S T O R I E S

[Just Another Human]

Lovely Coincidence

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown



In 1945, there was a young boy of 14 in a concentration camp. He was tall, thin but had a bright smile. Every day, a young girl came by on the other side of the fence. She noticed the boy and asked him if he spoke Polish, and he said yes. She said he'd looked hungry, and he said he was. She then reached in her pocket and gave him her apple. He thanked her and she went on her way. The next day, she came by again, bringing with her another apple which she gave him. Each day, she walked by the outside of the fence, hoping to see him, and when she did, she happily handed him an apple in exchange for conversation.

One day, he told her not to come by anymore. He told her he was being shipped to another concentration camp. As he walked away with tears streaming down his face, he wondered if he'd ever see her again. She was the only kind soul he'd seen across the fence.

He made it out of the concentration camp, and immigrated to America. In 1957, his friends had fixed him up on a blind date. He had no idea who the woman was. He picked her up, and during dinner began talking of Poland and the concentration camp. She said she was in Poland at that time. She said she used to talk to a boy and gave him apples daily. He asked if this boy was tall, skinny and if he had told her that she shouldn't come back because he was leaving. She said yes.

It was her, the young girl who came by every day to give him apples. After 12 years, after the war and in another country.....they had met again. What are the odds? He proposed to her on that very night and told her he'd never again let her go. They are still happily married today.

Now that, my friends, is a love story. Miracles do happen, and there is a greater force at work in our lives.

[Just Another Human]

The Cookie Lady

By Kathryn Fanning



Rain droned against the office window, matching my mood. I should have known that my new job at the hospital was too good to be true. Throughout the day, rumors warned that the newest employee from each department would be laid off due to a drop in census. I was the newest one in the training department.
My boss appeared at the door of my cubicle, interrupting my thoughts. "Got a minute?"
My neck chilled as if he'd shoved ice under my collar. I figured a minute would be all he needed to say, "You're fired!" Would it matter if I told him about my roof leak and overdue notices?
"You probably know we're cutting back," he began. "Administration wants us to offer outplacement classes to help those employees find other jobs. Show them how to write a resume, make a good impression in an interview and so on."
Apprehension made a fist in my stomach. I might as well have been an executioner sharpening her own ax. "Fine," I mumbled, not knowing what else to say.
After he left, I decided to go home early. If someone saw my tears, I'd pretend I had allergies. Through my blurry eyes, I noticed a paper plate of peanut butter cookies, crisscrossed with fork marks, on the secretary's desk.
"Who brought the cookies?" I asked.
"Some lady leaves them every Friday," she said. "Help yourself."
I blotted my eyes with the back of my hand before taking two. Life's so ironic, I thought. I was expected to teach a job-hunting class before I got my own pink slip while some rich volunteer donated cookies so she wouldn't feel guilty about not having to work. Her maid probably baked them.
"See you tomorrow," I said, wondering how many more times I'd have the chance to say that.
In the hall, the elevator door opened, revealing a gray-haired woman about the height of a third-grader. Only her head and the top of her green apron were visible over the cart loaded with cleaning supplies. At least she had a job!
All the way home, I fought self-pity, finally giving in to the tears when I reached my driveway. I couldn't remember feeling so alone. And scared.
The next morning, I considered telling my boss to teach the classes himself. I didn't have the nerve, though, so I drove to the library for books to help me prepare my classes.
Later at the hospital, when anyone mentioned my leaving, I joked about taking early retirement and living in the barn on my father's farm.
I kept up the pretense of not caring for the next two weeks until the Friday of the final meeting with the personnel staff in the basement. Personnel employees handed out final paychecks and collected office keys while I waited at a table with my class schedule for those interested in help. Laid-off workers formed a line at the door, most of them crying. I'd be just like them in a couple of weeks.
The chaplain took the seat next to me, probably so he could comfort those who wanted to talk. He opened his Bible, worn and marked with yellow highlighter.
While he greeted the first employee to reach us, I glanced over to see what he'd highlighted. It was Romans 12:5: "...so we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members of one another. Having gifts that differ according to the grace given us, let us use them." I read the rest of the passage before he reached for the book. "He, who teaches, in his teaching."
It was one thing to have a gift; another to have the chance to use it, I thought. My throat tightened against the tears that threatened.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a woman in a green apron shuffling to the table. The chaplain leaned over and whispered, "Good heavens! I can't believe our Cookie Lady is being laid off. We'll miss her as much as we'll miss her peanut butter cookies on Fridays."
Cookie Lady? I stared at the woman, noticing that her fingers were crooked, probably from arthritis. She certainly didn't fit the description of the wealthy volunteer I'd imagined.
Settling in the chair in front of us, she folded her hands in her lap like an obedient child waiting for instructions. When the chaplain spoke to her in Spanish, I knew my classes were useless for her.
She smiled and reached into the pocket of her apron to offer us cookies from a paper sack.
"Gracias," I mumbled, wishing I knew more of her language. Suddenly, my self-pity turned to shame as I realized how much better off I was than this poor woman who still thought of others despite her problems. The cookies seemed to emphasize the words from Romans - we belong to each other and each needs the other.
I knew I had to do something for her, even before I examined the classified section of the newspaper for myself.
At noon, the last of the workers filed past our table. I grabbed the cookies, all I planned to eat for lunch, and returned to my cubicle.
Grateful for the midday silence, I wrote and revised until I was satisfied I'd expressed how I felt about the unselfishness of the Cookie Lady who needed a job. Finally, I slid my article into an envelope and asked the boss for permission to leave for awhile, not explaining I was headed for the newspaper office.
Maybe my efforts wouldn't work, but at least I tried. This would be my cookie for her, I thought as I pulled into the newspaper building's parking lot.
After I located the appropriate office, the features editor agreed to see me for just two minutes because he was on deadline.
"I don't know if you print freelance material," I told him. "And I don't expect to be paid for this if you use it..."
"I'll look at it later," he promised, then returned to his work, so I knew my time was up.
Days went by and no story appeared. Why had I felt so sure that my story would interest the editor who had plenty of staff to write features? Several times I started to telephone but decided that if God wanted it to happen, it would.
I scanned the classifieds daily, but found no jobs I felt qualified for. Then after I decided that my article never would be published, I found it by accident.
Obviously, I wasn't the only one who noticed it; messages were in my slot on the secretary's desk. One was from the bakery down the street.
I held my breath as I dialed the bakery's number. This had to be a job for the Cookie Lady... Within minutes, I had an appointment to bring her in for an introduction to the bakery's owner. Excitement turned to anxiety when I realized I shouldn't have been so presumptuous.
Footsteps startled me and I glanced up to see the chaplain, newspaper in hand, and the Cookie Lady behind him.
"Good piece," the chaplain said. "Just wanted to tell you before we went to the employment agency."
"Maybe you can skip that," I said, smiling. "The bakery down the street has an opening. The owner read my article and thought she... Will you take her down since I can't translate for her?"
He grinned. "Be happy to, but she won't need a translator. Those folks are from Mexico, so she'll fit in just fine."
After they left, I couldn't concentrate on my search through the classifieds, wondering if she got the job. After all, she taught me to think of others in spite of my own problems.
I took the other messages from my pocket. At least I could answer the rest of my calls before I left. One seemed so unlikely that I read it twice. "An editor of a local magazine liked your piece and wants you to call her next time you're looking for work. Here's her number and the name of her magazine."
Surely I couldn't have found a job so easily before I'd even mailed out a resume. No question about it - we are all one in body with Christ and I intended to remind others, just as the Cookie Lady had reminded me.

[ycr007]

A Forwarded One:



There was once a guy who suffered from cancer... a cancer that can't be

treated. He was 18 years old and he could die anytime. All his life, he was

stuck in his house being taken cared by his mother. He never went

outside but he was sick of staying home and wanted to go out for once.

So he asked his mother and she gave him permission. He walked down

his block and found a lot of stores. He passed a CD store and looked

through the front door for a second as he walked. He stopped and went

back to look into the store. He saw a young girl about his age and he

knew it was love at first sight. He opened the door and walked in, not

looking at anything else but her. He walked closer and closer until he

was finally at the front desk where she sat.



She looked up and asked "Can I help you?" She smiled and he thought it

was the most beautiful smile he has ever seen before and wanted to kiss

her right there.



He said "Uh... Yeah... Umm... I would like to buy a CD." He picked one

out and gave her money for it.



"Would you like me to wrap it for you?" she asked, smiling her cute

smile again.



He nodded and she went to the back.She came back with the wrapped

CD and gave it to him. He took it and walked out of the store. He went

home and from then on, he went to that store everyday and bought a CD,

and she wrapped it for him. He took the CD home and put it in his closet.

He was still too shy to ask her out and he really wanted to but he couldn't.

His mother found out about this and told him to just ask her.



So the next day, he took all his courage and went to the store. He bought

a CD like he did everyday and once again she went to the back of the

store and came back with it wrapped. He took it and when she wasn't

looking, he left his phone number on the desk and ran out...





!!!RRRRRING!!!



The mother picked up the phone and said, "Hello?"





It was the girl!!! She asked for the boy and the mother started to cry

and said, "You don't know? He passed away yesterday...



" The line was quiet except for the cries of the boy's mother. Later in the

day. The mother went into the boy's room because she wanted to

remember him. She thought she would start by looking at his clothes.

So she opened the closet. She was face to face with piles and piles and

piles of unopened CDs. She was surprised to find all those CDs and she

picked one up and sat down on the bed and she started to open one.



Inside, there was a CD and as she took it out of the wrapper, out fell a

piece of paper. The mother picked it up and started to read it.

It said: Hi... I think U R really cute. Do u wanna go out with me?

Love,

Jacelyn



The mother opened another CD...

Again there was a piece of paper. It said: Hi... I think U R really cute.

Do u wanna go out with me?

Love,

Jacelyn



Love is... when you've had a huge fight but then decide to put aside your

egos, hold hands and say, "I Love You"

[Just Another Human]

Turning the Page By Jan Coleman



I first met Jeanne on moving day. She appeared sometime after the furniture was unloaded, with brownies in hand, to welcome me to the neighborhood. There was something about her I instantly liked: her attitude, her enthusiasm for life.
Recently single again, I was forced to move from my country dream home to a small duplex in town, and my spirits were about as high as the grass in the front yard. I detested the word "single." It was meant for slices of cheese, or those old records I collected as a teenager. Singleness was a mystery to be solved before the channel changed; not a lifestyle to claim for very long.
But Jeanne was doing it well, and her zest was contagious. She soon had me camping, mountain biking, playing marathon Scrabble on Saturday nights. We liked the same movies, read the same kind of books and chuckled at the same things. Every year I hung out with her, the more I laughed, and the less I thought about the past and how it hurt and robbed me. She became the sister I never had, my sidekick.
Singleness wasn't so bad after all. In fact, I was content. My children stopped rebelling, I had a good job, a ministry to singles in my church and a best friend who inspired me to live each day grateful for the blessings.
Then it happened. I met Carl. I didn't plan to fall in love, but I knew, after ten years of being single, that he was the right man for me. I prayed for a husband for Jeanne, so we could make the transition together, but it didn't happen. She shared my hopes and dreams with me, and helped me plan the wedding, but I could see the hurt as she readied herself to go solo.
The weekend before the wedding, she kidnapped me for a mountain getaway, our last jaunt as single sisters. As we sat in front of the roaring fire, gazing at the snowcapped peaks, we finally shed some tears. I told her how bittersweet it was for me, that I couldn't enter into a new life with Carl without a twinge of sadness at how things will change. Nobody but us could understand that though our friendship would remain as deep and faithful, it would never be quite the same. She wouldn't be popping over in her pajamas anymore, or calling me at five in the morning or planning a last-minute card game and leaving a message to tell me what time to be there.
Ending a chapter in your life is never easy. All the years of romantic yearnings about being married again, I never imagined it might come attached to an ache like this. It was odd that a part of my life I once spurned was now so cherished. But it was time to turn the page.
The night before I walked down the aisle again, I wrote Jeanne a long letter full of memories of all the special things we did together, and how she would always be my best friend and have a place in my heart that no one, not even my husband, could claim. Life has seasons, and we must change with them as best we can.
It's been four years now, and Jeanne hasn't found Mr. Right, but she's not sitting around waiting. She's been on a missionary trip to the Philippines. She makes every day count, and she motivates me to do it, too.
We have to work harder at staying close now, but Jeanne doesn't feel awkward anymore about popping in for a game of Scrabble. Carl always smiles and slips away to his office. I set up the board while Jeanne's feet slide snugly into her slippers. It may be a very long night.

[Just Another Human]

A Cure for Cold Feet By Pamela Elessa

Winter finals were over, and the entire campus was ecstatic with relief. No more cramming, caffeine highs, tension headaches and cramped desks. We were free! We left campus en masse in the unusually crisp Seattle night, light on our feet, letting our hair down and our shirttails out. We were all going to the local dance club, the only place in the area that could accommodate a few hundred post-finals students who were ready to let loose. We squeezed ourselves into tight jeans and miniskirts, exposed some legs and bellies, and virtually wriggled with excitement. The music was loud and provocative, the figures on the dance floor sensuous, wild. The electricity was heart-stopping.

I looked pretty heart-stopping myself, poured into a bare-backed white satin pantsuit with three-inch heels and a rose in my hair. Unfortunately, it wasn't my date's heart that was stopping. It was mine. More specifically, it was being bored to death. My date was Dumbe, a native of Cameroon, West Africa. Granted, it was our first date, so I hadn't really known anything about him, but I had thought we would at least enjoy the rhythm on the dance floor.

Multicolored strobe lights flashed over the table in our booth, and we had to yell to make conversation over the DJ's voice. I was bobbing and swaying to the music, frantic to get out on the dance floor - and Dumbe was telling me about his plans for the next few days: going to the bookstore to get a head start on his reading for next semester. I began to think maybe this wasn't going to work.

"It's important to get the majority of your science classes out of the way before you go on to the university," Dumbe yelled over the thumping on the dance floor.

It's important for me to get out of here, I thought. By now it was midnight, and even the shy kids who didn't know how to dance had finally jumped out on the dance floor. Dumbe and I were still talking about college credits.

"Let's go," I called out. Dumbe looked surprised.

"Are you sure you want to leave?"

Apparently, the look on my face was answer enough. This was definitely not working.

Dumbe politely drew open the door to the dance club and let me out. To our surprise, a three-inch blanket of snow had fallen, and our ears buzzed from the sudden change from the noise of the club as we stepped out into a soft, quiet wonderland.

It was beautiful. It was cold. And I was wearing three-inch heels with thin stockings.

The winter weather had caught the city by surprise; no buses or cabs were running. Dumbe didn't have a car, so with an exasperated sigh, I pointed the way home and we started our slippery trek through the streets. Dumbe shoved his hands deep into his pockets to keep them warm. I, in my bare-backed suit and flimsy heels, looked like the snow queen within fifteen minutes. I stumbled, and Dumbe reached to catch me.

"This, too, is not working," I said, laughing at the fiasco.

Dumbe looked up and saw a tiny restaurant that was still open. A rush of warmth blew at us when we opened the door. The customers were huddled close together, talking in hushed tones that matched the weather outside.

Dumbe ordered two hot chocolates, and we sat down. Ah, now we can talk a little more about scholarly habits, I thought morosely. I looked ridiculous in my outfit, and I was still frozen solid. Dumbe, however, didn't start any conversation this time. He watched me swallow a few, steamy sips, and then asked me to take off my heels.

I did, puzzled. He pulled his chair up close to mine, lifted my blue feet into his lap, and gently began to rub them between his hands, easing away the numbness and ache of the cold. I watched him, speechless.

"There, that should feel better," he said. He looked into my eyes and didn't say a word about classes or books. "You look beautiful," he said.

I smiled, and flushed a little, pulling away.

"Wait a minute," Dumbe said. He threw some napkins on the floor, then gently set my feet down on them. He slipped off his own boots, and took off his thick, warm socks. They were still dry.

He slipped the socks onto my own feet, then stood up and draped his sports jacket over my shoulders. The look he gave me when he smiled thawed me from the inside out.

"Come on," he said, turning to leave. "Hop up on my back. I'll give you a ride, and you can keep those pretty feet of yours dry."

I was so stunned I did what he said, and we stumbled our way up the four or five hills back to my dorm. By the time we got there, we were both laughing, talking freely about ourselves. I had completely forgotten about the dance. All I could think about was how gentle Dumbe was, yet strong, how quiet he was, yet full of dreams.

Before Dumbe left me in the lobby of my building, I reached down to return his socks.

"No," Dumbe said. "I'd feel a lot warmer knowing they were still on your feet."

He gave me a hug, waved good-bye, and moved slowly down the street. I stood there in his socks, virtually pulsating warmth, watching him till he was out of sight.

It's a routine we've kept for eighteen years now, Dumbe and I. That first night was four college degrees ago for the two of us, but no matter where my husband, Dumbe, is going, I follow him to the door, hug him, and stand there in his socks, watching him move down the street till he's out of sight. It warms me down to my toes.