Failure is the Line of Least Persistence

There likely will be setbacks and occasional self-doubts on the road to maximizing your charisma. You're going to need patience and persistence. But it's important to keep moving toward your goal.

I'm reminded of a friend who had a life-changing experience in a cross-country ski race in Minnesota. He had moved there not long before. In an enthusiastic, if not realistic, effort to adapt to the local culture, he bought some skis, practiced a bit, and entered an advanced competition. He took off like a flash at the sound of the starter's gun. But after the first quarter-mile in near-zero temperatures, he knew he was in over his head, hopelessly outclassed by other competitors swiftly gliding past him. He was soon alone in a frozen wilderness, and his thoughts turned gloomily to fatigue and defeat.

He had initially hoped to finish in a couple of hours. But as the cold seared his lungs and the exertion weakened his arms and legs, he all but gave up on his goal. If there had been a way to surrender, he would have. But being in deep snow in the middle of the woods, his only way out was to ski out. So he pushed aside the pain and pessimism, and kept skiing.

He imagined a lodge with a roaring fire that might be just around the bend-but wasn't. He imagined a rescue vehicle slicing through the drifts to pick him up-which didn't. He even imagined a helicopter dropping down to whisk him away-but, of course, that never materialized.

So on and on he skied until, at last, he came to a sign: FINISH LINE, 1/4 MILE. He couldn't believe it! Energized, he sprinted that last quarter mile and finished in a time not far from his original goal.

My friend often repeats that story, the winds more frigid and his muscles more aching with each retelling. It's become a part of his self-identity, and the memory of his endurance and ultimate triumph has gotten him through other of life's difficult scrapes and struggles. The moral, as he sees it, is that if you keep slogging ahead, refuse to give up, and stay as positive as you possibly can, you'll accomplish your goal, or something very close to it.

I could hardly argue with that. So even if you have trouble imagining success, keep moving along that snowy path in the woods. And before you know it, you'll have success beyond your imaginings.


Dr. Tony Alessandra helps companies build customers, relationships, and the bottom-line. Tony has a street-wise, college-smart perspective on business, having fought his way out of NYC to eventually realizing success as a graduate professor of marketing, entrepreneur, business author, and consultant. Dr. Alessandra earned his MBA from the University of Connecticut---and his PhD in marketing from Georgia State University. He was inducted into the Speakers Hall of Fame in 1985

Are you a carrot, an egg, or a coffee bean?

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her.

She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed that, as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen.

She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire.

Soon the pots came to a boil.

In the first, she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans.

 She let them sit and boil, without saying a word.

In about twenty minutes, she turned off the burners.

She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Tell me, what do you see?" "Carrots, eggs, and coffee," the young woman replied.

The mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. She then asked her to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard-boiled egg. Finally, she asked her to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma.

The daughter then asked, "What does it mean, mother?"

 Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity - boiling water - but each reacted differently.

The carrot went in strong, hard and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak.

 The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior. But, after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened!

The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

 "Which are you?" the mother asked her daughter. "When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg, or a coffee bean?"

Think of this: Which am I?

Am I the carrot that seems strong but, with pain and adversity, do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat?
Did I have a fluid spirit but, after a death, a breakup, or a financial hardship, does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and a hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavour. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.

When the hours are the darkest and trials are their greatest, do you elevate to another level? How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg, or a coffee bean?

Teachers and Tornadoes

Once I got past the awe of witnessing Mother Nature’s astonishing power to wreak devastation in Oklahoma, I was awed by something more positive and uplifting: the instinctive capacity of our species to care about, come to the aid of, and — for those caught in the middle of the calamity — to even sacrifice their own lives for others.

Every day we are surrounded by examples of the dark side of human nature — selfishness, greed, dishonesty and cruelty — which make it hard to resist cynicism. It’s a pity that it often takes a disaster and the heroic actions it evokes to provide compelling contrary evidence, to remind us of the best in human nature.

How can one resist tears hearing of the teachers in Oklahoma who put themselves at risk by shielding children with their own bodies? 

I suspect lots of other adults would have reacted in a similar fashion, but I think teachers really are special.

With the current focus on competence and accountability in education, we tend to undervalue one of the most important qualities of most teachers: their genuine sense of responsibility and affection for the children they teach.

Over and over we’ve seen the powerful instinct of teachers to protect children in school shootings and, more recently, in the horrific tornadoes.

Teachers willingly and without hesitation treated children as their own and put themselves at risk to protect them.

It should be a comfort to parents to know how much teachers really care.

Henry Adams once said, “Teachers affect all eternity. You never know where their influence stops.” He was referring to the way they shape lives by transmitting information and learning skills, but teachers often do so much more. Though only rarely called upon to risk their lives, they regularly touch the lives of students with their commitment and love.

It’s been said that kids don’t care what you know unless they know that you care. Let’s do all we can to commend, congratulate and celebrate teachers who show how much they care.

Remember, character counts.

Michael Josephson
www.whatwillmatter.com

The Old Man and the Dog

   
     "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 powers.
     
     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 had 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, then 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 pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it."
     
     "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. 


     This story was written by Catherine Moore and originally published here 

The Life of Herbie

1769, in Yarmouth, Maine - a seed from an elm tree, carried by a gentle breeze, floated through the air and settled to the ground. Dry leaves quickly covered it. A warm rain fell. The wet leaves stuck to the ground. Like a womb, they protected and nourished. Under their cover, the tiny seed came to life. Small, vein-like roots reached into the earth and sought nourishment. A delicate sprout pushed the protective leaves aside. Little leaves unfolded and experienced sunshine for the first time. If a tree could smile, this fragile sprout would have.

Years passed. The elm grew at a startling rate of three to six feet a year. As it grew, so did its sense of awareness. The spreading branches acted like a satellite dish. They picked up the signals from near-by trees. The number of elms grew. Each one communicated with the others. They told of all they saw and experienced. There were times when the growing elm was overwhelmed with information from the hundreds of elms that were planted along the shaded streets of the expanding little town.

In 1780, the elm's branches stretched thirty feet into the air. From this lofty height, it sensed the presence of British ships, as they sailed into the harbour. Men dressed in uniform and carrying weapons came to shore. Under the elm's shade, three Americans discussed battle plans. The American Revolutionary War had come to Yarmouth.
Smoke drifted on the breeze. The elm tasted the bitterness of gunpowder for the first time. That evening, as the sun sank below the horizon, a young American, badly wounded, leaned against the elm's trunk. The elm sensed his prayers, as the young man died. His blood soaked the soil. The elm tasted death.

From 1790 to 1890, the normal chatter the tree picked up from the others diminished. The elm watched more than three hundred ships, built from the bodies of his brethren, sail out of the harbour and beyond the horizon.

The tree was almost one hundred years old, when a group of men rested in its shade. They carried muskets as they traveled south into the battle. The American Civil War was underway, and the elm sensed death again.

The small town grew as did the elm. From 1914 to 1918, the elm saw ships, now made of steel, patrol beyond the harbour. It sensed death beyond the waters, as men sailed away to fight the First World War.

On December 7, 1941, a group of young men gathered under the shade of the now mighty elm. The tree sensed excitement and fear. "Japan bombed Pearl Harbour." One said. "I can't believe it." Another stated. "It looks like we're going to war, men." The trees leaves hung limp in the still air. It felt death was near again.

In the 1950's, the elm towered close to one hundred feet tall. With so much area, its sense-perception was at a peak. It sensed the communication of from trees miles away, and what it sensed caused fear. More death was on the horizon. It wasn't man this time. It was the elms, as Dutch elm disease spread across the United States, wiping out millions of trees, leaving many small towns changed. Where once streets were lined with elms, there were now stumps.

One morning, the tree felt the first signs of disease. It branches, which once sensed all things, now seemed numb. It tried to communicate with the others, but only garbled replies came in return. The elm knew it was sick.

Tree warden, Frank Knight, had the sad task of taking many of these trees down, but when he looked up at this one towering giant, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He knew it had stood sentinel over Yarmouth since before the Revolution. This one he would try to save.
For fifty years, Mr. Knight carefully nursed the old elm. He sprayed for pests and pruned diseased branches. One time, as they trimmed, a young girl asked, "What are you doing to Herbie?"

"Herbie? Who's Herbie?" One of the workers asked.

"The tree. He's Herbie."

The name stuck. Herbie, although sick, always sensed Frank's presence. Instead of the death Herbie often felt throughout his lifetime, in Frank there was peace. It was a friendship between man and tree.

Frank Knight is now 101 years old and has lost the battle. Herbie, estimated to be close to 240 years old has to be brought down. For fifty years, Herbie's sense-perception dimmed steadily. Now there is blackness. His time has come.

He was scheduled to be brought down on January 18, 2010, but a snow storm gave him a one day pardon. On the 19th of January, 2010, Maine will lose a majestic, 110 foot king.
Herbie's remains are to be turned into usable items and auctioned off. The proceeds will be used to plant disease resistant elms, which will once again grace the streets of Yarmouth, Maine.


Michael T. Smith

Michael lives with his lovely wife, Ginny, in Caldwell, Idaho. He works as a project manager in Telecommunications and in his spare time writes inspiration stories. He has recently been published in two Chicken Soup for the Soul Books (All in the Family and Things I Learned from My Cat), in "Thin Threads - Life Changing Moments" and in Catholic Digest. To sign up for Michael's stories go to: http://visitor.constantcontact.com/d.jsp?m=1101828445578&p=oi
To read more of his stories, go to: http://ourecho.com/biography-353-Michael-Timothy-Smith.shtml#stories

Lessons Learned From Merlin

Written December 23, 2003

For the last hour, I've been scuffling about my kitchen in my oversized UGG slippers (it's not a hazard as long as I don't try the stairs), whipping up a sugar cookie recipe that requires a full pound of Crisco, and wondering how in the world I'm going to write this year's Christmas novella.

For those of you who've been the recipient of said novella for the last - uh - 18 years or so, I'm well aware that last year's Armitage family Christmas letter was conspicuously missing. I just can't possibly let you down again, heaven forbid, but HOW do I explain this year's proceedings?

I'm going to start with an event that occurred today. It's not meant to be morbid and it IS directly connected to one of the more memorable events of my year, so kindly bear with me.

Today, Merlin came home to me by way of a UPS truck. If you haven't heard already, my beloved, forever shedding Great Pyrenees partner in crime these last 11 years passed on to another form of life on December 8th. He died because half of his heart had given out, proving my suspicions from his puppy-hood that he, like the Whoville Grinch, had a heart that was simply several sizes too big.

After I kissed his nose for the last time, I arranged to have his ashes delivered to me, which was supposed to take a day or two at most. Instead, they called me yesterday (14 days later) to tell me they'd accidentally tried to deliver him to another family and that he was still on the UPS truck, on his way to me this time. Today, true to form, a sweating UPS truck driver sprinted to my door with Merlin solidly lodged under his arm.

As I carried Merlin (in his new state) upstairs, I couldn't help but chuckle. Nothing in the entire world caused greater gnashing-of-teeth for Merlin than the UPS truck and its attached men in brown. It was the only single thing that taunted him into trampling down fences and sprinting for blocks down rush-hour traffic streets. and here's how he ended up, lodged in the bowels of the evil incarnate monster itself (AND during the holiday season to boot) in herkyjerky, stop-and-go fashion for two full weeks.

That, my friend, is Karma. Take it from Merlin: If you're chasing after anything in life with some level of misdirected anger, that very thing will likely get the better of you in the end.

That being said, I'll give Merlin credit for helping me maintain misdirected anger over the last 11 years - even this last year. Merlin was a high-spirited, conniving creature who liked to skitter around on his tippy-toes and create instant wainscoting in every home by sliding drooly, dirty tennis balls along the wall. But he'd also follow me from room to room when he knew I was upset until I'd finally flump down and throw my arms around him. He loved me unconditionally with great warmth and a giving soul that knew no other way to be. And that was a lesson I did, indeed, learn from Merlin.

This last year didn't start well. As the New Year began, I found myself struggling with a business I didn't really like, and paying rent I didn't really want to pay anymore. So, 'round about March, Merlin and I had a talk and decided to stop with the misdirected anger and start creating a better story.

And so we did. As I say in all the stuff I write, "If you don't like the situation you're in, recognize you created it and fix it." It was time to take my own medicine. Mer and I drove all around the town of Laguna in my little convertible until we found our new home. With the move made in March to a lovely place just a block from the beach, I then tackled the not liking-my-business issue with grim determination. Fact is, if you're not doing what you love to do every day, you're cheating yourself. I knew there were too many good and exciting people out there to work with and as I focused on THIS fact, those very people started coming in the door.

It wasn't until July that I got up the nerve to e-mail the one person I wanted to work with most - my most favorite past client. This client and I have tried and failed at working together twice before, and hitting that initial "SEND" button this time around wasn't easy. Ten minutes later, however, we were on our way to working together again and now we're back on track and working quite harmoniously. I delight in what I do every day for this man's company. It's not easy and it's got its tenuous, warbly-chin, pounding headache moments. But, I delight in it. Pure and simple as that. It's supposed to be that simple, I believe.

On a connected note - I've also "happened" upon a couple solid web programming teams, both of which are quite capable of handling all my client urgencies. What I find most amazing about these web teams is that I was very solidly prepared to NOT like working with them after all the experiences I'd had through the years with not-so-great programming teams. But, again, it's all about focusing on what I want to expand, not on what I don't want to expand. Fortunately, somewhere along the way, I also realized that chasing programmers down rush-hour streets while barking my fool head off was only going to succeed in getting ME killed - yet another lesson I learned from Merlin, who always and eventually gave up the chase with a shrug.

On the opposite end of the work spectrum, I somehow ended up in an outrigger canoe club on the wild ocean this summer. How a landlocked Denver girl ever found her way to jumping in and out of a Hawaiian-style 6-man canoe is something I still can't quite fathom myself, much less explain to anyone else. My friend, Deb, a fellow spin-class victim, made me promise to try it and, after my first grudging day, I was hooked. Line and sinker, I might add.

What I thought would be something kind of friendly and social and interactive. like a bowling league on Monday nights. turned out to be a highly competitive 7-month season that entailed a minimum of 15-hours of weekly practice and full days of racing just about every weekend. I was the "stroker" - the Seat #1 gal - for my novice team and we happily and surprisingly won more than we lost. In August, we were imported into the "big girls' boats" - the gals who'd been paddling for years. In our last race of the season, we paddled 31 miles to Catalina Island in about 4 hours.

Aside from this odd sport opening up a host of uncommon injuries and new battle scars, the sport also opened up a whole new community of fun, athletic people to me - people from all walks of life who never would have crossed my path otherwise. This, coupled with my ever-lasting and loving friends in Denver and around the continent, my burgeoning group of wonderful friends from spin class, and my growing community of buddies and neighbors in this small town of Laguna Beach has made for a most enjoyable and busy year. I can't say I remember enjoying myself so much - ever.

So, here I sit on Christmas Eve's Eve with Merlin perched on my lap. (This must be nirvana for Merlin - he is, at last, a lap dog.) And his lessons are here in my head:

. If you chase after something in anger, it will find a way to bite you back.

. Be sure to follow your closest friends from room to room when you know they're upset.

. Give generously of your warmth and soul. You've got more where that came from.

. Be the first to press the "SEND" button when you haven't talked to someone in a while.

. If you're trying to chase something off because it seems like a threat to you, it might be better to stop, shrug and give it up.

. Delight in your days. It's supposed to be that simple.

. And lastly, never lose sight of your family and friends. They're the home you want to return to, even if the only way to get there is by UPS truck.

Diane Armitage

Diane Armitage - www.Armitageinc.com - is a renowned marketing writer, Internet strategist and fixer of lame web sites. When she's not coming to clients' web site rescue, she can be found writing mounds of copy for her popular blog, www.LagunaBeachBest.com and traveling/writing for entities and causes around the world. Contact her at Diane@Armitageinc.com

Catching Fish In A Jar

When I was between eleven and twelve years old I decided one bright sunny day that it would be fun to go fishing. I didn't have any fishing gear and I had never done much fishing other than to play on the stream banks while my father fished. I also didn't want to "hurt" the fish I just wanted to catch them and then let them go.

I looked around the house for what I could use and I found a washed out old mayonnaise jar. You know the old style jars with the big open "mouth". I walked to a nearby pond and put the jar down in the soft dust-like mud of the water's edge with the open "mouth" of the jar facing toward the center. I then stirred the waters a little and made them cloudy so that the fish would have trouble seeing me. Then I waited hovering over the jar. Gradually, cautiously a small fish would swim up to the clear jar to investigate the disturbance and when it swam into the jar I dropped my hand into the water and over the jar mouth. I caught a fish, then another.

I just let them all go and returned my jar to the cupboard. Then I decided to use wire "box trap" to go fishing and rigged a string to the door. This way I could drop the trap in the water and not have to "hover over" it like I did with the jar. I sat very relaxed on the bank of the pond and sure enough I caught a fair sized bluegill. I took it home in a water filled plastic waste basket to show my dad and afterward returned it to the pond.

When I told people about how I had caught the fish they just paused and laughed nervously. You see unlike these people, I didn't know that you couldn't catch fish in a jar. If I would have asked them they would have scoffed and said, "You can't catch fish in a jar or a box trap!" No one in my life had ever dreamed of telling me that so my belief system did not contain these words or the impact that they would have had on my "day of fishing". Only a free minded kid could come up with an idea of using a jar or a box trap to catch fish! No one had told me that this was impossible so I just used what I was familiar with and what I had available and I succeeded.

Maybe today finds you facing a situation that seems impossible. You have a desire but no visible way of bringing it into being. You may need to find that "kid" inside you who thinks "outside the box" and the normal ways of achieving things and let him or her catch that fish in a jar! See your situation from a different angle. Start looking at the resources that you already have and the things that you are already familiar with. A fresh perspective and a childlike sense of wonder may surprise you and there's no telling what you will come up with!

Jami Sell

Catching Fish In A Jar is an excerpt from author Jami Sell's book Thought And Belief: How To Unlock Your Potential And Fulfill Your Destiny! © 2010 All Rights Reserved. It is available at amazon.com, the Book Depository, and in fine bookstores.

I Choose To Laugh

Awakened by the phone ringing at 11:35 p.m., I fumble for the receiver beside my bed. 

Who would be calling at this time of night?

"Hello," I mumble, my brain barely functioning.

"Mom, I'm not in jail." The voice at the other end belongs to my 21-year-old daughter, Rachel.

"What?" My heart is beginning to race and my imagination is running away with me. It's amazing how quickly those words fully awaken me.

"I'm not actually in jail," my daughter continues. "I'm fine. It's my car."

"What's the matter?" I ask, trying to make sense of what I am hearing.

"My car was impounded. I found out that since it's registered in your name, you have to be the one to get it out." There is a sense of urgency in her voice.

"At this hour of the night?"

I knew earlier in the day that her car had been missing. She assumed it had been towed and was trying to locate it. Now she is calling from the city impoundment lot that closed at midnight, (or so I thought.) It's located in the industrial area of a city of 900,000 people. I'm not at all familiar with that part of the city and I avoid it even in daylight. Travel there alone at night? Certainly not.

I awaken my husband, explaining the situation. Fortunately his concern for our daughter wins out over his anger at being awakened.

After driving down the freeway, we wind our way down the darkened streets in the industrial area of the city. The world is eerily silent except for an occasional passing car.
"I hope some day that she will believe the signs she reads," I say wistfully. "She parked in the half-empty parking lot of an apartment building to visit a friend this morning and ended up staying for three hours. She ignored the sign that said 'unauthorized vehicles will be towed at the owner's expense.'"

A university student, Rachel had a penchant for parking in unauthorized places in the cramped lots at school, and had already collected her share of parking tickets. However, this is her first towing experience.

When we arrive at the impoundment lot, Rachel and her room-mate are waiting for us and are in a good mood. In fact, she gets me laughing too. The woman at the desk stares at us in disbelief. No doubt she had seen a good many confrontations between angry parents and children in similar situations - or has dealt with angry car owners coming to claim their cars. No doubt laughter in her office is an extremely rare thing.

"Why are you laughing?" I ask.

"It was a choice between crying and laughing," Rachel says. "I choose to laugh."

"And why did you wait until 11:30 to pick up your car?" I ask.

She explains that although she had gotten off work at 8 p.m., she had chosen to watch her favorite T.V. program at 10 p.m. as a way to "de-stress" before she and her friend left to pick up her car.

All it takes is my husband's driver's license for identification, and she is free to take her 1991 Chevy Sprint rust bucket home. She still has a hefty fee to pay, but that's now her problem.

As my husband and I drive home, a little short of sleep, I think of other parents who get phone calls in the night from their children - who really are in jail, or from police reporting that their child was in an accident, or worse. I silently breathe a prayer of "thanks" to the Lord that our daughter is safe.

A "jailed" car is trivial in comparison to other things that could have happened. So many things in life are irritating, annoying, and inconvenient at the time, but are of no lasting consequences. I think my daughter's philosophy is a good one. I, too, choose to laugh.

Janet Seever
Copyright © 2004
The mother of two adult children, Janet Seever lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. She writes for Word Alive magazine, a publication of Wycliffe Canada, and has had articles published previously in magazines and on the Web. Janet lives her life with a strong faith and still can find reasons to laugh. You can read more of her writing at: www.inscribe.org/janetseever

Making The Best Of Every Situation

It was spring of 1998, and life was good. My husband, Cam, and I were expecting our second child in early June. Our Daughter, Jesse, had just turned three. We owned a lovely little house just outside Vancouver, Canada, and short of the white picket fence, everything was perfect.

On May 29, 1998, the rug was pulled out from underneath us, and a hurricane of devastation followed. My placenta detached and I needed an emergency c-section. Our son Avery was born, but he was blue. A team of doctors from Vancouver Children's hospital were called, and before I know it Avery was whisked way to Vancouver. I didn't even get a chance to hold him. Cam was able to be with Avery, but I had just had surgery and the doctors wouldn't allow a transfer until the following day. 

I remembered thinking, how could this be happening? Having a baby is supposed to be one of the happiest times of our lives. How will I survive? I soon learned that as long as Avery had the fight and determination to live, I had to be there for him.

Short of a miracle five months later, after four heart surgeries, renal failure, Code Blue's, and the sudden death of my beloved father, we were able to take Avery home. It was the best day of my life.

Now I had a promise to fulfil; I had promised God that if I got to bring my little baby home at the end of this tragedy, I will forever be the most grateful mom in the world. Spending five months in the hospital, we saw a lot of parents leave without their baby. I didn't even care what kind of shape he was in, I just wanted us to be home as a family.
Fourteen years later and I have kept my promise. Oh sure I have bad days, but not many, and never for long. It was a bit of a struggle when Jesse was diagnosed with autism, but it was just another hurdle we had to jump. Fortunately with much diligence and therapy, Jesse is a happy, beautiful seventeen-year-old.

Both Jesse and Avery are happy, healthy and amazing people. At the end of the day what more can a parent ask. It is all I need to fill my soul with gratitude.

People are constantly astonished that I am always so upbeat and happy, considering all our family has been through. This I why I knew I had to write a book. I needed to share with others how life can be wonderful, even if it's not what we thought it would or should have been.

Sometimes life deals some devastating blows out of our control. Although we may not have a choice with the cards we are dealt at times, we always have a choice with how we play them.

Kim Gemmell

Kim Gemmell is an author and inspirational speaker who recently wrote her nonfiction memoir telling her inspirational story; BRAVERY, Our Journey of Faith, Hope & Love. Currently BRAVERY is available on most online bookstores, and also can be purchased through Kim's website: www.braverybook.com

Daring to Take Risks

The first time anything new and creative is proposed, it gets labeled. And the label put on these novel things is likely to be "risky." Can't you just hear it?

"Let me get this straight, Orville. You and Wilbur are building a machine that will do what? Heavier-than-air flying machines are the riskiest hoax anybody ever palmed off on two gullible boys like you Wrights. Get a real job!"

Or maybe it was somebody's harebrained idea of talking pictures, black and white children attending the same school, or people walking on the moon. More than one person was berated simply for giving voice to such "silly" ideas.

It turns out that some of the people who dared to propose such outlandish possibilities are now regarded as geniuses - revolutionaries - heroes. And it was only because they dared to question others and to question themselves. They challenged the limitations others were willing to take for granted.

There is something in your profession or business, your family or church that could be done better. A situation could be more productive. A relationship could be healthier. An objective could be clarified. Some lofty ideal to which all in the group give lip service could actually be implemented. But I warn you up front: Like restoring a car or house, it will take twice as long as you thought, cost far more than you anticipated, and strain every important relationship in your life!

Only you can decide if it will be worth it to undertake something so ambitious and costly. There will be false starts. There will be embarrassing mistakes along the way. But the potential outcome could be as important to your personal situation as the achievements of the Wright brothers, Rosa Parks, and Neil Armstrong were to their time and place.

The problem with our world is not that there are no more frontiers to challenge and conquer. It's that there are too few explorers. There are too few people willing to ask the obvious questions and challenge the traditional wisdom. In a word, too few of us want to take the risks that could make us look stupid.

If you are fortunate enough to have a dream in your heart, be willing to make mistakes in pursuit of it. Be a risk-taker. You just might change the world.

Rubel Shelly
Rubel Shelly is a Preacher and Professor of Religion and Philosophy located in Rochester Hills, Michigan. In addition to church and academic responsibilities, he has worked actively with such community projects as Habitat for Humanity, American Red Cross, From Nashville With Love, Metro (Nashville) Public Schools, Faith Family Medical Clinic, and Operation Andrew Ministries. To learn more about Rubel please go to: www.RubelShelly.com

Capital Q

What are you most afraid of? Getting sick, going broke, losing a loved one, dying?

It occurred to me today that what I'm most afraid of is the Question. The one with a capital Q that haunts my mind like a foreign voice murmuring words that I know are important, but I can't understand.

It's the Question that interrupts my sleep and draws my attention away from things I know I must do. It churns in my stomach. I hide best I can, but it pursues me relentlessly.

Beyond the age of two, when questions are our favorite form of discourse, we tend to dislike questions. They point out what we don't know yet – and who enjoys that!

Questions whisper that we aren't totally in control. They're clothed in uncertainty that disturbs our sense of safety.

As personally distressing as these Questions may be, they aren't really personal at all. They are as universal as breath.

What am I doing with my life?

Where am I going?

What really matters?

At one time or another all of us face such Questions. And the quality of our days is highly dependent upon what we do at that very moment. Run, wrestle, or regard?

It's likely you've found that running or wrestling doesn't get you far. You can't out-run or out-wit universal Mind. Fight or flight cannot vanquish this fear. Regarding the Question openly requires the development of a different muscle – that of wonder.

It's a muscle we've flexed when we crested the western ridge of a mountain and were awe-struck by a glorious sunset. Or when we first looked into the eyes of a newborn baby and felt at once humbled and exalted. For that one instant your persona merged into the miracle of life and Questions ceased.

That's the approach to life's sacred Questions that reveals what we long to know. Simply stand before the Question that's chosen you and let the Question breathe. 

Quietly hold the unknown. 

It is only unknown because you've kept turning away. 

It's not fearful. It's the running that has kept you in fear. 

Cultivate a relationship with the unknown. Relax and listen. 

Allow yourself to hear. It's your destiny speaking to you.

Still rather have the answer? Are you sure? If you aren't clear about the question how do you ever hope to understand the answer? I think I've finally learned that answers aren't all they're cracked up to be without a clear view of what the answer answers. So, I'm learning to appreciate the pondering, the reflecting, the patience to listen. The Question is the envelope in which the answer lies.

Do now what you are most prepared to do now. Court the Question. Let it surround you with its mystery. Wait and know that in that very waiting you are letting the Question change you into the person who can finally hear the answer.

Karen is author of The Sequoia Seed: Remembering the Truth of Who You Are, a great read for anyone who is seeking understanding or guidance, inspiration or clarity in his or her life. Waking Up, the free bi-monthly ezine,

Three sons - three boxes - a story about values

"I hope your box is empty!"

It was on the sixteenth day of the 12th month celebrating his 75th birthday when he decided it was time.

Having been happily married, raising three boys, and continuing with great success, the family business handed down from generations before him, this now frail man had to make a decision.

His health had not been good over the past few years and the stress of keeping the business on course was beginning to wear on him.

The challenge was in deciding which one of his sons would take his place.

Each boy had the experience. Each one was capable of helping it grow in the future.

But each had different personal values.

As they gathered together to celebrate Father's birthday, he quietly pulled them aside from the rest of the family to announce his retirement.

"Father, I can't imagine a day without you as the head of the business," one said.

"We are sure to falter without you, but you deserve some rest," another said.

"You are this company," the last chimed in.

Then there was an uneasy silence. Surely the question playing on their minds was "who would take his place?"

The old man turned and walked toward the corner of the room where there were three boxes.

"Come, each of you take one of these boxes. They are of equal size. By the first day of the new year when we return here to celebrate, I want each of you to bring your box filled
with what you believe to be the most valuable assets of this business. Based on your choices, I will decide who will take over as the chairman," father said.

There was much grumbling, confusion and discussion as father left the room.

During the next 15 days the families and employees could sense a strong competitive spirit between the boys. One carried the box nearly everywhere he went. Another ran from department to department asking for records and inventories. The third simply
left the box at his desk.

It was January 1st and the family had once again gathered to celebrate. 

Right after dinner father called the boys aside.

"Well, it is time. Please share with me what you have placed in your box," father said.

The first son, eager to outdo the others, jumped to his feet and began sharing.

From the box he pulled the business ledger, saying "This father, is the true measure of our success. There is no greater representation than the bottom line."
"Simple and direct," father said.

Pointing to the second son, he asked for him to share.

"Where is your box?" father asked.
"It is outside on the back of truck. The box you gave me was much too small. I have ten of our employees out there ready to bring in each of the items I have gathered."

Father walked to the window and from that distance could see his son had gathered many of his own personal possessions; a boat hitched to the back, collections of rare art, antiques and what appeared to be two uniformed guards standing next to a large box.
"What is in the box?" fathered asked.
"My wife's jewels," the son replied. "Shall I order them to bring them in?"
"No! I have seen enough," father said.

With a deep sigh and tone of sadness, he said to the last son, "What valuables do you have to share?"

The son rose to his feet and handed his father the box.
The old man looked inside and with great shock and surprise looked up at his son.
"It's empty!" father said. "Are you telling me that you have found nothing of value in the family business?"
"To the contrary," he said. "What I found most valuable I could not place in a box, on the back of a thousand trucks, or scribbled on the bottom line of a ledger."

Father's face lit up as he returned to his chair.

"How does one measure the value of commitment, quality, honesty, and trustworthiness?

 What size box would hold the loyalty of our employees and customers? 

Would the charities we supported through the years fit into the largest trucks in our fleet? 

How big of an auditorium would I need to gather the families of our coworkers who have benefited from our generous pay and health plan? 

Where would I place the local companies we have committed to deal with so that the community we live in stays strong?

Finally, father, the most valuable possessions I personally hold are the love of you and mother, family values, your wisdom, compassion and love of God. Look again inside that box. They are not there. The result of all of that is here standing before you."

It was clear what decision was made that day.

There will come a time when each of us will be asked by our Father to share what we value most.

I hope your box is empty.

Bob Perks

Bob Perks is an inspirational author and speaker. Bob's new book I Wish You Enough has been published by Thomas Nelson Publishers. A collection of stories based on his Eight Wishes expressed below. Available through your favorite bookstore or online. Visit www.BobPerks.com

The Art of Intuitive Action

About 10 years ago my daughter was about 2500 kilometers from Newcastle, and rang me one day sobbing because of an emotional trauma she was facing. She was about 20, and in a town known as Ayrlie Beach in Northern Queensland. I asked her what it was that she needed most in that moment, and she replied that she needed support, and my arms around her would be the best thing that she could hope for! Because I couldn't do that in that exact moment, I asked her to describe her surroundings to me (I have absolutely no idea 'why', at the time), and said that if she hadn't heard from me in about 30 minutes to ring me back. I asked her to stay exactly where she was. I had no idea how I was going to ring her back, by the way, as she was calling from a public phone booth (one of three), near a little park, surrounded by a few shops in the main street of Ayrlie Beach.

OK then, after hanging up the phone, I just sat for a few seconds. After only a very short time a phone number 'jumped into my head', and even though I recognized it, it wasn't a commonly used number of mine. I rang the number and it was a woman who had bought a house from me about 18 months previously, when I was working in Real Estate. My exact words to her were these, "Oh, it's you Liz, I have no idea why I'm calling you in particular, but my daughter is stranded in Ayrlie Beach, and I just got the thought to ring you and tell you that. Have you any idea why?"

"It could be because my Son lives there," says Liz.

"Oh really, that's got to be it," I said. "Do you mind giving me his phone number Liz?"

"Of course not, and I can only hope that he can be of some help!"

Liz gave me his mobile number and I rang straight away (only about 5 minutes have passed since telling my daughter that somehow I'd get her help). Fortunately, he answered immediately, and I told him the story of who I was, and why I'd rung.

I gave him the description of my daughter; where she was standing; and that she needed emotional support if he could find it in his heart to help out so unexpectedly like this. "Oh yes, I can see her," he said..."she's right across the street from where I'm standing!" He walked across the street and told my daughter that her Dad had sent him!

Imagine that...she almost fainted: only about 10 minutes had passed since she had rung me! I believe that she said something like this, "Wow, Dad's getting pretty good at this stuff!" She was taken to a safe house; nurtured and supported; given food and a bed for a couple nights; and also given money to get herself to where she needed to be.

That's intuition at it's best!

It may save a life or two if people can embrace the use of intuition, and learn to trust in it.
Remember: "What others do or say is their stuff; how we react, or not, is our stuff!"

Phil Evans

Phil Evans is a Motivator, Business Coach, Life Coach and Inspirational Writer based in Australia. You can visit his website at: www.peoplestuff.com.au and join his newsletter or feel free to email Phil with your comments on his story at: phil@peoplestuff.com.au

A Simple Hug - true story

She was eighty years young and still very active. In this small town in southwest Virginia, not much happened. It was just another empty day for a senior citizen who lived by herself. Although she has four children, five grandchildren and several great grandchildren, she was often alone.

In need of a few small things at the grocery and a desire to just get out of the house and be among people, she took a trip to the local Kroger's. Since there were only her own needs to satisfy, she walked up and down the aisles with a small cart. With just six items, she headed to the checkout.

He wandered the store. He'd come for a cup of hot soup and perhaps someone to talk to. The soup was good, it always was, but no one wanted to talk to an old man. Disappointed, he was about to leave when he saw her. She headed to the checkout with only a few items.

"Good morning, Ma'am." He smiled, "You can't leave yet?"

She turned toward the voice. A well dressed man smiled at her. "Excuse me?" she asked.

He pointed to the six items she'd selected. "Your basket is not full."

"There's no need to buy a lot." she replied. "There's no one to eat it."

He stared at her for a moment and said, "I'm so lonely!"

"I know what that's like."

In the middle of an aisle, in a large grocery store, at 11:30 AM, they stood and talked. "My wife and daughter died." he said. "They died too young." His eyes softened as he spoke briefly of them and then added, "and just recently, I lost my little Pomeranian. She was all I had left. Now I'm alone."

"I'm so sorry." She felt her own eyes moisten. He was as alone as she was.

"It's OK." he said bravely. "I hope I can find another dog like her. She was such a joy. At least someone needed me. She gave me purpose. Now I have none. Perhaps I'll get another, but at my age, I don't want to leave her alone when my time comes. Then again, I have this big house. A dog would be happy there. I've lived in it for fifty years. It has big rooms."

"Oh, the homes were built big back then. It was a time when people had large families." She smiled and wondered where the conversation was going.

"They sure did. This old place has four bedrooms. Three of them are empty. It's just me now." He sighed. "There's not much to do. My days are empty. I do get out as often as I can. In fact, every morning I go to McDonalds for breakfast."

"Good for you!" she said. "I try to get out as much as I can myself."

"Those kids at McDonalds are very nice to me. They always greet me with a smile and make such a fuss over me. They're almost like having grandkids. And you know what?"

"What?"

He leaned close and whispered. "They let me have my coffee for free. What do you think of that?"

"That's wonderful!" She knew the joy it must give him to feel welcomed.

They chatted for perhaps twenty minutes. "Well," she looked into his eyes, which now sparkled with pride over the family he had at McDonalds. "I must be getting home."

"I understand." The sparkle faded. "It was nice talking to you."

"It was nice talking to you too." She touched his hand. "I mean it."

He looked back at her and asked softly, "Can I give you a hug?"

A bit taken by his request, but fully understanding his need, she said, "Yes!"

There they stood, in a warm embrace, in the middle of a busy grocery, on a normal day, that was made special by a simple hug.

That evening, she reflected on her encounter with the man. She felt like he did, alone in the world. How many others her age felt the same loneliness? How many seniors just need a kind ear and perhaps a simple hug?

Michael T. Smith
This is a true story from one of Michael's readers. When she heard we were using the story she said, "Oh Mike! That is wonderful - not because it is our story but because the subject is being brought to the fore in such a manner!
Michael lives with his lovely wife, Ginny, in Caldwell, Idaho. He works as a project manager in Telecommunications and in his spare time writes inspiration stories. He has recently been published in two Chicken Soup for the Soul Books (All in the Family and Things I Learned from My Cat), in "Thin Threads - Life Changing Moments" and in Catholic Digest.
To read more of Michael's stories, go to: http://ourecho.com/biography-353-Michael-Timothy-Smith.shtml#stories

What Special Someday Are We Saving For?

My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister's bureau and lifted out a tissue-wrapped package.

"This," he said, "is not a slip. This is lingerie."

He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It was exquisite: silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still attached.

"Jan bought this the first time we went to New York, at least eight or nine years ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is the occasion."
He took the slip from me and put it on the bed with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His hands lingered on the soft material for a moment. Then he slammed the drawer shut and turned to me.

"Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're alive is a special occasion."

I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores that follow an unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane returning to California from the Midwestern town where my sister's family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn't seen or heard or done. I thought about the things that she had done without realizing that they were special.
I'm still thinking about his words, and they've changed my life. I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on the deck and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time in committee meetings.

Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experiences to savor, not endure. I'm trying to recognize these moments now and cherish them.

I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event--such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first camellia blossom.

I wear my good blazer to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for a small bag of groceries without wincing.

I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties; clerks in hardware stores and tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my party-going friends.

"Someday" and "one of these days" are fighting a losing battle to stay in my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now.

I'm not sure what my sister would have done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted. I think she would have called family members and a few close friends. She might have called a few former friends to apologize and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think she would have gone out for a Chinese dinner, her favorite food. I'm guessing--I'll never know.

It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were limited. Angry because I put off seeing good friends whom I was going to get in touch with--someday. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write--one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly love them.

I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives.

And every morning when I open my eyes I tell myself that this is a special occasion.


Ann Wells
Ann Wells penned the column a couple of years after her sister unexpectedly died, and several years before she would lose her husband. Her work somehow made its way to the Internet, where it moves by email and chain letters, compliments of the forward button, and has been renamed "A Story to Live By." Wells, a retired secretary and occasional freelancer, was stunned that the essay, first published in The Los Angeles Times in April 1985, has been zipping through cyberspace. She doesn't even have email. "I'm as surprised as anyone," Wells said.

"We want Ike" - the Gift of Being included

Ike Ditzenberger had watched his big brothers play football. He grew up idolizing and imitating them. Ike wanted to play football too. And he even dared to talk about his dream of playing college football. Big deal, right? It just means that he is like thousands of other teenagers who dream of being an on-field hero.

As a matter of fact, Ike is quite different from your "average" teenage boy. The 17-year-old junior at Snohomish (Washington) High School has Down Syndrome. His 5-foot-6, 160-pound frame isn't that of an athlete, and he doesn't have the motor skills to compete in a game where he could get hurt very easily.

Ike is fortunate to have a supportive family. More than that, his classmates have given Ike the one gift that matters most to so many kids who have a handicap, look different, or stand out for the wrong reasons - the gift of inclusion. Still more specifically, Snohomish's football coach lets Ike come to practices and hang with the guys he admires. Coach Mark Perry has even created a play that ends every varsity practice. Called the Ike Special, the offense hands the ball to Ike. And he gets the thrill of running it toward a soft defensive line of his friends.

On Friday, Sept. 24, 2010, the traditionally competitive Snohomish was absorbing its fourth loss of the season. A 35-0 drubbing at the hands of undefeated Lake Stevens High was mercifully about to end. With 10 seconds left on the clock, Coach Perry heard the "We want Ike!" chant from the stands, put Ike Ditzenberger into the backfield, and called the Ike Special. Wearing No. 57, Ike took the ball and began to run left. Although he appears to have stepped out of bounds, officials let the play continue - as his teammates ran interference and Lake Stevens players made reluctant efforts to get to him.
By the time the clock had expired, Ike was in the end zone. He had run for 51 yards and scored Snohomish's only touchdown of the night. He got to dance in the end zone. The play that worked every time in practice had worked that night in a real game. And Ike got to head to the sidelines to rip off his helmet, pump it in the air, and - in his mom's words - "scream like a banshee."

Grownups in the stands were crying. Lake Stevens players had given up a shutout for something far more important. Snohomish coaches and players had taken the final step in making Ike "one of the guys" with the team.

With all the scandals in sports at all levels, it's nice to come across a story that affirms what games are supposed to teach - character, sportsmanship, team spirit, and self-confidence. Ike and his big brothers can talk football like never before for the rest of their lives now. The guys on the field that wonderful night can talk forever about the biggest play in their high school careers.

Rubel Shelly

Rubel Shelly is a Preacher and Professor of Religion and Philosophy located in Rochester Hills, Michigan. In addition to church and academic responsibilities, he has worked actively with such community projects as Habitat for Humanity, American Red Cross, From Nashville With Love, Metro (Nashville) Public Schools, Faith Family Medical Clinic, and Operation Andrew Ministries. To learn more about Rubel please go to: www.RubelShelly.com