As the sun crested the horizon John sipped coffee from a ceramic mug his son had given him years ago. John would never again sit in rush hour, cursing his travel mug and the traffic…
If only he could pin down the story floating in his head. Picking up his pen, John began to write.
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(Pardon the shameless self-promotion, but I’m pretty excited about an event we’re hosting this weekend. Details of our World Vision Benefit BBQ can be found here.)
The crowd was larger than expected, and everyone was having a good time eating and talking. “Ready?” I asked.
“Ready,” she said. Making her way across the yard she grabbed the microphone and turned it on.
“Everyone… Thank you for coming. I’d like to share a few words about why we’re having this little party.”
Tommy and Frank say quietly at the bar nursing their beers. Neither said anything – it wasn’t their way – but they were worried about Mark. It wasn’t like him to not show up… not even for something as trivial as happy hour.
Suddenly the door burst open. “Drinks are on me, fellas! I’m having a boy!”
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Desperation had driven her to a place she rarely went, the old church near her apartment. As she knelt, praying, a ray of light shone through a small, untinted corner of glass in the grand window illuminating a crumpled scrap of paper. Reading the words she gasped and offered a silent, half-believed “thank you.”
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His days literally crawled along at 5 miles per hour. He brought joy, but only to those who could afford it. He was desperate for something to look forward to.
One day, he found it. He gave a free treat to the poorest kid on the last block he visited in his ice cream truck.
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Down it floated, spinning and twirling in the breezes that whipped between the skyscrapers. The scrap of paper – and a million more – were tossed in jubilant exaltation. The war was over, and the soldiers were coming home. As the parade wound thru town, a nation rejoiced expressing its thanks with a million scraps of paper.
Though I saw him every weekday, today I almost missed the man. His eyes didn’t met mine as I set down my package.
I sat next to him. Popping the lid off the takeout box, I offered him a fork. We ate and talked and laughed, and for an hour the man lived again.
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Sandy wanted to choose the terms, instead of letting the disease take them away from her. But she still wept as her long auburn locks were cut off.
Months later, 10-year-old Missy, now hairless because of cancer treatment, received the most gorgeous wig of red hair she had ever seen, and was filled with hope.
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