King Jehoram was a piece of work - but we can still learn a lot from the story of his life.
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King Jehoram was a piece of work - but we can still learn a lot from the story of his life.
Listen Online:{audio}podcast/sm20110911.mp3{/audio} |
Download {audio}podcast/sm20110911.mp3"> |
Uncle Rusty is a wise man. A while back he retired and purchased a modest home near a junior high school. He spent the first few weeks of his retirement in peace and quiet, puttering around his workshop.
That is of course until the school year began. On the first day of school three young boys, full of pent up energy from a full day of school, came down his street. As they walked down the street they beat rhythmically on every trash can they passed.
Day after day, it was the same thing. Beating, clanging and pounding out a rhythm on the cans as they walked down the street. Poor Uncle Rusty just couldn't take it any more.
The next afternoon, he walked out to meet the young musicians. As they worked their way down the street, pounding out a tune on the cans, Rusty stopped them and said, "You kids sure are having a lot of fun. I like seeing young people like you, express themselves. In fact, I used to do the same thing when I was your age. Will you do me a favor? I'll give you each a dollar if you'll promise to come around every day and do your thing."
The kids were elated and continued to do a bang up job on the trash cans.
After two weeks, Uncle Rusty greeted the kids again, but this time he had a sad expression on his face. "This recession's really putting a big dent in my income, which I failed to factor in a fortnight ago when I met you" he told them. "From now on, I'll only be able to pay you 50 cents to beat on the cans."
The boys were not pleased, but they did accept his offer and continued their afternoon concert. A month later, Sly Uncle Rusty approached them again as they drummed their way down the street. With words that would ensure he would have peace and quiet from that day forward he said, "Look, my Social Security check just isn't stretching as far with the expenses. So I'm not going to be able to give you more than 25 cents a day. Will that be okay ?"
"What? Just a crummy quarter ?" the boys exclaimed. "If you think we're going to waste our time, beating these cans around for a quarter, you're nuts. No way, mister. We quit!"
He couldn't have been over six years old. Dirty face, barefooted, torn T-shirt, matted hair. He wasn't too different from the other hundred thousand or so street orphans that roam Rio de Janeiro.
I was walking to get a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe when he came up behind me. With my thoughts somewhere between the task I had just finished and the class I was about to teach, I scarcely felt the tap, tap, tap on my hand. I stopped and turned. Seeing no one, I continued on my way. I'd only taken a few steps, however, when I felt another insistent tap, tap, tap. This time I stopped and looked downward. There he stood. His eyes were whiter because of his grubby cheeks and coal-black hair.
"Pao, senhor?" (Bread, sir?)
Living in Brazil, one has daily opportunities to buy a candy bar or sandwich for these little outcasts. It's the least one can do. I told him to come with me and we entered the sidewalk cafe. "Coffee for me and something tasty for my little friend." The boy ran to the pastry counter and made his choice. Normally, these youngsters take the food and scamper back out into the street without a word. But this little fellow surprised me.
The cafe consisted of a long bar: one end for pastries and the other for coffee. As the boy was making his choice, I went to the other end of the bar and began drinking my coffee. Just as I was getting my derailed train of thought back on track, I saw him again. He was standing in the cafe entrance, on tiptoe, bread in hand, looking in at the people. "What's he doing?" I thought.
Then he saw me and scurried in my direction. He came and stood in front of me about eye-level with my belt buckle. The little Brazilian orphan looked up at the big American missionary, smiled a smile that would have stolen your heart and said, "Obrigado." (Thank you.) Then, nervously scratching the back of his ankle with his big toe, he added, "Muito obrigado." (Thank you very much.)
All of a sudden, I had a crazy craving to buy him the whole restaurant.
But before I could say anything, he turned and scampered out the door.
As I write this, I'm still standing at the coffee bar, my coffee is cold, and I'm late for my class. But I still feel the sensation that I felt half an hour ago.
And I'm pondering this question: If I am so moved by a street orphan who says thank you for a piece of bread, how much more is God moved when I pause to thank him - really thank him - for saving my soul?
- Max Lucado
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A discussion about Truth and Reconciliation with two members of the Wiikwemkoong First Nation, and a member and Chief of the Aundeck Omni Kaning First Nation.
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