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consider ...the so-called bad things may not be bad, while the so-called good things may not be so good.

The Woodcutter’s Wisdom
from “The Woodcutter’s Wisdom and Other Favorite Stories” by Max Lucado
Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all, for he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before - such was its splendor, its majesty, its strength.
People offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused. “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It is a person. How could you sell a person? He is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?” The man was poor and the temptation was great. But he never sold the horse.
One morning he found that the horse was not in the stable. All the village came to see him. “You old fool,” they scoffed, “we told you that someone would steal your horse. We warned you that you would be robbed. You are so poor. How could you ever hope to protect such a valuable animal? It would have been better to have sold him. You could have gotten whatever price you wanted. No amount would have been too high. Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”
The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgment. If I’ve been cursed or not, how can you know? How can you judge?”
The people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools! We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”
The old man spoke again. “All I know is that the stable is empty, and the horse is gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say. All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?”
The people of the village laughed. They thought that the man was crazy. They had always thought he was a fool; if he wasn’t, he would have sold the horse and lived off the money. But instead, he was a poor woodcutter, an old man still cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest and selling it. He lived hand to mouth in the misery of poverty. Now he had proven that he was, indeed, a fool.
After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into the forest. Not only had he returned, he had brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke. “Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”
The man responded, “Once again, you go too far. Say only that the horse is back. State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? You read only one page of a book. Can you judge the whole book? You read only one word of a phrase. Can you understand the entire phrase?”
“Life is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word. All you have is a fragment! Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I am content with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”
“Maybe the old man is right,” they said to one another. So they said little. But down deep, they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. Twelve wild horses had returned with one horse. With a little bit of work, the animals could be broken and trained and sold for much money.
The old man had a son, an only son. The young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days, he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs. Once again the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments. “You were right,” they said. “You proved you were right. The dozen horses were not a blessing. They were a curse. Your only son has broken his legs, and now in your old age you have no one to help you. Now you are poorer than ever.”
The old man spoke again. “You people are obsessed with judging. Don’t go so far. Say only that my son broke his legs. Who knows if it is a blessing or a curse? No one knows. We only have a fragment. Life comes in fragments.”
It so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war against a neighboring country. All the young men of the village were required to join the army. Only the son of the old man was excluded, because he was injured. Once again the people gathered around the old man, crying and screaming because their sons had been taken. There was little chance that they would return. The enemy was strong, and the war would be a losing struggle. They would never see their sons again.
“You were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it. Your son’s accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he is with you. Our sons are gone forever.”
The old man spoke again. “It is impossible to talk with you. You always draw conclusions. No one knows. Say only this: Your sons had to go to war, and mine did not. No one knows if it is a blessing or a curse. No one is wise enough to know”
from “The Woodcutter’s Wisdom and Other Favorite Stories” by Max Lucado
Once there was an old man who lived in a tiny village. Although poor, he was envied by all, for he owned a beautiful white horse. Even the king coveted his treasure. A horse like this had never been seen before - such was its splendor, its majesty, its strength.
People offered fabulous prices for the steed, but the old man always refused. “This horse is not a horse to me,” he would tell them. “It is a person. How could you sell a person? He is a friend, not a possession. How could you sell a friend?” The man was poor and the temptation was great. But he never sold the horse.
One morning he found that the horse was not in the stable. All the village came to see him. “You old fool,” they scoffed, “we told you that someone would steal your horse. We warned you that you would be robbed. You are so poor. How could you ever hope to protect such a valuable animal? It would have been better to have sold him. You could have gotten whatever price you wanted. No amount would have been too high. Now the horse is gone, and you’ve been cursed with misfortune.”
The old man responded, “Don’t speak too quickly. Say only that the horse is not in the stable. That is all we know; the rest is judgment. If I’ve been cursed or not, how can you know? How can you judge?”
The people contested, “Don’t make us out to be fools! We may not be philosophers, but great philosophy is not needed. The simple fact that your horse is gone is a curse.”
The old man spoke again. “All I know is that the stable is empty, and the horse is gone. The rest I don’t know. Whether it be a curse or a blessing, I can’t say. All we can see is a fragment. Who can say what will come next?”
The people of the village laughed. They thought that the man was crazy. They had always thought he was a fool; if he wasn’t, he would have sold the horse and lived off the money. But instead, he was a poor woodcutter, an old man still cutting firewood and dragging it out of the forest and selling it. He lived hand to mouth in the misery of poverty. Now he had proven that he was, indeed, a fool.
After fifteen days, the horse returned. He hadn’t been stolen; he had run away into the forest. Not only had he returned, he had brought a dozen wild horses with him. Once again the village people gathered around the woodcutter and spoke. “Old man, you were right and we were wrong. What we thought was a curse was a blessing. Please forgive us.”
The man responded, “Once again, you go too far. Say only that the horse is back. State only that a dozen horses returned with him, but don’t judge. How do you know if this is a blessing or not? You see only a fragment. Unless you know the whole story, how can you judge? You read only one page of a book. Can you judge the whole book? You read only one word of a phrase. Can you understand the entire phrase?”
“Life is so vast, yet you judge all of life with one page or one word. All you have is a fragment! Don’t say that this is a blessing. No one knows. I am content with what I know. I am not perturbed by what I don’t.”
“Maybe the old man is right,” they said to one another. So they said little. But down deep, they knew he was wrong. They knew it was a blessing. Twelve wild horses had returned with one horse. With a little bit of work, the animals could be broken and trained and sold for much money.
The old man had a son, an only son. The young man began to break the wild horses. After a few days, he fell from one of the horses and broke both legs. Once again the villagers gathered around the old man and cast their judgments. “You were right,” they said. “You proved you were right. The dozen horses were not a blessing. They were a curse. Your only son has broken his legs, and now in your old age you have no one to help you. Now you are poorer than ever.”
The old man spoke again. “You people are obsessed with judging. Don’t go so far. Say only that my son broke his legs. Who knows if it is a blessing or a curse? No one knows. We only have a fragment. Life comes in fragments.”
It so happened that a few weeks later the country engaged in war against a neighboring country. All the young men of the village were required to join the army. Only the son of the old man was excluded, because he was injured. Once again the people gathered around the old man, crying and screaming because their sons had been taken. There was little chance that they would return. The enemy was strong, and the war would be a losing struggle. They would never see their sons again.
“You were right, old man,” they wept. “God knows you were right. This proves it. Your son’s accident was a blessing. His legs may be broken, but at least he is with you. Our sons are gone forever.”
The old man spoke again. “It is impossible to talk with you. You always draw conclusions. No one knows. Say only this: Your sons had to go to war, and mine did not. No one knows if it is a blessing or a curse. No one is wise enough to know”
PERCEPTION - Are you noticing the world around you? Are you AWARE?

At a Washington, D.C. Metro Station on a cold January morning in 1997, the man with a violin played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, approximately 2000 people went through the station, most of them on their way to work. After 3 minutes, a middle aged man noticed there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried to meet his schedule.
4 minutes later: The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw the money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
6 minutes later: A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
10 minutes later: A 3 year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.
45 minutes later: The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money, but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
1 hour later: He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition. No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where seats averages $100.
Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception and people's priorities. The questions raised: In a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we appreciate it? Do we recognize talent when it is found in ordinary places?
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made... HOW MANY OTHER THINGS ARE WE MISSING?
4 minutes later: The violinist received his first dollar. A woman threw the money in the hat and, without stopping, continued to walk.
6 minutes later: A young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again.
10 minutes later: A 3 year old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head all the time. This action was repeated by several other children. Every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.
45 minutes later: The musician played continuously. Only 6 people stopped and listened for a short while. About 20 gave money, but continued to walk at their normal pace. The man collected a total of $32.
1 hour later: He finished playing and silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition. No one knew this, but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days before, Joshua Bell sold out a theater in Boston where seats averages $100.
Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception and people's priorities. The questions raised: In a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we appreciate it? Do we recognize talent when it is found in ordinary places?
If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made... HOW MANY OTHER THINGS ARE WE MISSING?
AFFECTIVE LITERATURE!!! For parents seeking quality literature that helps their children better understand their emotions and develop emotional intelligence look at this excellent list of books suggested by Bekah Murphy Cox from Fayetteville School District. I attended her session at the 2019 AGATE conference and was blown away! So many things you can talk about and write about after reading each book. You could even do a yearlong focus on the books or use one each week to ensure the affective component is in your classroom.

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DON'T JUDGE A BOOK BY IT'S COVER

You can judge the character of others by how they treat those who they think can do nothing for them...
A lady in a gingham dress and her husband, dressed in a homespun threadbare walked timidly, without an appointment, into the President of Harvard's outer office. The secretary could tell in a moment that such backwoods, country hicks had no business at Harvard and probably didn't even deserve to be in Cambridge. She frowned. "We want to see the president," the man said softly. "He'll be busy all day," the secretary snapped. "We'll wait," the lady replied. For hours the secretary ignored them, hoping that the couple would finally become discouraged and go away. They DIDN'T. And, the secretary grew frustrated and finally decided to disturb the president, even though it was a chore she always regretted to do. "Maybe if they just see you for a few minutes, they'll leave," she told him. He sighed in exasperation and nodded. Someone of his importance obviously didn't have the time to spend with them, but he detested gingham dresses and homespun suits cluttering up his outer office. The president, stern-faced, with dignity, strutted toward the couple. The lady told him, "We had a son that attended Harvard for one year. He loved Harvard. He was happy here. But, about a year ago he was accidentally killed. My husband and I would like to erect a memorial to him, somewhere on campus."
The president wasn't touched, he was shocked. "Madam," he said gruffly, "We can't put up a statue for every person who attended Harvard and died. If we did, this place would look like a cemetery."
"Oh, no," the lady explained quickly, "we don't want to erect a statue. We thought we would like to give a building to Harvard." The president rolled his eyes. He glanced at the gingham dress and homespun suit, then exclaimed, "A building! Do you have any earthly idea how much a building costs? We have over seven and a half million dollars in the physical plant at Harvard."
For a moment the lady went silent. The president was pleased. He could get rid of them now. The lady turned to her husband and said quietly, "Is that all it costs to start a University? Why don't we just start our own?" Her husband nodded.
The president's face wilted in confusion and bewilderment. Mr. and Mrs. Leland Stanford walked away, traveling to Palo Alto,California, where they established the University that bears their name, a memorial to a son that Harvard no longer cared about.
A lady in a gingham dress and her husband, dressed in a homespun threadbare walked timidly, without an appointment, into the President of Harvard's outer office. The secretary could tell in a moment that such backwoods, country hicks had no business at Harvard and probably didn't even deserve to be in Cambridge. She frowned. "We want to see the president," the man said softly. "He'll be busy all day," the secretary snapped. "We'll wait," the lady replied. For hours the secretary ignored them, hoping that the couple would finally become discouraged and go away. They DIDN'T. And, the secretary grew frustrated and finally decided to disturb the president, even though it was a chore she always regretted to do. "Maybe if they just see you for a few minutes, they'll leave," she told him. He sighed in exasperation and nodded. Someone of his importance obviously didn't have the time to spend with them, but he detested gingham dresses and homespun suits cluttering up his outer office. The president, stern-faced, with dignity, strutted toward the couple. The lady told him, "We had a son that attended Harvard for one year. He loved Harvard. He was happy here. But, about a year ago he was accidentally killed. My husband and I would like to erect a memorial to him, somewhere on campus."
The president wasn't touched, he was shocked. "Madam," he said gruffly, "We can't put up a statue for every person who attended Harvard and died. If we did, this place would look like a cemetery."
"Oh, no," the lady explained quickly, "we don't want to erect a statue. We thought we would like to give a building to Harvard." The president rolled his eyes. He glanced at the gingham dress and homespun suit, then exclaimed, "A building! Do you have any earthly idea how much a building costs? We have over seven and a half million dollars in the physical plant at Harvard."
For a moment the lady went silent. The president was pleased. He could get rid of them now. The lady turned to her husband and said quietly, "Is that all it costs to start a University? Why don't we just start our own?" Her husband nodded.
The president's face wilted in confusion and bewilderment. Mr. and Mrs. Leland Stanford walked away, traveling to Palo Alto,California, where they established the University that bears their name, a memorial to a son that Harvard no longer cared about.
B E L I E V E

I believe --that just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other. And just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do.
I believe --that we don't have to change friends if we understand that friends change.
I believe --that no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in awhile, and you must forgive them for that.
I believe --that you can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.
I believe --that it takes a long time to become the person you want to be.
I believe --that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you see them.
I believe --that you can keep going long after you think you can't.
I believe --that we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel.
I believe --that either you control you attitude or it controls you.
I believe --that sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you're down, will be the ones to help you get back up.
I believe --that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry, but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I believe --that maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you've had and what you've learned from them and less to do with how many birthdays you've celebrated.
I believe --that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.
I believe --that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.
I believe --that we don't have to change friends if we understand that friends change.
I believe --that no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in awhile, and you must forgive them for that.
I believe --that you can do something in an instant that will give you heartache for life.
I believe --that it takes a long time to become the person you want to be.
I believe --that you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you see them.
I believe --that you can keep going long after you think you can't.
I believe --that we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel.
I believe --that either you control you attitude or it controls you.
I believe --that sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you're down, will be the ones to help you get back up.
I believe --that sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry, but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.
I believe --that maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you've had and what you've learned from them and less to do with how many birthdays you've celebrated.
I believe --that our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.
I believe --that two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.
Understanding the DIVERSITY of the Gifted (Bertie Kingore)

Being gifted is like having a really nice car. But the environment in which you drive affects your forward momentum.
Being gifted is like having a really nice high-performance car. But the environment in which you drive impacts your
forward momentum.
Gifted children from a nurtured and enriched environment have the car with an outside accessory package. Everyone can see, admire, and serve the talents.
A gifted child from a low socioeconomic background has the car but may not have the keys to drive it yet.
Gifted children who are highly gifted prodigies have the car but may only be allowed to drive within the city limits and must
follow all the usual traffic signs such as slow, caution, speed limit, and stop.
Gifted children who underachieve have the car but they don’t drive it. It remains parked in the garage.
Gifted children in primary grades have the car but often their keys are taken away because they’re considered too young to drive.
A gifted child whose native language isn’t English has the car, but the signs and directions are in another language so she or he cannot go anywhere.
Gifted children who have ADD/ADHD have the car, but the electrical ignition system is wired differently so it stays in motion when others want it to stop.
A gifted child from a culturally diverse background has the car, but it may be covered in shrink-wrap which clouds his or her potential.
Gifted children who have physical challenges have the car but the air conditioning may be broken. The mechanics focus on fixing the air conditioning so the cars never get to be driven.
A Gifted female has the car but may not drive it for fear of what others think.
Being gifted is like having a really nice car. Our challenge as educators and parents is to become sensitive to the diversity of the gifted so their cars can
safely enter the high-speed freeway of learning.
Being gifted is like having a really nice high-performance car. But the environment in which you drive impacts your
forward momentum.
Gifted children from a nurtured and enriched environment have the car with an outside accessory package. Everyone can see, admire, and serve the talents.
A gifted child from a low socioeconomic background has the car but may not have the keys to drive it yet.
Gifted children who are highly gifted prodigies have the car but may only be allowed to drive within the city limits and must
follow all the usual traffic signs such as slow, caution, speed limit, and stop.
Gifted children who underachieve have the car but they don’t drive it. It remains parked in the garage.
Gifted children in primary grades have the car but often their keys are taken away because they’re considered too young to drive.
A gifted child whose native language isn’t English has the car, but the signs and directions are in another language so she or he cannot go anywhere.
Gifted children who have ADD/ADHD have the car, but the electrical ignition system is wired differently so it stays in motion when others want it to stop.
A gifted child from a culturally diverse background has the car, but it may be covered in shrink-wrap which clouds his or her potential.
Gifted children who have physical challenges have the car but the air conditioning may be broken. The mechanics focus on fixing the air conditioning so the cars never get to be driven.
A Gifted female has the car but may not drive it for fear of what others think.
Being gifted is like having a really nice car. Our challenge as educators and parents is to become sensitive to the diversity of the gifted so their cars can
safely enter the high-speed freeway of learning.
When problems come, sometimes it feels like you are the only one --but remember everyone has hard times and feels just the way you do when things don't go so good... you are not alone.

We are not alone...
“In the Ashes” (Noah benShea) from “Jacob the Baker”
When Jacob woke, he opened his eyes cautiously. He reassured himself by measuring his pace in each word of his morning prayer. He was anxious to get to the bakery while it was still dark, to lay his cheek on the warming oven. Nevertheless, halfway to the bakery, Jacob decided to stop at Mr. Gold’s, hoping he would be awake. Under the lamp post of a full moon, Jacob rapped gently on the shutters closeting Mr. Gold’s window. Mr. Gold heard the sound and thought he was a young man again, being called to prayers.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” he shouted to the dawn.
Jacob was touched to see memory capable of drawing Mr. Gold out of the darkness. When he saw it was Jacob, Mr. Gold motioned for his friend to come in and grew a smile for his company. Then just as quickly, Mr. Gold’s head dipped downward.
“Do you know who I am, Jacob?” He didn’t give Jacob an opportunity to speak. “I am an old man, and I am dying.”
Mr. Gold seemed to sink beneath his sadness.
“Tell me, Jacob. Is this it?” He motioned around the room. “Is there nothing more? We become attached to this life only to be torn from it like some crude joke in the stars.”
“We make life not only crude but cold,” said Jacob, “by dressing ourselves in a nakedness woven from our own ignorance.”
Then Mr. Gold spoke again from behind his sadness. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Our days amount to nothing!”
Jacob’s eyes listened without arguing or agreeing. He thought of the pain festering in Mr. Gold’s words. When Jacob spoke, his voice unfolded with the attitude of a man not filled with knowing but caring.
“Mr. Gold, all passes, nothing stops. Our days do amount to nothing, but that is because we are not a collection. We are a process. The truth about the seasons is that the seasons change. While everything appears to live and die, it is only the appearance of things which lives and dies. The dead are buried. Their memory is not.”
Mr. Gold’s voice considered Jacob’s words. “You know, Jacob, you are wise, and I am old.”
“Then you already know, Mr. Gold, that the roots of time hold both memory and promise.”
“Will you remember me, Jacob?”
“I promise, one day, I will join you, Mr. Gold.”
Mr. Gold’s laughter sounded like a trumpet and brought light to the corners of the room. Then the silence regained its balance, and the two men sat there, making music from the quiet between their notes. It was Mr. Gold who counted time and eventually spoke first.
“Jacob, where do you find the strength to carry on in life?”
“Life is often heavy only because we attempt to carry it,” said Jacob. “But, I do find a strength in the ashes.”
“In the ashes?” asked Mr. Gold.
“Yes,” said Jacob, with a confirmation that seemed to have traveled a great distance. “You see, Mr. Gold, each of us is alone. Each of us is in the great darkness of our ignorance. And, each of us is on a journey. In the process of our journey, we must bend to build a fire for light, and warmth, and food. But when our fingers tear at the ground, hoping to find the coals of another’s fire, what we often find are the ashes. And, in these ashes, which will not give us light or warmth, there may be sadness, but there is also testimony. Because these ashes tell us that somebody else has been in the night, somebody else has bent to build a fire, and somebody else has carried on. And that can be enough, sometimes.”
“In the Ashes” (Noah benShea) from “Jacob the Baker”
When Jacob woke, he opened his eyes cautiously. He reassured himself by measuring his pace in each word of his morning prayer. He was anxious to get to the bakery while it was still dark, to lay his cheek on the warming oven. Nevertheless, halfway to the bakery, Jacob decided to stop at Mr. Gold’s, hoping he would be awake. Under the lamp post of a full moon, Jacob rapped gently on the shutters closeting Mr. Gold’s window. Mr. Gold heard the sound and thought he was a young man again, being called to prayers.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” he shouted to the dawn.
Jacob was touched to see memory capable of drawing Mr. Gold out of the darkness. When he saw it was Jacob, Mr. Gold motioned for his friend to come in and grew a smile for his company. Then just as quickly, Mr. Gold’s head dipped downward.
“Do you know who I am, Jacob?” He didn’t give Jacob an opportunity to speak. “I am an old man, and I am dying.”
Mr. Gold seemed to sink beneath his sadness.
“Tell me, Jacob. Is this it?” He motioned around the room. “Is there nothing more? We become attached to this life only to be torn from it like some crude joke in the stars.”
“We make life not only crude but cold,” said Jacob, “by dressing ourselves in a nakedness woven from our own ignorance.”
Then Mr. Gold spoke again from behind his sadness. “It doesn’t make sense,” he said. “Our days amount to nothing!”
Jacob’s eyes listened without arguing or agreeing. He thought of the pain festering in Mr. Gold’s words. When Jacob spoke, his voice unfolded with the attitude of a man not filled with knowing but caring.
“Mr. Gold, all passes, nothing stops. Our days do amount to nothing, but that is because we are not a collection. We are a process. The truth about the seasons is that the seasons change. While everything appears to live and die, it is only the appearance of things which lives and dies. The dead are buried. Their memory is not.”
Mr. Gold’s voice considered Jacob’s words. “You know, Jacob, you are wise, and I am old.”
“Then you already know, Mr. Gold, that the roots of time hold both memory and promise.”
“Will you remember me, Jacob?”
“I promise, one day, I will join you, Mr. Gold.”
Mr. Gold’s laughter sounded like a trumpet and brought light to the corners of the room. Then the silence regained its balance, and the two men sat there, making music from the quiet between their notes. It was Mr. Gold who counted time and eventually spoke first.
“Jacob, where do you find the strength to carry on in life?”
“Life is often heavy only because we attempt to carry it,” said Jacob. “But, I do find a strength in the ashes.”
“In the ashes?” asked Mr. Gold.
“Yes,” said Jacob, with a confirmation that seemed to have traveled a great distance. “You see, Mr. Gold, each of us is alone. Each of us is in the great darkness of our ignorance. And, each of us is on a journey. In the process of our journey, we must bend to build a fire for light, and warmth, and food. But when our fingers tear at the ground, hoping to find the coals of another’s fire, what we often find are the ashes. And, in these ashes, which will not give us light or warmth, there may be sadness, but there is also testimony. Because these ashes tell us that somebody else has been in the night, somebody else has bent to build a fire, and somebody else has carried on. And that can be enough, sometimes.”
check out the slideshow below on DISCIPLINE STRATEGIES that have never failed me --especially my "BAG OF TRICKS!" (***update...there is a slide that shows Bill Cosby. This presentation was created before his troubling background. The slide is NOT about Cosby, but about the way he fathered as a fictional character on "The Cosby Show.")
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