Tag Archives: Patience

An “Aussie” Story

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Author unknown

Years ago a hardworking man took his family from New York State to Australia to take advantage of a work opportunity there. Part of this man’s family was a handsome young son who had aspirations of joining the circus as a trapeze artist or an actor. This young fellow, biding his time until a circus job or even one as a stagehand came along, worked at the local shipyards which bordered on the worse section of town.

Walking home from work one evening this young man was attacked by five thugs who wanted to rob him. Instead of just giving up his money the young fellow resisted. However they bested him easily and proceeded to beat him to a pulp. They mashed his face with their boots, and kicked and beat his body brutally with clubs, leaving him for dead. When the police happened to find him lying in the road they assumed he was dead and called for the Morgue Wagon.

On the way to the morgue a policeman heard him gasp for air, and they immediately took him to the emergency unit at the hospital. When he was placed on a gurney a nurse remarked to her horror, that this young man no longer had a face. Each eye socket was smashed, his skull, legs, and arms fractured, his nose literally hanging from his face, all is teeth were gone, and his jaw was almost completely torn from his skull.

Although his life was spared, he spent over a year in the hospital. When he finally left, his body may have healed but his face was disgusting to look at. He was no longer the handsome youth that everyone admired.

When the young man started to look for work again he was turned down by everyone just on account of the way he looked. One potential employer suggested to him that he join the freak show at the circus as The Man Who Had No Face. And he did this for a while. He was still rejected by everyone and no one wanted to be seen in his company. He had thoughts of suicide.

This went on for five years. One day he passed a church and sought some solace there. Entering the church he encountered a priest who saw him sobbing while kneeling in a pew. The priest took pity on him and took him to the rectory where they talked at length. The priest was impressed with him to such a degree that he said that he would do everything possible for him that could be done to restore his dignity and life, if the young man would promise to be the best Catholic he could be, and trust in God’s mercy to free him from his torturous life. The young man went to Mass and communion every day, and after thanking God for saving his life, asked God to only give him peace of mind and the grace to be the best man he could ever be in His eyes.

The priest, through his personal contacts was able to secure the services of the best plastic surgeon in Australia. There would be no cost to the young man, as the doctor was the priest’s best friend. The doctor too was so impressed by the young man. Whose outlook now on life, even though he had experienced the worst, was filled with good humor and love. The surgery was a miraculous success. All the best dental work was also done for him.

The young man became everything he promised God he would be. He was also blessed with a wonderful, beautiful wife, many children, and success in an industry which would have been the furthest thing from his mind as a career, if not for the goodness of God and the love of the people who cared for him.

This he acknowledges publicly.

A Slice of Life

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Jean heaved another world-weary sigh. Tucking a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear, she frowned at the teetering tower of Christmas cards waiting to be signed. What was the point? How could she sign only one name? A “couple” required two people, and she was just one.

The legal separation from Don had left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she would skip the cards th…is year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had canceled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. Christmas was to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.

The doorbell’s insistent ring startled her. Padding to the door in her thick socks, Jean cracked it open against the frigid December night. She peered into the empty darkness of the porch. Instead of a friendly face — something she could use about now — she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the railing. From whom? she wondered. And why?

Under the bright kitchen light, she pulled out handfuls of shredded gold tinsel, feeling for a gift. Instead, her fingers plucked an envelope from the bottom. Tucked inside was a typed letter. It was a…story?

The little boy was new to the Denmark orphanage, and Christmas was drawing near, Jean read. Already caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.

From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous tree that would appear in the hall on Christmas Eve and of the scores of candles that would light its branches. He heard stories of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible each year.

The little boy’s eyes opened wide at the mere thought of all that splendor. The only Christmas tree he had ever seen was through the fogged windows of other people’s homes. There was even more, the children insisted. More? Oh, yes! Instead of the orphanage’s regular fare of gruel, they would be served fragrant stew and crusty, hot bread that special night.

Last, and best of all, the little boy learned, each of them would receive a holiday treat. He would join the line of children to get his very own….

Jean turned the page. Instead of a continuation, she was startled to read: “Everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, wouldn’t you agree? Watch for Part II.” She refolded the paper while a faint smile teased the corner of her mouth.

The next day was so busy that Jean forgot all about the story. That evening, she rushed home from work. If she hurried, she’d probably have enough time to decorate the mantle. She pulled out the box of garland, only to drop it when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she found herself looking at a red gift bag. She reached for it eagerly and pulled out the piece of paper.

…to get his very own orange, Jean read. An orange? That’s a treat? she thought incredulously.

An orange! Of his very own? Yes, the others assured him. There would be one apiece. The boy closed his eyes against the wonder of it all. A tree. Candles. A filling meal. And an orange of his very own.

He knew the smell, tangy sweet, but only the smell. He had sniffed oranges at the merchant’s stall in the marketplace. Once he had even dared to rub a single finger over the brilliant, pocked skin. He fancied for days that his hand still smelled of orange. But to taste one, to eat one? Heaven.

The story ended abruptly, but Jean didn’t mind. She knew more would follow.

The next evening, Jean waited anxiously for the sound of the doorbell. She wasn’t disappointed. This time, though, the embossed gold bag was heavier than the others had been. She tore into the envelope resting on top of the tissue paper.

Christmas Eve was all the children had been promised. The piney scent of fir competed with the aroma of lamb stew and homey yeast bread. Scores of candles diffused the room with golden halos. The boy watched in amazement as each child in turn eagerly claimed an orange and politely said “thank you.”

The line moved quickly, and he found himself in front of the towering tree and the equally imposing headmaster.

“Too bad, young man, too bad. But the count was in before you arrived. It seems there are no more oranges. Next year. Yes, next year you will receive an orange.”

Brokenhearted, the orphan raced up the stairs empty-handed to bury both his face and his tears beneath his pillow.

Wait! This wasn’t how she wanted the story to go. Jean felt the boy’s pain, his aloneness.

The boy felt a gentle tap on his back. He tried to still his sobs. The tap became more insistent until, at last, he pulled his head from under the pillow.

He smelled it before he saw it. A cloth napkin rested on the mattress. Tucked inside was a peeled orange, tangy sweet. It was made of segments saved from the others. A slice donated from each child. Together they added up to make one whole, complete fruit.

An orange of his very own.

Jean swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. From the bottom of the gift bag she pulled out an orange — a foil-covered chocolate orange–already separated into segments. And for the first time in weeks, she smiled. Really smiled.

She set about making copies of the story, wrapping individual slices of the chocolate orange. There was Mrs. Potter across the street, spending her first Christmas alone in 58 years. There was Melanie down the block, facing her second round of radiation. Her running partner, Jan, single-parenting a difficult teen. Lonely Mr. Bradford losing his eyesight, and Sue, sole care-giver to an aging mother….

A piece from her might help make one whole.

By Carol McAdoo Rehme

The Matchless Pearl

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Author Unknown

David Morse – American missionary to India – became great friends there with the pearl-diver, Rambhau. Many an evening he spent in Rambhau’s cabin reading to him from the Bible, and explaining to him God’s way of salvation.

Rambhau enjoyed listening to the Word of God, but whenever the missionary tried to get Rambhau to accept Christ as his Savior – he would shake his head and reply, “Your Christian way to heaven is too easy for me! I cannot accept it. If ever I should find admittance to heaven in that manner – I would feel like a pauper there…like a beggar who has been let in out of pity. I may be proud – but I want to deserve, I want to earn my place in heaven — and so I am going to work for it.”

Nothing the missionary could say seemed to have any effect on Rambhau’s decision, and so quite a few years slipped by. One evening, however, the missionary heard a knock on his door, and on going to open it he found Rambhau there.

“Come in, dear friend,” said Morse.

“No,” said the pearl-diver. “I want you to come with me to my house, Sahib, for a short time — I have something to show you. Please do not say ‘No’.”

“Of course I’ll come,” replied the missionary. As they neared his house, Rambhau said: “In a week’s time I start working for my place in heaven; I am leaving for Delhi — and I am going there on my knees.”

“Man, you are crazy! It’s nine hundred miles to Delhi, and the skin will break on your knees, and you will have blood-poisoning or leprosy before you get to Bombay.”

“No, I must get to Delhi,” affirmed Rambhau, “and the immortals will reward me for it! The suffering will be sweet – for it will purchase heaven for me!”

“Rambhau, my friend – you can’t. How can I bear you to do it – when Jesus Christ has suffered and died to purchase heaven for you!”

But the old man could not be moved. “You are my dearest friend on earth, Sahib Morse. Through all these years you have stood by me in sickness, in want – you have been sometimes my only friend. But even you cannot turn me from my desire to purchase eternal bliss…I must go to Delhi!”

Inside the hut Morse was seated in the very chair Rambhau had specially built for him – where on so many occasions he had read to him the Bible.

Rambhau left the room to return soon with a small but heavy English strongbox. “I have had this box for years,” said he, “and I keep only one thing in it. Now I will tell you about it, Sahib Morse. I once had a son…”

“A son! Why, Rambhau, you have never before said a word about him!”

“No, Sahib, I couldn’t.” Even as he spoke the diver’s eyes were moistened.

“Now I must tell you, for soon I will leave, and who knows whether I shall ever return? My son was a diver too. He was the best pearl diver on the coasts of India. He had the swiftest dive, the keenest eye, the strongest arm, the longest breath of any man who ever sought for pearls.

What joy he brought to me! Most pearls, as you know, have some defect or blemish only the expert can discern, but my boy always dreamed of finding the ‘perfect’ pearl – one beyond all that was ever found. One day he found it! But even when he saw it – he had been under water too long… That pearl cost him his life, for he died soon after.”

The old pearl diver bowed his head. For a moment his whole body shook, but there was no sound. “All these years,” he continued, “I have kept this pearl – but now I am going, not to return, and to you, my best friend – I am giving my pearl.”

The old man worked the combination on the strongbox and drew from it a carefully wrapped package. Gently opening the cotton, he picked up a mammoth pearl and placed it in the hand of the missionary.

It was one of the largest pearls ever found off the coast of India, and glowed with a luster and brilliance never seen in cultured pearls. It would have brought a fabulous sum in any market.

For a moment the missionary was speechless and gazed with awe. “Rambhau! What a pearl!”

Matchless pearl”That pearl, Sahib, is perfect,” replied the Indian quietly. The missionary looked up quickly with a new thought: Was not this the very opportunity and occasion he had prayed for – to make Rambhau understand the value of Christ’s sacrifice? So he said, designedly, “Rambhau, this is a wonderful pearl, an amazing pearl. Let me buy it. I would give you ten thousand dollars for it.”

“Sahib! What do you mean?”

“Well, I will give you fifteen thousand dollars for it, or if it takes more – I will work for it.”

“Sahib,” said Rambhau, stiffening his whole body, “this pearl is beyond price. No man in all the world has money enough to pay what this pearl is worth to me. On the market a million dollars could not buy it. I will not sell it to you. You may only have it as a gift.”

“No, Rambhau, I cannot accept that. As much as I want the pearl, I cannot accept it that way. Perhaps I am proud, but that is too easy. I must pay for it, or work for it…”

The old pearl-diver was stunned. “You don’t understand at all, Sahib. Don’t you see. My only son gave his life to get this pearl, and I wouldn’t sell it for any money. Its worth is in the life-blood of my son. I cannot sell this – but I can give it to you. Just accept it in token of the love I bear you.”

The missionary was choked, and for a moment could not speak. Then he gripped the hand of the old man. “Rambhau,” he said in a low voice, “don’t you see? My words are just what you have been saying to God all the time.”

The diver looked long and searchingly at the missionary, and slowly, slowly he began to understand. “God is offering you salvation as a free gift,” said the missionary. “It is so great and priceless that no man on earth can buy it. Millions of dollars are too little. No man on earth could earn it. His life would be millions of years too short. No man is good enough to deserve it. It cost God the life-blood of His only Son to make the entrance for you into heaven. In a million years, in a hundred pilgrimages, you could not earn that entrance. All you can do is to accept it as a token of God’s love for you – a sinner.

“Rambhau, of course I will accept the pearl in deep humility, praying God that I may be worthy of your love. Rambhau, won’t you accept God’s great gift of heaven, too, in deep humility, knowing it cost Him the death of His Son to offer it to you?”

Great tears were now rolling down the cheeks of the old man. The veil was beginning to lift. “Sahib, I see it now. I have believed in the doctrine of Jesus for the last two years, but I could not believe that His salvation was free. Now I understand. Some things are too priceless to be bought or earned. Sahib, I will accept His salvation!”

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son,
that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”
John 3:16

Passed Around By Man But Not Passed Over By God-Chapter 10

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I know I said Sherita was an ugly girl and that remains true. I am not saying I was all that and a bag of chips because I was not. I was just a short, thin-framed girl but I did have something that Sherita would never have — long, thick, naturally-beautiful, dark brown hair, flawless caramel-brown skin and a gorgeous smile. Yeah, yeah, she had thighs, legs and a big butt, but that is all she had going for her and I believe she already knew that. Sherita’s and my birthday came around, both were in April. Hers on April 21st and mine on the 24th but she was a year older than I.

Esther decided to take me to the doctor to get my ears pierced for my eighth birthday. I was excited that I was going to be able to wear earrings. Big Momma had purchased a cute white dress for me to wear on my special day but before I could go get my ears pierced and wear my birthday outfit, I had to get my hair washed and pressed. The only thing I did not care for was getting my hair hot combed and because my hair was long and thick it seemed like it took forever. My hair had to be done this way on a weekly basis because I had “grade N” hair, that is, nappy.

After my hair was done and gorgeous, we went to the clinic to get my ears pierced. The nurse put silver studs into both of my ears and I must say the earrings enhanced my appearance. You could not tell me anything at this point. After being blessed with my new earrings, Esther took Sherita, Pauline and me out to dinner and a movie for our birthday.

Things were not always bad around the house, but you can bet your last dollar if trouble happened, Sherita’s name was all over it. One of those bad days sure came into that house unexpectedly, a day I can never forget and I know Sherita can never forget it either.

We were on our way home from school on a warm day, when Sherita and I came across a stranger. Our school was only a block away from the house and there was a vacant lot that many of us would use as a shortcut as we went home. We were walking down the hill of this empty lot, with Sherita ahead of me, when a young man approached Sherita. She stopped and they began talking to one another.

I was looking at this young man, who I definitely knew was not near our age, but something was familiar about him. He started walking and Sherita began walking behind him as if she was following him. I started speed walking to catch up with her and asked if she knew him. She said as clear as day, “Yes, just come on” and I assumed everything was okay. But everything was far from okay.

The next thing I knew, Sherita and I were in a dark garage with this young man. He put a knife up to Sherita’s throat and told me to sit down and cover my eyes. I put my hands over my face but peeked through my fingers as he sexually assaulted Sherita. He made her take off her pants and underwear and unbutton her blouse then made her lay on that dirty ground where he assaulted her. I remember him kissing her and rubbing his hands all over her body. I could see Sherita was scared because he still had that knife at her throat. He would look over at me to see if my eyes were still covered.

I could not believe what was happening and hoped that I was not next to be touched, or worse he would kill us both. The worst report a neighborhood could hear on the nightly news was that two young girls were sexually assaulted and found dead in a garage directly across the street from their house.

After the stranger finished, he told Sherita to get dressed and for us to wait in the garage for twenty minutes after he left and that we’d better not tell anyone what he had just done. We did as we were told and came out of the garage with both of us looking to make sure he was gone as we ran across the street to the house. Sherita was crying as she told her family the horrible thing that just happened to her on our way home from school. They asked us who it was, where it happened, what happened, and so forth.

The police were called to the scene and everybody was still in shock about the news they just heard as the police questioned us about the man’s description. I can still recall how he looked as if it was yesterday.

Remember when I said I did not know him, but he looked familiar? He was about 5’7”, medium built, light-skinned complexion with red freckles and a reddish-color afro. He was just red! I know there are little sayings like all black people look alike or everybody has a twin. Whatever the case may be, he looked just like the uninvited young man who was in our apartment when my family moved into Stateway Gardens.

Hey, let’s look at this — Big Momma’s house was on 58th and LaSalle and Stateway Gardens was on 39th and State. It is not far because State Street is only two streets away from LaSalle Street. Therefore, there is a possibility that this could be the same person.

Just when I thought things could not get any worse than they already were, guess what — they did. Guess who was in the kitchen being interrogated by the family about what happened to Sherita? Can you believe they were now blaming this rape on an eight year old? They asked me, “Where were you? Why didn’t you get any help? How did you let this happen?” Excuse me? I was in tears because I could not understand why they were blaming all of this on me. Hello, I might not have been sexually assaulted but I was a victim too! And it could have been worse – we were both still alive! I can understand their anger and frustration but blaming it on the foster child was not the answer.

What hurt me most was when Sherita told her family that she did tell me to go and get help. They asked me if what she said was true, and I said the true answer was no, she did not. I kept telling them exactly what happened but they did not seem to be listening to a word I was saying. I looked at them and wondered why they were not asking Sherita who this person was that she was openly talking to, as if she knew him. What did he tell her that would cause her to follow him in the first place? I mean, he didn’t have anything in his hand that was a threat to her, so why? She was the one that was older and should have known better. Oh, believe me I was cursing them out real well in my mind. It was not my fault y’all did not teach her not to talk to strangers. Ms. Brown taught her baby girl! You can bet that man would not have gotten two words out of me, much less a damn look. But all I could do was sit there crying; wishing all of this would go away.

A couple days later, we went down to the police station to try to identify the young man. They gave Sherita and me some books that were filled with mug shots of different male individuals but unfortunately he was not in any of the books.

Eventually things died down and we moved to a courtyard apartment unit on 69th and Cornell. I cannot recall what apartment floor we resided on but I know I was now attending another school for my third grade year. This school was Parkside Elementary at 6938 South East End Avenue. I don’t remember the teacher’s name or what he or she looked like because I didn’t stay long enough to keep memory of it but for some strange reason I remember the school’s name and where we lived.

Passed Around By Man But Not Passed Over By God  Chontate Brown Copyright ©2013 All rights reserved.

Passed Around By God But Not Passed Over By God-Chapter 9

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After a few months of living in our new foster home, people began to show their true colors. Sherita and Marcus were the troublemakers of the household and Sherita was the leader. Sherita and her brother would do bad things then blame them on Raffeal and me, but mostly me. Sherita was a compulsive liar. Everything that came out of her mouth was lie and she actually believed she was telling the truth.

The first of her devious acts happened one day when we were all sitting in the living room. It was Raffeal, Marcus, Pauline, me and, of course, Sherita. Big Momma or any other adults, to my knowledge, were not there. Melanie was left in charge but she was off in her own little world. Sherita and Marcus decided they wanted to play with fire using a lighter they had found around the house. The strange thing was that I do not know whose it could have been because nobody in the house was a smoker.

They first lit paper and then it was whatever they could set on fire. I can remember this day so well because I was standing in the dining room, which was Big Momma’s room too, when they asked Raffeal if they could light the strings hanging from the legs of his cut-off blue jean shorts I don’t think he understood what they were asking him and I couldn’t believe they were serious. Before I knew it, they had set fire to one of those strings and in an instant that one thin string combusted into a big flame. My baby brother was screaming and hopping around trying to put the fire out and they were laughing at him, so I ran over to rescue him.

Luckily, he did not suffer from any burns. From that day on I hated every one of them. Sherita made us vow not to say anything about this day, but she forgot that her four-year-old sister Pauline was present when it happened.

A couple weeks later, Sherita, Pauline and I were sitting in their mother Esther’s room Pauline was chattering like any other four year old and told her mother what happened that day, not  knowing she was about to get her siblings into trouble. When Pauline finished telling the story, Esther got angry, looked at Sherita and said, “Y’all did what?” Sherita had the nerve to lie with a straight face and say I was the one who did the terrible thing to my own brother.

Before I could state my case, Esther had slapped the taste out of my mouth. I could only sit there holding my face in disbelief that this girl had just told a boldfaced lie on me and her mother believed her over me.

Another time Sherita was again playing with matches. I guess this crazy child just loved playing with fire. She was burning every dead hair she could find in an ashtray. Now if you have ever burned dead hair, you know it leaves behind a strange smell.

Again, no adult supervision in the house and Sherita was having her way as if she was at Burger King. Right after she went on her burning hair spree, guess who just happened to walk into the house but the adults.

Ethel was the first to come through the door and quickly realized that somebody had burned hair in the house. She asked Sherita and me who was burning hair and again this ugly girl lied and said I did it. My stupid self just stood there like a stick in the mud and didn’t even open my mouth to say anything. Ethel spanked my hand with a hard hairbrush and chastised me about playing with matches while Sherita just stood there smiling because she knew she had just gotten away with murder.

Passed Around By Man But Not Passed Over By God  Chontate Brown Copyright ©2013 All rights reserved.

Passed Around By God But Not Passed Over By God-Chapter 5

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This abuse was taking such a toll on my baby brother that he began to wake up in the middle of the night to raid the refrigerator. It was heartbreaking when I would wake up and notice my brother not in his bed and I would go downstairs to find him in the refrigerator eating just ketchup from the bottle. Sometimes I would sit there and let him have his way, but there were times I had to stop him just to keep him from being caught in action by Rose.

One day she did catch him eating from the fridge and I can recall running down the stairs hearing my brother screaming and crying because she is beating him but all I could do was watch him suffer. I could not protect my baby brother from this hateful person. He went from being potty trained to becoming a bed wetter. I remember she would beat him for wetting the bed and even started putting those blue, old people diapers on my baby brother. She was a true bitch indeed.

The great escape from this woman was school; a place of peace for me. I was able to eat breakfast and lunch all by myself without those dogs, I received recognition for all my hard work from my teacher and nobody at the school was tearing my spirit apart.

Yes, I was safe and secure at this place, but my facial expressions must have said something different because my teacher would ask me at times if everything was okay with me. When I would reply that everything was good, she’d get this look of discernment as if she knew that I was lying to her. I did not have any visible show-and-tell signs for her to go any further because I never gave her any problems, my hair was always combed, I wore nice clothing and shoes and I maintained excellent grades.

Ms. Johnson really looked out for me at times, like the day my class went on a field trip and Rose would not make a bag lunch for me. She made a sandwich with apricot preserves and told me to eat that. I left the house, threw that mess in the garbage and decided I just would not eat lunch that day. Ms. Johnson noticed that I did not have any lunch and asked if I brought a bag lunch for the trip. Filled with shame and trying to keep tears falling from my eyes, I said no. She had that look on her face again and kindly asked the class if they minded sharing their lunches with me. I was so embarrassed but my classmates shared their food and didn’t even tease me for not having any food.

I dreaded when school let out and the weekend came because I would have to be at that place with that woman. The craziest part of this whole ordeal was that I would actually see my cousins on my way home from school. I didn’t know at first that we were attending the same school. These were my same cousins who used to live next door to my family when we lived in the basement on the west side. They noticed me first and would stop to talk with me. I was happy to see them but would hurry to brush them off because Rose did not live far from the school so I had a limited time to get home. Sometimes knowing my cousins went to the same school that I attended and that my uncle lived not too far from the prison that I was in leaves a bitter taste in my mouth to this day.

I can imagine them running home and telling their father, who is my uncle, that they saw me. If he would have just waited for me after school and checked up on his niece, I could have told him everything. I could have told him, but instead I was left to continue receiving these senseless violent acts from this person.

Passed Around By Man But Not Passed Over By God  Chontate Brown Copyright ©2013 All rights reserved.

Carrots Eggs or Coffee

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I just had to share this great inspirational short story with you all. This story is truly for someone today!

Grandmother says… Carrots, Eggs, or Coffee; “Which are you?”
A young woman went to her grandmother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed as one problem was solved a new one arose.
Her grandmother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water. In the first, she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs and the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them sit and boil without saying a word.
In about twenty minutes she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her granddaughter, she asked, “Tell me what do you see?”
“Carrots, eggs, and coffee,” she replied.
She brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they got soft.She then asked her to take an egg and break it.
After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard-boiled egg.
Finally, she asked her to sip the coffee. The granddaughter smiled, as she tasted its rich aroma. The granddaughter then asked. “What’s the point, grandmother?”
Her grandmother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity–boiling water–but each reacted differently.
The carrot went in strong, hard and unrelenting. However after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior. But, after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened.
The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water they had changed the water.
“Which are you?” she asked her granddaughter.
“When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg, or a coffee bean?”
Think of this: Which am I?
Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity, do I wilt and become soft and lose my strength?
Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff?
Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and a hardened heart?
Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you.
When the hours are the darkest and trials are their greatest do you elevate to another level?
~Author Unknown