Happy New Year 2019

BEING THERE

 

Being there can be lending a hand, lifting a heavy load.

Being there can be a smile on a cloudy day.

Being there can be a crust of bread to the poor, giving shelter from the storm.

Being there can be a thought, a blessing, a prayer.

Being there can be showing support, and enthusiasm.

Being there can be listening quietly while someone else
has something important they'd like you to hear.

Being there can be a friendly hug, or a warm embrace.

Being there can be expressions, penned on a page.

Being there can be the transferring of a certain glance.

Being there can be offering your time.

Being there can be sitting silently beside someone
to watch the sun slide behind a silver sea.

Being there can be wiping a tear.

Being there can be chasing the moon at midnight.

Being there can be a whisper, a word, a soft touch at the right moment.

Being there can be riding the ferris wheel together without ever leaving the ground.

Being there can be a telephone call, closing the miles.

Being there can be a kiss on a fevered brow.

Being there can be the gift of a flower.

Being there can be teaching with kindness.

Being there can be sharing the depth of a powerful silence.

Being there can be wishing you were somewhere
when you must be someplace else.

Being there can be taking someone's place
when they must be somewhere else.

Being there can be driving through the blazing brilliance of autumn.

Being there can be just holding hands.

Being there can be waiting out the tough times.

Being there can be touching God through the heart,
and letting His will be done.

Author Unknown

"Nutrition for the Soul" Christmas Greetings to you all

O Holy Night

O Holy Night!
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of the dear Savior's birth!
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
Till he appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary soul rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn!

Fall on your knees
Oh hear the angel voices
Oh night divine
Oh night when Christ was born
Oh night divine
Oh night divine

Led by the light of Faith serenely beaming
With glowing hearts by His cradle we stand
So led by light of a star sweetly gleaming
Here come the wise men from Orient land
The King of Kings lay thus in lowly manger
In all our trials born to be our friend

Truly He taught us to love one another
His law is love and His gospel is peace
Chains shall He break for the slave is our brother
And in His name all oppression shall cease
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
Let all within us praise His holy name

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g4fvMgNfN0I

Remembering Loved Ones at Christmas

What to Give Grieving Loved Ones This Christmas

 I lost my mother six weeks ago. Too close to Christmas for me to really care about fairy lights and gift wrapping, though brandy and rum balls have certainly increased their appeal. Her name was Joy -- she was made for Christmas. Which is why a simple piped Christmas carol can have me sobbing without warning in aisle six at the local supermarket.

In the first few weeks of shock post her death I foolishly thought I could control when or where the tears would hit. But that's like thinking you can control the tides or send the earth in the opposite direction round the sun. I have since resigned myself to a quiet tear in a bank queue, a misty eye in the dog park or one full cathartic break down behind the wheel of my car, stereo blasting.

The trouble is we live in a Western homogenized world that doesn't acknowledge grief past the funeral. We are not taught when we are young that dying is a part of life, your life and everyone else's life. It is as natural as the first and last breathe we take and appears in every life force around us. There is a beginning, middle and end to everything.

Instead we seek eternal youth. We buy hope in a jar to turn back the years with cosmetic creams, spend hours at the gym in the quest for smooth undimpled thighs and dye the grey out of our hair lest anyone suspect for a moment that we are human and experiencing the limit of time given to each of us.

If we live in a world of denial around aging, how can we possibly know what to say to those impacted by what aging represents -- death?

In the weeks during my mother's deterioration and then her inevitable demise I witnessed the discomfort of those who struggle in the face of other's vulnerability and loss. I have seen people, for the first time post-death, who know she has died but say nothing.

Yet they chitter chatter with white noise and over disclosure in a bid to keep the fear of vulnerability at bay. Anything but acknowledge the truth before them.

Here's a tip: I don't have leprosy, and death is not contagious, though it will eventually come for you too. Not mentioning the death of my mother, the person who gave me life, who birthed me, bathed me and was forever present in my world, only makes it easier for you, or so you think.

I will not break down into a flood of a thousand tears, howling at the sky if you acknowledge the significant event that has created a new world for me. And if I do, then so what?

Those in grief are acutely sensitive to loss. Friends that go missing in action, and they do, without a word of explanation during this crucial time only accentuate that loss. One of the best things you can say is "I don't know what to say" or "it is too confronting for me," for the acknowledgement itself opens up a dialogue.

Not inviting a grieving person to holiday events may be well-meaning, but again it represents the deafening silence the grieving person already deals with daily. Inviting them doesn't mean they will come and drop inconsiderate salty tears into your eggnog and be found in the foetal position under the Christmas tree but again, so what if they do, because you can be guaranteed someone with flashing felt antlers and a reindeer sweater will do it anyway.

People in grief are akin to those in the early stages of love. They suffer from mention-itis, the ability to drop that person's name into every conversation no matter how random. Let them.

Don't shut them down or change the topic because they dared to mention the name of someone who dared to inconsiderately die in the three hundred and fifty odd days prior to Christmas. To do so is to say the deceased never existed when all they have left is memories.

Gestures do count, even declined invitations. Gestures mean someone is thinking about you and gestures reveal to the grieving that they are being thought about.

On one of the six final nights my mum spent in hospital I stood in the lift unable to contain the tears breaking the wells in my eyes. A stranger who shared the lift reached out and rubbed my back. Bless that stranger and their gesture forever.

I have since arrived at my local café to find a friend who had been at the café before me had paid for my breakfast the next time I came in. I have come home to a photo book of puppies on my front door, to flowers sent five weeks after with a note about "understanding the silence," to a bag of groceries and a soulful recipe for the heart that explained the ingredients within.

I haven't seen any of these people. I didn't need to -- the gestures have meant it all.

Loss leaves us vulnerable but there is truth, authenticity and courage in vulnerability when you remain present to all that the grief process reveals. I am as grateful for my mother's life as my mother's death for both have brought new life to me in different ways.

If you truly want to give something to someone who is grieving this Christmas, then give your presence for even a moment. Wrap your vulnerability up with a red ribbon and hand it over: You'll be surprised what a true present that is and where that connection can lead.

" A Christmas Day Auction"

A Christmas Day Auction

Remember that a gift should be treasured; not only the ones that are wrapped but ones that are bestowed upon you.

Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together, they travelled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the family estate.

The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.

One year, as winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic.

Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season that he and his son had looked forward to would visit his house no longer.

On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hands.

He introduced himself to the old man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you."

As the two began to talk, the soldier told of how the man's son had told everyone of his, not to mention his father's, love of fine art. "I am no artist," said the soldier, "but I want to give you this."

As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail.

Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace. A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars worth of art. His task completed, the old man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.

During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that, even though is son was no longer with him, the boy would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stifled his caring heart.

As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease his grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamoured. He told his neighbours it was the greatest gift he had ever received.

The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation that the collector's passing and his only son dead, those paintings would be sold at auction. According to the will of the old man, all art works would be auctioned on Christmas Day, the day he had received the greatest gift.

The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim, "I have the greatest collection."

The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son. The auctioneer asked for an opening bid, but the room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked. Minutes passed, and no one spoke. From the back of the room came a voice, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son." "Let's forget about it and move on to the good stuff," more voices echoed in agreement.

"No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who will take the son?" Finally, a neighbour of the old man spoke. "Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy; so I would like to have it.

"I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" asked the auctioneer. After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once, going twice, gone." The gavel fell.

Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on the real treasures!" The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced that the auction was over.

Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean, it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son. What about all these paintings? There are millions of dollars worth of art here! I demand that you explain what is going on!"

The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son...gets it all."

Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? Just as those art collectors discovered on Christmas Day, the message is still the same: the love of a father, whose greatest joy came from his son who went away and gave his life rescuing others; and because of that father's love, whoever takes the Son gets it all.

In life, many things will catch your eye, but only a few will catch your heart.

Author Unknown 

"Just do your Best that's all that matters "

Food For The Soul

An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer, a building contractor, of his plans to leave the house building business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family. He would miss the pay check, but he needed to retire. They could get by.

His employer was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favour. The carpenter said yes, but it was easy to see that his heart was no longer in his work. He had lost his enthusiasm and had resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end his career.

When the carpenter finished his work and his boss came to inspect the new house, the contractor handed the front-door key to the carpenter. "This is your house," he said, "my gift to you."

What a shock! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. Now he had to live in the home he had built none too well.

So it is with us. We build our lives in a distracted way, reacting rather than acting, willing to put up less than the best. At important points we do not give the job our best effort. Then with a shock we look at the situation we have created and find that we are now living in the house we have built for ourselves. If we had realized, we would have done it differently.

Think of yourself as the carpenter. Think about your house. Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Build wisely. It is the only life you will ever build. Even if you live it for only one day more, that day deserves to be lived graciously and with dignity.

The plaque on the wall says, "Life is a do-it-yourself project." Who could say it more clearly? Your life today is the result of your attitudes and choices in the past. Your life tomorrow will be the result.

Author Unknown 

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