen a sunrise, a baby's face or love in the eyes of a woman. Give my heart to a person whose own heart has caused nothing but endless days of pain.

Give my blood to the teenager who was pulled from the wreckage of his car, so that he might live to see his grandchildren play.

Give my kidneys to one who depends on a machine to exist. Take my bones, every muscle, every fiber and nerve in my body, and find a way to make a crippled child walk.

Explore every corner of my brain. Take my cells, if necessary, and let them grow so that, someday, a speechless boy will shout at the crack of a bat, and a deaf girl will hear the sound of rain against her window.

Burn what is left of me and scatter the ashes to the winds to help the flowers grow. If you must bury something, let it be my faults, my weaknesses and all prejudice against my fellow man.

If, by chance, you wish to remember me, do it with a kind deed or word to someone who needs you. If you do all I have asked, I will live forever.

THE SON - AUTHOR UNKNOWN

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.

When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart, and he died instantly.

He often talked about you, and your love for art." The young man held out his package. "I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this."

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home, he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.

The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection.

On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. "We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?"

There was silence. Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, "We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one." But the auctioneer persisted.

"Will someone bid for this painting? Who will start the bidding? $100,$200?"

Another voice shouted angrily, "We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Goghs, the Rembrandt. Get on with the real bids!"

But still the auctioneer continued, "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?"

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. "I'll give $10 for the painting." Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.

"We have $10, who will bid $20?" "Give it to him for$10. Let's see the masters." "$10 is the bid, won't someone bid $20?"

The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections. The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice, SOLD FOR $10!"

A man sitting on the second row shouted, "Now, let's get on with the collection!"

The auctioneer laid down his gavel. "I'm sorry, the auction is over." "What about the paintings?" "I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned.

Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings. The man who took the son gets everything!"

God gave his Son 2000 years ago to die on a cruel cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is, "The Son, the Son, who'll take the Son?" Because you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.

Ihedinobi: Had to be gone for awhile but I'm grateful that I could catch up. More Gigs to your smartphone or whatever, brainhack. God bless you.

Amen

THE CAB DRIVER
A True Story - Kent Nerburn

There was a time in my life twenty years ago when I was driving a cab for a living. It was a cowboy’s life, a gamblers life, a life for someone who wanted no boss, constant movement, and the thrill of a dice roll every time a new passenger got into the cab.

What I didn’t count on when I took the job was that it was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, the car became a rolling confessional. Passengers would climb in, sit behind me in total darkness and anonymity, and tell me of their lives.

We were like strangers on a train, the passengers and I, hurtling through the night, revealing intimacies we would never have dreamed of sharing during the brighter light of day.

In those hours, I encountered people whose lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh, and made me weep. And none of those lives touched me more than that of a woman I picked up late on a warm August night.

I was responding to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partyers, or someone who had just had a fight with a lover or someone going off to an early shift at some factory in the industrial part of town.

When I arrived at the address, the building was dark except for a single light in a ground-floor window. Under these circumstances many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a short minute,and then drive away. Too many bad possibilities awaited a driver who went up to a darkened building at two-thirty in the morning.

But I had seen too many people trapped in a life of poverty who depended on the cab as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door to try to find the passenger. It might, I reasoned, be someone who needed my assistance. Would I not want a driver to do the same if my mother or father had called for a cab?

So I walked to the door and knocked.
"Just a minute", answered a frail and elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman, somewhere in her eighties, stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like you might see in a costume shop or a Goodwill store or in a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The sound had been her dragging it across the floor.

The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. "I'd like a few moments alone. Then, if you could come back and help me? I'm not very strong."

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm, and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing", I told her. "I just try to treat
my passengers the way I would want my mother treated".

"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said. Her praise and appreciation were almost embarrassing.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice".

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor said I should go there. He says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter."What route would you like me to go?" I asked.

For the next two hours we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they had first been married. She made me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she would have me slow down in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a tar driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up.

Without waiting for me, they opened the door and began assisting the woman. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her: perhaps she had phone them right before we left.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase up to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent over and gave her a hug.

She held onto me tightly. "You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

There was nothing more to say. I squeezed her hand once, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me I could hear the door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I did not pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the remainder of that day, I could hardly talk.

What if that woman had gotten a driver who had been angry or abusive or impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run or had honked once, then driven away? What if I had been in a foul mood and had refused to engage the woman in conversation? How many other moments like that had I missed or failed to grasp?

We are so conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unawares. When that woman hugged me and said that I had brought her a moment of joy, it was possible to believe that I had been placed on earth for the sole purpose of providing her with that last ride. I do not think that I have done anything in my life that was any more important.

samexukpeh: After spending your years in Hypocracy of religion, You still end up in hell
What does it profit u to live a retched life of poverty, fake life claiming to be holy and u still wake up in hell....
Ave Satanas.........
Everyone have the choice of religion. Dnt condenm. Do your own and live your life....
If u are in c.o.s or freemason or skull and bone; lets have a hook up email me on samexukpeh@gmail.com......
If u wanna be a member email me as well and you will be smilling with your wealth and fame.
Rush now!
Ave Satanas

Hmmm. This trend smells like a scam, I guess the next step after *maga contact* is to ask them to pay for the forms.

.....is the knowledge of the Hidden. Btw If you ever get to meet any familiar (I would prefer a principality though) mention the name JESUS, am sure you will never forget what comes next.

Yes everybody has choice of religion and am glad you mentioned HELL. Less than 150 yrs of your life VS Eternity (Time without beginning or end); please choose wisely.

"I've been poor, and I've been rich. And let me tell you, it's better to be rich. But...

Money will buy a bed but not sleep;
Books but not brains;
Food but not appetite;
Finery but not beauty;
A house but not a home;
Medicine but not health;
Luxuries but not culture;
Amusements but not happiness;
Religion but not salvation."

I would tell you the truth, with JESUS CHRIST you can have it all.

THE LITTLEST FIREMAN
A True Story - anonymous

The 26-year-old mother stared down at her son who was dying of terminal leukemia. Although her heart was filled with sadness, she also had a strong feeling of determination. Like any parent she wanted her son to grow up and fulfill all his dreams.

Now that was no longer possible. The leukemia would see to that. But she still wanted her son's dreams to come true. She took her son's hand and asked,

"Bopsy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?"

"Mommy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up."

Mom smiled back and said, "Let's see if we can make your wish come true."

Later that day she went to her local fire department in Phoenix, Arizona, where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her son's final wish and asked if it might be possible to give her six year old son a ride around the block on a fire engine.

Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have your son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire calls, the whole nine yards"

"And if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for him, with a real fire hat — not a toy one — with the emblem of the Phoenix Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots. They're all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we can get them fast."

Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Bopsy, dressed him in his fire uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck. Bopsy got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire station. He was in heaven.

There were three fire calls in Phoenix that day and Bopsy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the paramedic's van, and even the fire chief's car.

He was also videotaped for the local news program. Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Bopsy that he lived three months longer than any doctor thought possible.

One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse, who believed in the hospice concept that no one should die alone, began to call the family members to the hospital.

Then she remembered the day Bopsy had spent as a fireman, so she called the Fire Chief and asked if it would be possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Bopsy as he made his transition.

The chief replied, "We can do better than that. We'll be there in five minutes. Will you please do me a favor? When you hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system that there is not a fire? It's just the fire department coming to see one of its finest members one more time. And will you open the window to his room?

About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital, extended its ladder up to Bopsy's third floor open window and 16 firefighters climbed up the ladder into Bopsy's room. With his mother's permission, they hugged him and held him and told him how much they loved him.

With his dying breath, Bopsy looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief, am I really a fireman now?" " Bopsy, you are," the chief said. With those words, Billy smiled and closed his eyes one last time.

Sorry folks, #BusyWeek. Long days even longer nights now where were we.

ABBEY LAIN
A True Story - Joy Scrivener

Some of you may know that our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month (8/23/2006). The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey. She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her.

She dictated and I wrote:

Dear God,

Will you please take special care of our dog, Abbey? She died yesterday and is in heaven. We miss her very much. We are happy that you let us have her as our dog even though she got sick. I hope that you will play with her. She likes to play with balls and swim before she got sick. I am sending some pictures of her so that when you see her in heaven you will know she is our special dog. But I really do miss her.

Love,
Meredith Claire

P.S.: Mommy wrote the words after Mer told them to her, We put that in an envelope with 2 pictures of Abbey, and addressed it to God/Heaven. We put our return address on it.

Then Mer stuck some stamps on the front (because, as she said, it may take lots of stamps to get a letter all the way to heaven) and that afternoon I let her drop it into the letter box at the post office.

For a few days, she would ask if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had. Yesterday, for Labor Day, we took the kids to Austin to a natural history museum.

When we got back, there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch. Curious, I went to look at it. It had a gold star card on the front and said "To: Mer" in an unfamiliar handwriting.

Meredith took it in and opened it. Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers, When a Pet Dies. Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God, in its opened envelope (which was marked 'Return to Sender: Insufficient address').

On the opposite page, one of the pictures of Abbey was taped under the words "For Meredith." We turned to the back cover, and there was the other picture of Abbey, and this handwritten note on pink paper:

"Dear Mer,

I know that you will be happy to know that Abbey arrived safely and soundly in Heaven! Having the pictures you sent to me was such a big help. I recognized Abbey right away.
You know, Meredith, she isn't sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me — just like she stays in your heart — young and running and playing.

Abbey loved being your dog, you know. Since we don't need our bodies in heaven, I don't have any pockets! — so I can't keep your beautiful letter. I am sending it to you with the pictures so that you will have this book to keep and remember Abbey.

One of my angels is taking care of this for me. I hope the little book helps.

Thank you for the beautiful letter. Thank your mother for sending it. What a wonderful mother you have! I picked her especially for you.

I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much. By the way, I am in heaven and wherever there is love.

Love,
God, and the special angel who wrote this after God told her the words."

As a parent and a pet lover, this is one of the kindest things that I've ever experienced. I have no way to know who sent it, but there are some very kind soul working in the dead letter office. Just wanted to share this act of compassion dear friend — hope you enjoy it as much as I did

Read through your posts. You mentioned God as a Father, mentioned the guidance of the Holy Spirit. With this two in place I became curious when I noticed you never* ( I stand to be corrected if you did) made mention of a certain person; Jesus Christ.

Does He have anything to do with your religion?

If he doesn't. How does one get salvation? (Is there any need for it?)

There was a post you stated "there is no hell"; that a soul would reincarnate till it learns it lesson and reach spiritual maturity. Would that imply that there is no heaven too?

SUSPENDED COFFEE
A True Story - anonymous

"I entered a little coffee-house with a friend of mine and gave our order. While we were approaching our table two people came in, they went to the counter:

'Five coffees, please. Two of them for us and three suspended'

They paid for their order, took the two and left.

I asked my friend:

'What are those 'suspended' coffees?'

'Wait for it and you will see.'

Some more people entered. Two girls ask for one coffee each, paid and left. The next order was for seven coffees and it was made by three lawyers — three for them and four 'suspended'. While I still wonder what's the deal with these 'suspended' coffees I enjoyed the sunny weather and the beautiful view towards the square in front of the café.

Suddenly a man dressed in shabby clothes, who looked like a beggar came in through the door and kindly asked:

'Do you have a suspended coffee?'

It's simple — people pay in advance for a coffee meant for someone who can not afford a warm beverage.

The tradition with the "suspended coffees" started in Naples, but it has spread to some parts of the world and in some places you can order not only a suspended coffee, but also a sandwich or a whole meal.

The donor and the recipient would remain anonymous to each other, to protect generosity, pride, and the pleasure of coffee beyond hardships.

*Kails*:
oh i get it!!
this is the nl version of Chicken Soup for the Soul!

anyway, **bookmarked!!**

Lol yep even the title said it all. But its only the "butter" children that will know what you're talking about. Now let's keep this a secret