God in all things

“Have you ever found a treasure?”, I once asked my father. He smiled a big smile and told me this story. That was many years ago and I have never forgotten it.
“Once when I was about ten years old” my father told me, “I went treasure hunting with my older sister. She had heard some people talking about a treasure chest that was supposed to be hidden in a hillside cave, way at the back of an empty lot about a mile from where we lived. One day during our summer vacation we went there and spent two or three hours looking for the entrance to the cave. Then, as I was trying to squeeze between two big boulders, I suddenly fell into a hole. It was the mouth of a tunnel that led to the cave.
My sister and I crawled through the tunnel into the cave. It was very dark but we had brought a flashlight and as we shined it around we were shocked to see that there was a large wooden chest about ten feet ahead of us. Neither of us had thought we would really find a treasure.
We ran to the chest and pulled it open. It was filled with silver and gold coins. I started to count them but my sister told me to stop. This is only money she said. This is not a real treasure. If you want money all you have to do is work for it.
I was going to argue with her when I suddenly noticed a big metal chest on the other side of the cave. ‘That must be the real treasure.’ I yelled and we both ran over to the metal chest. This chest was harder to open and we were very excited when we finally opened it.
The chest was filled with statues of men and animals. Some of the statues were made of ivory, some were made of marble with diamonds for eyes and rubies for lips, and some were made of gold. I took one of the gold statues out of the chest and stood it up. Since I was knelling it almost reached my chin. ‘Don’t do that!’ yelled my sister. ‘This is only beauty and art. It is not a real treasure. There must be something better here.’
But there was nothing else in the cave. We searched and searched but the two chests were all there was. Then the battery in the flashlight started to die. The bulb grew dim. We got scared and crawled back to the tunnel. I wiggled through but my sister got stuck half way into the tunnel. I tried to pull her out but I couldn’t. I began to cry. ‘Find someone to help me.’ my sister said.
I ran up and down the street knocking on doors and begging people to come with me to help my sister. Nobody would come. Some were watching TV or playing video games. Others were busy eating, or talking on the phone. Some didn’t believe me and some didn’t want to get involved. The only one who would help was a girl about my age. She got a rope and a spade and a water bottle. We returned to the tunnel and after about a half an hour we got my sister out of the tunnel.
We never told our parents about what had happened. I became good friends with the girl who had helped us. I asked her why she helped us even though she had never even met us before. She told me that there was a commandment in the Torah that said, “Don’t be a bystander when someone else is bleeding.” (Leviticus 19:16)
I grew to admire her very much. She was very responsible, charitable, faithful, kind and loving. I learned a lot from her and when we finished college I realized that she was more than a very good friend. She was the woman I wanted to marry and live with for the rest of my life. That’s your mom.

In the early dawn, a young gardener was pruning his trees and shrubs. He had one choice currant bush which had gone too much to wood. He feared therefore that it would produce little, if any, fruit. Accordingly, he trimmed and pruned the bush and cut it back. In fact, when he had finished, there was little left but stumps and roots.
Tenderly he considered what was left. It looked so sad and deeply hurt. On every stump there seemed to be a tear where the pruning knife had cut away the growth of early spring. The poor bush seemed to speak to him, and he thought he heard it say: “O, how could you be so cruel to me; you who claim to be my friend, who planted me and cared for me when I was young, and nurtured me and encouraged me to grow? Could you not see that I was rapidly responding to your care? I was nearly half as large as the trees across the fence, and might soon have become like one of them. But now you’ve cut my branches back; the green, attractive leaves are gone, and I am in disgrace among my fellows.”
The young gardener looked at the weeping bush and heard it’s plea with sympathetic understanding. His voice was full of kindness as he said, “Do not cry; what I have done to you was necessary that you might be a prize currant bush in my garden. You were not intended to give shade or shelter by your branches. My purpose when I planted you was that you should bear fruit. When I want currants, a tree, regardless of its size, cannot supply the need.”
“No, my little currant bush, if I had allowed you to continue to grow as you had started, all your strength would have gone to wood; your roots would not have gained a firm hold, and the purpose for which I brought you into my garden would have been defeated. Your place would have been taken by another, for you would have been barren. You must not weep; all this will be for your good; and some day, when you see more clearly, when you are richly laden with luscious fruit, you will thank me and say, `Surely, he was a wise and loving gardener. He knew the purpose of my being, and I thank him now for what I then thought was cruelty.’”
Some years later, this young gardener was in a foreign land, and he himself was growing. He was proud of his position and ambitious for the future.
One day an unexpected vacancy entitled him to promotion. The goal to which he had aspired was now almost within his grasp, and he was proud of the rapid growth which he was making. But for some reason unknown to him, another was appointed in his stead, and he was asked to take another post relatively unimportant and which, under the circumstances, caused his friends to feel that he had failed.
The young man staggered to his tent and knelt beside his cot and wept. He now knew that he could never hope to have what he had thought so desirable. He cried to God and said, “Oh, how could you be so cruel to me? You who claim to be my friend – you who brought me here and nurtured and encouraged me to grow. Could you not see that I was almost equal to the other men whom I have so long admired? But now I have been cut down. I am in disgrace among my fellows. Oh, how could you do this to me?”
He was humiliated and chagrinned and a drop of bitterness was in his heart, when he seemed to hear an echo from the past. Where had he heard those words before? They seemed familiar. Memory whispered: “I’m the gardener here.”
He caught his breath. Ah, that was it – the currant bush! But why should that long-forgotten incident come to him in the midst of his hour of tragedy? And memory answered with words which he himself had spoken; “Do not cry … what I have done to you was necessary … you were not intended for what you sought to be, … if I had allowed you to continue … you would have failed in the purpose for which I planted you and my plans for you would have been defeated. You must not weep; some day when you are richly laden with experience you will say, `He was a wise gardener. He knew the purpose of my earth life, … I thank him now for what I thought was cruel.’”

The moth looked ordinary in all respects. His body and wings were like the others. He had the typical light brown shade and his antennae had the standard branches. In fact, when he flew with a group, one could not identify him. But there was, indeed, something different about this particular moth. In his fibers and inner being. He had an ambition, a goal. An obsession so deep and strong, he spent all his waking hours planning and thinking about his life’s purpose. His one consuming passion was to reach the moon. Even when he was barely able to glide, the other little moths played the whole day thinking of nothing but the fun and frolic of young life. But this moth sat thinking of how he would fly to the moon. As a teenage moth, others preoccupied themselves with social activities. The dances and parties they would attend at every opportunity. He was odd because he did not care for the social events. He thought of what he should do to exercise his wings and body. How to enable himself to soar to new heights and reach the moon.
At night, he dreamt of the moon when it was not visible. When the moon was full, he remained at the window peering at the majestic round object. He would one day reach it. When he became a young adult, he revealed his goal to his parents. They were vehemently against the absurd plan. Be a moth. Act like a moth, his father admonished. Give up this crazy idea of reaching the moon. Moths don’t do that. We fly around but only here and there. Not up to that unreachable height. Look for a nice girl in our neighborhood, advised his mother. Then get married. Give us plenty of grandchildren in our old age. Stop this insane notion of reaching the moon. Remember, you are a moth. The more they discouraged him, the more he resolved to reach the moon. So one night, when the moon was full and everyone was asleep, he sneaked out and flew as fast and as high as he could. Higher and higher he went until he became exhausted. Without the strength in his wings, he gradually faltered and fell back to the ground.
His father and mother knew he had made a vain attempt to fly to the moon when they saw his battered body the next morning. They assumed he had learned his lesson and would give up. Instead, the failure only made his will stronger. So once a month when the moon was full he sallied forth upward. Each time, he fell back. But he realized that, each month. He was going higher and higher. One day I will yet reach the moon, he would tell himself. For twenty-seven days, he would recuperate, save his energy and prepare his wings. And when the moon became full, upward he soared.
After years of unsuccessful effort, he found his wings were frayed, his antennae were broken, his body scarred. Most annoying, his eyes were failing. The moon began to look like a hazy bright ball. He was getting old and his physical condition was ebbing. One night he declared, It’s now or never. I will reach the moon tonight. With all the remaining strength he could muster, he flew. In the darkness he soared straight towards the bright haze. Higher and higher. His wings ached and his body cried from sheer effort.
A thud shook him up. He had hit the moon. The brightness was unmistakable. But he never imagined the heat was this intense. The fire on the surface of the moon seared his wings and antennae. And finally his body. I have reached the moon. I achieved my life’s goal. I am dying happy, he exclaimed as he crumbled into a ball of burnt mass and perished. The moth had hit a street lamp.
Moral lesson: If at first you don’t succeed, try again and you will think you did.

It was approaching the dead of winter when a spiritual teacher went walking through a deep mountain valley with three of his disciples. As it was very cold, the three students were worried about their teacher.
They didn’t want him to get sick, but none would speak up; all knew their teacher’s insistence on privacy when it came to people sticking their nose into his personal affairs. But finally one of them could hold his peace no longer and spoke out:
“Teacher, it’s not right that you don’t have proper protection from this weather.” And, gathering his courage, he went further.
“We all agree,” he said as he looked over at his fellow students for a sense of support, “we want you to have a beautiful coat to help keep you warm.”
The teacher understood the true nature of his students’ protestations, but he also wanted them to learn the higher lesson of the moment: while it’s good to have comforts, being without them is not important enough to despair over. Further, he wanted to show them the value of learning how to use whatever life supplies, or denies, them in the moment, but his brief words of instruction fell on deaf ears. Instead, his students insisted further:
“No, master, it’s not right. We appreciate your modesty and your humility, but really, you need a nice warm coat. If you don’t, you may catch your death of cold, and then what would become of us? Permit us to buy this for you, please?”
Continuing their conversation as they walked alongside a great river, all of a sudden they noticed a large fur coat floating downstream. One of the students exclaimed, “Look! It’s a miracle! The Almighty has heard our prayers! How great is our fortune!”
The next moment, at their urging, the teacher dived into the cold waters to retrieve the fur coat as it floated along with the current. Another minute went by and the students were in shock: their teacher was being swept down the river along with the coat. But that wasn’t all; it was obvious their teacher was in a great struggle of some kind. One by one they cried out, “Are you all right? What’s wrong! Let go of the coat – you’ll drown if you don’t let it go!”
And from the distance they heard their teacher yell back to them, “I want to let go, but it’s not a coat! It’s a black bear… and it won’t let go of me!”

The wife of a man became very sick. On her deathbed, she said to him, “I love you so much! I don’t want to leave you, and I don’t want you to betray me. Promise that you will not see any other women once I die, or I will come back to haunt you.”
For several months after her death, the husband did avoid other women, but then he met someone and fell in love. On the night that they were engaged to be married, the ghost of his former wife appeared to him. She blamed him for not keeping the promise, and every night thereafter she returned to taunt him. The ghost would remind him of everything that transpired between him and his fiancee that day, even to the point of repeating, word for word, their conversations. It upset him so badly that he couldn’t sleep at all.
Desperate, he sought the advice of a Zen master who lived near the village. “This is a very clever ghost,” the master said upon hearing the man’s story. “It is!” replied the man. “She remembers every detail of what I say and do. It knows everything!” The master smiled, “You should admire such a ghost, but I will tell you what to do the next time you see it.”
That night the ghost returned. The man responded just as the master had advised. “You are such a wise ghost,” the man said, “You know that I can hide nothing from you. If you can answer me one question, I will break off the engagement and remain single for the rest of my life.” “Ask your question,” the ghost replied. The man scooped up a handful of beans from a large bag on the floor, “Tell me exactly how many beans there are in my hand.”
At that moment the ghost disappeared and never returned.

Nasrudin decided to go in search of some new meditation techniques. He saddled his donkey, went to India, China and Mongolia, talked to the great masters, but found nothing.
He heard tell of a wise man in Nepal: he journeyed there, but as he was climbing the mountain to meet him, his donkey died of exhaustion. Nasrudin buried him there and then, and wept sadly. Someone passed by and commented:
“You came in search of a saint, this must be his tomb and you are lamenting his death.”
“No, this is the place where I buried my donkey, who died of exhaustion.”
“I don’t believe it,” said the new arrival. “No one weeps over a dead donkey. This must be a place where miracles occur, and you want to keep them for yourself.”
Although Nasrudin explained again and again, it was no use. The man went to the next village and spread the story of a great master who cured people at his tomb, and soon the pilgrims began to arrive.
Gradually, news of the discovery of the Wise Man of Silent Mourning spread throughout Nepal – and crowds rushed to the place. A wealthy man came, thought his prayers had been answered, and built an imposing monument where Nasrudin had buried his ‘master.’
In view of everything, Nasrudin decided to leave things as they were. But he learned once and for all, that when someone wants to believe a lie, no one can convince him otherwise.

It was getting very near to Christmas time, and all the boys at Miss Ware’s school were talking about going home for the holidays.

“I shall go to the Christmas festival,” said Bertie Fellows,” and my mother will have a party, and my Aunt will give another. Oh! I shall have a splendid time at home.”

“My Uncle Bob is going to give me a pair of skates,” remarked Harry Wadham.

“My father is going to give me a bicycle,” put in George Alderson.

“Will you bring it back to school with you?” asked Harry.

“Oh! yes, if Miss Ware doesn’t say no.”

“Well, Tom,” cried Bertie, “where are you going to spend your holidays?”

“I am going to stay here,” answered Tom in a very forlorn voice.

“Here – at school – oh, dear! Why can’t you go home?”

“I can’t go home to India,” answered Tom.

“Nobody said you could. But haven’t you any relatives anywhere?”

Tom shook his head. “Only in India,” he said sadly.

“Poor fellow! That’s hard luck for you. I’ll tell you what it is, boys, if I couldn’t go home for the holidays, especially at Christmas–I think I would just sit down and die.”

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said Tom. “You would get ever so homesick, but you wouldn’t die. You would just get through somehow, and hope something would happen before next year, or that some kind fairy would–”

“There are no fairies nowadays,” said Bertie.

“See here, Tom, I’ll write and ask my mother to invite you to go home with me for the holidays.”

“Will you really?”

“Yes, I will. And if she says yes, we shall have such a splendid time. We live in London, you know, and have lots of parties and fun.”

“Perhaps she will say no?” suggested poor little Tom.

“My mother isn’t the kind that says no,” Bertie declared loudly.

In a few days’ time a letter arrived from Bertie’s mother. The boy opened it eagerly. It said:

My own dear Bertie:

I am very sorry to tell you that little Alice is ill with scarlet fever. And so you cannot come for your holidays. I would have been glad to have you bring your little friend with you if all had been well here.

Your father and I have decided that the best thing that you can do is to stay at Miss Ware’s. We shall send your Christmas present to you as well as we can.

It will not be like coming home, but I am sure you will try to be happy, and make me feel that you are helping me in this sad time.

Dear little Alice is very ill, very ill indeed. Tell Tom that I am sending you a box for both of you, with two of everything. And tell him that it makes me so much happier to know that you will not be alone.

Your own mother.

When Bertie Fellows received this letter, which ended all his Christmas hopes and joys, he hid his face upon his desk and sobbed aloud. The lonely boy from India, who sat next to him, tried to comfort his friend in every way he could think of. He patted his shoulder and whispered many kind words to him.

At last Bertie put the letter into Tom’s hands. “Read it,” he sobbed.

So then Tom understood the cause of Bertie’s grief. “Don’t fret over it,” he said at last. “It might be worse. Why, your father and mother might be thousands of miles away, like mine are. When Alice is better, you will be able to go home. And it will help your mother if she thinks you are almost as happy as if you could go now.”

Soon Miss Ware came to tell Bertie how sorry she was for him.

“After all,” said she, smiling down on the two boys, “it is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Poor Tom has been expecting to spend his holidays alone, and now he will have a friend with him–Try to look on the bright side, Bertie, and to remember how much worse it would have been if there had been no boy to stay with you.”

“I can’t help being disappointed, Miss Ware,” said Bertie, his eyes filling with tears.

“No; you would be a strange boy if you were not. But I want you to try to think of your poor mother, and write her as cheerfully as you can.”

“Yes,” answered Bertie; but his heart was too full to say more.

The last day of the term came, and one by one, or two by two, the boys went away, until only Bertie and Tom were left in the great house. It had never seemed so large to either of them before.

“It’s miserable,” groaned poor Bertie, as they strolled into the schoolroom. “Just think if we were on our way home now–how different.”

“Just think if I had been left here by myself,” said Tom.

“Yes,” said Bertie, “but you know when one wants to go home he never thinks of the boys that have no home to go to.”

The evening passed, and the two boys went to bed. They told stories to each other for a long time before they could go to sleep. That night they dreamed of their homes, and felt very lonely. Yet each tried to be brave, and so another day began.

This was the day before Christmas. Quite early in the morning came the great box of which Bertie’s mother had spoken in her letter. Then, just as dinner had come to an end, there was a peal of the bell, and a voice was heard asking for Tom Egerton.

Tom sprang to his feet, and flew to greet a tall, handsome lady, crying, “Aunt Laura! Aunt Laura!”

And Laura explained that she and her husband had arrived in London only the day before. “I was so afraid, Tom,” she said, “that we should not get here until Christmas Day was over and that you would be disappointed. So I would not let your mother write you that we were on our way home. You must get your things packed up at once, and go back with me to London. Then uncle and I will give you a splendid time.”

For a minute or two Tom’s face shone with delight. Then he caught sight of Bertie and turned to his aunt.

“Dear Aunt Laura,” he said, “I am very sorry, but I can’t go.”

“Can’t go? and why not?”

“Because I can’t go and leave Bertie here all alone,” he said stoutly. “When I was going to be alone he wrote and asked his mother to let me go home with him. She could not have either of us because Bertie’s sister has scarlet fever. He has to stay here, and he has never been away from home at Christmas time before, and I can’t go away and leave him by himself, Aunt Laura.”

For a minute Aunt Laura looked at the boy as if she could not believe him. Then she caught him in her arms and kissed him.

“You dear little boy, you shall not leave him. You shall bring him along, and we shall all enjoy ourselves together. Bertie, my boy, you are not very old yet, but I am going to teach you a lesson as well as I can. It is that kindness is never wasted in this world.”

And so Bertie and Tom found that there was such a thing as a fairy after all.

I was driving home from a meeting this evening about 5, stuck in traffic on Colorado Blvd., and the car started to choke and splutter and die – I barely managed to coast , cursing, into a gas station, glad only that I would not be blocking traffic and would have a somewhat warm spot to wait for the tow truck. It wouldn’t even turn over. Before I could make the call, I saw a woman walking out of the quickie mart building, and it looked like she slipped on some ice and fell into a gas pump, so I got out to see if she was okay
When I got there, it looked more like she had been overcome by sobs than that she had fallen; she was a young woman who looked really haggard with dark circles under her eyes.. She dropped something as I helped her up, and I picked it up to give it to her. It was a nickel.
At that moment, everything came into focus for me: the crying woman, the ancient Suburban crammed full of stuff with 3 kids in the back (1 in a car seat), and the gas pump reading $4.95.
I asked her if she was okay and if she needed help, and she just kept saying ‘I don’t want my kids to see me crying! ,’ so we stood on the other side of the pump from her car. She said she was driving to California and that things were very hard for her right now. So I asked, ‘And you were praying?’ That made her back away from me a little, but I assured her I was not a crazy person and said, ‘He heard you, and He sent me.’
I took out my card and swiped it through the card reader on the pump so she could fill up her car completely, and while it was fueling, walked to the next door McDonald’s and bought 2 big bags of food, some gift certificates for more, and a big cup of coffee. She gave the food to the kids in the car, who attacked it like wolves, and we stood by the pump eating fries and talking a little.
She told me her name, and that she lived in Kansas City . Her boyfriend left 2 months ago and she had not been able to make ends meet. She knew she wouldn’t have money to pay rent Jan. 1, and finally, in desperation, had called her parents, with whom she had not spoken in about 5 years. They lived in California and said she could come live with them and try to get on her feet there.
So she packed up everything she owned in the car. She told the kids they were going to California for Christmas, but not that they were going to live there. I gave her my gloves, a little hug and said a quick prayer with her for safety on the road. As I was walking over to my car, she said, ‘So, are you like an angel or something?’
This definitely made me cry. I said, ‘Sweetie, at this time of year angels are really busy, so sometimes God uses regular people.’
It was so incredible to be a part of someone else’s miracle. And of course, you guessed it, when I got in my car it started right away and got me home with no problem. I’ll put it in the shop tomorrow to check, but I suspect the mechanic won’t find anything wrong.
Sometimes the angels fly close enough to you that you can hear the flutter of their wings….

It was delightful to watch as the friends and relatives gathered in the cultural hall of the church to congratulate and wish the couple well, whom were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary. The room was beautifully decorated with momentous scenes throughout their lives growing up and later together.
The joyous sound of laughter was heard throughout the room as the guest mingled throughout and as they enjoyed the delicious buffet. They each had moments to share that they had had with the honored couple.
As the couple was ushered to two high back king and queen chairs the program began. Listening, memory served me well, of the past years of my life. The oldest son began the introduction along with his gratitude to those attending to honor his parents. A beautiful well-written program included the four children, their mates, 12 grandchildren and 1 great grandchild. Posterity, their heirs, I believe it’s called, were nervous wanting to do the very best for the couple whom they all loved in different ways and for different reasons.
As I listened I wondered, “what brought this family to this point?” “Did they have some kind of formula to teach by, to learn from, to have this tremendous gathering?”
As each child took part there was humor, tears and beautiful talent displayed. Viewing the esteemed couple one could see their hands entwined as they had done so much in the past 56 years. Anyone who had known them previously had often seen this same devotion.
Then the music began and the couple was highlighted in pictures from a very young age until the present time. The 50′s music set everyone attending tapping their toes, smiling and many just remembering, their own bygone years.
It was over much too, soon. As the couple was called to the microphone, the clapping was deafening. The children and grandchildren stood smiling at the couple who meant so much to them and thinking to themselves, “I want to be just like them – still holding hands after 56 years – still in love.”
Still holding hands, they approached the microphone together. “Words elude me, and my heart is so full of joy for my family and for all of you kind friends who came to wish us well,” she said. Then she introduced each member of the family and it was obvious she could have said something endearing about each one. He moved a little closer as he began to speak, expressing his gratitude to the family as well to everyone attending and then turning to her he gave her a hug and kiss. With his arms still around her he said, “It’s been a good trip, honey – It’s been a good trip.”
Now, as I sit at my computer, I am contemplating just what he meant by… it’s been a good trip The meaning sinks in – although there were many ups and downs – hardships – joyous times and sad times as every family has, maybe, just maybe, the answer lies in continually saying and showing and meaning, “I Love You.” Perhaps that is the answer for everyone – to care – to love in spite of.

There’s a man who has been by himself in a prison cell with a dirt floor, crude stone walls, and there’s two windows one of which looks out towards the ocean. All of the sudden, he hears a scratching noise, and he looks down at the ground that is furthest away from the window facing the ocean. He sees the ground moving, and he starts to think he’s losing his mind. But soon the ground breaks, and up pops a head with long hair and a beard… it’s a prisoner.
And the prisoner says “Sssh. Listen. A group of us have been tunneling for about six years, and we’ve finally reached your cell. We have ways to cover up my entrance into this, but now it’s all on your shoulders, man. All you have to do,” he said while pointing out the window towards the ocean, “you just start digging here and go down about six feet and about 75 feet in that direction and there is freedom, and we’re outta here!”
“Oh, I love that! That’s great; I want to be free!”
“Okay, I’ll check back with you in a few weeks.”
Two weeks later, the pops back in to check on his friend’s progress, and his friend nods back with great affirmation. “Yeah, I’ve done it.”
So the man who was providing the instructions pops down the hole, and two seconds later pops right back up and says, “What have you done?!?!?”
“Huh?”
“I told you to dig in the direction towards the OCEAN! This tunnel that you dug goes back under the wall and into the prison yard.”
“Well, the digging was easier in the other direction…”