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WILL YOU WEAR BLUE???
Thoughts and Prayers on Iran
While following what is going on in Iran viahttp://iran.twazzup.com/"> http://iran.twazzup.com/ I am reminded of what Thomas Jefferson once wrote.
When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness; that to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed; that whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.-Thomas Jefferson
While we in America argue over health care and budget deficits we need to say a prayer and more importantly stand united and send a clear message to those in power and to those who are fighting for their freedom that we support there cause for freedom.
If we do / say nothing as our media, and government have done this weekend we will be failing in our duty as Americans to help strengthen and promote freedom.
Christmas Spirit
The story below is a real tear jerker. I have no idea who wrote it or even if it is a true story or not, but it reflects the true spirit of Christmas. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in the commercial version, we just completely forget why we celebrate this day. It first struck and amazed me when my Jewish Navy buddies wished me a merry Christmas. They quickly explained that it was impossible to have an American family and not celebrate Christmas even though they did not recognize Jesus as the Christ. Now I see articles about Muslims and Buddhists celebrating Christmas as well, and not just in America. I have to wonder in awe at the sheer enormity and impact of the commercial version that is so widely accepted while the true reason and spirit are completely lost on so many. Anyway, here's the story (it's an old one, but an excellent one):
It's just a small white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas --oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it -- the overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma -- the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties, and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.
The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them
together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.
As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.
Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, 'I wish just one of them could have won,' he said. 'They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.' Mike loved kids -- all kids -- and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball, and lacrosse.
That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.
On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year, and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition -- one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope.
Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season. And may we all remember the true Christmas spirit is loving others and giving from the heart.
It's just a small white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas --oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it -- the overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma -- the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties, and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike.
The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended. Shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them
together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.
As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford.
Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, 'I wish just one of them could have won,' he said. 'They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them.' Mike loved kids -- all kids -- and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball, and lacrosse.
That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.
On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year, and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition -- one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on.
The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning, and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.
As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope.
Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us. May we all remember Christ, who is the reason for the season. And may we all remember the true Christmas spirit is loving others and giving from the heart.
Happy Thanksgiving
A game warden was driving down the road when he came upon a young boy carrying a wild turkey under his arm.
He stopped and asked the boy, 'Where did you get that turkey?'
The boy replied, 'What turkey?'
The game warden said, 'That turkey you're carrying under your arm.'
The boy looks down and said, 'Well, lookee here, a turkey done roosted under my arm!'
The game warden said, 'Now look, you know turkey season is closed, so whatever you do to that turkey, I'm going to do to you.
If you break his leg, I'm gonna break your leg. If you break his wing, I'll break your arm. Whatever you do to him, I'll do to you. So, what are you gonna do with him?'
The little boy said, 'I guess I'll just kiss his ass and let him go!'
May your stuffing be tasty
May your turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have never a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!
Our Military
If you read this, you WILL forward it on. You just won't be able to stop yourself.
The average age of the military man is 19 years. He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country. He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's, but he has never collected unemployment either.
He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away. He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and a 155mm howitzer.
He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.
He can march until he is told to stop, or stop until he is told to march.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient.
He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.
He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.
If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands.
He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humor in it all.
He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away ' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking.
In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great- grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.
He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.
Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.
And now we even have women over there in danger, doing their part in this tradition of going to War when our nation calls us to do so.
As you go to bed tonight, remember this shot. . .
A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in their helmets.
Prayer wheel for our military... please don't break it Please send this on after a short prayer.
He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away. He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and a 155mm howitzer.
He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark. He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.
He can march until he is told to stop, or stop until he is told to march.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity. He is self-sufficient.
He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.
He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle. He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts.
If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food. He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands.
He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humor in it all.
He has seen more suffering and death than he should have in his short lifetime.
He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away ' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking.
In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great- grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom. Beardless or not, he is not a boy. He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.
He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.
Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.
And now we even have women over there in danger, doing their part in this tradition of going to War when our nation calls us to do so.
As you go to bed tonight, remember this shot. . .
A short lull, a little shade and a picture of loved ones in their helmets.
Prayer wheel for our military... please don't break it Please send this on after a short prayer.
Prayer Wheel
'Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands.
Protect them as they protect us.
Bless them and their families for the selfless acts
they perform for us in our time of need. Amen.'
When you receive this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer for our ground troops in Afghanistan, sailors on ships, and airmen in the air, and for those in Iraq .
There is nothing attached... This can be very powerful...
Of all the gifts you could give a US Soldier, Sailor, Coastguardsman, Marine, or Airman, prayer is the very best one.
'Lord, hold our troops in your loving hands.
Protect them as they protect us.
Bless them and their families for the selfless acts
they perform for us in our time of need. Amen.'
When you receive this, please stop for a moment and say a prayer for our ground troops in Afghanistan, sailors on ships, and airmen in the air, and for those in Iraq .
There is nothing attached... This can be very powerful...
Of all the gifts you could give a US Soldier, Sailor, Coastguardsman, Marine, or Airman, prayer is the very best one.
American Marines
As I came out of the supermarket that sunny day, pushing my
cart of groceries towards my car, I saw an old man with the
hood of his car up and a lady sitting inside the car, with the
door open. The old man was looking at the engine. I put my
groceries away in my car and continued to watch the old
gentleman from about twenty-five feet away. I saw a young man
in his early twenties with a grocery bag in his arm, walking
towards the old man. The old gentleman saw him coming too and
took a few steps towards him. I saw the old gentleman point to
his open hood and say something. The young man put his grocery
bag into what looked like a brand new Cadillac Escalade and
then turn back to the old man and I heard him yell at the old
gentleman saying, "You shouldn't even be allowed to drive a
car at your age." And then with a wave of his hand, he got in
his car and peeled rubber out of the parking lot.
I saw the old gentleman pull out his handkerchief and mop
his brow as he went back to his car and again looked at the
engine. He then went to his wife and spoke with her and
appeared to tell her it would be okay. I had seen enough and I
approached the old man. He saw me coming and stood straight
and as I got near him I said, "Looks like you're having a
problem." He smiled sheepishly and quietly nodded his head. I
looked under the hood myself and knew that whatever the
problem was, it was beyond me. Looking around I saw a gas
station up the road and told the old gentleman that I would be right
back. I drove to the station and went inside and saw
three attendants working on cars. I approached one of them and
related the problem the old man had with his car and offered
to pay them if they could follow me back down and help him.
The old man had pushed the heavy car under the shade of a tree
and appeared to be comforting his wife. When he saw us he
straightened up and thanked me for my help. As the mechanics
diagnosed the problem (overheated engine) I spoke with the old
gentleman. When I shook hands with him earlier he had noticed
my Marine Corps ring and had commented about it, telling me
that he had been a Marine too. I nodded and asked the usual
question, "What outfit did you serve with?" He had mentioned
that he served with the first Marine Division at Tarawa ,
Saipan, Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal . He had hit all the big ones
and retired from the Corps after the war was over.
As we talked we heard the car engine come on and saw the
mechanics lower the hood. They came over to us as the old man
reached for his wallet, but was stopped by me and I told him I
would just put the bill on my AAA card. He still reached for
the wallet and handed me a card that I assumed had his name
and address on it and I stuck it in my pocket. We all shook
hands all around again and I said my goodbye's to his wife. I
then told the two mechanics that I would follow them back up
to the station. Once at the station I told them that they had
interrupted their own jobs to come along with me and help the
old man. I said I wanted to pay for the help, but they refused
to charge me. One of them pulled out a card from his pocket
looking exactly like the card the old man had given to me.
Both of the men told me then, t! hat they were Marine Corps
Reserves. Once again we shook hands all around and as I was
leaving, one of them told me I should look at the card the old
man had given to me and I said I would and drove off. For some
reason I had gone about two blocks when I pulled over and took
the card out of my pocket and looked at it for a long, long,
time. The name of the old gentleman was on the card in golden
leaf and under his name......... "Congressional Medal of Honor
Society."
I sat there motionless looking at the card and reading it
over and over. I looked up from the card and smiled to no one but
myself and marveled that on this day, four Marines had all
come together, because one of us needed help. He was an old
man all right, but it felt good to have stood next to
greatness and courage and an honor to have been in his
presence.
America is not at war. The U.S. Military is at war. America
is at the Mall.
cart of groceries towards my car, I saw an old man with the
hood of his car up and a lady sitting inside the car, with the
door open. The old man was looking at the engine. I put my
groceries away in my car and continued to watch the old
gentleman from about twenty-five feet away. I saw a young man
in his early twenties with a grocery bag in his arm, walking
towards the old man. The old gentleman saw him coming too and
took a few steps towards him. I saw the old gentleman point to
his open hood and say something. The young man put his grocery
bag into what looked like a brand new Cadillac Escalade and
then turn back to the old man and I heard him yell at the old
gentleman saying, "You shouldn't even be allowed to drive a
car at your age." And then with a wave of his hand, he got in
his car and peeled rubber out of the parking lot.
I saw the old gentleman pull out his handkerchief and mop
his brow as he went back to his car and again looked at the
engine. He then went to his wife and spoke with her and
appeared to tell her it would be okay. I had seen enough and I
approached the old man. He saw me coming and stood straight
and as I got near him I said, "Looks like you're having a
problem." He smiled sheepishly and quietly nodded his head. I
looked under the hood myself and knew that whatever the
problem was, it was beyond me. Looking around I saw a gas
station up the road and told the old gentleman that I would be right
back. I drove to the station and went inside and saw
three attendants working on cars. I approached one of them and
related the problem the old man had with his car and offered
to pay them if they could follow me back down and help him.
The old man had pushed the heavy car under the shade of a tree
and appeared to be comforting his wife. When he saw us he
straightened up and thanked me for my help. As the mechanics
diagnosed the problem (overheated engine) I spoke with the old
gentleman. When I shook hands with him earlier he had noticed
my Marine Corps ring and had commented about it, telling me
that he had been a Marine too. I nodded and asked the usual
question, "What outfit did you serve with?" He had mentioned
that he served with the first Marine Division at Tarawa ,
Saipan, Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal . He had hit all the big ones
and retired from the Corps after the war was over.
As we talked we heard the car engine come on and saw the
mechanics lower the hood. They came over to us as the old man
reached for his wallet, but was stopped by me and I told him I
would just put the bill on my AAA card. He still reached for
the wallet and handed me a card that I assumed had his name
and address on it and I stuck it in my pocket. We all shook
hands all around again and I said my goodbye's to his wife. I
then told the two mechanics that I would follow them back up
to the station. Once at the station I told them that they had
interrupted their own jobs to come along with me and help the
old man. I said I wanted to pay for the help, but they refused
to charge me. One of them pulled out a card from his pocket
looking exactly like the card the old man had given to me.
Both of the men told me then, t! hat they were Marine Corps
Reserves. Once again we shook hands all around and as I was
leaving, one of them told me I should look at the card the old
man had given to me and I said I would and drove off. For some
reason I had gone about two blocks when I pulled over and took
the card out of my pocket and looked at it for a long, long,
time. The name of the old gentleman was on the card in golden
leaf and under his name......... "Congressional Medal of Honor
Society."
I sat there motionless looking at the card and reading it
over and over. I looked up from the card and smiled to no one but
myself and marveled that on this day, four Marines had all
come together, because one of us needed help. He was an old
man all right, but it felt good to have stood next to
greatness and courage and an honor to have been in his
presence.
America is not at war. The U.S. Military is at war. America
is at the Mall.
Before you Go
http://www.managedmusic.com
THIS SONG IS BEAUTIFUL AND WELL DESERVED!
For Veterans
Please read to the end and then click on the website -- this is fabulous!
The elderly parking lot attendant wasn't in a good mood!
Neither was Sam Bierstock. It was around 1 a.m., and Bierstock, a Delray Beach , Fla. , eye doctor, business consultant, corporate speaker and musician, was bone tired after appearing at an event.
He pulled up in his car, and the parking attendant began to speak. "I took two bullets for this country and look what I'm doing," he said bitterly.
At first, Bierstock didn't know what to say to the World War II veteran. But he rolled down his window and told the man, "Really, from the bottom of my heart, I want to thank you."
Then the old soldier began to cry.
"That really got to me," Bierstock says.
Cut to today.
Bierstock, 58, and John Melnick, 54, of Pompano Beach - a member of Bierstock's band, Dr. Sam and the Managed Care Band - have written a song inspired by that old soldier in the airport parking lot. The mournful "Before You Go" does more than salute those who fought in WWII. It encourages people to go out of their way to thank the aging warriors before they die.
"If we had lost that particular war, our whole way of life would have been shot," says Bierstock, who plays harmonica. "The WW II soldiers are now dying at the rate of about 2,000 every day. I thought we needed to thank them."
The song is striking a chord. Within four days of Bierstock placing it on the Web, the song and accompanying photo essay have bounced around nine countries, producing tears and heartfelt thanks from veterans, their sons and daughters and grandchildren.
"It made me cry," wrote one veteran's son. Another sent an e-mail saying that only after his father consumed several glasses of wine would he discuss " the unspeakable horrors" he and other soldiers had witnessed in places such as Anzio , Iwo Jima, Bataan and Omaha Beach . "I can never thank them enough," the son wrote. "Thank you for thinking about them."
Bierstock and Melnick thought about shipping it off to a professional singer, maybe a Lee Greenwood type, but because time was running out for so many veterans, they decided it was best to release it quickly, for free, on the Web. They've sent the song to Sen. John McCain and others in Washington . Already they have been invited to perform it in Houston for a Veterans Day tribute - this after just a few days on the Web. They hope
every veteran in America gets a chance to hear it.
GOD BLESS every EVERY veteran...
and THANK you to those of you veterans who may receive this!
CLICK THE LINKS BELOW OR ABOVE TO HEAR THE SONG AND SEE THE PICTURES:
http://www.managedmusic.com
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