Still in shock, I stumbled about the house trying to decide what to put into the suitcases. Earlier that evening, I’d received a call from my hometown in Missouri telling me that my brother, his wife, her sister, and both the sister’s children had been killed in a car crash. “Come as soon as you can,” begged my mother. That’s what I wanted to do—to leave at once, to hurry to my parents. But my husband, Larry, and I were in the midst of packing all our belongings to move from Ohio to New Mexico. Our house was in total confusion. Some of the clothes that Larry and I and our two young children, Eric and Meghan, would need were already taped up in cartons. Which ones? Stunned by grief, I couldn’t remember. Other clothes lay unwashed in a pile on the laundry-room floor. Supper dishes still sat on the kitchen ­table. Toys were strewn everywhere. While Larry made plane reservations for the following morning, I wandered about the house, aimlessly picking things up and putting them down. I couldn’t focus. Again and again, the words I’d heard on the phone echoed through my head: “Bill is gone—Marilyn too. June—and both the children …” The love in the act released my tears at last, healing rain to wash the fog from my mind. It was as though the message had muffled my brain with cotton. Whenever Larry spoke, he sounded far away. As I moved through the house, I ran into doors and tripped over chairs. Larry made arrangements for us to leave by seven o’clock the next morning. Then he phoned a few friends to tell them what had happened. Occasionally, someone asked to speak to me. “If there’s anything I can do, let me know,” that person would offer kindly. “Thank you very much,” I’d reply. But I didn’t know what to ask for. I couldn’t concentrate. I sat in a chair, staring into space, while Larry called Donna King, the woman with whom I taught a nursery class at church each Sunday. Donna and I were casual friends, but we didn’t see each other often. She and Emerson, her thin, quiet husband, were kept busy during the week by their own “nursery”—six children ranging in age from two to fifteen. I was glad Larry had thought to warn her that she’d have the nursery class alone the coming Sunday. While I sat there, Meghan darted by, clutching a ball. Eric chased after her. They should be in bed, I thought. I followed them into the living room. My legs dragged. My hands felt gloved with lead. I sank down on the couch in a stupor. When the doorbell rang, I rose slowly and crept across the room. I opened the door to see Emerson King standing on the porch. “I’ve come to clean your shoes,” he said. Confused, I asked him to repeat. “Donna had to stay with the baby,” he said, “but we want to help you. I remember when my father died, it took me hours to get the children’s shoes cleaned and shined for the funeral. So that’s what I’ve come to do for you. Give me your shoes—not just your good shoes, but all your shoes.” I hadn’t even thought about shoes until he mentioned them. Now I remembered that Eric had left the sidewalk to wade through the mud in his good shoes after church the previous Sunday. Not to be outdone by her brother, Meghan had kicked rocks, scuffing the toes of her shoes. When we’d returned, I’d tossed them into the laundry room to clean later. While Emerson spread news­papers on the kitchen floor, I gathered ­Larry’s dress and everyday shoes, my heels, my flats, the children’s dirty dress shoes, and their sneakers with the food spots. Emerson found a pan and filled it with soapy water. He got an old knife out of a drawer and retrieved a sponge from under the sink. Larry had to rummage through several cartons, but at last he located the shoe polish. Emerson settled himself on the floor and got to work. Watching him concentrate intently on one task helped me pull my own thoughts into order. Laundry first, I told myself. As the washer chugged, Larry and I bathed the children and put them to bed. While we cleared the supper dishes, Emerson continued to work, saying nothing. I thought of Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. Our Lord had knelt, serving his friends, even as this man now knelt, serving us. The love in the act released my tears at last, healing rain to wash the fog from my mind. I could move. I could think. I could get on with the business of living. Here is how science can keep the memories of your loved ones around forever. One by one, the jobs fell into place. I went into the laundry room to put a load of wash into the dryer, returning to the kitchen to find that Emerson had left. In a line against one wall stood all our shoes, gleaming, spotless. Later, when I started to pack, I saw that Emerson had even scrubbed the soles. I could put the shoes directly into the suitcases. We got to bed late and rose very early, but by the time we left for the airport, all the jobs had been done. Ahead lay grim, sad days, but the comfort of Christ’s presence, symbolized by the image of a quiet man kneeling on my kitchen floor with a pan of water, would sustain me. Now whenever I hear of an acquaintance who has lost a loved one, I no longer call with the vague offer, “If there’s anything I can do …” Instead I try to think of one specific task that suits that person’s need—such as washing the family car, taking the dog to the boarding kennel, or house-sitting during the funeral. And if the person says to me, “How did you know I needed that done?” I reply, “It’s because a man once cleaned my shoes.” This article originally appeared in the December 1983 issue of Reader’s Digest.

Psalm 20 Trust in the Name of the Lord Our God To the choirmaster. A Psalm of David. 20:1 May the Lord answer you in the day of trouble! May the name of the God of Jacob protect you! 2 May he send you help from the sanctuary and give you support from Zion! 3 May he remember all your offerings and regard with favor your burnt sacrifices! Selah 4 May he grant you your heart's desire and fulfill all your plans! 5 May we shout for joy over your salvation, and in the name of our God set up our banners! May the Lord fulfill all your petitions!

The power of forgiveness.... Once upon a time two brothers who lived on adjoining farms fell into conflict. It was the first serious rift in 40 years of farming side by side, sharing machinery, and trading labor and goods as needed without a hitch. Then the long collaboration fell apart. It began with a small misunderstanding and it grew into a major difference, and finally it exploded into an exchange of bitter words followed by weeks of silence. One morning there was a knock on John's door. He opened it to find a man with a carpenter's toolbox. "I'm looking for a few days work" he said. "Perhaps you would have a few small jobs here and there. Could I help you?" "Yes," said the older brother. "I do have a job for you. Look across the creek at that farm. That's my neighbor, in fact, it's my younger brother. Last week there was a meadow between us and he took his bulldozer to the river levee and now there is a creek between us. Well, he may have done this to spite me, but I'll go him one better. See that pile of lumber curing by the barn? I want you to build me a fence -- an 8-foot fence -- so I won't need to see his place anymore. Cool him down, anyhow." The carpenter said, "I think I understand the situation. Show me the nails and the post-hole digger and I'll be able to do a job that pleases you." The older brother had to go to town for supplies, so he helped the carpenter get the materials ready and then he was off for the day. The carpenter worked hard all that day measuring, sawing, nailing. About sunset when the farmer returned, the carpenter had just finished his job. The farmer's eyes opened wide, his jaw dropped. There was no fence there at all. It was a bridge -- a bridge stretching from one side of the creek to the other! A fine piece of work handrails and all -- and the neighbor, his younger brother, was coming across, his hand outstretched. "You are quite a fellow to build this bridge after all I've said and done." The two brothers stood at each end of the bridge, and then they met in the middle, taking each other's hand. They turned to see the carpenter hoist his toolbox on his shoulder. "No, wait! Stay a few days. I've a lot of other projects for you," said the older brother. "I'd love to stay on," the carpenter said, "but, I have many more bridges to build." Copied from a Whatsapp Group.

I do not believe in the bigness of my problems but rather about the power and the greatness of God. God is all powerful, there is nothing God can fail me if only I believe and trust in Him. Always have FAITH in God..

Dear Lord, It is my desire to please You. May my life bring You honor and glory. Help me to fulfill Your call on my life. Thank you for hearing and answering my prayer in Jesus Name.

THE BLOOD OF JESUS.... There are times as a human being, I can't speak for myself as I don't have an advocate or parents anymore who will speak for me. But I can assure that the Blood of Jesus will speak on my behalf. If Abel's blood could speak for him, how much more Jesus' Blood for me! Amen!!

"You never know when a moment and a few SINCERE words can have an impact on a life" #SpeakLove#

Today in the UK, a news story broke about a professional footballer being detained under the Mental Health Act. Amongst the outpourings of love and sympathy towards the footballer were the unfortunately all to predictable lines from people who have a gross and fundamental misunderstanding of mental health. “He’s a millionaire, what’s he got to be sad about?!” “Have you seen his Mrs? Can’t believe he’s depressed!” “Ungrateful little shit. A mansion, 6 cars and millions in the bank. F**king footballers.” In 2017, it’s a shame (and almost unbelievable) that opinions like these are still commonplace. Let’s be clear. The amount of money people earn, number of cars they own, size of their house, their profession or the aesthetics of their spouse have absolutely no impact whatsoever on a person’s ability to evade a mental illness. Having a million pounds in the bank won’t stop you from breaking your leg and it won’t stop you suffering from depression. And actually, if I were to pick a candidate potentially more susceptible to mental illness then maybe, just maybe, I would pick the guy who is in the public eye. The guy who can’t avoid the spotlight. The guy who has been brought up in a macho environment where sharing feelings is discouraged. Where getting angry is acceptable but showing sadness is forbidden. Where revealing emotions is completely unheard of. Where talking about what you’re going through in any kind of ‘beneath the surface’ level would only succeed in turning you into a figure of fun. Everyone can be a victim of the grasp of mental illness just as they can physical and I’m going to tell you something. I am one of them. Over the past several months, through various channels and life events, I came to the realisation that I needed to talk to someone. That I would benefit from talking to someone about myself. My feelings. My emotions. My past. And my present. I mentioned something to somebody who happened to be in the mental health profession and that person took me to one side and said, look, I would recommend you speak to a professional therapist about this. I was dumbfounded. At first. You see, I don’t like to think of myself as vulnerable, needy or dependent on anyone else. I like to think of myself as bulletproof. Strong minded and strong willed. And it’s so important to me that others see me that way as well. Believe me, I can wear that mask well. I can fool people into thinking that mask is the real me. So the idea of talking to a mental health professional was quite scary and made me kind of nervous. However, I am not someone who has ever needed convincing of the benefits that can be gained from talking to a counsellor or therapist or whoever. I believe in it, I know it can work and I understand it, and the process behind it, actually very well. I had just never considered myself as a candidate for it. I had never considered that I could be someone who could benefit from it. It could be the ‘male, manly, pull your socks up, get on with it, don’t be a wimp’ factor that has played a part in this. But also, the thing I mentioned that sparked the recommendation to talk to a therapist is not something I had ever talked about before – so no one has ever had the opportunity to suggest talking it over with a professional. When I think about it now, I’m more than sure that had I dealt with certain things years ago, I would have felt the benefits. Instead, my solution was to ignore certain events, virtually not even acknowledge their existence. Because by doing that I would not have to acknowledge the accompanying emotions that they evoked and the subsequent pain. There’s a school of thought everyone, yes everyone, would benefit from seeing someone like a counsellor from time to time. Just in the same way as you take your car for an MOT and a service once a year. Mental health is easy to ignore or be unaware of. Until something breaks and then the cost of the damage can be very high. So there you have it. Whatever you think of someone, and however someone may seem to you on the outside, you don’t know what is going on for them on the inside and what things are like in their world. Peace and Love. *COPIED

28 Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom. 29 He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak. 30 Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall; 31 but those who hope in the LORDwill renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.

I BELIEVE IN BEING STRONG WHEN EVERYTHING SEEMS TO BE GOING WRONG . - Audrey Hepburn