A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole, which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the oher pot was perfect and always delivered a ful portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master’s house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.
For two years this went a daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots of water to his master’s house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplshments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.
After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one bay by the stream. “I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you.
“Why?” asked the bearer. “What are you ashamed of?”
“I have been able, for these past two years, to deliver only half my load because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work, and you don’t get full value from your efforts,” the pot said.
The water bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, “As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the parth.”
Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered in some.
But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so again it apologized to the bearer for its failure. The bearer said to the pot, Did you notice that where were flowers only on your side of your path, but not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I have always known about your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you’ve watered them.
For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house.”
Each of us has our own unique flaws. We’re all cracked pots. But if we will allow it, the Lord will use our flaws to grace His table. In God’s great economy, nothing goes to waste.
To All Crackpots
A wise woman's Stone
A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream. The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food. The hungry traveler saw the precious stone in the wise woman’s bag, admired it and asked the wise woman to give it to him. The wise woman did so without hesitation.
The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the jewel was worth enough to give him security for the rest of his life.
But a few days later he came back, searching for the wise woman. When he found her, he returned the stone and said,
“I have been thinking. I know how valuable this stone is, but I give it back to you in the hope that you can give me something much more precious.
If you can, give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me the stone.”
I liked this short story very much. I liked the small twist in the end as well. When I read the first time, I thought he is going to realise that food is much more important than a precious stone or some such moralising thing. But, this ending is quite wonderful.
Are You God ?
One cold evening during the holiday season, a little boy about six or seven was standing out in front of a store window. The little child had no shoes and his clothes were mere rags. A young woman passing by saw the little boy and could read the longing in his pale blue eyes. She took the child by the hand and led him into the store. There she bought him some new shoes and a complete suit of warm clothing.
They came back outside into the street and the woman said to the child, "Now you can go home and have a very happy holiday."
The little boy looked up at her and asked, "Are you God, Madam ?"
She smiled down at him and replied, "No son, I am just one of His children."
The little boy then said, "I knew you had to be some relation."
[By Dan Clark. Read in Chicken Soup for the woman's soul]
NOT YET ...
There was this couple who used to go to shop in the beautiful stores. This was their 25th wedding anniversary. They both liked antiques and pottery, especially teacups.
One day in a beautiful fine shop, they saw this beautiful teacup. One said, “May I see that? I never have seen one quite so beautiful,” and the lady handed it to him.
As she handed it to him, suddenly the teacup spoke “You don’t understand,” it said, “I haven’t always been a teacup. There was a time when I was red and I was clay. My master took me and rolled me and patted me over and over and I yelled out, ‘Let me alone.’ But he only smiled, ‘Not yet.’
“Then I was placed on a spinning wheel,” the teacup said, “and suddenly I was spun around and around and around and around. ‘Stop it! I’m getting dizzy’ I screamed. But the master only odded and said, ‘Not yet.’
“Then he put me in the oven. I’d never felt such heat! I woudered why he wanted to burn me. I yelled! I knocked at the door. I could see him through the opening and I could read his iips as he shook his head, ‘Not yet.’ “Finally the door opened, he put me on the shelf and I began to cool. ‘There that’s better,’ I said.
Then he brushed me and painted me all over. The fumes were horrible. I though I would gag. ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ I cried. He only nodded, ‘Not yet.’ “Then suddenly he put me back into the oven, not like the first one. This was twice as hot and I knew I would suffocate. I begged. I pleaded. I screamed. I cried. All the time I could see him through the opening nodding his head, saying, ‘Not yet.’ “Then I knew there wasn’t any hope. I would never make it. I was ready to give up.
But the door opened and he took me out and placed me on the shelf.’
One hour later, he handed me a mirror and said, “Look at yourself,’ and I did, and I said, ‘That’s not me, that couldn’t be me, it’s beautiful. I’m beautiful!’.
‘I want you to remember then,’ he said, ‘I know it hurt to be rolled and patted, but if I just left you, you’d have dried up. I know it made you dizzy to spin around on the wheel, but if I had stopped, you would have crumbled. I know it hurt and it was hot and disagreeable in the oven, but if I hadn’t put you there, you would have cracked. I know the fumes were bad and when I brushed and painted you all over, but if I hadn’t done that, you never would have hardened. You would not have had any colour in your life, and if I hadn’t put you back in that second oven, you wouldn’t survive for very long, because the hardness would not have held. Now you are a finished product. You are what I had in mind when I first began with you.”
Some of us are in the oven, screaming, hollering, “Let me out of here !” Some of us are getting painted and the fumes are bothering us and driving us crazy. Some of us are spinning around and don’t know where we are.
We’re saying, “What’s going on? It’s a mess here,” and the Master keeps looking and saying, “Not yet, not yet.”
Probably, it is also to make our lives more colourful and to make it a better product !
Small Boy and a Waiter
A small boy entered a coffee shop and sat at a table. A waiter put a glass of water in front of him. "How much is an ice cream sundae?"
"Fifty cents," replied the waiter.
The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied a number of coins in it. "How much is a dish of plain ice cream?" he inquired.
Some people were now waiting for a table, and the waiter was impatient. "Thirty-five cents," he said angrily.
The little boy again counted the coins. "I'll have the plain ice cream."
When the waiter came back, he swallowed hard at what he saw. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies - his tip !
Today is a Gift
“Today is a gift, that’s why it is called the present.”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.
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 here 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 worning, 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. His mind was full of the words uttered by the other man near the window earlier. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.
It faced a blank wall.
The man was shocked. Slowly, he recovered himself and asked the nurse what could have made his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window.
The nurse responded, “Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you”, and then added after some time, "The man was blind and could not even see the wall !"
My Friend Luke
Fernando Sorrentino
Translated by Gustavo Artiles and Alex Patterson
His stories are all quite extreme, I think. He himself agrees that his characters are quite abnormal and there are incidents that are quite exaggerated. But, that is his style. I want to say that I don't like his stories, but here they are.I have a friend who must be the sweetest, shyest person in the world. His name is brittle and ancient (Luke), his age modestly intermediate (forty). He is rather short and skinny, has a thin moustache and even thinner hair on his head. Since his vision is not perfect, he wears glasses: they are small, round and frame-less.
In order not to inconvenience anyone, he always walks sideways. Instead of saying 'Excuse me', he prefers to glide by one side. If the gap is so narrow that it will not allow him to pass, Luke waits patiently until the obstruction -- be it animate or inanimate, rational or irrational -- moves by itself. Stray dogs and cats panic him, and in order to avoid them he constantly crosses from one side to of the road to another.
He speaks with a very thin, subtle voice, so inaudible that it is hard to tell if he is speaking at all. He has never interrupted anybody. On the other hand, he can never manage more than two words without somebody interrupting him. This does not seem to irritate him; in fact, he actually appears happy to have been able to utter those two words.
My friend Luke has been married for years. His wife is a thin, choleric, nervous woman who, as well as having an unbearably shrill voice, strong lungs, a finely drawn nose and a viperous tongue suffers from an uncontrollable temper and the personality of a lion tamer. Luke -- you have to wonder how -- has succeeded in producing a child named (by his mother) Juan Manuel. He is tall, blond, intelligent, distrustful, sarcastic and has a fringe. It is not entirely true that he only obeys his mother. However, the two of them have always agreed that Luke has little to offer the world and therefore choose to ignore his scarce and rarely expressed opinions.
Luke is the oldest and the least important employee of a dismal company that imports cloth. It operates out of a very dark building with black-stained wooden floors situated in Alsina street. The owner -- I know him personally -- is called don Aqueróntido -- I don't know whether that is his first name or his surname -- and he has a ferocious moustache, is bald and has a thunderous voice. He is also violent and greedy. My friend Luke goes to work dressed all in black, wearing a very old suit that shines from age. He only owns one shirt -- the one he wore for the first time on the day of his marriage -- and it has an anachronistic plastic collar. He also only owns one tie, so frayed and greasy that it looks more like a shoelace. Unable to bear the disapproving looks of don Aqueróntido, Luke, unlike his colleagues, does not dare work without his jacket on and in order to keep this jacket in good condition he wears a pair of grey sleeve-protectors. His salary is ludicrously low, but he still stays behind in the office every day and works for another three or four hours: the tasks don Aqueróntido gives him are so huge that he has no chance of accomplishing them within normal hours. Now, just after the don Aqueróntido cut his salary yet again, his wife has decided that Juan Manuel must not do his secondary studies in a state school. She has chosen to put his name down for a very costly institution in the Belgrano area. In view of the extortionate outlay this involves, Luke has stopped buying his newspaper and (an even greater sacrifice) The Reader's Digest, his two favourite publications. The last article he managed to read in the Reader's Digest explained how husbands should repress their own overwhelming personality in order to make room for the actualisation of the rest of the family group.
There is, however, one remarkable aspect to Luke: his behaviour as soon as he steps on a bus. Generally, this is what happens:
He requests a ticket and begins to look for his money, slowly. He holds up one hand to ensure that the driver keeps waiting, unsure of what to do. Luke does not hurry. In fact, I would say that the driver's impatience gives him a certain amount of pleasure. Then he pays with the largest possible number of small coins, which he delivers a few at the time, in varying amounts and at irregular intervals.
For some reason, this disturbs the driver, who, apart from having to pay attention to other cars, the traffic lights, other passengers getting on or off, and having to drive the bus itself, is forced to perform complicated arithmetic. Luke aggravates the problem by including in his payment an old Paraguayan coin that he keeps for the purpose and which is invariably returned to him. This way, mistakes are usually made in the accounts and an argument ensues.
Then, in a serene but firm manner, Luke begins to defend his rights, employing arguments so contradictory that it is impossible to understand what point he is actually trying to make. Finally, the driver, at the end of the last tether of his sanity and in an act of final resignation, chooses to throw out the coins -- perhaps as a means of repressing his wish to throw out Luke or, indeed, himself.
When winter comes, Luke always travels with the windows wide open. The first to suffer as a result of this is Luke himself: he has developed a chronic cough that often forces him to stay awake entire nights. During the summer, he closes his window and will not allow anyone to lower the shade that would protect him from the sun. More than once he has ended up with first-degree burns.
Because of his weak lungs, Luke is not allowed to smoke and, in fact, he hates smoking. In spite of this, once inside the bus he cannot resist the temptation to light up a cheap, heavy cigar that clogs up his windpipe and makes him cough. After he gets off, he puts away his cigar in preparation for his next journey.
Luke is a tiny, sedentary, squalid person and has never been interested in sports. But come Saturday evening, he switches on his portable radio and turns the volume up full in order to follow the boxing match. Sundays he dedicates to football and tortures the rest of the passengers with the noisy broadcasts.
The back seat is for five passengers. In spite of his very small size, Luke sits so as to allow room for only four or even three people on the seat. If four are already seated and Luke is standing up, he demands permission, in an indignant and reproachful tone, to sit down -- which he then does, managing to take up an excessive amount of space. To this end, he puts his hands in his pockets so that his elbows will remain firmly embedded in his neighbours' ribs.
Luke's resources are plentiful and diverse.
When he has to travel standing up, he always keeps his jacket unbuttoned, carefully adjusting his posture so that the lower edge of his jacket hits the face or the eyes of those sitting down.
If anyone is reading, they are easy prey for Luke. Watching him or her closely, Luke places his head near the light so as to throw a shadow on the victim's book. Every now and then he withdraws his head as if by chance. The reader will anxiously devour one or two words before Luke moves back into position.
My friend Luke knows the times when the bus will be fully packed. On those occasions, he consumes a salami sandwich and a glass of red wine. Then, with breadcrumbs and threads of salami still between his teeth and pointing his mouth towards the other passenger's noses, he walks along the vehicle shouting loudly, 'Excuse me'.
If he manages to take the front seat, he never gives it up to anyone. But should he find himself in one of the last rows, the moment he sees a woman with a child in her arms or a weak, elderly person climb on board he immediately stands up and calls very loudly to the front passenger to offer them his seat. Later he usually makes some recriminatory remark against those that kept their seats. His eloquence is always effective, and some mortally ashamed passenger gets off at the next stop. Instantly, Luke takes his place.
*
My friend Luke gets off the bus in a very good mood. Timidly, he walks home, staying out of the way of anyone he meets. He is not allowed a key, so he has to ring the bell. If anyone is home, they rarely refuse to open the door to him. But if neither his wife, his son nor don Aqueróntido are to be found, Luke sits on the doorstep until someone arrives.Tamarind Tree
- An Indian Folk Story
One of the most beautiful of our trees is the Tamarind tree. The leaves are tiny and delicate, and they make a beautiful tracery against the sky. It is said that there was a time when the leaves of the tamarind tree were large and thick, allowing neither rain nor sun to penetrate through them to the earth. This is the story of how they came to be split into the thousands of tiny, green, delicate leaves you see to-day.
And they wowed to live as wanderers, sleeping upon no bed save that of the green grass and fallen leaves and under no roof save that of the sky. Thus they lived, seeking no comfort and braving every hardship and stress.
One night, they happened to sleep under a tamarind tree. While they slept, a great storm arose. The wind howled through the forests like a raging demon, and the lightening flashed through the skies. The rain beat down on them, but under the tamarind tree, the wanderers slept peacefully, for they were weary and the rain could not reach them through the thick leafy roof overhead.
Thus sheltered, they slept until a crash of thunder woke Shri Rama. In surprise, he looked around him. The storm was raging still. But, beneath the tamarind tree, he and his companions had been sheltered from its fury - as well sheltered as if they had been under the roof and within the four walls of a house.
Then Shri Rama remembered their vow of asceticism and woke his brother. ‘We cannot rest here, Lakshmana,’ he said, ‘for according to our vow, we may have no shelter or protection above our heads. Pick up your bundle. Let us move on." Next, he put a hand upon the sleeping Sita, who stirred in her sleep and whispered ‘Rama!’ But, she did not wake up.
As she moved, Rama saw how tired she looked, lying upon that grassy bed. For her pillow she had a stone. She who had been a delicately nurtured princess, who in her palace had never laid her head on anything but the softest silk. A coarse bark cloth covered her and the forest grass was all about her.
So he let her sleep. And in her sleep, she looked more beautiful and serene than she had done at any other time. Rama thought of how she had walked with them over bushes and thorns across stony mountain paths, through fearful dark forests till her tender feet had bled, and never once had she complained. Always she had been bright and cheerful, asking only that she be with Rama.
Seeing her now, so peacefully asleep, he had not the heart to disturb her. He went back to Lakshmana saying : ‘She is asleep; I have no heart to wake her up. what can we do, my brother? If we remain here, we shall break our vow. And if we move, we must take her with us.’
Then Lakshmana smiled and nodded his head : ‘My brother,’ he said. ‘I know a way.’ And rising, he took his bow and with carful aim he shot his powerful arrows upwards at the thick leafy roof overhead.
And lo, the arrows of Lakshmana went one by one through the tamarind leaves and shattered them. Each leaf split into the thousand tiny ones. and the rain came pouring through them and the ascetics were sheltered no more. 
Ever since then, to this day, the tamarind leaves have remained split !
Rainbow
- An Indian folk story
But, the people of the Earth looked on these preparations with dismay, for they were afraid that if the Earth were to live with the sky as his wife, there would be no dwelling place left for them. And they prayed to the gods to stop the wedding from taking place.
Now when the gods heard the plea of the mortals, they took pity on them. They began to seek for a means of stopping the marriage. At last, Vishnu thought of a plan. When the gods heard what it was, they were pleased.
The night came when the Sky and Earth were to be married. The Sky bridegroom put on his shining jewelled crown and silken blue robe and came riding down to the Earth where she stood blushing and beautiful to receive him. Meanwhile the pipers and drummers began to play and the priests chanted their prayers. As the hour of midnight approached excitement filled the air, for then the Earth would throw the garland of flowers round her bridegroom’s neck, and they would be married.
But Vishnu and the gods were waiting to carry out their plot. Vishnu had disguised himself as a cockerel, so that no one knew his presence as he strutted over the roof in the light of the moon. The auspicious hour began to strike and at that instant Vishnu, the cockerel, crowed loudly from the house-top : ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!’
There was a wild scramble among the guests. ‘It is dawn,’ they cried. ‘Come, let us go back to our work, for the night is over and day is here.’ The pipers ceased to pipe and the drummers to drum, and they too left the place.
And the priests stopped their chanting and put away their holy books saying, ‘The auspicious hour of midnight has passed and now, you cannot be married.’ And the gods tore the Sky from the Earth and took him back to his home in the heavens, leaving the Earth standing alone with the garland in her lands and tears in her eyes.
‘Come back, my lord,’ She cried. But the sky could not come, for the ausipicious hour had passed. Then the Earth in her grief flung the many coloured garland at the Sky and it fell about his neck.
But the hour had passed, and never could the lovers marry.
Sometimes you can see the garland that the Earth made for the Sky, as he wears it about his neck. We call it the Rainbow. Everytime he wears it, his tears flow as he remembers the lovely Earth and his interrupted wedding.
This too shall pass ...
[Foreword : This is one of my most favourite stories - no, not this one, but the Indian version of it. Gist given in the end.]
One day Solomon decided to humble Benaiah ben Yehoyada, his most trusted minister. He said to him, "Benaiah, there is a certain ring that I want you to bring to me. I wish to wear it for Sukkot which gives you six months to find it."
"If it exists anywhere on earth, your majesty," replied Benaiah, "I will find it and bring it to you, but what makes the ring so special?"
"It has magic powers," answered the king. "If a happy man looks at it, he becomes sad, and if a sad man looks at it, he becomes happy." Solomon knew that no such ring existed in the world, but he wished to give his minister a little taste of humility.
Spring passed and then summer, and still Benaiah had no idea where he could find the ring. On the night before Sukkot, he decided to take a walk in one of he poorest quarters of Jerusalem. He passed by a merchant who had begun to set out the day's wares on a shabby carpet.
"Have you by any chance heard of a magic ring that makes the happy wearer forget his joy and the broken-hearted wearer forget his sorrows?" asked Benaiah.
He watched the grandfather take a plain gold ring from his carpet and engrave something on it. When Benaiah read the words on the ring, his face broke out in a wide smile.
That night the entire city welcomed in the holiday of Sukkot with great festivity. "Well, my friend," said Solomon, "have you found what I sent you after?" All the ministers laughed and Solomon himself smiled.
To everyone's surprise, Benaiah held up a small gold ring and declared, "Here it is, your majesty!" As soon as Solomon read the inscription, the smile vanished from his face. The jeweler had written three Hebrew letters on the gold band: _gimel, zayin, yud_, which began the words "_Gam zeh ya'avor_" -- "This too shall pass."
At that moment Solomon realized that all his wisdom and fabulous wealth and tremendous power were but fleeting things, for one day he would be nothing but dust.
PS : The Indian version goes like this :
King wins a big battle, a huge celebration, asks his ministers to say a few words, when the chief minister gives a paper which says 'this too shall pass'. King angry, throws the CM to jail, goes back to celebrations.
Within few days, the enemy comes back with a bigger army, defeats the king, the king runs for life in a horse, chased by enemies, king reaches a cliff and seems to think that now he is finished, remembers the paper given by the CM, reads it which says 'this too shall pass'.
He slips from the cliff, there is a secret cave below, saved by villagers, recovers, mobilises people, defeats the enemy once again and honours the CM with lot of gold and wealth, when the CM once again says, 'this too shall pass'.
I like the Indian version more - typically like us. Sentimental, dramatic and miracles !
The tale of Echo
A Greek Myth
Hera, the Queen of Mt. Olympus, cast a spell over her servant Echo for talking too much. As a punishment, Echo could henceforth only repeat what someone else said.
Poor Echo! She was in love with handsome Narcissus, and yearned to tell him so! One day Echo saw Narcissus admiring himself in a clear pond.
Looking at his reflection, he vainly said to the face in the water, "I love you."
Echo repeated, "I love you," and meant it. But Narcissus thought it was his reflection that spoke and stood gazing at himself until he died and Hermes led him away to the Land of the Dead. Echo pined for him till she, too, faded away.
All that was left of her was her voice that can still be heard in certain hollow places, senselessly repeating the words of others.
The Honeybee's Sting
A Tale from Ancient Greece
Zeus, the King of Mount. Olympus, was giving out gifts to beasts and birds and insects one day. To his surprise, the little honeybee came before his throne and said, "Of all the gifts you could give to me, only one will do. I'd like the power to inflict great pain whenever I choose to."
"What an awful wish!" said great Zeus, "I will grant it. I hereby give you a sharp sting. But, I'm sure you'll use this weapon carefully in times of anger and strife. You'll only get to use it once, for using it will cost you your life."
And to this day, the little honeybee dies after it stings.
PS : Is it true that the honeybee dies after it stings ?A Cry for Help
Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, and all of the others, including Love.
One day it was announced to the feelings that the island would sink, so all repaired their boats and left.
Love was the only one who stayed. Love wanted to persevere until the last possible moment.
When the island was almost sinking, Love decided to ask for help.
Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said, "Richness, can you take me with you?" Richness answered, "No I can't..There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place for you here."
Love decided to ask Vanity, who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel, "Vanity, please help me!" "I can't help you Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered.
Sadness was close by so Love asked for help, "Sadness let me go with you." "Oh...Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself!"
Happiness passed by Love too, but she was so happy that she did not even hear when Love called her!
Suddenly, there was a voice, "Come Love, I will take you." It was an elder. Love felt so blessed and overjoyed that he even forgot to ask the elder her name.
When they arrived at dry land, the elder went her own way. Love, realizing how much he owed the elder, asked Knowledge, another elder, "Who helped me?"
"It was Time", Knowledge answered.
"Time?" asked Love. "But why did Time help me?
Knowledge smiled with deep wisdom and answered, "Because only Time is capable of understanding how great Love is."Author : Unknown
God's Embroidery
When I was a little boy, my mother used to embroider a great deal. I would sit at her knee and look up from the floor and ask what she was doing. She informed me that she was embroidering. As from the underside I watched her work within the boundaries of the little round hoop that she held in her hand, I complained to her that it sure looked messy from where I sat.
She would smile at me, look down and gently say, "Son, you go about your playing for a while, and when I am finished with my embroidering, I will put you on my knee and let you see it from my side."
I would wonder why she was using some dark threads along with the bright ones and why they seemed so jumbled from my view. A few minutes would pass and then I would hear Mother's voice say, "Son, come and sit on my knee." This I did only to be surprised and thrilled to see a beautiful flower or a sunset. I could not believe it, because from underneath it looked so messy.
Then Mother would say to me, "My son, from underneath it did look messy and jumbled, but you did not realize that there was a pre-drawn plan on the top. It was a design. I was only following it. Now look at it from my side and you will see what I was doing."
Many times through the years I have looked up to my Heavenly Father and said, "Father, what are You doing?"
He has answered, "I am embroidering your life." I say, "But it looks like a mess to me. It seems so jumbled. The threads seem so dark. Why can't they all be bright?" The Father seems to tell me, "'My child, you go about your business of doing My business, and one day I will bring you to Heaven and put you on My knee and you will see the plan from My side."
Author: Unknown
Two Monks
Once upon a time many moons ago, two monks were walking in silence through the forest; a younger monk, Anjan, and an older monk, Nanda.
Eventually their path led to a stream. There they saw a beautiful young lady, exquisitely clad, standing on the bank. She was in great distress because she wanted to cross the stream, but did not know how without getting her fine long robes wet.
Without hesitation Nanda scooped her up, crossed the stream, and set her down on dry ground. She thanked him and continued on her way, and the monks continued on theirs again in silence.
Anjan was a bit distressed and confused. He got more restless by the minute and then finally spoke up.
"Brother Nanda," he said, "I do not know what to make of it. You know our order is an austere order, and we cannot so much as speak to a woman. But... but... you saw that lady, you... uh... picked her up and... carried her across the stream! And yet..." he continued, almost choking, "You just keep on walking as if nothing happened!"
"It is quite simple," Nanda replied. "I set her down on the opposite bank, but you, Brother Anjan, are still carrying her!"
So... who, indeed, had the lighter burden, and the lighter step?
There's a Man in the Habit of Hitting Me on the Head with an Umbrella
Fernando Sorrentino
Translated by Clark M. Zlotchew
There's a man in the habit of hitting me on the head with an umbrella. It's exactly five years today that he's been hitting me on the head with his umbrella. At first I couldn't stand it; now I'm used to it.
I don't know his name. I know he's average in appearance, wears a gray suit, is graying at the temples, and has a common face. I met him five years ago one sultry morning. I was sitting on a tree-shaded bench in Palermo Park, reading the paper. Suddenly I felt something touch my head. It was the very same man who now, as I'm writing, keeps whacking me, mechanically and impassively, with an umbrella.
On that occasion I turned around filled with indignation: he just kept on hitting me. I asked him if he was crazy: he didn't even seem to hear me. Then I threatened to call a policeman. Unperturbed, cool as a cucumber, he stuck with his task. After a few moments of indecision, and seeing that he was not about to change his attitude, I stood up and punched him in the nose. The man fell down, and let out an almost inaudible moan. He immediately got back on his feet, apparently with great effort, and without a word again began hitting me on the head with the umbrella.
His nose was bleeding and, at that moment, I felt sorry for him. I felt remorse for having hit him so hard. After all, the man wasn't exactly bludgeoning me; he was merely tapping me lightly with his umbrella, not causing any pain at all. Of course, those taps were extremely bothersome. As we all know, when a fly lands on your forehead, you don't feel any pain whatsoever; what you feel is annoyance. Well then, that umbrella was one humongous fly that kept landing on my head time after time, and at regular intervals.
Convinced that I was dealing with a madman, I tried to escape. But the man followed me, wordlessly continuing to hit me. So I began to run (at this juncture I should point out that not many people run as fast as I do). He took off after me, vainly trying to land a blow. The man was huffing and puffing and gasping so that I thought, if I continued to force him to run at that speed, my tormenter would drop dead right then and there.
That's why I slowed down to a walk. I looked at him. There was no trace of either gratitude or reproach on his face. He merely kept hitting me on the head with the umbrella. I thought of showing up at the police station and saying, "Officer, this man is hitting me on the head with an umbrella." It would have been an unprecedented case. The officer would have looked at me suspiciously, would have asked for my papers and begun asking embarrassing questions. And he might even have ended up placing me under arrest.
I thought it best to return home. I took the 67 bus. He, all the while hitting me with his umbrella, got on behind me. I took the first seat. He stood right beside me, and held on to the railing with his left hand. With his right hand he unrelentingly kept whacking me with that umbrella. At first, the passengers exchanged timid smiles. The driver began to observe us in the rearview mirror. Little by little the bus trip turned into one great fit of laughter, an uproarious, interminable fit of laughter. I was burning with shame. My persecutor, impervious to the laughter, continued to strike me.I got off - we got off - at Pacifico Bridge. We walked along Santa Fe Avenue. Everyone stupidly turned to stare at us. It occurred to me to say to them, "What are you looking at, you idiots? Haven't you ever seen a man hit another man on the head with an umbrella?" But it also occurred to me that they probably never had seen such a spectacle. Then five or six little boys began chasing after us, shouting like maniacs.
But I had a plan. Once I reached my house, I tried to slam the door in his face. That didn't happen. He must have read my mind, because he firmly seized the doorknob and pushed his way in with me.
From that time on, he has continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. As far as I can tell, he has never either slept or eaten anything. His sole activity consists of hitting me. He is with me in everything I do, even in my most intimate activities. I remember that at first, the blows kept me awake all night. Now I think it would be impossible for me to sleep without them.Still and all, our relations have not always been good. I've asked him, on many occasions, and in all possible tones, to explain his behavior to me. To no avail: he has wordlessly continued to hit me on the head with his umbrella. Many times I have let him have it with punches, kicks, and even - God forgive me - umbrella blows.
He would meekly accept the blows. He would accept them as though they were part of his job. And this is precisely the weirdest aspect of his personality: that unshakable faith in his work coupled with a complete lack of animosity. In short, that conviction that he was carrying out some secret mission that responded to a higher authority.Despite his lack of physiological needs, I know that when I hit him, he feels pain. I know he is weak. I know he is mortal. I also know that I could be rid of him with a single bullet. What I don't know is if it would be better for that bullet to kill him or to kill me. Neither do I know if, when the two of us are dead, he might not continue to hit me on the head with his umbrella. In any event, this reasoning is pointless; I recognize that I would never dare to kill him or kill myself.
On the other hand, I have recently come to the realization that I couldn't live without those blows. Now, more and more frequently, a certain foreboding overcomes me. A new anxiety is eating at my soul: the anxiety stemming from the thought that this man, perhaps when I need him most, will depart and I will no longer feel those umbrella taps that helped me sleep so soundly.PS :
This Peanuts cartoon sums up this story quite well. (Click on it to see an enlarged strip)
