Friday Story

[Michi]

Well here comes something quite different.

Let me explain: For quite some time I receive each Friday an email, titled "Friday Story".
Those are quite inspiring short stories and I would like to share with you those which touched me the most.

Perhaps you too, do have a "Friday Story" which touched you and never forget.
This would be the place to share. (And it can be on any weekday.:star:)

So, without further ado ...



The Trouble Tree

A woman hired a carpenter for repairs on her farmhouse. One day a flat tire made him lose an hour of work, his electric saw quit, and then his ancient truck refused to start. The woman drove him home.

He invited her in to meet his family. As they walked toward the front door, he paused briefly at a small tree, touching the tips of the branches with both hands.

Inside, he smiled and hugged his two small children and gave his wife a kiss.

As he walked the client out to her car, she asked him about the tree.

“Oh, that’s my trouble tree,” he replied. “I can’t help having troubles on the job, but troubles don’t belong at home. So I just hang them up on the tree every night when I come home. Then in the morning I pick them up again.”

“Funny thing.” He smiled. “When I come out in the morning to pick them up, there aren’t nearly as many as I remember hanging up the night before.”

[Michi]

It's Friday again. And drum roll ... :drum:



The Park Bench
(Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree)

Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.

He stood right before me with his head tilted down,
And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn, not enough rain, or too little light.

Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a smile and then shifted away.

But instead of retreating he sat next to my side,
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise’

“It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful too,
That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you.”

The weed before me was dying or dead,
Not vibrant of colors; orange, yellow, or red.

But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave,
So I reached for the flower and replied, “Just what I need.”

But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.

It was then that I noticed for the first time,
That weed-toting boy could not see, he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver, tears shone in the sun,
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.

“You’re welcome,” he smiled and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day.

I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.

How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, as last I could see
The problem was not with the world, but with me.

And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that’s mine.

And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose,
And I breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose.

And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

[Michi]

A bit late, but here is your next Friday Story:
--------------------------------------------------


Dealing With Hurtful Words

When one of my daughters was confronted with the fact that she had really hurt another child with a mean comment, she cried and immediately wanted to apologize. That was a good thing, but I wanted her to know an apology can’t always make things better. So I told her the story of Will, an angry nine-year-old whose father abandoned his mom two years earlier.

Will would often lash out at others with mean and hurtful words. After a particularly hostile outburst where Will told his mom, “I see why Dad left you!,” his mother, desperate and damaged, sent Will to spend the summer with his grandparents who lived on a small farm.

The first evening on the farm, Will made nasty comments to his grandmother about her cooking and the size of the house. His grandfather took him to a tool shed and told him he could not come back into the house until he pounded a two-inch nail into a 4 x 4 board. He said the nail had to be pounded all the way in and that he would have to do so every time he said a mean and hurtful thing. For a small boy, this was a major task. After about ten trips to the shed, Will began to be more cautious about his words. Eventually, he apologized to his grandmother for all the bad things he’d said.

His grandmother didn’t respond directly but asked him to bring in the board filled with nails. Then she gave him the hammer and asked him to pull out all the nails. This was even harder than pounding them in, but after a huge struggle, he did it.

His grandmother hugged him and said, “I appreciate your apology and, of course, I forgive you because I love you, but I want you to know an apology is like pulling out one of those nails. Look at the board. The holes are still there. The board will never be the same. I know your dad put a hole in you when he left and that’s unfair, but it doesn’t give you the right to put holes in other people – especially those who love you. Will, you are better than that.”

A fourth-grade teacher once told me how she tells this story to her class at the beginning of the semester and uses it throughout the year. When she comes upon a child saying or doing a mean or unkind thing, she will say, “Did you put a nail in someone?” Then she’ll ask, “Did you take it out?”

She says her students always know what she’s talking about and they come to recognize what its wrong to hurt others with their words. She urges her students not to use the automatic, “That’s all right” after an apology because usually what was done was not all right and the person saying it, rightfully, doesn’t feel it was all right. She tells her class to say, “I accept your apology” or “I forgive you” instead.

The teacher also uses the story to help her kids understand difficult family matters outside of the classroom. She tells them some people will never take out the nails they’ve pounded into the children, but everyone has the power to pull them out themselves and get on with their life rather than let others rule them.

She told me, “The story is simple, but the message is powerful — especially when reinforced with: “You’re better than that!”

Michael Josephson

[Michi]

this story I found on my FB feed:

from Emmanuel Philip Tumba (https://www.facebook.com/emma.tumba/posts/7119667641393410?ref=embed_post)


I went to a new restaurant that had just opened in my neighborhood cos I saw their free WiFi advert for all guests.
I asked the waitress for the password as I was ushered in.. She told me, eat first!
Without arguing, I smiled and placed my order for food and drinks and when the food was being served, I asked for the password again... and the waitress told me again... eat first!
Of course I needed the password while waiting for my food to be served so I could catch up on some work emails and social chats.
Now that I'm almost done eating, I wonder if it really makes sense asking for the password... but I still went ahead to ask the waitress again.
"Please, what's the password?" I asked, and the waitress told me eat first.
"But I have finished eating my food!" I responded angrily.
"No sir..." she said... "That's not what I meant... the password is actually *eat first* all in small letters".
At this point, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or get angry.
Pay attention to every spoken words, within it may be the answers you've been looking for.
Ponder on this.

[Michi]

... another one before Friday ...

from Titus David Durkwa (https://www.facebook.com/david.durkwatitus)


THE COCKROACH THEORY OF SELF DEVELOPMENT.
At a restaurant, a cockroach suddenly flew from somewhere and sat on a lady.
She started screaming out of fear.
With a panic-stricken face and trembling voice, she started jumping, with both her hands desperately trying to get rid of the cockroach.
Her reaction was contagious, as everyone in her group also got panicky.
The lady finally managed to push the cockroach away but ...it landed on another lady in the group.
Now, it was the turn of the other lady in the group to continue the drama.
The waiter rushed forward to their rescue.
In the relay of throwing, the cockroach next fell upon the waiter.
The waiter stood firm, composed himself and observed the behaviour of the cockroach on his shirt.
When he was confident enough, he grabbed it with his fingers and threw it out of the restaurant.
Sipping my coffee and watching the amusement, the antenna of my mind picked up a few thoughts and started wondering, was the cockroach responsible for their histrionic behaviour?
If so, then why was the waiter not disturbed?
He handled it near to perfection, without any chaos.
It is not the cockroach, but the inability of those people to handle the disturbance caused by the cockroach, that disturbed the ladies.
I realized that it is not the shouting of my father or my boss or my wife that disturbs me, but it's my inability to handle the disturbances caused by their shouting that disturbs me.
It's not the traffic jams on the road that disturbs me, but my inability to handle the disturbance caused by the traffic jam that disturbs me.
More than the problem, it's my reaction to the problem that creates chaos in my life.
LESSONS-:
I understood I should not react in life.
I should always respond.
The women reacted, whereas the waiter responded.
Reactions are always instinctive whereas responses are always well thought of.
A beautiful way to understand LIFE.
The HAPPY person is not because Everything is RIGHT in his Life.
He is HAPPY because his Attitude towards Everything in his Life is Right!

[Michi]

Here comes - over a year later - A Story for Friday:

THE ROOM OF 1000 DEMONS

54079

Once up on a time, in an ancient world not so far from here, there was a tradition...

Every one hundred and one years any who wanted could undertake the challenge. If you survived
the challenge, you would gain enlightenment.

Since the ritual was only offered every one hundred and one years, if you didn't embrace the
challenge now you would have to wait for one hundred and one more years to take it again. It was a challenge with some bite to it.

All the applicants were gathered in the great hall, wearing their best robes, standing as still as
their nervousness would permit.

Compassionately, the priests explained the ritual to these assembled applicants, who were already fully apprised of the ritual in all its details. But this final time, they were facing the ritual itself, facing their future, and facing the doors at the end of the great hall.

"You will line up, and one by one you will pass through the door at the end of this hall and enter
the room beyond. The room beyond is the Room of 1000 Demons," the priest intoned.

Almost as one, the applicants all turned and looked at the huge wooden doors at the east end of
the hall; you could hear a collective inhale and the sigh of their robes as they turned.

Continuing the priest spoke, "The Room of 1000 Demons is not so big, but there is no handles on
the inside of those doors. Once you pass through the doors, they will close behind you. The only
way out is to cross the room and discover the door on the other side, it is unlocked. Simply walk
out."

He had the applicant's full focus now.

"You know by now that the Room of 1000 Demons is named that way for good reason. The room
is filled with 1000 demons," The priest went on. "These demons are powerfully skilled in their
ability to take on the form of your worst fears. They are merciless. If you fear spiders, you will have
them crawling on your face. If it is heights that make your knees jelly, you will be looking down
into the abyss from the most rickety of walkways. If its failure you fear... well you can imagine."

"Whatever your worst fears are, they will meet you on the other side of that door."

Some of the applicants seemed to pale, others had just slunk out of the great hall; one person had
to be carried out, while the others' eyes were riveted on the doorway or else turned inwards towards their fears.

"These demons are so skilled and compelling it will be nearly impossible to remember they are
not real, they are cunningly your demons," the priest said more kindly now.

"Remember, we can't come to your aid. You must complete the challenge on your own. Some
applicants never leave the room. They succumb to their paralyzing fears, and stay until the end of
their days."

"You must choose, to take the risk or not. Either choice is fine. If you choose to decline the
challenge this time, you can return in one hundred and one years and apply again."

"There is good news. We have two hints for you."

"First, starting from the initial moment inside the door, the very moment the door closes behind
you; remember that what the demons show you is not real."

"It is an illusion only. But note this well..."

All the applicants were indeed noting well everything the priest was saying as you can imagine.

"... most people find it very difficult to remember that these are illusions. They appear perfectly
real, and they are, of course, tailored to fit you perfectly."

"So, here's the second hint. It is more helpful. Once you are in the room and the door closes
behind you, NO MATTER WHAT appears before you, NO MATTER WHAT you feel or what you
think. KEEP YOUR FEET MOVING. Keep you feet moving!"

"If you keep your feet moving no matter what, you will eventually get to the other side, discover
the door, and come out of the room enlightened."

The priest finished and gestured towards the doors. In deep silence, one by one each applicant
stood still before the huge doors, took a calming breath, and entered the Room of 1000 Demons.

[Michi]

Here is today's Friday Story:

Letters from Franz Kafka

At the age of 40, Franz Kafka (1883–1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Berlin's Steglitz Park when he encountered a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. Together, they searched for the doll but to no avail. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day, and they would search again.

The following day, when they still hadn’t found the doll, Kafka handed the girl a letter "written" by the doll, which read: "Please don’t cry. I have gone on a journey to see the world. I will write to you about my adventures."

This began a story that continued until the end of Kafka's life. Each time they met, Kafka read aloud his carefully written letters, filled with tales of adventures and conversations from the beloved doll. The girl found them enchanting. Eventually, Kafka read her a letter in which the doll explained her return to Berlin, and he presented the girl with a new doll he had bought.

"She doesn’t look anything like my doll," the girl said. Kafka handed her another letter, which explained: "My travels have changed me." The girl hugged the new doll and took it home. A year later, Kafka passed away.

Many years later, the now-grown girl found a note hidden in an unnoticed crevice of the doll. In the tiny letter, signed by Kafka, it read: "Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way."

[Bill Ryan]

Here is today's Friday Story:

Letters from Franz Kafka

At the age of 40, Franz Kafka (1883–1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Berlin's Steglitz Park when he encountered a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. Together, they searched for the doll but to no avail. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day, and they would search again.

The following day, when they still hadn’t found the doll, Kafka handed the girl a letter "written" by the doll, which read: "Please don’t cry. I have gone on a journey to see the world. I will write to you about my adventures."

This began a story that continued until the end of Kafka's life. Each time they met, Kafka read aloud his carefully written letters, filled with tales of adventures and conversations from the beloved doll. The girl found them enchanting. Eventually, Kafka read her a letter in which the doll explained her return to Berlin, and he presented the girl with a new doll he had bought.

"She doesn’t look anything like my doll," the girl said. Kafka handed her another letter, which explained: "My travels have changed me." The girl hugged the new doll and took it home. A year later, Kafka passed away.

Many years later, the now-grown girl found a note hidden in an unnoticed crevice of the doll. In the tiny letter, signed by Kafka, it read: "Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way."Thank you so much. I was aware of this very beautiful story, and somewhere on the forum I'd shared it several years ago. But it's lovely to read it again. I'd encourage any readers here not to skip the post and take just a minute to read it carefully. It's one of the most wonderful little stories I've ever heard.

:heart:

[Ewan]

Here is today's Friday Story:

Letters from Franz Kafka

At the age of 40, Franz Kafka (1883–1924), who never married and had no children, was strolling through Berlin's Steglitz Park when he encountered a young girl crying her eyes out because she had lost her favorite doll. Together, they searched for the doll but to no avail. Kafka told her to meet him there the next day, and they would search again.

The following day, when they still hadn’t found the doll, Kafka handed the girl a letter "written" by the doll, which read: "Please don’t cry. I have gone on a journey to see the world. I will write to you about my adventures."

This began a story that continued until the end of Kafka's life. Each time they met, Kafka read aloud his carefully written letters, filled with tales of adventures and conversations from the beloved doll. The girl found them enchanting. Eventually, Kafka read her a letter in which the doll explained her return to Berlin, and he presented the girl with a new doll he had bought.

"She doesn’t look anything like my doll," the girl said. Kafka handed her another letter, which explained: "My travels have changed me." The girl hugged the new doll and took it home. A year later, Kafka passed away.

Many years later, the now-grown girl found a note hidden in an unnoticed crevice of the doll. In the tiny letter, signed by Kafka, it read: "Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way."

Fantastico!

[Vangelo]

Thank you Michi for sharing these gems.

[Michi]

Here's your next one ... :heart:

Through the train window, she watched the villages and vineyards of the Italian countryside go by. It was 1942 and Sussi Penzias, a young Jewish woman who'd fled Nazi Germany, was traveling alone, hoping to remain unnoticed. Since she'd arrived in Italy three years earlier, she'd been moving from place to place, staying with friends and friends of friends, hiding from the authorities. Now she was on her way to yet another safe house in a new town.

Suddenly, the door at the end of the train car swung open and two police officers came in. Sussi's heart beat wildly. They were wearing the black uniform of the Fascisti, the government police. To Sussi's horror, the policemen began making their way down the aisle, stopping at every row to examine the papers of each passenger.

Sussi knew that as soon as the policemen discovered she had no papers, she would be arrested. She was terrified she'd end up in a concentration camp, and would face unimaginable suffering and almost certain death.

The officers were getting closer, just a few rows away. There was no escape. It was only a matter of minutes before they would reach her seat. Sussi began to tremble uncontrollably, and tears slid down her cheeks.

The man sitting next to her noticed her distress and politely asked her why she was crying.

"I'm Jewish and I have no papers," she whispered, hardly able to speak.

To her surprise, a few seconds later the man began shouting at her, "You idiot! I can't believe how stupid you are! What an imbecile!"

The police officers, hearing the commotion, stopped what they were doing and came over. "What's going on here?" one of them asked. Sussi began crying even harder.

The man turned a disgusted face to the policemen and said, "Officers, take this woman away! I have my papers, but my wife has forgotten hers! She always forgets everything. I'm so sick of her. I don't ever want to see her again!"

The officers laughed, shaking their heads at the couple's marital spat, and moved on.

With a selfless act of caring, the stranger on the train had saved Sussi's life. Sussi never saw the man again. She never even knew his name.

[Michi]

Here's another one - well - on Saturday:


Once upon a time, there was a wise man who used to go to the ocean to do his writing. He had a habit of walking on the beach before he began his work.

One day, as he was walking along the shore, he looked down the beach and saw a human figure moving like a dancer. He smiled to himself at the thought of someone who would dance to the day, and so, he walked faster to catch up.

As he got closer, he noticed that the figure was that of a young man, and that what he was doing was not dancing at all. The young man was reaching down to the shore, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the ocean.

He came closer still and called out "Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?"

The young man paused, looked up, and replied "Throwing starfish into the ocean."

"I must ask, then, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?" asked the somewhat startled wise man.

To this, the young man replied, "The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them in, they'll die."

Upon hearing this, the wise man commented, "But, young man, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish all along every mile? You can't possibly make a difference!"

At this, the young man bent down, picked up yet another starfish, and threw it into the ocean. As it met the water, he said, "It made a difference for that one."

[Michi]

Here' s a short one:


What is heaven? What is hell? The parable of the Long Spoons explains very well what heaven and hell truly are.

One day a man said to God, “God, I would like to know what Heaven and Hell are like.”

God showed the man two doors. Inside the first one, in the middle of the room, was a large round table with a large pot of stew. It smelled delicious and made the man’s mouth water, but the people sitting around the table were thin and sickly. They appeared to be famished. They were holding spoons with very long handles and each found it possible to reach into the pot of stew and take a spoonful, but because the handle was longer than their arms, they could not get the spoons back into their mouths.

The man shuddered at the sight of their misery and suffering. God said, “You have seen Hell.”

Behind the second door, the room appeared exactly the same. There was the large round table with the large pot of wonderful stew that made the man’s mouth water. The people had the same long-handled spoons, but they were well nourished and plump, laughing and talking.

The man said, “I don’t understand.”

God smiled. It is simple, he said, Love only requires one skill. These people learned early on to share and feed one another. While the greedy only think of themselves…
[Author unknown]

[Michi]

Here's a long one:
(My favorite)


A Teacher’s Story


Never underestimate the difference you can make for another person. We all know that a smile can make someone else’s day. If you are a teacher, and things are falling apart in the classroom, follow your instinct and do what you need to do. The teacher did that in this story, but… This story has twists and turns. Stick all the way to the end. Can one simple thing make a big difference? You bet! It was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul.

He was in the third grade class I taught at Saint Mary’s School in Morris, Minnesota. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million. Very neat in appearance, he had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that even made his occasional mischievousness delightful.

Mark also talked incessantly. I tried to remind him again and again that talking with out permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much, though, was the sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving. “Thank you for correcting me, Sister!” I didn’t know what to make of it at first but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day.

One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often. I made a novice-teacher’s mistake. I looked at Mark and said, “If you say one more word, I’m going to tape your mouth shut!”

It wasn’t ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, “Mark is talking again.” I hadn’t asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.

I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened the drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark’s desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the front of the room.

As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing, he winked at me. That did it! I started laughing. The entire class cheered as I walked back to Mark’s desk, removed the tape and shrugged my shoulders. His first words were, “Thank you for correcting me, Sister.”

At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior high math. The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to to my instruction in the “new math,” he did not talk as much in ninth grade.


--------------------------------------------


One Friday things just didn’t feel right. We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were growing frustrated with themselves – and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand. So, I asked them to list the names of other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.

It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, but as the students left the room each one handed me their paper. Chuck smiled. Mark said, “Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good weekend.”

That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had about that individual. On Monday I gave each each student his or her list. Some of them ran two pages. Before long, the entire class was smiling. “Really?” I heard whispered. “I never knew that meant anything to anyone!” “I didn’t know others liked me so much!”

No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn’t matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another again.

That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I had returned from a vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home, Mother asked the usual questions about the trip: How the weather was, my experiences in general. There was a slight lull in the conversation. Mother gave Dad a sideways glance and simply said, “Dad?” My father cleared his throat. “The Eklunds called last night,” he began.

“Really?” I said. “I haven’t heard from them for several years. I wonder how Mark is.”

Dad responded quietly. “Mark was killed in Vietnam,” he said. “The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like you to attend.” To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark.

I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you could talk to me.

The church was packed with Mark’s friends. Chuck’s sister sang, “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the usual prayers and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.

I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the soldiers who had acted as a pallbearer came up to me. “Were you Mark’s math teacher?” he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. “Mark talked about you a lot,” he said.

After the funeral most of Mark’s former classmates headed to Chuck’s farmhouse for lunch. Mark’s mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me. “We want to show you something,” his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. “They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it.”

Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark’s classmates had said about him. “Thank you so much for doing that,” Mark’s mother said. “As you can see, Mark treasured it.”

Mark’s classmates started to gather around us. Chuck smiled rather sheepishly and said, “I still have my list. It’s in the top drawer of my desk at home.” John’s wife said, “John asked me to put his in our wedding album.” Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. “I carry this with me at all times,” Vicki said without batting an eyelash. “I think we all saved our lists.”

That’s when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.

Jennie