2011 a year to remember

What a difference a year makes!!

December 28, 2010. I was laying in a long-term care nursing facility, recovering from a 5^th hip replacement surgery, where an infected artificial hip joint had been removed from my femur and left out to allow the infection to be eliminated. It would not be replaced until March 8, 2011. To say the least I was “Hookey-Pookey challenged”. To add more misery to a miserable situation, I was diagnosed with very sever sleep apnea,.

I was having over 50 apneas per hour (stopping breathing), which was not much help in my healing process from surgery. I would fall asleep while exercising in the physical therapy room in the rehab center, and I actually fell asleep while talking on the phone to my office. I would be away from my job from Steelscape as Credit Manager for five months, and because of the great company I work for, I still had a job to return to.

Fast forward 12 months and I have a new hip joint,. my sleep apnea is receiving treatment so that I am slowly getting my life back.

Today I am taking water aerobics classes three times a week and walking up to two miles on my lunch hour.  I attribute this dramatic change in my health to a lot of fasting and prayer by friends and family.

Also during this past year fasting and prayer have played an important role in the lives of two of my grand nephews- Dane White and Benjamin Wooden.

First, Dane White, age 7, son of David and Jonna White. Jonna is Kris’s sister Cherrideth Campbell’s  (Steve) oldest child. In September, Dane was having severe headaches, and was found to have a brain tumor the size of a peach. He had successful surgery for its removal and I will quote from an email I received from Jonna soon after:

October 13, 2011

Uncle Steve,

We came home from the hospital on Saturday and since then he has been recuperating at home.  He still struggles a little bit with nausea, but we have some medicine for that, and overall he is doing really well.  It's kind of amazing, actually.  To look at him, you would never imagine that he had had brain surgery 10 days ago.  His neck is a little stiff, but improves every day.  It's getting to the point now where I think the boredom will be more of an issue.  This morning I had to tell him to get off of the play house that we have outside on the patio because he was perched on the roof of it.  (near heart attack for me!)  He is having a pretty good time playing lots of Wii and watching movies and eating a lot.  I don't know if it's the steroids or the going without food for several days in the hospital, but he is constantly hungry and if he doesn't eat he starts feeling sick.  So, I think he has it pretty good right now!  Poor guy had to go through a lot in the hospital, though, so we're letting him live it up now! 

Thanks for all your prayers and fasting.  I know that it has made a huge difference in this whole experience.  So many people have been praying for him and for us and we've felt it constantly.  it's pretty humbling.  And wonderful to feel so loved.  The gospel is wonderful.  Family is so amazing.  We've got a great family! 

Next, Benjamin Wooden. Benjamin is the son of Adam and Megan Wooden. Adam is my sister Kate’s (Monte) son.  Benjamin was born with a serious heart defect- I will quote from their reports on an internet site:

Our wonderful Benjamin was born on August 24th 2011. On September 12th, he was diagnosed with a Ventricular Septal Defect (VSD) and Double Outlet Right Ventricle (DORV).

This site is the central location where Adam and I will post information about Ben's condition, surgery, and recovery. We appreciate any and all positive thoughts and prayers!

-Megan, Adam, & Benjamin

(My interjection-Ben had to wait several months until he was strong enough for the life saving surgery)

Ben's new heart, day 1

 

Posted Oct 28, 2011 1:32pm

Good morning everyone!  Ben had a good night, and is showing some of that Wooden/Gordon strength.  He still has the breathing tube in, but according to his nurse he hasn't been using it and has been breathing mostly on his own.  They expect that we can try to take the tube out this afternoon and see how he does. He is also doing well on lower doses of his pain meds and is completely off some of the other meds like epinephrine.  Megan and I got to hold his hand this morning even though he is still partially sedated, which was so nice.
Ben's room has a beautiful view of the golden gate bridge and the weather is mild and fog free.  We are finding all kinds of connections in San Francisco, from old classmates to friends of our parents.  Also, we found another Pennsylvania connection as his nurse is originally from Pottstown, PA. 
We will be in the ICU for another 3-4 days and then to a step down unit from there. We still don't have a firm grasp for date of discharge, but we are encouraged by his progress so far!!  
Thanks for all the prayers and messages!  
Team Ben

10 pounds and 14.4 ounces!

Posted Nov 18, 2011 12:06am

Wow! It has been more than two weeks since we were discharged and time has really flown by.

We were all exhausted when we finally got home. It took a while to adjust to the calm and quiet of home. Ben had a hard time falling asleep and staying asleep. He cried very easily and wanted to be held all day and all night. This made for some very long days but with all of grandmas and grandpas extra hands we were able to pass him around and keep him comfortable. Thankfully, about a week ago something changed and Ben began making his way back to his "usual" self. He is now sleeping a little deeper, a little longer, and a little more independently.

Ben had a weight check and his belated 2 month "well baby" visit with his pediatrician, Dr. Wilborn this week. She was thrilled with his progress. Ben weighed in at a shocking 10 pounds 14.4 ounces. This places him in the 11th percentile for weight which is a big improvement from when he was stuck in the 5th percentile range before surgery.

Ben has been off all pain medications for over a week. He hasn't vomited since his surgery and hasn't shown any signs of GERD so he no longer has to take Prilosec. He is still taking Lasix to keep the pressure off of his heart. We don't know if this will be a short term or a long term prescription. Ben has an echo and a cardiologist appointment next week so we'll find out more then.

Ben is quite the charmer! He smiles, he coos, and he loves sticking out his tongue. Although he was beginning to roll before surgery, he'll have to wait a few more weeks before we start practicing again. His vaccine schedule has been delayed two months too to give him extra time to heal. Next week he'll get his first Synagis shot which will give Ben antibodies to prevent him from getting respiratory syncytial virus (RSV). It is very common for babies to get RSV but it can be life threatening for babies who are already immuno-compromised. He'll get a Synagis shot each month until we are through the cold and flu season. Our biggest challenge will be to limit Ben's germ exposure and keep him healthy through the winter months.

As always, thank you for all of your prayers and positive thoughts! We appreciate you keeping our family in mind.

Posted Dec 23, 2011 7:58pm

On Tuesday, Ben got his second Synagis shot and weighed in at 13 pounds and 12 ounces! 

In two weeks Ben will be getting his first round of infant immunizations. That appointment is going to be a doozy because he really does not like shots (Can you blame him?). 

Two weeks from then, on January 17, we have a big important day of appointments. On that day then we'll have another echo, an appointment with his cardiologist, and his third Synagis injection. At these appointments we're going to be measuring the speed of the blood going through the repair in his heart and this will tell us whether we're in the clear or whether we need to do more work. 

In other news: Ben is now officially in size two diapers! He also rolled over for the first time by himself today! I can't believe that on Christmas Eve he'll be 4 months old. Ben enjoys rolling on the floor under the Christmas tree playing with the ribbons, bows, and shiny packages. He got a jumping activity center toy this week and is working on turning his world class kicking skills into jumping skills. He is sleeping for longer stretches at night -- 4+ hours and is taking two or three naps during the day. Ben smiles and makes eye contact with himself in the mirror and when video chatting with relatives. This week he began trying out some new and loud vocal octaves when he is playing with his toys. Ben continues to teethe but no teeth have broken through yet (it could be months away). He has much better control over his hands and can often be found chewing on them. Ben still gets lonely in his car seat and wants constant attention. However, he loves going outside. When we go on short walks down to the mailbox Ben is usually quiet and wide eyed and is trying to take it all in. 

We'll try to post some new pictures soon so that you can see him in his four month old Christmas cuteness glory!

And this last post 2 days later:

With our hearts full of thanks & happiness, we are enjoying watching our little man playing on the floor under the Christmas tree!

Thank you for all of your prayers! Merry Christmas

For all these reasons I am thankful for 2011 and all the blessings (miracles?) that happened in my life and in the lives of these two wonderful children in my family

 Steve

A BABY'S HUG

This story is in honor of my several nieces and nephews that have welcomed new babies into their lives in the past several months. I can't vouch for the being a true story, but it did occur around Christmas time. Grand

Steve

A Baby's Hug


We were the only family with children in the restaurant. I sat Erik in a
high chair and noticed everyone was quietly sitting and talking. Suddenly,
Erik squealed with glee and said, 'Hi.' He pounded his fat baby hands on the
high chair tray. His eyes were crinkled in laughter and his mouth was bared
in a toothless grin, as he wriggled and giggled with merriment.

 I looked around and saw the source of his merriment. It was a man whose
pants were baggy with a zipper at half-mast and his toes poked out of
would-be shoes. His shirt was dirty and his hair was uncombed and unwashed.
His whiskers were too short to be called a beard and his nose was so
varicose it looked like a road map.

We were too far from him to smell, but I was sure he smelled. His hands
waved and flapped on loose wrists. 'Hi there, baby; hi there, big boy. I see
ya, buster,' the man said to Erik.

My husband and I exchanged looks,  'What do we do?'

Erik continued to laugh and answer, 'Hi.'

 Everyone in the restaurant noticed and looked at us and then at the man.
The old geezer was creating a nuisance with my beautiful baby. Our meal came
and the man began shouting from across the room, 'Do ya patty cake? Do you
know peek-a-boo? Hey, look, he knows peek- a-boo.'

Nobody thought the old man was cute. He was obviously drunk.

My husband and I were embarrassed. We ate in silence; all except for Erik,
who was running through his repertoire for the admiring skid-row bum, who in
turn, reciprocated with his cute comments.

 We finally got through the meal and headed for the door. My husband went to
pay the check and told me to meet him in the parking lot. The old man sat
poised between me and the door. 'Lord, just let me out of here before he
speaks to me or Erik,' I prayed. As I drew closer to the man, I turned my
back trying to sidestep him and avoid any air he might be breathing. As I
did, Erik leaned over my arm, reaching with both arms in a baby's
pick-me-up' position. Before I could stop him, Erik had propelled himself
from my arms to the man..

Suddenly a very old smelly man and a very young baby consummated their love
and kinship. Erik in an act of total trust, love, and submission laid his
tiny head upon the man's ragged shoulder. The man's eyes closed, and I saw
tears hover beneath his lashes. His aged hands full of grime, pain, and hard
labor, cradled my baby's bottom and stroked his back. No two beings have
ever loved so deeply for so short a time.

I stood awestruck. The old man rocked and cradled Erik in his arms and his
eyes opened and set squarely on mine. He said in a firm commanding voice,
You take care of this baby.'

 Somehow I managed, 'I will,' from a throat that contained a stone.

He pried Erik from his chest, lovingly and longingly, as though he were in
pain. I received my baby, and the man said, 'God bless you, ma'am, you've
given me my Christmas gift.'

I said nothing more than a muttered thanks. With Erik in my arms, I ran for
the car. My husband was wondering why I was crying and holding Erik so
tightly, and why I was saying,  'My God, my God, forgive me.'

I had just witnessed Christ's love shown through the innocence of a tiny
child who saw no sin, who made no judgment; a child who saw a soul, and a
mother who saw a suit of clothes. I was a Christian who was blind, holding a
child who was not. I felt it was God asking, 'Are you willing to share your
son for a moment?' when He shared His for all eternity.  How did God feel
when he put his baby in our arms 2000 years ago.

The ragged old man, unwittingly, had reminded me, 'To enter the Kingdom of
God, we must become as little children.'

"Raggedy Ann Doll" A Personal Christmas Story

Raggedy Ann

This story occurred in Munising, Michigan in about 1958. My sister, Kathleen (Katie) was about 4 years old at the time, and I was 12. That year for Christmas Kate wanted a Raggedy Ann doll from Santa Claus. She had read about Raggedy Ann in a story book or something and it captured her imagination. There was nothing else she wanted for Christmas that year. A Raggedy Ann doll was her entire list.

Unfortunately, that year there weren’t any such dolls to be had in the stores where we lived (Munising was a town of about 4000 with only one department store. My mother drove forty miles to Marquette, Michigan, a larger town of about 40,000 people, where there more shopping choices. No Raggedy Anne dolls were to be found there. As Christmas grew closer, panic began to set in. We all tried to convince Kate that there were much better dolls to be had….more expensive and fancier dolls than a plain old Raggedy Ann. They had dolls that would wet their pants (go figure), dolls that would cry, and dolls that would close their eyes when you laid them down…. No takers, because Kate would not change her mind. Only Raggedy Ann would do.

In desperation, my Mother called the large department stores in Milwaukee and Chicago- Macy’s, Gimbles and such. They didn’t have Raggedy Anne dolls for sale in 1958 either. So Christmas Eve came with no apparent solution to our family’s quandary. That night after the “little kids” (Kate and Mary) went to bed with “sugar plums dancing in their heads”. My Mother, Mike, Chris (the older kids), and I stayed up into the night and made a Raggedy Anne doll. My Mother would sew the little cloth legs on her sewing machine, and we kids would stuff them with old nylon stockings. We cut some red yarn to fasten on the head for hair, and sewed buttons on the head for eyes. We were all worried that Kate would detect our amateur work and somehow be disappointed.

The next morning, we were all “hyped up” in anticipation as Kate came out to the Christmas tree.  I will never forget the look on her face.  She was so excited and happy to get her Raggedy Ann doll that she didn’t even notice the lumpy arms and legs, or the imperfect hair. I think that Christmas was the first time in my relatively young life that I actually thought more about giving than receiving.

I now reflect on the wonderful gift that our Mother had given to her three older children that year. Certainly not the personal presents our parents had given to us, because I don’t have a clue what any of us got that year, but it occurred to me many years later that Mother really didn’t need our help in making that doll on that late Christmas Eve so many years ago.

Christmas Mistake

I didn't write this story, but it is a nice story with a good ending and a good way to start out a December post on my blog.

Christmas Mistake

Each December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience. I had cut back on nonessential obligations - extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending. Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.



My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six year old. For weeks, he'd been memorizing songs for his school's "Winter Pageant."


I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd be working the night of the production. Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me there'd be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation. All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then.


Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise. So, the morning of the dress rehearsal, I filed in ten minutes early, found a spot on the cafeteria floor and sat down.  Around the room, I saw several other parents quietly scampering to their seats. As I waited, the students were led into the room. Each class, accompanied by their teacher, sat cross-legged on the floor. Then, each group, one by one, rose to perform their song.


Because the public school system had long stopped referring to the holiday as "Christmas," I didn't expect anything other than fun, commercial entertainment - songs of reindeer, Santa Claus, snowflakes and good cheer. So, when my son's class rose to sing, "Christmas Love," I was slightly taken aback by its bold title. Nicholas was aglow, as were all of his classmates, adorned in fuzzy mittens, red sweaters, and bright snowcaps upon their heads. Those in the front row- center stage - held up large letters, one by one, to spell out the title of the song.


As the class would sing "C is for Christmas," a child would hold up the letter C. Then, "H is for Happy," and on and on, until each child holding up his portion had presented the complete message, "Christmas Love." The performance was going smoothly, until suddenly, we noticed her; a small, quiet, girl in the front row holding the letter "M" upside down - totally unaware her letter "M" appeared as a "W".


The audience of 1st through 6th graders snickered at this little one's mistake, but she had no idea they were laughing at her, so she stood tall, proudly holding her "W".


Although many teachers tried to shush the children, the laughter continued until the last letter was raised, and we all saw it together. A hush came over the audience and eyes began to widen. In that instant, we understood - the reason we were there, why we celebrated the holiday in the first place, why even in the chaos, there was a purpose for our festivities.


For when the last letter was held high, the message read loud and clear: "CHRISTWAS LOVE"

What Can We Learn From Animals?

I received this in an email from my friend Martha Hokanson. She liked it and so do I. It has a good message for us all at Christmas time.

THE BUZZARD:
If you put a buzzard in a pen that is 6 feet by 8
feet and is entirely open at the top, the
bird, in spite of its ability to fly, will
be an absolute prisoner. The reason is
that a buzzard always begins a flight from the ground
with a Run of 10 to 12 feet. Without space
to run, as is its habit, It will not even
attempt to fly, but will remain a prisoner
for life in a small jail with no top.

THE BAT:
The ordinary bat that flies around at night, a
remarkable nimble creature in the air,
cannot take off from a level place.
If it is placed on the floor or flat
ground, all it can do is shuffle about
helplessly and, no doubt, painfully, until it
reaches some slight elevation from which it can
throw itself into the air. Then, at once, it
takes off like a flash.

THE BUMBLEBEE:
A bumblebee, if dropped into an open tumbler, will
be there until it dies, unless it is taken out.
It never sees the means of escape at the
top, but persists in trying to find some way out
through the sides near the bottom... It
will seek a way where none exists, until it
completely destroys itself..

PEOPLE:
In many ways, we are like the buzzard, the bat, and
the bumblebee. We struggle about with all our
problems and frustrations, never realizing that
all we have to do is look up! That's the
Answer, the escape route and the solution to any problem! Just look up.

Sorrow looks back, Worry looks around, But faith looks up!

Trust in God who loves us

Then my son Jeremy sent me a link to a talk by Elder Cook at the October conference that makes the same point:

http://lds.org/general-conference/2011/10/it-is-better-to-look-up?lang=eng

"Small Wooden People" One of my favorite stories

Small Wooden People

The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their village.
Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large eyes. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village.
And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star sticker and a box of gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people could be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.
The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots. The talented ones got stars, too. Some could lift big sticks high above their heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars.
Some Wemmicks had stars all over them! Every time they got a star it made them feel so good that they did something else and got another star. Others, though, could do little. They got dots.
Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around and give him dots. Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say something silly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots. After a while he had so many dots that he didn't want to go outside. He was afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many gray dots that some people would come up and give him one without reason.
"He deserves lots of dots," the wooden people would agree with one another. "He's not a good wooden person." After a while Punchinello believed them. "I'm not a good wemmick," he would say. The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who had a lot of dots. He felt better around them.
One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he'd ever met. She had no dots or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lulia. It wasn't that people didn't try to give her stickers; it's just that the stickers didn't stick. Some admired Lulia for having no dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn't stay either.
'That's the way I want to be,'thought Punchinello. 'I don't want anyone's marks.' So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it..
"It's easy," Lulia replied. "every day I go see Eli."
"Eli?"
"Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him."
"Why?"
"Why don't you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He's there." And with that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away.
"But he won't want to see me!" Punchinello cried out. Lulia didn't hear. So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots. "It's not right," he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli.
He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the top of the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowed hard. "I'm not staying here!" and he turned to leave.
Then he heard his name.
"Punchinello?" The voice was deep and strong.
Punchinello stopped.
"Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a look at you."
Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman. "You know my name?" the little Wemmick asked.
"Of course I do. I made you."
Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him on the bench.
"Hmm," the maker spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray circles.
"Looks like you've been given some bad marks."
"I didn't mean to, Eli. I really tried hard."
"Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me, child. I don't care what the other Wemmicks think."
"You don't?"
"No, and you shouldn't either. Who are they to give stars or dots?
They're Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn't matter, Punchinello. All that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special."
Punchinello laughed. "Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"
Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly. "Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."
Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this--much less his maker. He didn't know what to say.
"Every day I've been hoping you'd come," Eli explained.
"I came because I met someone who had no marks."
"I know. She told me about you."
"Why don't the stickers stay on her?"
"Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what they think. The stickers only stick if you let them."
"What?"
"The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my love, the less you care about the stickers."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"You will, but it will take time. You've got a lot of marks. For now, just come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care."
Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground.
"Remember," Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. "You are special because I made you. And I don't make mistakes."
Punchinello didn't stop, but in his heart he thought, "I think he really means it."
And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.

The source of the story entitled Small Wooden People is a book by a prolific Christian writer named Max Lucado . The actual title is You Are Special . Max Lucado has lots of other children's books as well as adult books. Explore his website at: http://maxlucado.com

"Thankful? Thankful for What?"

Wow, it’s November already and time for a new post. The geese are flying south now, except for an occasional geographically challenged group that is flying north. The leaves finally turned red/orange/yellow on the trees on our street, and are beginning to fall. We had our first hard frost this morning. This post is on Thanksgiving and I am including one of my favorite Thanksgiving stories called “Thorns”, and also a link to a talk by David Bednar from 2005. I hope you enjoy these and have a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday.

                                                             THORNS

Sandra felt as low as the heels of her Birkenstocks as she pushed against a November gust and the florist shop door. Her life had been easy, like spring breeze. Then in the fourth month of her second pregnancy, a minor automobile accident stole her ease. During this Thanksgiving week she would have delivered a son. She grieved over her loss. As if that weren't enough, her husband's company threatened a transfer. Then her sister, whose holiday visit she coveted, called saying she could not come. What's worse, Sandra's friend infuriated her by suggesting her grief was a God-given path to maturity that would allow her to empathize with others who suffer.

"She has no idea what I'm feeling," thought Sandra with a shudder.  Thanksgiving?   Thankful for what? She wondered. For a careless driver whose truck was hardly scratched when he rear-ended her?  For an airbag that saved her life, but took that of her child? "Good afternoon, can I help you? The shop clerk's approach startled her.

"I....I need an arrangement," stammered Sandra. “For Thanksgiving”. “Do you want beautiful but ordinary, or would you like to challenge the day with a customer favorite I call the Thanksgiving Special?"Asked the shop clerk. "I'm convinced that flowers tell stories," she continued. "Are you looking for something that conveys 'gratitude' this Thanksgiving?"

"Not exactly!" Sandra blurted out. "In the last five months, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong." Sandra regretted her outburst, and was surprised when the shop clerk said, "I have the perfect arrangement for you." Then the door's small bell rang, and the shop clerk said, "Hi, Barbara...let me get your order." She politely excused herself and walked toward a small workroom, then quickly reappeared, carrying an arrangement of greenery, bows, and long-stemmed thorny roses. Except the ends of the rose stems were neatly snipped, there were no flowers. "Want this in a box?" asked the clerk.

Sandra watched for the customer's response. Was this a joke? Who would want rose stems with no flowers! She waited for laughter, but neither woman laughed.

"Yes, please," Barbara replied with an appreciative smile. "You'd think after three years of getting the special, I wouldn't be so moved by its significance, but I can feel it right here, all over again." She said as she gently tapped her chest. "Uh," stammered Sandra, "that lady just left with, uh....she just left with no flowers!" "Right, said the clerk, "I cut off the flowers. That's the Special. I call it the Thanksgiving Thorns Bouquet."

"Oh, come on, you can't tell me someone is willing to pay for that!" exclaimed Sandra.
"Barbara came into the shop three years ago, feeling much like you feel today," explained the clerk. "She thought she had very little to be thankful for. She had lost her father to cancer, the family business was failing, her son was into drugs, and she was facing major surgery. That same year I had lost my husband," continued the clerk, "and for the first time in my life, had just spent the holidays alone. I had no children, no husband, no family nearby, and too great a debt to allow any travel."

"So what did you do?" asked Sandra. "I learned to be thankful for thorns," answered the
clerk quietly. "I've always thanked God for good things in life and never to ask Him why those good things happened to me, but when bad stuff hit, did I ever ask! It took time for me to learn that dark times are important. I have always enjoyed the 'flowers' of life, but it took thorns to show me the beauty of God's comfort. You know, the Bible says that God comforts us when we're afflicted, and from His consolation we learn to comfort others." Sandra sucked in her breath as she thought about the very thing her friend had tried to tell her. "I guess the truth is I don't want comfort. I've lost a baby and I'm angry with God."

Just then someone else walked in the shop. "Hey, Phil!" shouted the clerk to the balding, rotund man. "My wife sent me in to get our usual Thanksgiving arrangement...twelve thorny, long-stemmed stems!" laughed Phil as the clerk handed him tissue-wrapped
arrangement from the refrigerator. "Those are for your wife?" asked Sandra
incredulously. "Do you mind me asking why she wants something that looks like that?"

"No...I'm glad you asked," Phil replied. "Four years ago my wife and I nearly divorced. After forty years, we were in a real mess, but with the Lord's grace and guidance, we slogged through problem after problem. He rescued our marriage. Jenny here (the clerk) told me she kept a vase of rose stems to remind her of what she learned from "thorny" times, and that was good enough for me. I took home some of those stems. My wife and I decided to label each one for a specific "problem" and give> thanks for what that problem taught us."

As Phil paid the clerk, he said to Sandra, "I highly recommend the Special!" "I don't know if I can be thankful for the thorns in my life." Sandra said to the clerk. "It's all
too...fresh." "Well," the clerk replied carefully, "my experience has shown me that thorns make roses more precious. We treasure God's providential care more during trouble than at any other time. Remember, it was a crown of thorns that Jesus wore so we might know His love. Don't resent the thorns." Tears rolled down Sandra's cheeks. For the first
time since the accident, she loosened her grip on resentment. "I'll take those twelve long-stemmed thorns, please," she managed to choke out.

"I hoped you would," said the clerk gently. "I'll have them ready in a minute." "Thank you. What do I owe you?" "Nothing,  nothing, but a promise to allow God to heal your heart. The first year's arrangement is always on me." The clerk smiled and handed a card to Sandra. "I'll attach this card to your arrangement, but maybe you would like to read it first." It read: "My God, I have never thanked You for my thorns. I have thanked You a thousand times for my roses, but never once for my thorns. Teach me the glory of the cross I bear; teach me the value of my thorns. Show me that my tears have made my rainbow."

Praise Him for your roses; thank Him for your
thorns.

David Bednar: Tender Mercies- 4 minute video from You Tube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7XA5X5CxJc

Why do bad things happen to good people?

My first story to post is a true story that happened to a family in Texas. I first saw it as a documentary on BYU TV a year or so ago on their IRIS series. There is a family on my "list" of friends that will identify completely with this story.  I will not be making a lot of recommendations for buying things in my blog, but in this case I will include a link of where to buy the video (one can also view a trailer for the video). If I see where it is sowing again on BYU TV, I will post it on this site.

Here goes my first post:

A sculptor does not use a 'manicure set' to reduce the crude, unshapely marble to a thing of beauty. The saw, the hammer and the chisel are cruel tools, but without them the rough stone must remain forever formless and unbeautiful.

To do His supreme work of grace within you, God will take from your heart everything you love most. Everything you trust in will go from you. Piles of ashes will lie where your most precious treasures used to be!

— Aiden Wilson Tozer

I thought I knew what to expect when I sat down to watch the documentary The Heart of Texas (Media Tech). But this story goes beyond what I imagined. It's not just a story about someone who chose to forgive. It is a story of forgiveness, love and compassion demonstrated tangibly.

Grove "Grover" Norwood is a kind, hardworking, giving, loving man. He is a family man who loves his wife, Jill, and their children, Graham and Joy. Grover is highly respected and deeply loved.

This larger-than-life guy is always looking for ways to help others, even strangers. One day on his way home from church, he passes a church and sees a group of men standing outside. He senses that they have a problem, so he stops to see what he can do. Someone has stolen the church's air conditioner, ripping a hole in the wall. Grover pays for the repairs.

Grover's stop at the church leads to his meeting a member of the church, Ulice Parker. Ulice is also a well-respected, loving and kind man. He and Grover develop a friendship, and their families become family to each other. Grover always makes sure the Parkers have what they need, helping them however he can. He is especially concerned about the condition of their home, and knows he has to make it better, safer, livable.

But then tragedy strikes. The Norwoods' daughter is killed in a hit-and-run accident. Authorities soon discover that it was Ulice who had unknowingly killed Joy.

Grover's response of love and forgiveness is overwhelming. When he finds out Ulice has caused his daughter's death, his first response is compassion for his friend. He immediately calls the Parkers' home. But he doesn't stop there. He buys clothes for Ulice and his wife to wear to Joy's funeral and makes sure they are seated on the front row—a place traditionally reserved for family.

Grover's constant friendship sets an example to his family and friends. As a viewer, you will also be inspired by his demonstrations of love and kindness.

Grover is not the only one who inspired me. Hearing Jill, Joy's mother, talk about her journey through this terrible tragedy was especially moving. Even though she suffers incredible pain, she is a woman of great faith, and she trusts God to sustain her. Her husband may be the focus of this DVD, but she is also an amazing example of how she has also chosen to forgive.

I was moved to tears watching this movie. I was sad for the Norwoods. But I was also crying because their story inspired and challenged me. They demonstrate how to truly forgive and truly love—even when it shouldn't be possible.

Heart of Texas

By Mary Murphy 8/12/2009 11:24:53 AM

On a warm April evening in tiny Simonton, Texas, Jill Norwood is driving home from T-ball practice with her sone Graham, 8, and daughter Joy, 4. Joy needs to go to the bathroom, keeps saying she can’t wait, so Jill begins to pull the dark green, nine-passenger Ford van under the shade of a large tree. The children are chattering and teasing each other, as brothers and sisters do, Graham in his dark baseball cap, Joy in her pink stretchy pants and top.

It is dusk. There are no street lamps to illuminate the deserted, two-lane country road. Unseen, a weather-beaten pickup truck without lights is approaching.

Because of limited space on her side of the road, Jill has pulled the van onto the opposite shoulder. Joy suddenly pops open the passenger-side door and, confused about which side of the road they’re on, bolts right into the truck’s path. The truck slams into the little girl, hurling her body 80 feet through the air. The truck never slows down. It keeps going and disappears down the dusty road as Jill races to her daughter, lying in the road. Joy’s shoes have been knocked off. Her bladder has burst. Jill starts to cry.

“I am holding my tiny little child and I am wailing,” she remembers, dabbing tears as she recalls the tragedy. “Wailing like I had read about in the Old Testament. I am kneeling beside the van and I am holding her, and rocking back and forth, and I’m wailing. I felt her leave.”

Jill calls her husband, Grover. By the time he arrives, it is dark, and the night is lit up like a war zone with emergency vehicles everywhere. Joy is being airlifted to a hospital. Soon, all that is left are the police chalk marks where her body had lain. She died at the scene, a death with ironies, surprises, and lessons of loss and forgiveness impossible to imagine, and perhaps not of this world.

Simonton is two towns, really, symbolized by two churches that serve the area and the surrounding communities of Fulshear and Wallis on the flat Texas plains outside Houston. The churches stand about half a mile apart on a winding country road called FM-1489, flanked by woods and open pastures and farms growing mostly rice and corn. One church is what the locals call “country big,” 150 feet by 90 feet, with a towering white steeple that dominates the landscape. It can hold 350 people and does so every Sunday. Everything about the church is white, from the paint to the Agapanthus flowers to the congregation. The other is “country small,” with a tiny steeple but no bell. The bell was stolen years ago by drug addicts hoping to pawn it, and disappeared. Locals call this one the “welfare church.” If people sit close together, it can hold 50 to 60. For years, these two churches divided rich from poor—blacks from whites.

Until Joy’s father, Grover Norwood, brought them together.

Grover was the son of Wiley Norwood, a former military man who contracted tuberculosis during World War II and moved his wife and two sons, Grover and Steve, from city to city in the late ’40s and ’50s, searching for a cure. “I was in 12 different schools before ninth grade,” Grover recalls, “following Daddy from sanitarium to sanitarium.”

Grover Norwood, now 67 with salt-and-pepper gray hair, says all that moving around taught him three things: That you have to make friends fast, that you have to cope with sudden change, and that you “never give up.” He took those lessons with him to Vietnam in 1970, where he piloted nimble forward-air-controller spotter planes on more than 200 missions into the most dangerous battle zones, coordinating the rescue of American troops pinned down by the Viet Cong. During his 13 months of service, he was awarded two Silver Stars for valor.

“The piles of soldiers’ bodies in Ban Me Thout, the smell of the crematorium—a horrible, haunting smell that somehow let you know it was human before you even saw the bodies—those things still sometimes make me cry,” Norwood says.


Yet amid the devastation, he made time to pay attention to a couple of dozen Vietnamese girls and boys, roughly 4 to 10 years old, from a Montagnard village high up in the mountains near his base. The kids became the focus of a missionary zeal Norwood didn’t know he possessed.

On his days off, he’d bring them food and gifts, and solicited “hundreds of boxes of clothes for them from the States,” he says. He bonded with them and dreamed of helping them more with funds from back home. Then one day, the boys in the village were gone.

“They were recruited by the Viet Cong to become soldiers,” Norwood says. The children he had come to love were now enemies he would have to kill.

Norwood’s horror at this divide between good and bad, between the hunter and the hunted—all based on barriers created by man—never left him. It began to shape his life’s mission, his purpose.

He brought this sense of purpose to Texas after returning from Vietnam and earning a master’s degree in psychotherapy from the University of Southern California, after marrying an heiress to the Westinghouse fortune and divorcing, and after rediscovering the savior Jesus Christ he first found as a boy under the tutelage of his grandfather, C. R. Stegall, a Presbyterian pastor who had served 36 years as a missionary in the former Belgian Congo.

As Norwood was introduced to Jill on January 1, 1988, the words of Genesis 2:22 in the story of Adam and Eve came back to him: “And he brought her.”

“When I saw her walking towards me with her blond hair down to her waist, it came in my heart: ‘I’m bringing her to you,’ ” Norwood marvels. Always a man with flair, on one of their first dates he took her for a picnic in the Tomahawk plane he flew for a hobby.

They married, and moved to Simonton (population 718), where they lived the kind of life that made them wholesome models for the law-abiding community: Jill played the piano at the Simonton Community Church; Grover led the choir and taught Sunday school every week without fail. Soon they had two beautiful kids: a boy named Graham and, four. years later, a girl named Joy.

“I had everything,” Norwood reflects. “A beautiful house, a wonderful wife, two children, a great job as a brokerage manager at Prudential Insurance Company of America.”

Everything, that is, until Joy ran into the road just after sunset on April 10, 2000, and the truck struck her dead and didn’t stop.

“Grover has always been someone people looked up to spiritually,” says Steve Littlefield, pastor of Simonton Community Church. “What happened to him, terrible as it was, elevated that.”

Norwood says that he had no guiding principle as a young man. “I was a happy-go-lucky fighter pilot,” he says, “a people pleaser, self-indulgent as long as it was legal, and had no hunger for things of the spirit. After Vietnam, I could walk into any bar, drink any man under the table, and walk out of there with his lady. In fact, my feet took me in the opposite direction of the church.”

But in 1977, six years after his time in Vietnam, he found himself at spiritual rock bottom, sitting in a rocking chair at Miss Lutie Duncan’s boardinghouse in Midway, Kentucky, in an unfurnished room with no working faucets and sweet-pea vines growing out of the bathtub. He found himself reading the Bible, when he was literally struck with a spiritual awakening.

“I was somebody else and then suddenly I had a hunger for Jesus that has never left me,” he says. “I had nothing to do with it. To this day, I do not try to think for God. He comes and gets people and gives them an assignment. What he assigned to me was ‘a servant’s heart.’ ”

Perhaps nothing Grover did reflected his servant’s heart more than his relationship with Ulice Parker, a sweet man with Coke-bottle-thick eyeglasses and a weathered face that radiated the light, not the storms, of his life, especially when he smiled with his mixture of gold and white teeth.

Parker was a deacon at St. Matthews, the little church without a bell where Simonton’s African Americans worshipped. He mowed the church grass, took up the Sunday collection, and picked up church mail every day at the post office and delivered it to the pastor.

Parker had a halting speech impediment that made it difficult for those who did not know him to understand what he was saying. But being slow of speech did not make him slow of heart, nor could anybody outwork him in his community garden, or the backyard pit where he turned out the best roasted wild hog in town. Most of all, he was known for his kindness and his simple, gentle wisdom.

Larry Smith, a wealthy businessman, remembers getting stuck with his tractor-mower in black clay mud up to the vehicle’s lower rim. Parker, who happened to be passing by, stopped and then waded knee-deep into the mud.

“He put one hand on the seat of the tractor and one hand on my back,” says Smith. “He pushed me out. Then he turned around and walked away and didn’t say a word.”

Larry Nemec, a captain with the local sheriff’s office, describes Ulice Parker as “a black Forrest Gump: functional, and in no way retarded.”

Parker had grown up on the east side of the Brazos River, deep in the woods, about five miles from Simonton, and had never traveled outside four square miles. He attended church every Sunday with his mother, who would dress him up, put him on a buckboard, hitch up a mule, and ride three miles to church. He was already pulling cotton and working in the Texas rice fields by the time he was six.

“He told me he picked cotton like in the slave days, with a sack on his back,” says Norwood. “He would drag it along, fill it up, take it to the truck, and at the end of the day he would get paid three dollars.”

Ulice Parker was seven years old when he asked Jesus into his heart. His mother, deciding he was becoming a bit of a discipline problem, had driven him to church and told him she’d wait outside, no matter how long it took, and to not come out of the house of worship until “he got somethin’ in him.”

When he came out, he told his mother he was reborn. “Mama,” he told her in his joyously simple way, “I got somethin’ in me.”

Norwood met Parker late in 1992. Driving his family home from church at Simonton Community, Norwood noticed a handful of men hovering over some elderly people in the grass parking lot outside St. Matthews. They had been trying to have church inside the little cracker-box sanctuary, but some of the older worshippers had been stricken by heatstroke in the sweltering 100-degree heat.

Norwood stopped his gray Toyota Cressida and walked over to the group. They told him the church’s air conditioner had been stolen, and pointed to a big hole in one of the walls. Later that day Norwood drove to Home Depot, bought a new air conditioner for $350, along with padlocks and heavy chains to make sure it would not end up stolen, too. When he returned to install it and help mend the wall, he met the deacon, Ulice Parker.     

“He had a beautiful smile, and a beautiful face. He also had a beautiful little boy named Christopher,” says Norwood. “I was really excited because I had been praying, ‘Lord, let me meet someone. Let me meet someone outside of my circle that could use a helping hand.’ I felt that God was answering my prayers.”

The cotton fields had been mechanized, and after 40 years of picking for a living, Parker was now struggling to find a way to provide for his wife, Carrie, and their nine children. He made a tiny salary as a gardener and by growing vegetables in his garden and pushing them around in a handcart to sell to shut-ins in the community. The Parkers lived in a run-down firetrap of a shack, with raw wiring showing in the walls, no heat or hot water, and a leaky, crumbling roof.

Within weeks of meeting him, Norwood was helping with chores at Parker’s home, and working with him on St. Matthews’ church projects—the only white man in the community doing anything like that. He bought the church an organ, and sometimes worshipped with Parker at Sunday services.

“It was unusual for a black man and a white man to have that kind of bond,” says the Rev. Nathaniel Hall, pastor of St. Matthews. “In my 25 years of pastoring, he was the first white person who ever stopped by. We thought maybe he was runnin’ for mayor or something when he first brought that air conditioner out to us.”

Norwood pretty much adopted Parker and his family. When their roof finally fell in, he worked alongside Parker to repair it; when their blankets became intolerably threadbare, he bought them new ones; when their stove leaked dangerously, he got them a new one. They were not handouts in Norwood’s mind, because Parker put in the labor and gave generously to his neighbors.

Norwood also integrated his family with theirs. His son Graham, just a year old at the time, played with Parker’s son Christopher, almost 4, and when Joy was born, she played with Parker’s new granddaughter. The two families became as one. When Norwood and Parker went fishing, Graham would ride in a paint bucket inside the boat at Parker’s feet, while Norwood taught Christopher how to ride a Jet Ski.

After Joy was killed by the truck, it was his family’s bond with the Parkers that gave Grover Norwood a renewed sense of mission.

Norwood recalls every detail of the police investigation of Joy’s death.

There were no leads. There were no witnesses besides young Graham, who thought the truck was white, and Jill, who was no witness at all, because she was cradling her  dying daughter in her arms. There was no highway surveillance camera evidence. There was almost nothing except for a small piece of a plastic front grille left in the road that could have been from a previous collision.

“It was a hit and run,” says Pastor Littlefield. “People were very concerned about a person who would commit such a crime. They wanted to see man’s justice as well as God’s justice done.”

Three days after the tragedy, on April 13, Deputy Sergeant David Fischer spotted a white and maroon Ford Ranger pickup truck with a strange-looking dent parked in front of the Quick Shop market in the town he served as police chief—Wallis, four miles from Simonton. Examining the shape of the dent, Fischer thought it could have been caused by impact with an animal, or perhaps a little girl. He called the wrecker in Wallis and had the truck impounded at police headquarters. He then compared the empty space on the front grille to the small part found at the crime scene. It was a perfect fit.

The police had the death weapon—and the driver.


Standing in his kitchen, in a house filled with grieving friends and relatives, Norwood got a call from Fischer. The police chief told Norwood that he knew who the killer was. He said Norwood knew him, too.

Norwood remembers repeating out loud what the officer said to him: “It was Ulice Parker.”

Norwood recalls nothing from the next few moments except the silence. Jill Norwood, sitting in the bedroom with friends, was too stunned to speak. There was a dead hush in every room of the house.

Finally, Norwood turned to his brother, Steve, who had flown in from North Carolina. “We’ve got to get over there,” Norwood said. “Ulice must be so scared.”

“There was no blame, no anger,” Steve Norwood says. “He just said we had to put our arms around him.”

Just as they were about to head out the door, the phone rang. It was Parker’s wife, Carrie, hysterical. “They tell me,” she sobbed, “that my Ulice killed your baby Joy.”

An hour after Norwood learned who killed his child, he was knocking on Parker’s front door. The moment the two men met, they fell into each other’s arms. Norwood says, “I felt sorry for both of us. I looked at him, and it was like looking at myself. He was broken, and I was broken. I hugged him as we both cried.”

Inside, they formed a prayer circle with Ulice and Carrie Parker and the Parkers’ granddaughter, the girl exactly the same age as Joy. They prayed that somehow God would be able to bring some sense of the tragedy.  And Grover prayed for the ability to forgive his friend.

“In all my days of policing I have never seen anything like it,” says Captain Nemec.

“When I found out it was my deacon who hit the little girl it blew my mind,” Pastor Hall says. “I called Deac, and he was crying, and he told me, ‘Pastor, I did not see her.’ He said, ‘Pastor, as I was driving I felt a bump—hit something in the road or something like that.’ ”

In rural Texas, that’s not unusual, Nemec says. “I mean there’s road kill everywhere around here—armadillos, wild hogs, varmints, and stray dogs. If I am going somewhere and I hit an armadillo, I’m not stopping. I just say, ‘Okay, splat! Another armadillo.’ And besides, Ulice’s eyesight was horrible. He was probably legally blind and probably should never have been driving to begin with.”

Not only did Grover Norwood pray with the Parkers on the day he learned that Ulice Parker was driving the truck that killed his daughter, he also invited him to her funeral. Then he arranged for Carrie Parker to go to Foley’s, the local department store, to pick out new clothes for the family to wear to the ceremony.

At 9:30 a few days later, on a perfect morning, still and cool, with blue skies, more than 200 cars, led by six motorcycle cops, poured into the little Fulshear Cemetery to lay Joy Norwood to rest under a budding oak tree.

At the graveside ceremony, Norwood walked onto the scene hand-in-hand with Ulice Parker, a sight that Norwood’s friend Carol Smith says no one who was there that day will ever forget. Norwood sat Ulice and Carrie Parker in the front row next to himself and Jill and Graham. During the service he put a comforting arm around Jill and his other around Parker.  When Grover got up to say a few words, he let everybody at the service know that he had forgiven Ulice, and wanted them to forgive him, too.

Few in town could imagine Norwood’s compassion. Pastor Clay Spears, of the predominantly black Greater New Faith Church of Wallis, recalls hiding close enough to the grave-site to protect Ulice Parker, just in case any of the whites decided they might need to take the law into their own hands.

“I couldn’t figure out any reason why a white man would invite this black man who killed his child to the funeral, unless it was for revenge,” says Pastor Spears, who is in his late 60s. “I grew up with that kind of white violence.”

When he became convinced that no violence would develop, Pastor Spears stepped out from behind a tree and announced to the crowd that he had prayed about forgiveness, had heard about forgiveness, but had never seen it before. “It was a miracle,” he says. “The love moved me. And I thought to myself, Only God. Only God could do that.”

Grover Norwood and his family struggled with the loss of their baby girl. For a while, his son Graham, now 17, tried to pretend Joy had never existed, a defense mechanism against blaming her dash into the road on the innocent teasing they were engaged in when she bolted. And Grover’s wife, Jill, was conflicted about the amount of time her husband began spending to help the Parkers. Jill participated in a one-hour film documentary about Grover’s act of forgiveness, called The Heart of Texas, which is winning awards at film festivals and bringing audiences to tears. But she was so nervous about talking about the tragedy that “I went into six weeks of depression and pneumonia leading up to appearing in the film,” she says.

“The accident was not malicious,” Jill Norwood said recently. “Ulice would never have hurt anyone on purpose. It should never have happened, but I never wished him harm or ill will.”

On the other hand, she said, “I am not going to camp out at his house. I’m going to try to heal, and I am going to struggle with my ministry. What was my ministry? Graham was my ministry. And he tells me now, ‘Mom, if it weren’t for you, I would have gone off the deep end.’ ”

She went on, “Grover and I healed differently. I think that when you lose a child, you need to stay home, hang out, and be quiet. That is how Graham and I healed—together. I don’t go to grief seminars, because they make me sad. The way Grover handled it is by consuming himself with Joy. Big picture on the fireplace. Her little bicycle, baseball bat, coat, every pair of shoes she ever wore were in his office. His office became a shrine. He handled it that way.” And by working out his “servant’s heart.”

As Jill spoke of the family’s struggle to heal, sorrow twisted her beautiful face. “Do I think this is pretty devastating on a marriage?” she said. “Yeah, I think it is.”

A few days later, Norwood said that he and his wife have talked of separating, of taking time apart to try to deal with unresolved grief. However, he said, he knows “most marriages by this time would have dissolved. While we are at a crucible, we are still together, and I still love my wife. When a child dies, you are caught in a crossfire of guilt and blame and lack of forgiveness of self and others. I just ask, ‘When will it be over, Lord? When will it finally be over?’ ”

Norwood’s acts of forgiveness continued after the funeral. Within a month, a grand jury was empowered to investigate the hit and run. On the second day of the hearing, he drove to the county seat to testify in the investigation. He took the elevator to the 11th floor and waited in the narrow hall outside the jury room until called inside.

“I wanted them to know that I held no grudge against Ulice. That I knew it was an accident, and that he was my friend,” says Norwood. He spent the next hour mentally rehearsing his testimony. But what he was not prepared for, as he stepped into the tiny room, crammed with a jury box and judge’s bench, were the pictures of his dead child taken at the crime scene.

“It was totally shattering,” he says. “I tried my best to mask it. I did not cry, but I was so on the edge of not even being able to speak. When they saw my face, I saw horror and embarrassment in their eyes as they looked to the table and realized what I had just seen. Someone began to turn over the pictures, but it was like trying to avoid an open wound.”

Still, despite a pain that few will ever know, despite a desire to flee in grief, Norwood told the grand jury: “Ulice is my friend. I have known him for years. Every time he looks at me, or sees a child playing, he will be forced to think of Joy. He’s already punishing himself. We don’t need to punish him anymore. He tells me it was an accident and I believe him and forgive him. And I would like for you to do the same.”

They asked if Ulice had a driver’s license.

No, he did not, Norwood told them, acknowledging that Parker was wrong to drive that night, and that he had asked him never to drive again.



Norwood had also done something he did not share with the grand jury: He paid Parker $400 for the old pickup truck and then had it taken to Charles Spates’s junkyard near the Wallis railroad tracks, where he got Spates’ word that the truck would never be sold. Spates promised to leave it forever in the weeds, where it is today, in case Grover or Graham or Jill ever needed to see it again as part of their healing.

After testifying before the grand jury, “when I was done I walked across the street to a little café, drank a cup of coffee, got myself together, and drove home,” Norwood says.

How could Grover Norwood possibly forgive Ulice Parker for killing his child while driving nearly blind without a license, and then leaving the scene of the crime? To this day, many of his friends still can’t imagine themselves being able to do that. And don’t understand how he has.

“It was not as hard as it would have been if he was drunk or if he was someone who had just beaten his wife,” Norwood says. “But even then I would have been called on to forgive. The bottom line is that every Christian is called to offer forgiveness. The Bible tells us to forgive as God has forgiven us. And the prayer I have to say every day is this: ‘O God, I do want your forgiveness. I understand that as I do this, I am a new person in your eyes. As Jesus said in John 5:24: I have crossed over from eternal death to eternal life. Thank you!’ ”

The grand jury elected not to prefer charges against Ulice Parker. “There was no way to prove Parker intentionally left the scene of the accident or that he should have known that somebody was killed or injured,” says Travis J. Koehn, the district attorney who presented the case. Koehn quickly adds that he had never seen anything like Norwood’s amazing act of mercy: “It would be more usual for someone to come to my doorway and say, ‘He killed my little girl; I want him in prison.’ ”

And Norwood’s amazing grace continued. His kindness toward the Parker family rippled through both Simonton churches, helping the town bridge a racial divide stretching back a couple of centuries. Like Pastor Spears at the funeral, Parker himself feared reprisals. “He grew up with prejudice,” says Pastor Hall.

Rather than revenge, Grover Norwood convinced his fellow churchgoers at Simonton Community to work with the folks at St. Matthews to design and build a new home for Ulice Parker. The construction crew began with Norwood and Larry Smith and two friends. They called themselves “the four hammers,” and were soon joined by more than 100 volunteers from both churches. It was sort of a “field of dreams” experience, according to Norwood. He and the four hammers started working and the people just started coming. “Some of them showed up at first to see this guy whose daughter died who was going to build a house for the guy that did it,” says Norwood. No matter what motivated them, he personally gave each one a tour of Parker’s dilapidated house, and then asked the question he knew was on their minds: “Why are we doing this?”

His answer: “Because it is a death trap.” And because this man Parker was their brother.

“When Grover gets something in his crosshairs,” says Jill Norwood, “it is going to get done.”

A year after Joy’s death, Parker’s new house was finished. Women from both churches filled it with new furniture, bedding, and appliances. Then everybody celebrated together, black and white, by forming a circle around the new house and praying.

“It was unreal,” says Pastor Hall. “I’ve never seen nothing like that. Someone kills my child, you think I’d build a home for him? That’s a lot of God in him, a lot of love. When I heard that Brother Norwood was encouraging everybody to build a new home, I could not believe it. I said, ‘Huh!’ That’s what I said to myself.”

Ulice Parker has been dead for three years now—felled by a heart attack while tending his garden at age 74—and his wife Carrie, at 62, passed too. He and Norwood remained friends to the end, and a few of Parker’s kids still live in the house that the two churches built.

For many people, the most memorable moment happened the morning of the grand jury proceeding. Several members of all-white Simonton Community Church arrived at all-black St. Matthews Church, where they asked Pastors Hall and Spears if they could join in prayer for Grover Norwood and Ulice Parker, for the jury members, and for God’s will to be done, whatever that was.

Sometime later a wind whipped through the Texas trees and blew open the front door of the church, quieting the prayerful throng. A moment later, a cell phone rang and someone from the courthouse was on the other end, reporting that the grand jury had decided not to prosecute Ulice. A spontaneous celebration erupted inside the house of worship. Except for Pastor Spears, who was sitting soberly.



He told them he believed they had witnessed a “burning-bush-like” moment. He said because of one man’s love and forgiveness of another man, an invisible God had been made visible on this day deep in the heart of Texas.

Buy this inspirational video here (see trailer):

http://www.heartoftexasthemovie.com/?gclid=CMC93KWX8KsCFQYZQgodg3fi_Q

I decided to create a blog to replace a lot of emails etc. In this age of texts, tweets, emails and such the internet is a wonderful way to keep in contact with friends. I was told by a police officer about 10 years ago Othat 70% of internet usage was for pornography. How sad! on the other hand, the internet offers endless possibilities for good, and that is what I intend to do- add one small voice for good to counter to the sea of negative stuff available on the internet.

My plan is to share this blog with friends that have experienced setbacks in their lives-

·       received a bad diagnosis

·       suffer chronic pain

·       lost a parent

·       lost a child

·       have a child with a serious illness

·       have financial challenges

·       have challenges with children, parents, spouses, or other family members

·       suffer with any number of things

 That might make us wonder: “did I really sign up for all this stuff"?
You may see yourself on this list in more than one area.

I have had my share of challenges over the past three years, and I won't bore anyone with the details. I have come to realize that a lot of good have come from my suffering. When these things happen to someone we face the choice of how we will react. Two of my favorite quotes come to mind:

“Inside of me are two ravenous animals. One is an animal of fear and doubt. The other is an animal of love and faith. Which one will live? The answer is, the one I feed.”
Anonymous- From p. 93 John Lund, The Art of Giving and Receiving Criticism

And this one:

Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space lies our freedom and power to choose our response. In those choices lie our growth and our happiness.
Victor Frankl        

Victor Frankl is a great example of this principle.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Man's_Search_for_Meaning

That's right- we have the choice to internalize our pains and problems, dwell on them, and become a jaded and bitter soul, or we can look for the silver lining in our personal clouds and lift ourselves.

As I said previously, I have seen some positives in my recent challenges- best described by the following two quotes:


“A sculptor does not use a 'manicure set' to reduce the crude, unshapely marble to a thing of beauty. The saw, the hammer and the chisel are cruel tools, but without them the rough stone must remain forever formless and unbeautiful.

To do His supreme work of grace within you, God will take from your heart everything you love most. Everything you trust in will go from you. Piles of ashes will lie where your most precious treasures used to be!”

— Aiden Wilson Tozer in the opening monologue of The Heart of Texas

And

"Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself."
— C.S. Lewis (Mere Christianity)


Some of you will recognize these quotes, as I have sent them to many of my friends who have recently suffered challenges in their lives.

My idea for this blog is to share some positive, good, uplifting stories or quotes that I have collected over the years.

During the 18 months, my daughter Jennifer was on a church mission in Texas, I wanted to be able to write to her each week. I had a problem in my left arm/wrist that caused me to have to keyboard with only my right hand, so I used "cut and paste" to send her copies of these stories every week.


I have taken the name for my blog from a variation of the BYU television slogan : "See for the Good in the World", and changing it slightly.

I will be sending out an email to my friends with a link to the blog. I would invite anyone to share their stories or quotes with me so I can include them in the blog. Since everyone is busy, I will try to add a story once a month or so.