After raising three children to adulthood, my husband and I were sharing more time together, and we believed that we would have "money in the bank" some day in the not too distant future. "Won't it be great when we're retired?" became a frequent sentence in our conversations. Then, an unforgettable year arrived and changed everything.
It was one of those years, the kind when I found my inner voice whispering, "What else can go wrong?" My mom's health was rapidly failing and our unwed daughter had moved back in with us after delivering a baby girl. During the previous winter, my husband's mother died a slow, cruel death from Alzheimer's disease and his father had been hospitalized following emergency surgery. My husband's mental and physical health began deteriorating with the weight of life's troubles. Our friends and relatives seemed to be experiencing their unfair share of hardships too. Then September 11th happened. Suddenly, my husband's seemingly secure job became very insecure as the economy wavered. Life became a topsy-turvy struggle and our marriage was faltering under the strain.
Our daughter's weakened emotional condition, created by the sudden out-of-state move by her baby's father (he was to be the baby's caregiver) created the need for me to request an emergency leave of absence from my job as a special education aide. I would care for her baby while my daughter was student-teaching - student-teaching was the only portion of her schooling left to earn the elementary education degree she needed to secure her future. Though I had been a dedicated district employee for eleven years, the unpaid, short-term leave I requested was denied. Unfortunately, I was caught up in the poor timing of a new superintendent and new special education supervisor; neither knew me. They didn't realize that I had spent the last eleven years totally devoted to my special education students. Leaving a rewarding, stable job to care for my granddaughter would be a financial burden and a difficult choice, but my heart knew it was the only right choice.
From the time I was a young girl, my parents had instilled in me a love of nature, of all the best, beautiful, free things that life had to offer. Now, more than ever, I would need to draw on that love of nature; it would provide me with the strength needed to pull through the rough times. I began to take long walks with my granddaughter and I found that I would return home physically and spiritually renewed. Autumn was upon us; Alyssa would giggle with delight whenever I placed a leaf or a dried dandelion on the tray of her stroller.
As the trees became bare, I became aware of bird's nests that had been hidden in the dense summer foliage. "Alyssa, look - a little bird's nest," I would say. One of the most beautiful nests we found was a tiny, circular one created from bits of dried grasses. The weaving was tight, strong, and yet soft to the touch. Surely it would have rivaled one of Frank Lloyd Wright's creations. Some were crafted from feathers, dryer lint and bits of pet fur. Still other nests were masterpieces of corn silks, twine, strands of Easter grass and cellophane. How resourceful those little birds were! Each day, my eyes were drawn upward as I discovered more nests. Some were reinforced with mud, forming super strong foundations. Through wind, rain, thunder and lightning, they held together. I began to think about the birds - how simple, yet how hard their lives were. It occurred to me that no matter what obstacles were placed in their path, they managed to overcome, to survive. And faithfully, they started each new day with a song.
Those walks helped transform an extremely difficult, desperate time in my life to a more peaceful one. Through my observations of nature, I had faith that everything would work out and we would prevail. Like the birds and their nests, our family had a strong foundation. We were now living a more simple life, spending only what we needed to spend, and all the time becoming more resourceful. Courageously, the little birds of the air huddle close during stormy times, and the current turbulence seemed to be drawing our family closer together. And in the same way that the little birds started each day with a song, we began to listen to beautiful music more often. A sense of tranquility was settling over our home.
Time has a way of healing, of smoothing over the bumpy parts of our lives. Gradually we see things from a different perspective. One afternoon, while out walking with my granddaughter, I witnessed the most exceptional message of all from the birds. "Look at the geese, Alyssa," I said, as a flock of geese flew overhead in a perfect V formation. For some odd reason, one goose left the group and started to fly in an entirely different direction. The main flock completely changed its course and gradually picked up their wayward member. As I watched this simple, beautiful display, I couldn't help but think of my family. Our lives too, it seemed, had gone astray for a while. But through courage, inner strength and pure love, our family would change its course and triumph. I knew that all would be well.

Over the years, my wife, Sue, expressed interest in renewing our wedding vows. It was not something she talked about frequently, but she brought it up on such special occasions as weddings or anniversaries.

Like most macho men, I believed that once was enough. But as time passed, since it still seemed important to her, I began to relent: "Honey, I might consider it someday, but only if it's just you and me - maybe on vacation somewhere." (I really didn't need an audience for something like this.)

Then, four years ago, Sue had a cancerous mole removed from her leg. The diagnosis: malignant melanoma.

My attitude at that time was that the mole wasn't so bad. After all, it was removed and the cancer was gone. I knew little, however, about this cancer's ability to resurface.

In November, Sue found a new lump on the same leg as before - it turned out to be a swollen lymph gland - and the biopsy again revealed malignant melanoma. Sue went in for surgery and had numerous lymph glands removed from her leg and abdomen. The doctors had good news: The cancer had not spread beyond the two lymph glands - the one that was swollen and one next to it.

One week after Sue's diagnosis, however, her father was diagnosed with cancer - not the best week my wife has ever had.

In December of that year, like every year, I struggled with what to get my wife for Christmas, but even more than usual. Sue always said that she wanted "something personal." When the cancer returned, it made me think long and hard about what our future might be like. I wondered about what I might get her for Christmas that would be personal, show her how much I loved her and express what she means to me and to our family.

I'm the kind of guy that thinks of grand things I would like to do for my wife but rarely gets around to doing them. That year I really searched my soul - and the thought of renewing our wedding vows suddenly took on more meaning. This was a way to show her I truly wanted to do it all over again.

Then I thought of the verse "In sickness and in health" and began to cry. I'm glad I was alone.

Even with all Sue had been through - and maybe because of it - she wanted to host Christmas Eve at our house this year. It was only going to be a small group of relatives. It seemed to me that this would be the perfect time to renew our vows, so I recruited Karen, my sister-in-law, to help me. I called everyone and told them to come two hours early. I said I had a surprise for Sue but didn't tell anyone what it was. I didn't want this gift to be spoiled.

I called on our neighbor, Jean Partridge, a justice of the peace. We had never really stopped and talked or gotten to know one another, and I hoped she would be willing to come over on Christmas Eve. She said she was busy that night and had to arrive at her daughter's house by six o'clock. My heart sank. As I turned to walk away, Jean asked, "Why do you need a justice of the peace on Christmas Eve, Don?"

"I want to get married to my wife again," I answered. "It's a surprise wedding." I hesitated, then asked, "Do you think you could marry us at four o'clock and still be on time for your daughter's Christmas Eve celebration?" I told Jean what the ceremony meant to me and would mean to my wife at this particular time. I told her about Sue's health problem. I explained all this so in case I started to cry, she'd understand why. After that, she said that she might have to toss down a shot to calm her nerves before the wedding, too.

"I'll be there at four," she smiled.

A great wave of joy swept over me. I had found a way to show how much I loved Sue - and this time, instead of just thinking about it, I was going to make it happen.

I finally found something unique and meaningful to give my wife on Christmas. The only other people I told were Sue's parents, since I really wanted them to be there. When they heard the plan, there was only silence on the phone for a few long moments. Then Sue's dad, who had his good and bad days due to his own illness, declared in an emotional voice that he would be there no matter how he was feeling.

I realized that I also needed fluff - or should I say, some schmaltz - all the details that women think of and men usually don't consider. I had my youngest son, Shaun, get a song off the Internet - the same song that was played in church when we were married twenty-three years earlier. Sean made a CD for me so I could play it when she walked in the door. Oh, and flowers - I got a wristlet for Sue, a flower for my lapel and two poinsettias for the mantel. And I got a cake, champagne, glasses, boxes and boxes of Kleenex, and disposable cameras. I even bought some special rings.

In the flower shop, a small snowman statue caught my eye. I picked it up and saw that it was some sort of jewelry holder. This snowman had a small sign he was holding and on that sign was the word "hope." I thought how perfect it was, and my eyes welled up with tears again. I've been crying a lot, lately, for a macho man.

That afternoon, everything was in place. Karen, my sister-in-law, took Sue out to visit a sick relative. When she returned, she looked puzzled to see everyone at our home two hours early. After all, she had to get the food ready for our guests.

"What's going on?" she asked, a little upset.

The rest I'm going to leave to your imagination.

Just picture this: Our wedding song begins to play, people are taking pictures of Sue and me, and the tears and champagne are beginning to flow.

And I said, "Honey, Merry Christmas. I love you. Will you marry me again tonight?"

When the first tree arrived at the carpenters, he was made into a feed box for animals. He was then placed in a barn and filled with hay. This was not at all what he had prayed for.

The second tree was cut and made into a small fishing boat. His dreams of being a mighty ship and carrying kings had come to an end.

The third tree was cut into large pieces and left alone in the dark.

The years went by, and the trees forgot about their dreams.

Then one day, a man and woman came to the barn. She gave birth and they placed the baby in the hay in the feed box that was made from the first tree. The man wished that he could have made a crib or the baby, but this manger would have to do. The tree could feel the importance of this event and knew that it had held the greatest treasure of all time.

Years later, a group of men got in the fishing boat made from the second tree. One of them was tired and went to sleep. While they were out on the water, a great storm arose and the tree didn't think it was strong enough to keep the men safe. The men woke the sleeping man, and He stood and said "Peace" and the storm stopped. At this time, the tree knew that it had carried the King of Kings in its boat.

Finally, someone came and got the third tree. It was carried through the streets as the people mocked the man who was carrying it. When they came to a stop; the man was nailed to the tree and raised in the air to die at the top of a hill. When Sunday came, the tree came to realize that it was strong enough to stand at the top of the hill and be as close to God as was possible, because Jesus had been crucified on it.

The moral of this story is that when things don't seem to be going your way, always know that God has a plan for you. If you place your trust in Him, He will give you great gifts. Each of the trees got what they wanted, just not in the way they had imagined. We don't always know what God's plans are for us. We just know that His ways are not our ways, but His ways
are always best.

Please keep this moving... pass it on, so He may inspire more people on the way. May your day be blessed. And until we meet again, may God cradle you in the palm of His hand.

The harsh clamor of my alarm roused me from placid slumber. Exhausted from working late the night before, a million tasks awaited me at home. All of this, combined with the fact that it was Labor Day, made it especially difficult to drag myself out of bed, but thankfully I did.

This was Monday, my regular volunteer day at the Bailey-Boushay House, an adult day-health and residential care facility for people living with AIDS and other life-threatening illnesses. When I first arrived, it was unusually quiet. After checking in with two different floors, I thought about heading home.

Just then one of the nurses came up to me and spoke of a patient who was having an especially hard time. "I can't stay with Igor right now, but could you go and sit by his side and calm him as best you can?"

"Sure. It doesn't look like much is going on this morning anyway." As I turned to walk down the hall, the nurse added, "By the way, I think you should know that Igor is a Russian concert pianist, and he is dying." I nodded silently and proceeded on my way.

As a volunteer, my first priority was to provide companionship, as well as to run errands for the residents and take them to their doctors' appointments. Each Monday brought a unique set of experiences.

When I walked into his room, I noticed that Igor was semicomatose. As I sat beside him, holding his hand and talking to him, I didn't feel as if I were making a connection. When I decided to move my chair to the other side of his bed, I found a letter sitting on the night table, so I decided to read it to him.

The letter was spiritual and heartfelt. It mentioned how much joy Igor and his music had brought to this world. His friend also reminded Igor how much he adored Beethoven, Bach and Schubert, and how Igor would soon be playing the piano for the angels in heaven.

All of a sudden Igor's eyes began to open, so I read the letter again. Then, without even thinking twice, I stood up, placed a CD in the stereo and pushed play. Beautiful piano music played as I placed my hand on his chest. It seemed like a soothing, peaceful and centering gesture.

Igor's chest muscles were tight and his breathing labored. "Igor, it's okay to go. It's time," I whispered. Softly I said, "Relax, take deep breaths and feel the music." Much to my surprise, he did. Igor's muscles calmed, and his breathing slowed. Then, like a proud coach, I said, "Wonderful. Do it again...Perfect!" Igor had a shining sparkle in his eyes.

I guess you have to be somewhat of a perfectionist to be a concert pianist, I deduced. Igor liked being perfect. It almost seemed as though he were performing his final concert. I continued speaking positive words of encouragement. At one point, I thought he might like me to place my hand on his forehead, but as I moved my hand, he reached up and brought it back to his chest.

At last, Igor took his last breath. I waited and asked, "Are you there yet?" When he started to come back, I said, "No...no," as I patted his chest. "You made it. I am proud of you." Then Igor let go.

I stayed with him about ten minutes and collected myself. I couldn't believe I had it in me to do something like that. Our souls had connected. I felt overwhelmed by the power of the human spirit.

As a nurse in a childbirth center, I'm accustomed to guiding women through labor almost every day. I surprised myself by saying the exact same things to Igor that I usually say to women in labor.

As I sat by Igor's side, I contemplated how these intense and magical experiences of birth and death are similar. From the moment of birth to the moment of death, we all need encouragement, love and the human touch.


Marlinda Carlile

His older brother, Justin, was just getting over chicken pox on Casey's second birthday. Poor Justin missed the party while he was quarantined from the other kids. Casey loved his brother and took each gift he opened upstairs to let Justin play with it. After cutting the cake, Casey took the first piece up to his brother. In fact, he spent most of his birthday going up and down the stairs to Justin's room.

Casey had the cutest lisp when he talked, and he stuttered when he was excited. His blond hair lay in wisps across his forehead, and his smile could warm the coldest heart. He was so innocent. No one could have predicted what was about to happen to this precious child.

One week following his birthday, Casey was plastered with nasty red spots, and then he spiked a fever. He was flat in bed, unable to keep any food or fluids down, becoming more and more dehydrated every minute. It was a Sunday night and I couldn't break his 105-degree fever. I rushed him to the emergency room.

The doctor told me Casey was just going through a normal reaction to chicken pox and sent us home, against my better judgment. The next day, Casey was almost lifeless, and he was admitted to the hospital with severe dehydration and an internal infection from his chicken pox.

I sat by my mother, tears flowing down my face, as she lifted my son and all his tubes into my arms. I felt weak and numb all over. Casey briefly opened his eyes, looked into mine and drifted off again. The doctor told us that Casey's chicken pox had caused a poison in his bloodstream and they were unsure what to do, except continue intravenous (IV) fluids and antibiotics, and try to keep his fever under control. The nurses rolled a bed into his room to enable me to stay with him. I was awake all night holding my precious boy.

In the morning the doctor came in to check Casey again. Four nurses followed and hooked up more wires to my son. Casey was unresponsive, though everyone tried waking him. I kept looking at the heart monitor which would speed up and slow down, then speed up again.

The doctor started making more frequent visits and the nurses were in constantly. Later that evening, the doctor told me Casey was slipping into a coma. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. For the next four days, I never left Casey's side. I didn't even go home to shower and change my clothes. There was just no improvement. Family members drifted in and out. My mother was there most frequently.

Every moment of every day I prayed for my son's life and health. The doctors were baffled. No one had ever heard of chicken pox making anyone this desperately ill. I noticed on Friday that the heart monitor kept elevating and not decreasing at all. The doctor was called in immediately.

I leaned against the wall in the hallway, emotionally exhausted, as the doctor put his hand on my shoulder. "Lisa," he stated, "Casey's on the verge of heart failure and there's nothing more we can do." I felt my whole body go numb. His voice grew farther away and echoed. "Is there any family you would like to call that's not already here?"

The only person I called was my pastor. Then for the next forty-five minutes, I sat in a daze, rocking my son and staring into his blank, pale, yet peaceful face.

Pastor George walked into the room. His face was sober, but reassuring. My mother took Casey from me so I could get up and greet George. He reached out and put his arms around me as I quietly trembled and sobbed. George then went to Casey, kneeled down and kissed his forehead. All of our family gathered in a circle with Casey still in my mother's arms. We joined hands and George prayed for Casey's recovery. We continued to pray fervently, and then sat as George comforted us.

Twenty minutes later, Casey sneezed. His heart monitor went nuts, and then he opened his eyes for the first time in four days. He smiled and reached up to touch his grandmother's tear-streamed face. My mother nearly screamed with joy. "Hello, my sweet boy!"

Casey looked at me. "Mama." He reached his arms out for me.

"Hi, my baby boy!" I whispered between sobs of joy and relief. "You were sleeping for a long time."

Casey sat up and said, "I'm hungry." His voice was raspy from not speaking for so long. He looked around his room and spotted my half-eaten hoagie. "I want that," he pointed.

The doctor stood in the doorway and exclaimed, "Give him whatever he wants. Hey, big guy!" The doctor just shook his head and smiled. "I don't believe this," he said. He stepped over to Casey and listened to his heart. "Perfect! I have never seen anything like this in my entire medical career. His heart rate is perfect."

It seemed the entire hospital staff was talking about the miracle which happened before their eyes. Nurses kept coming into Casey's room to say hello and kiss him on the cheek.

Two days later, I brought Casey home. Justin was thrilled to see his brother and nearly knocked him down as he came through the door.

Casey has his tenth birthday coming up. He gets straight A's in school, and he and Justin are still extremely close. So if anyone ever doubts that God performs miracles, you tell them to see me.


/>Kate Dori