Once upon a time a man had heard, that in a foreign place, far away, there was a holy flame burning. So he left his home to find the holy flame and bring
some of its light back home to his house. He thought: ‘When I have this light, then I will have happiness and life and all the people I love will have
it too.’

He traveled far, far away and finally found the holy flame, with which he lit his light. On his way back he had only one worry: ‘That his light could go
out.’

On his way home he met someone who was freezing and didn’t have any fire and who begged him to give him some of his fire. The man with the light hesitated
for a moment. Wasn’t his light too precious, too holy to be given away for something ordinary like that? Despite these doubts, he decided to give some
of his light to the one who was freezing in the darkness.

During his journey, a great thunderstorm started. He tried to protect his light from the rain and the storm, but at the end his light went out. To return
the long way back to the place where the holy flame was burning was impossible, – but he was strong enough to return to the human being whom he had helped
on his way home. And with his light he could light his own again.

Enough

Sent By Marie

New Jersey

Recently I overheard a mother and daughter in their last moments together at the airport. They had announced the departure.

Standing near the security gate, they hugged and the mother said, “I love you, and I wish you enough.”

The daughter replied, “Mom, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Mom.”

They kissed and the daughter left. The mother walked over to the window where I was seated. Standing there I could see she wanted and needed to cry. I
tried not to intrude on her privacy, but she welcomed me in by asking, “Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing it would be forever?”

“Yes, I have,” I replied. “Forgive me for asking, but why is this forever good-bye?”

“I am old, and she lives so far away. I have challenges ahead and the reality is – the next trip back will be for my funeral,” she said.

“When you were saying good-bye, I heard you say, ‘I wish you enough.’ May I ask what that means?”

She began to smile. “That’s a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone.” She paused a moment and looked
up as if trying to remember it in detail, and she smiled even more. “When we said, ‘I wish you enough,’ we were wanting the other person to have a life
filled with just enough good things to sustain them.” Then turning toward me, she shared the following as if she were reciting it from memory.

I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright no matter how gray the day may appear.

I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun even more.

I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive and everlasting.

I wish you enough pain so that even the smallest of joys in life may appear bigger.

I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.

I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.

I wish you enough hellos to get you through the final good-bye.

She then began to cry and walked away.

They say it takes a minute to find a special person, an hour to appreciate them, a day to love them; but then an entire life to forget them.

In ancient times, there was a rich merchant who had four wives. He loved the fourth wife the most and adorned her with rich robes and treated her to delicacies.
He took great care of her and gave her nothing but the best. He also loved his third wife very much. He was very proud of her and always wanted to show
her off to his friends. However, the merchant was always in great fear that she might run away with some other men.

He too, loved his second wife. She was a very considerate person, always patient and in fact is the merchant’s confidante. Whenever the merchant faced
some problems, he always turned to his second wife and she would always help him out and help him through difficult times. Now, the merchant’s first wife
was a very loyal partner and had made great contributions in maintaining his wealth and business as well as taking care of the household. However, the
merchant did not love the first wife and although she loved him deeply, he hardly took notice of her.

One day, the merchant fell ill. Before long, he knew that he was going to die soon. He thought of his luxurious life and told himself, “Now I have four
wives with me. But when I die, I’ll be alone. How lonely I’ll be!”

Thus, he asked the fourth wife, “I loved you most, endowed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I’m dying, will you
follow me and keep me company?” “No way!” replied the fourth wife and she walked away without another word. Similar responses came from the third and second
wives.

Then a voice called out: “I’ll leave with you. I’ll follow you no matter where you go.” The merchant looked up and there was his first wife. Greatly grieved,
the merchant said, “I should have taken much better care of you while I could have!”

Actually, we each have four wives in our lives

4. The fourth wife is our body. No matter how much time and effort we lavish in making it look good, it’ll leave us when we die.

3. Our third wife represents our possessions, status and wealth. When we die, they all go to others.

2. The second wife is our family and friends. No matter how close they had been there for us when we’re alive, the furthest they can stay by us is up to
the grave.

1. The first wife is, in fact, our soul, often neglected in our pursuit of material, wealth and sensual pleasure. but in truth our real self.

The stoplight on the corner buzzes when it is safe
to cross the street.  I was crossing with an intellectually
challenged coworker of mine(a blonde), when she asked if I knew
what the buzzer was for.
I explained that it signals blind people when the light is red.
She responded, appalled “What on earth are blind people doing
driving?”

I was signing the receipt for my credit card purchase when the
clerk noticed that I had never signed my name on the back of the
credit card.  She informed me that she could not complete the
transaction unless the card was signed.  When I asked why, she
explained that it was necessary to compare the signature on the
credit card with the signature I just signed on the receipt.
So I signed the credit card in front of her.  She carefully
compared the signature to the one I had just signed on the receipt.
As luck would have it, they matched.

The Old Man and the Dog

By Catherine Moore

“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.