in the world this very minute?
A sign like this on the side of an old fashioned candy store–anytime…anyplace.
:} What’s right in YOUR world–this very minute?
In 1918 Brother George Goates was a farmer who raised sugar beets in Lehi, Utah. . . . An influenza epidemic . . . claimed the lives of George’s son Charles and three of Charles’s small children—two little girls and a boy. In the course of only six days, a grieving George Goates made three separate trips to Ogden, Utah, to bring the bodies home for burial. At the end of this terrible interlude, George and [his young son] Francis hitched up their wagon and headed back to the beet field.
On the way they passed wagon after wagon-load of beets being hauled to the factory and driven by neighborhood farmers. As they passed by, each driver would wave a greeting: “Hi ya, Uncle George,” “Sure sorry, George,” “Tough break, George,” “You’ve got a lot of friends, George.”
On the last wagon was freckled-faced Jasper Rolfe. He waved a cheery greeting and called out: “That’s all of ’em, Uncle George.”
When they arrived at the farm gate, Francis jumped down off the big red beet wagon and opened the gate as [his father] drove onto the field. George pulled up, stopped the team, and scanned the field. There wasn’t a sugar beet on the whole field. Then it dawned upon him what Jasper Rolfe meant when he called out: “That’s all of ’em, Uncle George!” . . .
This man who brought four of his loved ones home for burial in the course of only six days; made caskets, dug graves, and even helped with the burial clothing—this amazing man who never faltered, nor flinched, nor wavered throughout this agonizing ordeal—sat down on a pile of beet tops and sobbed like a little child.
Then he arose, wiped his eyes, . . . looked up at the sky, and said: “Thanks, Father, for the love of these dear friends.”
Vaughn J. Featherstone
621
I’m…
hoping that Miss Jiff is finally learning who her real friends are…before we have her de-clawed. I mean it.
planning a few new Harry Potter-ish things for my depleted little Etsy shop. Go Gryffindor!
still giggling over a bumper sticker we saw last week.
squinting at the tiniest little stamped tag I’ve ever seen. How do they DO that?
getting ready to laugh my guts out with the nutty bunch of clips called “Kid History.” Check them out!
amazed that the old time bad guy from Mario Party has started to feel like a friend. Wait, maybe that’s bad.
considering hiding in the closet to eat these incredible, light as a feather scones…from Barry’s. Fine. I’ll share.
wondering how those teeny tiny babies got to be so big…so fast…
when I wasn’t looking!
626
“All of us, single or married, are eternally part of some family—someway, somewhere, somehow—and much of our joy in life comes as we correctly recognize and properly develop those family relationships. We come to this earth charged with a mission: to learn to love and serve one another. To best help us accomplish this, God has placed us in families, for he knows that is where we can best learn to overcome selfishness and pride and to sacrifice for others and to make happiness and helpfulness and humility and love the very essence of our character.”
John H. Groberg
628
My cute Mama helped us all enjoy Memorial Day–year after year–for all the right reasons. This year, my babies and their babies found many of the sames things to love about the day…and we discovered a few new ones of our own.
On this Memorial Day 2011– I positively loved…
the ridiculous brand new snow on the foothills–one day before June…
the people who matter most to me–the ones right here, and the ones just a breath away….
the beautiful flowers…always, always–the beautiful flowers…
the ones who love this day along with me…
the sharing among friends…
the tender moments that help little ones know who they really are…
the rain that fell just as we were leaving…
the hail that fell just as the rain was leaving…
the beautiful idea that there is a day such as this, set aside…
to remember.
Your silent tents of green
We deck with fragrant flowers;
Yours has the suffering been,
The memory shall be ours.~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow