Stories of the Heart

A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law and four year old grandson. The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.

The family ate together at the table, but the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth. The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess. "We must do something about grandfather," said the son. "I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor."

So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl. When the family glanced in grandfather's direction, he sometimes had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food. The four year old watched it all in silence.

One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?" Just as sweetly the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Momma to eat your food from when I grow up." The four year old smiled and went back to work.

The words so struck the parents that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no words were spoken, both knew what must be done. That evening the husband took grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table.

For the remainder of his days, he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.

Stories of the Heart

(re-published from several years ago, the Directors favorite)

The day is over, you are driving home. You tune in your radio. You hear a

little blurb about a little village in India where some villagers have died

suddenly, strangely, of a flu that has never been seen before.  It's not

influenza, but three or  four people are dead, and it's kind of interesting,

and they're sending some doctors over there to investigate it.

You don't think much about it, but on Sunday, coming home from church, you

hear another radio spot. Only they say it's not three villagers, it's 30,000

villagers in the back hills of this particular area of India, and it's on TV

that night. CNN runs a little blurb; people are heading there from the

disease center in Atlanta, because this disease strain has never been seen

before.

By Monday morning when you get up, it's the lead story. For it's not just

India; it's Pakistan,  Afghanistan, Iran, and before you know it, you're

hearing this story everywhere and they have coined it now as "the mystery

flu."  The President has made some comment that he and everyone are praying

and hoping that all will go well over there. But everyone is wondering, How

are we going to contain it?

That's when the President of France makes an announcement that shocks

Europe. He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or

any of the countries where this thing has been seen can come in. And, that

night you are watching a little bit of CNN, before going to bed. There's a

man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of the mystery flu.  It has come to

Europe. Panic strikes.

As best they can tell, once you get it, you have it for a week before you

know it. Then you have four days of unbelievable symptoms.  And then you

die.

Britain closes it's borders, but it's too late. South Hampton, Liverpool,

North Hampton, see signs of this deadly disease.

It's Tuesday morning when the President of the United States makes the

following announcement: "Due to a national security risk, all flights to and

from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved ones are overseas,

I'm sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure for this thing,"

Within four days our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable fear.

People are selling little masks for your face. People are asking "What if it

comes to this country?" and preachers are saying, "It's the scourge of God."

Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the country. They see

in California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts.  People are working

around the clock trying to find an antidote. Nothing is working.

And then, all of a sudden the news comes out. The code has been broken. A

cure can be found. A vaccine  can be made. It's going to take the blood of

somebody who hasn't  been infected.  Everyone is asked to do one simple

thing: Go to your hospital and have your blood type taken.  That's all we

ask of you. Sure enough, when you and your family get down there, there is a

long line, and they've got nurses and doctors coming out and pricking

fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. They say, "Wait here in

the parking lot and if we call your  name, you can be dismissed and go

home."

You stand around, scared, with your neighbors, wondering what in the world

is going on, and if this is the end of the world.

Suddenly a young man comes running out of the hospital screaming. He's

yelling a name and  waving a  clipboard.  What? He yells it again! And your

son tugs on your jacket and says, "Daddy, that's me."  Before you know it,

they have grabbed your boy. Wait a minute. Hold on!  And they say, "It's

okay, his blood is clean.  His blood is pure.  We want to make sure he

doesn't have the disease. We think he has got the right type."

Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses, crying and

hugging one another  some are even laughing. It's the first time you have

seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up to you and says,

"Thank you, sir. Your son's blood type is perfect.

It's clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine."

As the word begins to spread all across that parking lot full of folks,

people are screaming and praying and  laughing and crying. But then the

grayhaired  doctor  pulls you and you wife aside and says, "May we see you

for a moment? We didn't realize that the donor would be a minor and we

need...we need you to sign a consent form."

You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood to be

taken is empty. "Hhow many pints?"

And that is when the old doctor's smile fades and he says, "We had no idea

it would be a little child. We weren't prepared. We need it all."

"Butbut...You don't understand."

"We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We need the blood!"

"But can't you give him a transfusion?"

"If we had clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?"

In numb silence, you do. Then they say, "Would you like to have a moment

with him before we  begin?" You think, Can you walk back?  Can you walk back

to that room where he sits on a table saying, "Daddy?  What's going on?" Can

you take his hands and say, "Son, you know I love you, and I would never

ever let anything, happen to you. Do you understand that?"  And when that

old doctor comes back in and says, "I'm sorry, we've  we've got to get

started.

"People all over the world are dying." Can you leave?

Can you walk out while he is saying, "Daddy? Daddy? Why, why are you leaving

me?"

And then next week, when they have the ceremony to honor your son, and some

folks sleep through it,  and some folks don't even come because they go to

the lake, and some folks come with a pretentious smile and just pretend to

care.  You want to jump up and say, "MY SON DIED FOR YOU!  DON'T YOU CARE?"

Is that what GOD wants to say? "MY SON DIED FOR YOU.  DON'T YOU KNOW HOW

MUCH I CARE?"

"Father, seeing it from your eyes breaks our hearts.   Maybe now we can

begin to comprehend the great Love you have for us.