Inspirational Stories

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"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 other pot was perfect and always delivered a full 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 a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one and a half pots full of water in his master's house.  Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, 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 day 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 path."  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 it somewhat.  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 there 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."

The moral of this story:

Each of us has our own unique flaws.  We're all cracked pots.  In this world, nothing goes to waste.  You may think like the cracked pot that you are inefficient or useless in certain areas of your life, but somehow these flaws can turn out to be a blessing in disguise."

"It was one of the hottest days of the  dry season. We had not seen rain in almost a month. The crops were dying. Cows had stopped giving milk. The creeks and streams were long gone back into the earth. It was a dry season that would bankrupt several farmers before it was through.

Every day, my husband and his brothers would go about the arduous process of  trying to get  water to the fields.  Lately this process had involved taking a truck to the local water  rendering plant and filling it up with water. But severe rationing had cut everyone off.  If we didn't see some rain soon...we would lose everything. It was on this day that I learned the true lesson of sharing and witnessed the only miracle I have seen with my own eyes.

I was in the kitchen making lunch for my husband and his brothers when I saw my six-year old son, Billy, walking toward the woods.  He wasn't walking with the usual carefree abandon of a youth but with a serious purpose.  I could only see his back. He was obviously walking with a great effort...trying to be as still as possible. Minutes after he disappeared into the woods, he came running out again, towards the house. I went back to making sandwiches; thinking that whatever task he had been doing was completed.  Moments later, however, he was once again walking in that slow purposeful stride toward the woods. This activity went on for an hour: walk carefully to the woods, run back to the house. 

Finally I couldn't take it  any longer and I crept out of the house and followed him on his journey  (being very careful not to be seen...as  he was obviously doing important work and didn't need his Mommy checking up on him).   He was cupping both hands in front of him as he walked; being very careful not to spill the water he held in them...maybe two or three tablespoons were held in his tiny hands. I sneaked close as he went into the  woods. Branches and thorns slapped his little face but he did not try to avoid them. He had a much higher purpose.

As I leaned in to spy on him, I saw  the most  amazing sight. Several large deer loomed in front of him. Billy walked right up to them. I almost screamed for him to get away. A huge buck with elaborate antlers was dangerously close.  But the buck did not threaten him...he didn't even move as Billy knelt down. And I saw a tiny fawn laying on the ground, obviously suffering from dehydration and heat exhaustion, lift its head with great effort to lap up the water cupped in my beautiful boy's hand. When the water was gone, Billy jumped up to run back to the house  and I hid behind a  tree. 

I followed him back to the house; to a spigot that we had shut off the water to. Billy opened it all the way up and a  small trickle began  to creep out. He knelt there, letting the drip, drip slowly fill up his makeshift "cup," as the sun beat down on his little back.  And it came clear to me. The  trouble he had gotten into for playing with the hose the week before. The lecture he had received about the importance of not wasting water. The reason he didn't ask me to help him. It took almost twenty minutes for  the drops to fill his hands. 

When he stood up and began the trek back, I was there in front of him.  His little eyes just filled with tears. "I'm not wasting," was all he said. As he began his walk, I joined him...with a small pot of water from the kitchen.  I let him tend to the fawn. I stayed away.  It was his job. I stood on the edge of the woods watching the most beautiful heart  I have ever known working so hard to save another life. As the tears that  rolled down my face began to hit the ground, they were suddenly joined by other drops...and more drops...and more. 

I looked up at the sky. It was as if God, himself, was weeping with pride. Some will probably say that this was all just a huge coincidence.  That miracles don't  really exist. That it was bound to rain sometime.  And I can't argue with that...I'm not going to try.  All I can say is  that the rain that came that day saved our farm...just like that actions of one little boy saved another. This is not one of those crazy chain letters...if you don't forward it to anyone, nothing  bad will happen to you. If you choose to forward  it, you won't receive any riches in the mail. I don't know if anyone will  read this...but I had to send it out. To honor the memory of my beautiful  Billy,who was taken from me much too soon....  But not before showing me the true face of God, in a little sunburned body.              

Where Does Magic Come From?
Chris Mills

Once there was a little girl who asked her Grandmother a very special question. "Grandmother, is there such a thing as magic?"

"Why, yes, my child. Yes, there is magic," said the Grandmother in surprise.

"Grandmother, where does it come from?" Grandmother slowly smiled. Then she grabbed the little girl and tickled her tummy. Their laughter filled the room and bounced around the house.

"Child, do you know what that sound was?"

"Yes, Grandmother, that was laughter."

"That, my child, was magic. When you laugh it makes the faeries dance."

"Really?" Then the Grandmother smiled lovingly at the little girl. The girl smiled happily back.

"Do you know what we're doing, child?"

"Yes, Grandmother. We're smiling."

"It's magic, child. When we smile, it floats on the air to everyone around us. Then they smile too."

"Really?" Then the Grandmother took the little girl's hand and led her outside. They laid down in the grass and stared up at the clouds.

"Tell me, child, what do you see?"

"I see clouds, Grandmother."

"It's magic, child. If you look, you can see anything you want in the clouds. Close your eyes, wish, and then look. You'll find your wish up there."

"Really?"

That night, when the little girl went to bed, the Grandmother gave her a good night hug. "Do you know what that was, child?"

"It was a hug, Grandmother."

"That was magic, child. When you give someone a hug, you pass on love and protection."

"Really?" Then the Grandmother pulled the blankets up and tucked the little girl in for the night.

"Now, child, can you tell me where magic comes from?"

"Yes, Grandmother," the little girl said with a very sleepy yawn. "Magic comes from me."

(NOTE: Yes, this is a Christian Story and this is a Pagan page but the
story is beautiful and heart-warming so it is here anyway.)

The brand new pastor and his wife, newly assigned to their first ministry, to reopen a church in suburban Brooklyn, arrived in early October excited about their opportunities. When they saw their church, it was very run down and needed much work. They set a goal to have everything done in time to have their first service on Christmas Eve.

They worked hard, repairing pews, plastering walls, painting, etc. and on Dec 18 were ahead of schedule and just about finished. On Dec 19 a terrible tempest - a driving rainstorm - hit the area and lasted for two days.

On the 21st, the pastor went over to the church. His heart sank when he saw that the roof had leaked, causing a large area of plaster about 20 feet by 8 feet to fall off the front wall of the sanctuary just behind the pulpit, beginning about head high. The pastor cleaned up the mess on the floor, and not knowing what else to do but postpone the Christmas Eve service, headed home.

On the way he noticed that a local business was having a flea market type sale for charity so he stopped in. One of the items was a beautiful, handmade, ivory colored, crocheted tablecloth with exquisite work, fine colors and a Cross embroidered right in the center. It was just the right size to cover up the hole in the front wall. He bought it and headed back to the church. By this time it had started to snow. An older woman running from the opposite direction was trying to catch the bus. She missed it. The pastor invited her to wait in the warm church for the next bus 45 minutes later. She sat in a pew and paid no attention to the pastor while he got a ladder, hangers, etc., to put up the tablecloth as a wall tapestry. The pastor could hardly believe how beautiful it looked and it covered up the entire problem area.

Then he noticed the woman walking down the center aisle. Her face was like a sheet. "Pastor," she asked, "where did you get that tablecloth?" The pastor explained. The woman asked him to check the lower right corner to see if the initials, EBG were crocheted into it there. They were. These were the initials of the woman, and she had made this tablecloth 35 years before, in Austria. The woman could hardly believe it as the pastor told how he had just gotten the Tablecloth. The woman explained that before the war she and her husband were well-to-do people in Austria. When the Nazis came, she was forced to leave. Her husband was going to follow her the next week. She was captured, sent to prison and never saw her husband or her home again.

The pastor wanted to give her the tablecloth; but she made the pastor keep it for the church. The pastor insisted on driving her home, that was the least he could do. She lived on the other side of Staten Island and was only in Brooklyn for the day for a housecleaning job.

What a wonderful service they had on Christmas Eve. The church was almost full. The music and the spirit were great. At the end of the service, the pastor and his wife greeted everyone at the door and many said that they would return. One older man, whom the pastor recognized from the neighborhood, continued to sit in one of the pews and stare, and the pastor wondered why he wasn't leaving. The man asked him where he got the tablecloth on the front wall because it was identical to one that his wife had made years ago when they lived in Austria before the war and how could there be two tablecloths so much alike?

He told the pastor how the Nazis came, how he forced his wife to flee for her safety, and he was supposed to follow her, but he was arrested and put in a prison. He never saw his wife or his home again all the 35 years in between.

The pastor asked him if he would allow him to take him for a little ride. They drove to Staten Island and to the same house where the pastor had taken the woman three days earlier. He helped the man climb the three flights of stairs to the woman's apartment, knocked on the door and he saw the greatest Christmas reunion he could ever imagine.

The Paradox
Author Unknown

The paradox of our time in history is
that we have taller buildings, but shorter tempers;
wider freeways, but narrower viewpoints;
we spend more, but have less;
we buy more, but enjoy it less.

We have bigger houses and smaller families;
more conveniences, but less time;
we have more degrees, but less sense;
more knowledge, but less judgment;
more experts, but more problems;
more medicine, but less wellness.

We have multiplied our possessions, but reduced our values.
We talk too much, love too seldom, and hate too often.
We learned how to make a living, but not a life;
We've added years to life, not life to years.
We've been all the way to the moon and back,
but have trouble crossing the street to meet the new neighbor.
We've conquered outer space, but not inner space;
We've cleaned up the air, but polluted the soul;
We've split the atom, but not our prejudice;
We have higher incomes, but lower morals;
We've become long on quantity, but short on quality.

These are the times of tall men, and short character;
steep profits, and shallow relationships.
These are the times of world peace, but domestic warfare;
more leisure, but less fun;
more kinds of food, but less nutrition.

These are the days of two incomes, but more divorce;
of fancier houses, but broken homes.
It is a time when there is much in the show window
and nothing in the stockroom;
a time when technology can bring this letter to you,
and a time when you can choose either to make a difference or just hit delete.........

Barefoot and dirty, the little girl just sat in the park and watched people
go by. She never tried to speak, she never said a word. Many people passed,
but not one person glanced her way, no one stopped, including me.  The next
day I decided to go back to the park, curious if the little girl would still
be there.

Right in the very spot she was yesterday, she sat perched on high, with the
saddest look in her eyes But today I could not just walk away, concerned only
with my affairs. I found myself walking over to the little girl.  For as we
all know, a park full of strange people is not a place for young children to
play alone.

As I began walking towards her, I could see the back of the little girl's
dress indicated a deformity. I figured that was the reason the people just
passed by and made no effort to care.

As I got closer, the little girl slightly lowered her eyes to avoid my intent
stare. I could see the shape of her back more clearly. It was grotesquely
shaped in a humped over form.

I smiled to let her know it was okay, I was there to help, to talk. I sat
down beside her and opened with a simple "hello."

The little girl acted shocked and stammered a "hi" after along stare into my
eyes. I smiled and she shyly smiled back.

We talked 'til darkness fell and the park was completely empty. Everyone was
gone and we were alone. I asked the girl why she was so sad. The little girl
looked at me and said, "Because I am different."

I immediately said "That you are!" and smiled.

The little girl acted even sadder, she said, "I know."

"Little girl," I said, "you remind me of an angel, sweet and innocent."

She looked at me and smiled slowly, she stood to her feet and said "Really?"

"Yes, dear, you're like a little guardian angel sent to watch over all those
people walking by."

She nodded her head 'yes' and smiled, and with that she spread her wings and
said, "I am. I'm your guardian angel," with a twinkle in her eye.

I was speechless, sure I was seeing things.

She said, "And when you began thinking of someone other than yourself, my
job here was done."

Immediately I stood to my feet and said, "Wait, so why did no one else stop
to help an angel?"

She looked at me and smiled, "You're the only one who could see me," and she
was gone.

With that my life was changed dramatically.

When you think you're all you have; remember, your angel is always watching
over you. Mine was....

There is a story from many years ago of a primary school teacher. Her name
was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the
very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers,
she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same.

But that was impossible because there in the front row, slumped in his seat,
was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn't
play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he
constantly needed a bath. And, Teddy could be unpleasant.

It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in
marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a
big "F" at the top of his papers. At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught,
she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off
until last.

However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise,

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready
laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be
around."

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by
his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness
and life at home must be a struggle."

His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He
tries to do his best but his father doesn't show much interest and his home
life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show
much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and sometimes sleeps
in class."

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself.
She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped
in beautiful paper and tied with pretty ribbons, except for Teddy's. His
present which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from
a grocery bag.

Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some
of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with
some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of
perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how
pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on
her wrist. Then she held up her wrist for them to smell it and exclaimed how
lovely the scent was.  All the children stopped laughing then and oohed and
ahhed over Teddy's meager gifts.  Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day
just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, I am glad you liked the bracelet and
perfume, they were my mother's before she died and today you smelled just
like my mom used to."

After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she
quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic.  Instead she began to
teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he
responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest
children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the
children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that
she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that
he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best
teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had
been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon
graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson
that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole
life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he
explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little
further. He asked her if she would mind being at his graduation since both
his parents were dead and would she mind taking their place and watch him
graduate.  Of course she did and with tears in her eyes, she watched him walk
across the stage and become Theodore F. Stoddard, MD

The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that
spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was going to be married. He
explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering
if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was
usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course Mrs. Thompson did.

And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones
missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered
his mother wearing on their last Christmas together. They hugged each other,
and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you
have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a
difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."

Inspire Page 2