It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas - oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it - overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma - the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else. Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black. These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.
As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them."
Mike loved kids - all kids - and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse. That's when the idea for his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years.
For each Christmas, I followed the tradition - one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas.
It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there. You see, we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope.....Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
May we all remember the Christmas spirit this year and always.
A basketball in Michael Jordan's hands is worth about $33 million.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A baseball in my hands is worth about $6.
A baseball in Mark McGuire's hands is worth 19 million.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A tennis racket is useless in my hands.
A tennis racket in Pete Sampras' hands is a Wimbledon Championship.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A rod in my hands will keep away a wild animal.
A rod in Moses' hands will part the mighty sea.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
A sling shot in my hands is a toy.
A sling shot in David's hands is a mighty weapon.
It depends on whose hands it's in.
Two fish and Five loaves in my hands is a couple of fish sandwiches.
Two fish and five loaves in God's hands will feed thousands.
It depends on whose hands they're in.
Nails in my hands might produce a bird house.
Nails in Jesus Christ's hands will produce salvation for the entire world.
It depends on whose hands they're in.
So put your concerns, your worries, your fears, your hopes, your dreams,
your families and your relationships in God's hands because,
It depends on whose hands they're in.
There once was a man named George Thomas, a pastor in a small New England town. One Easter Sunday morning he came to the Church carrying a rusty, bent, old birdcage, and set it by the pulpit. Several eyebrows were raised and, as if in response, Pastor Thomas began to speak.
"I was walking through town yesterday when I saw a young boy coming toward me swinging this bird cage. On the bottom of the cage were three little wild birds, shivering with cold and fright. I stopped the lad and asked, "What you got there son?"
"Just some old birds," came the reply.
"What are you gonna do with them?" I asked.
"Take 'em home and have fun with 'em," he answered. I'm gonna tease 'em and pull out their feathers to make 'em fight. I'm gonna have a real good time."
"But you'll get tired of those birds sooner or later. What will you do then?"
"Oh, I got some cats," said the little boy. "They like birds. I'll take 'em to them."
The pastor was silent for a moment. "How much do you want for those birds, son?"
"Huh?! Why, you don't want them birds, mister. They're just plain old field birds. They don't sing - they ain't even pretty!"
"How much?" the pastor asked again.
The boy sized up the pastor as if he were crazy and said, "$10?"
The pastor reached in his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill. He placed it in the boy's hand. In a flash, the boy was gone.
The pastor picked up the cage and gently carried it to the end of the alley where there was a tree and a grassy spot. Setting the cage down, he opened the door, and by softly tapping the bars persuaded the birds out, setting them free.
Well, that explained the empty bird cage on the pulpit, and then the pastor began to tell this story. One day Satan and Jesus were having a conversation. Satan had just come from the Garden of Eden, and he was gloating and boasting.
"Yes, sir, I just caught the world full of people down there. Set me a trap, used bait I knew they couldn't resist. Got 'em all!"
What are you going to do with them?" Jesus asked.
Satan replied, "Oh, I'm gonna have fun! I'm gonna teach them how to marry and divorce each other, how to hate and abuse each other, how to drink and smoke and curse. I'm gonna teach them how to invent guns and bombs and kill each other. I'm really gonna have fun!"
"And what will you do when you get done with them?" Jesus asked.
"Oh, I'll kill 'em," Satan glared proudly.
"How much do you want for them?" Jesus asked.
"Oh, you don't want those people. They ain't no good. Why, you'll take them and they'll just hate you. They'll spit on you, curse you and kill you!! You don't want those people!!"
"How much?" He asked again.
Satan looked at Jesus and sneered, "All your tears, and all your blood."
Jesus said, "Done!" Then He paid the price.
The pastor picked up the cage he opened the door and he walked from the pulpit.
Sometimes a simple Christmas carol can change a person's life.
One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back seat: "Dad," began my five-year-old son, Patrick, "how come I've never seen you cry?"
Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn't around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.
I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.
For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.
Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.
So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God's way of healing people when they're sad. "I'm glad you can cry whenever you're sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."
Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.
"I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of 'Away in a Manger' during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.
My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son's first solo.
Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."
Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.
"Okay," Patrick said. "I'll do it."
From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.
For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehersal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.
Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.
Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.
There was eternity in Patrick's voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.
His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.
After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."
As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.
I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.
He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.
"Patrick, do you remember when you asked me why you had never seen me cry?"
He nodded.
"Well, I'm crying now."
"Why, Dad?"
"Your singing was so wonderful it made me cry."
Patrick smiled proudly and flew into my arms.
"Sometimes," my son said into my shoulder, "life is so beautiful you have to cry."
Our moment together was over too soon. Untold treasures awaited our five-year-old beneath the tree at home, but I wasn't ready for the traditional plunge into Christmas just yet. I handed Catherine the keys and set off for the mile-long hike home.
The night was cold and crisp. I crossed a park and admired the full moon hanging low over a neighborhood brightly lit in the colors of the season. As I turned toward home, I met a car moving slowly down the street, a family taking in the area's Christmas lights. Someone rolled down a window.
"Merry Christmas," a child's voice yelled out to me.
"Merry Christmas," I yelled back. And the tears began to flow all over again.
I remember my first Christmas party with Grandma. I was just a kid.
I was tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.
"No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days.
'Take this money and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.
I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobbie Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobbie Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat. I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobbie." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas. That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons, and write, "To Bobbie, From Santa Claus" on it -- Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobbie Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobbie's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk. Then Grandma gave me a nudge.
"All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobbie. Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team
The men in our lives...they are always there, in the background – with a shoulder to lean on and a steady love that is too often taken for granted. Once each year, on the third Sunday in June, there is a chance to remind fathers, and the men who step in when fathers are not available, that all of their quiet efforts are appreciated.
You may think that Father's Day is a modern invention, but the truth is that a Babylonian youth named Elmesu carved the first known Father's Day card in clay nearly 4,000 years ago. His special message wished his father good health and a long life. Fortunately, modern cards are a bit easier to fit in the mail box!
Mother's Day and William Jackson Smart of Spokane, Washington were the inspiration for an official day to celebrate Father’s Day in the United States.
Mr. Smart was a widower who raised his six children after his wife died giving birth to the youngest. He was a single parent for 21 years. This may not seem amazing in the 21st century, but in the 1800s it was unheard of for a man to raise children alone...and even today being a single parent of six young children is heroic!
Smart’s daughter, Mrs. Sonora Smart-Dodd (Mrs. John Bruce Dodd), got the idea for Father’s Day in 1909 while listening to a Mother’s Day sermon at her church. She encouraged local churches to institute a Father's Day observance the following year on a Sunday in June, the month of her father’s birthday. Through her efforts, interest in the celebration of Father’s Day grew and spread to other cities, states and countries. She also encouraged wearing roses on Father's Day in honor of fathers. A red rose was worn for fathers who were still living and a white rose honored fathers who had died.
Many congressional resolutions proclaiming a national Father’s Day in the United States were introduced through the years. President Lyndon B. Johnson recognized the 3rd Sunday of June as Father's Day with a presidential proclamation in 1966, but the holiday was not really made permanent until 1972 when President Richard Nixon signed a presidential resolution that made the third Sunday in June officially Father’s Day in the United States.
Most people around the world celebrate Father's Day, but the dates to honor dads are not the same everywhere. In many countries the customs and traditions may be very different than the ones you know.
The earliest record of Father's Day was found in the ruins of Babylon. A young boy named Elmesu carved a Father's Day message on a card made out of clay nearly 4,000 years ago. He wished his Babylonian father good health and a long life.
No one knows what happened to Elmesu or his father, but the tradition of having a special day honoring fathers has continued through the years in countries all around the world.
In many countries, where the Catholic Church has had a important influence on the culture, Father's Day is celebrated on St. Joseph's Day (March 19). In recent times a secular celebration, not associated with any religion, has been celebrated in many of these countries to reflect the increased diversity of the people who live there. Some families choose one of the dates to celebrate Father's Day and ignore the other day, but some lucky dads actually get to celebrate Father's Day twice every year!
When is Father's Day where you live?
Argentina - the third Sunday in June
Australia - the first Sunday in September
Belgium - St. Joseph's Day & the second Sunday in June
Brazil - the second Sunday in August
Bulgaria - June 20
Canada - the third Sunday in June
Chile - the third Sunday in June
Denmark - the second Sunday in November
Finland - the second Sunday in November
France - the third Sunday in June
Germany - Ascension Thursday (40 days after Easter)
India - the third Sunday in June
Japan - the third Sunday in June
Lithuania - the first Sunday in June
Netherlands - the third Sunday in June
New Zealand - the first Sunday in September
Norway - the second Sunday in November
Portugal - St. Joseph's Day March 19
Spain - St. Joseph's Day March 19
Sweden - the second Sunday in November
Taiwan - August 8 ( in the Mandarin dialect of the Chinese language which many people speak in Taiwan, the numbers for this date – 8/8 – make the sound "ba ba"...and that is the same sound as the word father!)
Thailand - December 5 (This is the birthday of King Bhumibol Adulyadej)
United Kingdom - the third Sunday in June
United States - the third Sunday in June
Walk a Little Slower Daddy
"Walk a Little slower, Daddy." said a little child so small.
I'm following in your footsteps and I don't want to fall.
Sometimes your steps are very fast, sometimes they're hard to see;
So walk a little slower Daddy, for you are leading me.
Someday when I'm all grown up, You're what I want to be.
Then I will have a little child who'll want to follow me.
And I would want to lead just right, and know that I was true;
So, walk a little slower, Daddy, for I must follow you!!
- Author Unknown
You've Been Everything To Me
You've been everything to me: a father,
Teacher, playmate, model, conscience, friend.
Sometimes I'm not certain why you bother,
If your feelings on my words depend.
I know I haven't been the child I should:
Far from it, and I really can't say why.
I know exactly what I'd label good,
But in the real world something goes awry.
Underneath my actions there is love,
Gratitude, respect, and admiration.
Sometimes I don't know what I'm thinking of,
But I thank God you're in for the duration.
I'm sorry, sorry for the things I do,
But please believe I cherish Mom and you.
- Author Unknown
A Father Means
A Father means so many things...
A understanding heart,
A source of strength and of support
Right from the very start.
A constant readiness to help
In a kind and thoughtful way.
With encouragement and forgiveness
No matter what comes your way.
A special generosity and always affection, too
A Father means so many things
When he's a man like you...
- Author Unknown
A Father's Wish
I may fail to be as clever
as my neighbor down the street,
I may fail to be as wealthy
as some other men I meet,
I may never win the glory
which a lot of men have had,
But I've got to be successful
as a little fellow's dad.
There are certain dreams I cherish
which I'd like to see some true,
There are things I would accomplish
when my time of life is through,
But the task my heart is on
is to guide a little lad
And to make myself successful
as that little fellow's dad.
I may never come to glory,
I may never gather gold,
Men may list me with the failures
when my business life is told,
But if he who follows after
shall be manly, I'll be glad,
For I'll know I've been successful
as that little fellow's dad.
It's the one job that I dream of,
it's the task I think of most,
If I fail that growing youngster,
I'd have nothing else to boast;
For though wealth and fame I'd gathered,
all my future would be sad...
If I failed to be successful
as that little fellow's dad.
- Author Unknown
Father's Day Quotes
“By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong.” ~ Charles Wadsworth
“A father is a fellow who has replaced the currency in his wallet with the snapshots of his kids.”
“Those who trust us educate us.” ~ T.S. Eliot
“It is a wise father that knows his own child.” ~ William Shakespeare
“A father is a banker provided by nature.” ~ Proverb
“A man knows he is growing old because he begins to look like his father.” ~Gabriel Garcia Marquez
“My father always wanted to be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding, and the baby at every christening” ~Alice Roosevelt Longworth
“One father is enough to govern one hundred sons, but not a hundred sons one father” ~George Herbert
“It is a wise child that knows his own father” ~Homer
“A father's words are like a thermostat that sets the temperature in the house” ~Paul Lewis
We may not shower him with praise Nor mention his name in song, And sometimes it seems that we forget The joy he spreads as he goes along, But it doesn’t mean that we don’t know The wonderful role that he has had. And away down deep in every heart There’s a place that is just for Dad..... Author Unknown
A student called up his Mom one evening from his college and asked her for some money, because he was broke. His Mother said, "Sure, sweetie. I will send you some money. You also left your economics book here when you visited two weeks ago. Do you want me to send that up too?"
"Uhh, oh yeah, O.K." responded the kid.
So his Mom wrapped the book along with the checks up in a package, kissed Dad goodbye, and went to the post office to mail the money and the book. When she gets back, Dad asked, "Well, how much did you give the boy this time?"
"Oh, I wrote two checks, one for $20, and the other for $1,000."
"That's $1020!" yelled Dad, "Are you going crazy?"
"Don't worry, honey," Mom said, kissed Dad on the on top of his bald head, "I taped the $20 check to the cover of his book, but I put the $1,000 one somewhere between the pages in chapter 15!"
You will never look at a cup of coffee the same way again.
A young woman went to her mother 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 mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in 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 daughter, she asked, "Tell me what you see."
"Carrots, eggs, and coffee," she replied.
Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg.
Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, "What does it mean, mother?"
Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity: boiling water.
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 daughter. "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 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 hour is the darkest and trials are their greatest, do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?
May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.
The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes along their way. The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past; you can't go forward in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.
When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling.
Live your life so at the end, you're the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying.
Beginning today, I will no longer worry about yesterday.
It is in the past and the past will never change.
Only I can change by choosing to do so.
Beginning today, I will no longer worry about tomorrow.
Tomorrow will always be there, waiting for me to make the most of it.
But I cannot make the most of tomorrow without first making the most of today.
Beginning today, I will look in the mirror and I will see a person worthy of my respect and admiration.
This capable person looking back at me is someone I enjoy spending time with and someone I would like to get to know better.
Beginning today, I will cherish each moment of my life.
I value this gift bestowed upon me in this world and I will unselfishly share this gift with others.
I will use this gift to enhance the lives of others.
Beginning today, I will take a moment to step off the beaten path and to revel in the mysteries I encounter.
I will face challenges with courage and determination.
I will overcome what barriers there may be which hinder my quest for growth and self-improvement.
Beginning today, I will take life one day at a time, one step at a time.
Discouragement will not be allowed to taint my positive self-image, my desire to succeed or my capacity to love.
Beginning today, I walk with renewed faith in human kindness.
Regardless of what has gone before, I believe there is hope for a brighter and better future.
Beginning today, I will open my mind and my heart.
I will welcome new experiences. I will meet new people.
I will not expect perfection from myself nor anyone else: perfection does not exist in an imperfect world.
But I will applaud the attempt to overcome human foibles.
Beginning today, I am responsible for my own happiness and I will do things that make me happy....
admire the beautiful wonders of nature, listen to my favorite music, pet a kitten or a puppy, soak in a bubble bath . . .
Pleasure can be found in the most simple of gestures.
Beginning today, I will learn something new; I will try something different; I will savor all the various flavors life has to offer.
I will change what I can and the rest I will let go.
I will strive to become the best me I can possibly be.
