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THE SMELL OF RAIN
A cold March wind danced around the dead of night in Dallas as the doctor walked into the small hospital room of Diana Blessing. She was still groggy from surgery.
Her husband, David , held her hand as they braced themselves for the latest news.
That afternoon of March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only 24-weeks pregnant, to undergo an emergency Cesarean to deliver couple’s new daughter, Dana Lu Blessing.
At 12 inches long and weighing only one pound nine ounces, they already knew she was perilously premature.
Still, the doctor’s soft words dropped like bombs.
‘I don’t think she’s going to make it,’ he said, as kindly as he could.
’There’s only a 10-percent chance she will live through the night, and even then, if by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one’
Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Dana would likely face if she survived.
She would never walk, she would never talk, she would probably be blind, and she would certainly be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on.
‘No! No!’ was all Diana could say.
She and David, with their 5-year-old son Dustin, had long dreamed of the day they would have a daughter to become a family of four.
Now, within a matter of hours, that dream was slipping away.
But as those first days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Dana ‘s underdeveloped nervous system was essentially ‘raw’, the lightest kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn’t even cradle their tiny baby girl against their chests to offer the strength of their love.
All they could do, as Dana struggled alone beneath the ultraviolet light in the tangle of tubes and wires, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.
There was never a moment when Dana suddenly grew stronger.
But as the weeks went by, she did slowly gain an ounce of weight here and an ounce of strength there.
At last, when Dana turned two months old. her parents were able to hold her in their arms for the very first time.
And two months later, though doctors continued to gently but grimly warn that her chances of surviving, much less living any kind of normal life, were next to zero, Dana went home from the hospital, just as her mother had predicted.
Five years later, when Dana was a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life.
She showed no signs whatsoever of any mental or physical impairment. Simply, she was everything a little girl can be and more. But that happy ending is far from the end of her story.
One blistering afternoon in the summer of 1996 near her home in Irving , Texas , Dana was sitting in her mother’s lap in the bleachers of a local ball park where her brother Dustin’s baseball team was practicing.
As always, Dana was chattering nonstop with her mother and several other adults sitting nearby, when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, little Dana asked, ‘Do you smell that?’
Smelling the air and detecting the approach of a thunderstorm, Diana replied, ‘Yes, it smells like rain.’
Dana closed her eyes and again asked, ‘Do you smell that?’
Once again, her mother replied, ‘Yes, I think we’re about to get wet. It smells like rain.’
Still caught in the moment, Dana shook her head, patted her thin shoulders with her small hands and loudly announced,
‘No, it smells like Him.
It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest.’
Tears blurred Diana’s eyes as Dana happily hopped down to play with the other children.
Before the rains came, her daughter’s words confirmed what Diana and all the members of the extended Blessing family had known, at least in their hearts, all along.
During those long days and nights of her first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive for them to touch her, God was holding Dana on His chest and it is His loving scent that she remembers so well.
PECANS IN THE CEMETERY
On the outskirts of a small town, there was a big, old pecan tree just inside the cemetery fence. One day, two boys filled up a bucketful of nuts and sat down by the tree, out of sight, and began dividing the nuts.
‘One for you, one for me, one for you, one for me,’ said one boy. Several dropped and rolled down toward the fence.
Another boy came riding along the road on his bicycle. As he passed, he thought he heard voices from inside the cemetery. He slowed down to investigate. Sure enough, he heard, ‘One for you, one for me, one for you,
One for me…’
He just knew what it was. He jumped back on his bike and rode off. Just around the bend he met an old man with a cane, hobbling along.
‘Come here quick,’ said the boy, ‘you won’t believe what I heard! Satan and the Lord are down at the cemetery dividing up the souls!’
The man said, ‘Beat it kid, can’t you see it’s hard for me to walk.’ When the boy insisted though, the man hobbled slowly to the cemetery.
Standing by the fence they heard, ‘One for you, one for me. One for you, One for me.’
The old man whispered, ‘Boy, you’ve been tellin’ me the truth. Let’s see if we can see the Lord…
Shaking with fear, they peered through the fence, yet were still unable to see anything. The old man and the boy gripped the wrought iron bars of the fence tighter and tighter as they tried to get a glimpse of the Lord.
At last they heard, ‘One for you, one for me. That’s all.. Now let’s go get those nuts by the fence and we’ll be done…
They say the old man had the lead for a good half-mile before the kid on the bike passed him .
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When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in GRASS VALLEY, CA.
It was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem.
Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to
Every nurse in the home.
One nurse took her copy to Missouri.
The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of
The News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation
Has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of
This ‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet.
Crabby Old Man…
What do you see nurses? . . … . . What do you see?
What are you thinking … . . When you’re looking at me?
A crabby old man … . . Not very wise,
Uncertain of habit … … . With faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food … .. . And makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice … . . ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice .… … . The things that you do.
And forever is losing … . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not … . . Lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding … .. . The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking? . … … Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse … . . You’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am… . … . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, … . . As I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten … . .. With a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters … . … Who love one another.
A young boy of Sixteen … . With wings on his feet.
Dreaming that soon now … . . A lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty … . .. My heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows … . . That I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now … .. . I have young of my ow n.
Who need me to guide … . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty … . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other .… . . With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons . . … . . Have grown and are gone,
But my woman’s beside me … . . To see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more, babies play ‘round my knee,
Again, we know children … . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me … . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future … . . Shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . … … Young of their own.
And I think of the years .… .. . And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man … . …. And nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age … . . Look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles … . . Grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone … . Where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass … . . A young guy still dwell s,
And now and again … . . My battered heart swells.
I remember the joys … . . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living … … . Life over again.
I think of the years, all too few … . . Gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact … . That nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people … … . Open and see.
Not a crabby old man . … . . Look closer . .. . See ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside
Without looking at the young soul within.
We will all, one day, be there, too!
PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM
The best and most beautiful things of this world can’t be seen or touched.
They must be felt by the heart.
“I’m 64 and I’m Tired”
I’m 64. Except for brief period in the 60’s when I was doing my National
Service, I’ve worked hard since I was 15. Except for some serious
health challenges, I put in 50-hour weeks, and didn’t call in sick in nearly
40 years. I made a reasonable salary, but I didn’t inherit my job or my
income, and I worked to get where I am. Given the economy, it looks as
though retirement was a bad idea, and I’m tired. Very tired.
I’m tired of being told that I have to “spread the wealth” to people who
don’t have my work ethic. I’m tired of being told the government will take
the money I earned, by force if necessary, and give it to people too lazy
to earn it.
I’m tired of being told that Islam is a “Religion of Peace,” when every day I
can read dozens of stories of Muslim men killing their sisters, wives and
daughters for their family “honor”; of Muslims rioting over some slight
offense; of Muslims murdering Christian and Jews because they aren’t
“believers”; of Muslims burning schools for girls; of Muslims stoning
teenage rape victims to death for “adultery”; of Muslims mutilating the
genitals of little girls; all in the name of Allah, because the Qur’an and
Shari’a law tells them to.
I’m tired of being told that out of “tolerance for other cultures” we must let
Saudi Arabia and other Arab countries use our oil money to fund mosques
and madrassa Islamic schools to preach hate in Australia , New Zealand ,
UK , America and Canada , while no one from these countries are allowed to
fund a church, synagogue or religious school in Saudi Arabia or any other
Arab country to teach love and tolerance..
I’m tired of being told I must lower my living standard to fight global
warming, which no one is allowed to debate.
I’m tired of being told that drug addicts have a disease, and I must help
support and treat them, and pay for the damage they do. Did a giant germ
rush out of a dark alley, grab them, and stuff white powder up their noses
or stick a needle in their arm while they tried to fight it off?
I’m tired of hearing wealthy athletes, entertainers and politicians of all
parties talking about innocent mistakes, stupid mistakes or youthful
mistakes, when we all know they think their only mistake was getting
caught. I’m tired of people with a sense of entitlement, rich or poor.
I’m really tired of people who don’t take responsibility for their lives and
actions. I’m tired of hearing them blame the government, or discrimination
or big-whatever for their problems.
I’m also tired and fed up with seeing young men and women in their teens and
early 20’s be-deck themselves in tattoos and face studs, thereby making
themselves UN-employable and claiming money from the Government.
Yes, I’m damn tired. But I’m also glad to be 64 Because, mostly, I’m not
going to have to see the world these people are making. I’m just sorry for
my granddaughter and her children. Thank God I’m on the way out and not
on the way in.
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A 5-year-old boy went to visit his grandmother one day.
Playing with his toys in her bedroom while grandma was dusting, he
looked up and said, ‘Grandma, how come you don’t have a boyfriend now
that Grandpa went to heaven?’
Grandma replied, ‘Honey, my TV is my boyfriend. I can sit
in my bedroom and watch it all day long. The religious programs
make me feel good and the comedies make me laugh. I’m happy with my
TV as my boyfriend.’
Grandma turned on the TV, and the reception was terrible.
She started adjusting the knobs, trying to get the picture in focus.
Frustrated, she started hitting the backside of the TV hoping to fix
the problem.
The little boy heard the doorbell ring, so he hurried to
open the door and there stood Grandma’s minister. The minister said,
’Hello son, is your Grandma home?’
The little boy replied, ‘Yeah, she’s in the bedroom bangin’
her boyfriend.’
The minister fainted.
A little girl stood near a small church from which she had been turned
away because it was ‘too crowded.’
‘I can’t go to Sunday School,’ she sobbed to the pastor as he walked by.
Seeing her shabby, unkempt appearance, the pastor guessed the reason and,
taking her by the hand, took her inside and found a place for her in the
Sunday school class. The child was so happy that they found room for her,
and she went to bed that night thinking of the children who have no place
to worship Jesus.
Some two years later, this child lay dead in one of the poor tenement
buildings. Her parents called for the kindhearted pastor who had befriended
their daughter to handle the final arrangements.
As her poor little body was being moved, a worn and crumpled red purse
was found which seemed to have been rummaged from some trash dump.
Inside was found 57 cents and a note, scribbled in childish handwriting,
which read: ‘This is to help build the little church bigger so more
children can go to Sunday School.’
For two years she had saved for this offering of love.
When the pastor tearfully read that note, he knew instantly what he would
do. Carrying this note and the cracked, red pocketbook to the pulpit, he
told the story of her unselfish love and devotion.
He challenged his deacons to get busy and raise enough money for the
larger building.
But the story does not end there…..
A newspaper learned of the story and published It. It was read by a
wealthy realtor who offered them a parcel of land worth many thousands.
When told that the church could not pay so much, he offered to sell it to
the little church for 57 cents.
Church members made large donations. Checks came from far and wide.
Within five years the little girl’s gift had increased to $250,000.00—a
huge sum for that time (near the turn of the century). Her unselfish love
had paid large dividends.
When you are in the city of Philadelphia , look up Temple Baptist Church
, with a seating capacity of 3,300. And be sure to visit Temple University,
where thousands of students are educated.
Have a look, too, at the Good Samaritan Hospital and at a Sunday School
building which houses hundreds of beautiful children, built so that no
child in the area will ever need to be left outside during Sunday school
time..
In one of the rooms of this building may be seen the picture of the sweet
face of the little girl whose 57 cents, so sacrificially saved, made such
remarkable history. Alongside of it is a portrait of her kind pastor, Dr.
Russell H. Conwell, author of the book, ‘Acres of Diamonds’.
This is a true story, which goes to show WHAT GOD CAN DO WITH 57 CENTS
(Source: 57cents)
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spaz got haircut. now he’s stylin.
back of tunas head…lol
(Taken with picplz.)