Embracing Our Divine Identity - Abel Cheah
Showing posts with label Touching. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Touching. Show all posts
Sunday, August 10, 2025
Tuesday, February 25, 2025
Flight Attendant Finds Boy In Airplane Bathroom . . .
It was one of the wildest workdays of my life, and trust me, as a flight attendant, I’ve seen some “stuff.” So, the plane takes off, my coworker and I do the usual safety brief, and all’s good. Then, as I’m heading back to my seat, I pass the bathroom and hear this weird noise—a kitten meowing? Instantly, I’m like, “Did someone lose their cat mid-flight?”
I knock, expecting a passenger to answer, but nothing. Curious (and low-key panicking), I open the door and nearly jump out of my skin. No kitten. Instead, a little boy is curled up on the floor, crying his eyes out. I crouch down, trying to stay calm, and say, “Whoa, buddy, you scared me! I’m Leslie. What’s your name?”
Through teary eyes, he whispers, “Ben.”
I help him up and settle him into a jump seat while I try to figure out where he’s supposed to be. But here’s the kicker: there’s no “Ben” on the passenger list. Not a single one. My brain is spinning. “Ben, where are your parents? Are you lost?” He doesn’t answer, just clutches this ratty little paper bag like it’s a lifeline.
Trying to keep it together, I ask, “Alright, Ben. Focus. What’s in the bag?”
Ben looks at me with wide eyes, then gives the most subtle shake of his head, as if he’s too afraid or too upset to open the paper bag. I don’t want to push him, so I smile gently, leaning against the wall. We’re inside the narrow galley area at this point, other passengers oblivious. They’re dozing, reading magazines, or watching the in-flight entertainment. My coworker, Carmen, catches my eye from across the aisle. She mouths, “Everything okay?” I mouth back, “No idea yet,” and gesture for her to wait.
I turn to Ben again. “Do you remember how you got on the plane?” I ask, trying to keep my voice soothing, casual, like I’m talking to my nephew. Ben just shakes his head again. My heart clenches because I can see the terror in his little face. He can’t be more than eight or nine years old. I notice he’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt and shorts. No jacket. No luggage, except the paper bag he’s clutching.
At this point, I’m thinking of possible scenarios: maybe Ben’s traveling alone with an unaccompanied minor form that got lost in the shuffle. But that doesn’t explain why he wasn’t on the passenger list. And it definitely doesn’t explain how he ended up locked in the airplane bathroom.
“Let’s head to the back galley,” I suggest, keeping my voice light. “We can talk in private. Maybe I can find you a blanket, or some juice?” Ben nods, still blinking away tears, and follows me.
Carmen meets us in the back, and I quietly explain what’s going on. She’s as baffled as I am. “Should we alert the captain?” she whispers. I nod. “But first, let’s see if we can calm him down, get some details.”
We settle Ben in one of the empty seats near the back. Carmen pulls out some crackers and juice from the service cart. “Would you like some?” she asks him softly. Ben nods, but he’s hesitant, like he’s not used to people offering him food. He takes a cracker and sips the juice.
“Ben,” I try again. “Can you tell us about your parents or anyone who brought you to the airport?” He frowns, his small hands gripping the bag. It’s crumpled and torn at the edges, like it’s been through a storm. He glances at it, then turns away, as if the memory is too painful.
After a few minutes, he finally speaks. His voice is so soft, I have to lean in to catch every word. “Mama told me to go,” he says. “She put me on the plane so I could find my aunt. Aunt Margo.”
Carmen and I exchange a look. We don’t have an Aunt Margo on the manifest either. “Do you know your aunt’s last name?” Carmen asks gently. Ben shakes his head. “We just call her Aunt Margo,” he murmurs. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s trying hard not to cry.
I place a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out, alright? Let’s start with your last name. What’s your full name?”
He sniffles. “Ben Evers.”
Carmen nods, stepping away discreetly to check the passenger list on her tablet once more. Obviously, we’ve already established he’s not listed. But maybe there’s a Margo Evers on board. My mind is spinning with a dozen scenarios, each more bizarre than the last. Did someone smuggle him onto the plane? Did he run away from home? Was this some desperate act by a mother who felt she had no other choice?
Captain Baker, our pilot, calls me up to the cockpit a few minutes later. He looks concerned. He’s a kind older man, close to retirement, who’s seen almost every situation in the sky—but a hidden child stowaway is a new one, even for him.
“We need to contact ground control and let them know,” he says. “But first, we should confirm that the child is safe and not in any immediate danger. Does he seem hurt?”
I shake my head. “He seems frightened, but he’s not injured. We don’t know how he got onboard. He says his mother told him to find his aunt, but he doesn’t know anything else.”
Captain Baker’s eyebrows knit together. “We’ll handle it. But keep him calm. Make sure he’s comfortable until we land. Then we’ll have authorities and child services waiting to help sort things out.”
My stomach churns at the thought of turning this little boy over to strangers, even if they are officials who might help. But I know it’s protocol. We can’t just drop him off like a piece of luggage. There are rules, and for good reason.
Back in the cabin, I pull Carmen aside to strategize. We decide to keep Ben’s presence as discreet as possible. While it’s certainly a major concern for us, we don’t want to alarm the other passengers or cause panic. After all, we’re still mid-flight, with a few more hours to go.
Ben is nibbling on his crackers, staring out the small window in the door of the galley. I take a seat next to him and smile. “Feel any better?” I ask softly. He gives a tiny nod.
I decide to change the subject for a bit, lighten the mood. “You know, I used to love airplanes when I was a kid. My mom said I would stare at them in the sky and imagine all the places they were going.”
Ben looks at me, curious. “You did?”
“Yeah. That’s one reason I became a flight attendant. I love traveling, meeting new people.” I pause, then add gently, “Now I get to meet surprising people like you.”
He manages the faintest flicker of a smile. That’s progress.
Carmen and I continue our normal duties, delivering drinks and snacks to the passengers, but one of us always stays near Ben. The clock feels like it’s ticking so slowly. A couple of passengers in the rear rows notice Ben, but we quietly explain it’s a “family situation,” and so far, no one pushes for details.
Eventually, Ben tugs on my sleeve. “Can I open the bag now?” he asks, voice trembling slightly, like he’s both dreading and needing to see what’s inside.
I nod. “Of course, sweetheart. It’s your bag. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
He takes a shaky breath. Carmen and I watch as he slowly peels back the top of the paper bag. Inside, there’s a stuffed animal—a small, well-worn bear missing an eye—and a folded piece of paper. Ben pulls them out carefully, placing the bear in his lap, then opens the paper. It’s a letter, written in neat cursive.
“It’s from my mom,” he says, swallowing hard. “She wrote it before we left. She told me not to read it until I was in the air.”
He reads silently for a moment, lips trembling, then holds the letter out to me. “She said… she said she can’t take care of me anymore. That she’s sick. And that Aunt Margo is in Los Angeles. She thinks Aunt Margo can help.”
Tears prick my eyes as I skim the letter. It’s short, but heartbreaking. It speaks of hospital visits, unpaid bills, and the desperate hope that a relative might offer Ben a chance at a better life. My heart squeezes with empathy. The mother must have been truly terrified and out of options to put her child on a plane alone like this.
“We’ll do everything we can to help,” I promise him, carefully folding the letter and placing it back in the bag. “Do you remember anything else about Aunt Margo? Like, does she work somewhere specific, or does she have a specific hobby or something you heard your mom mention?”
He shrugs sadly. “I just know she’s a painter. She used to paint pictures and send them to me. Mama said she lives somewhere near a beach.”
That’s not much to go on, especially in a city as sprawling as Los Angeles. But it’s something.
Eventually, Carmen and I realize we need to update Captain Baker. We quietly explain the situation, highlighting the letter, the mother’s illness, and the mysterious Aunt Margo. Captain Baker sighs, running a hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry for the child, but we have to follow procedure. The authorities will meet us at the gate.”
I return to check on Ben, whose eyes are drooping with exhaustion. It’s been an overwhelming day, and we still have about two hours until we land. I find a pillow and a small blanket for him, gently suggesting he take a nap. He looks at me with tired gratitude and closes his eyes.
Watching him sleep, I feel a surge of protective instinct. I remember my younger cousins, or the neighborhood kids I used to babysit. They all had parents or guardians to guide them, to protect them. Ben, on the other hand, is suspended in this uncertain limbo—somewhere between the mother he had to leave behind and an aunt he’s never actually met. My heart aches for him.
Thirty minutes before landing, Carmen and I gently wake Ben. He rubs his eyes, clutching the stuffed bear in his arms. “What happens now?” he asks quietly, voice trembling.
I kneel beside him. “Ben, the police and some social workers will probably meet us when we land. They’ll want to make sure you’re safe. Then we’ll figure out how to reach your aunt.”
He looks like he’s about to cry again. “I’m scared,” he admits.
I press his hand in reassurance. “I know. But you’re not alone anymore, okay? We’re going to help you.”
He nods, trying to look brave, but I see how his hands shake. Carmen grabs an extra pair of wings—the little pin we give to kids sometimes—and fastens them on his shirt. “There,” she says gently. “Now you’re part of our flight crew.”
A timid smile lights up his face. “Thanks,” he whispers.
When we land, the passengers begin to disembark. It’s a typical flurry of suitcases, overhead bins popping open, people anxious to stretch their legs. Most have no idea what has transpired in the back of the plane. Carmen stays with Ben, who’s seated quietly, the paper bag in his lap. I help direct passengers off the aircraft, my eyes occasionally flicking back to see if he’s okay.
Finally, the cabin empties. Standing by the door is Officer Rodriquez, accompanied by a short woman in a blazer—likely a social worker named Ms. Delgado. Captain Baker motions for Ben to come forward.
“Hi, Ben,” Ms. Delgado says softly, bending down to his level. “My name is Carmen Delgado, I’m here to help you. We’re going to figure out how to contact your family.”
Ben’s lip quivers, but he nods. He glances at me, and I give him a thumbs-up. “You’re in good hands,” I tell him, even though I feel nervous for him.
Before he steps off, he runs back and gives me the biggest hug. “Thank you,” he whispers into my shirt. “And thanks for the crackers.”
My heart just about melts. I pat his back gently. “Anytime, buddy. You take care.”
Over the next week, I can’t stop thinking about Ben. I ask our airline supervisor if there’s any follow-up or any information about the case, but he says those records are usually private. Normally, that would be the end of my involvement. But something about Ben’s story stays with me, gnawing at my mind. I keep wondering: Did he ever find Aunt Margo? How’s his mother doing?
I decide to do a little searching on my own time, even though it’s a long shot. I hop online, searching for any local resources that might help me find “Margo Evers” or “Margo the painter” in Los Angeles. After a few tries, I come across a local gallery listing for an artist named Margaret Evers. The gallery features a few of her paintings—seascapes of an L.A. beach. My heart leaps.
I send an email to the gallery’s general inbox, explaining, in the vaguest terms possible, that I might have information about a relative of Ms. Evers. I don’t want to reveal too much, but I do mention the boy’s name: Ben. I leave my contact info, hoping for the best.
Days pass without a response. I start to lose hope, thinking maybe it’s just a wild goose chase. But then, late one evening, I get an email:
“Hello Leslie, My name is Margaret (Margo) Evers. I received your message from the gallery. You mentioned a boy named Ben. Could you please call me? Sincerely, Margo.”
My heart thumps. Without hesitation, I dial the number. A soft-spoken woman answers. I explain the situation, from finding Ben in the airplane bathroom to the letter from his mother. Margo’s voice catches.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathes. “I… I’ve been out of touch with my sister for years. I had no idea she was this ill. I’m so worried for both of them.”
I hear the urgency and compassion in her tone, and it’s like a weight lifts off my chest. Maybe there’s hope after all.
It takes about another week of phone calls, coordinating with Ms. Delgado, and waiting for the right paperwork to go through. Finally, Margo is able to prove she’s Ben’s aunt and that she’s ready to take him in. There are background checks, a flurry of forms, and a home study to ensure she’s fit to become his guardian. It’s a stressful, complicated process, but Margo pushes through every step with unwavering dedication.
One Wednesday afternoon, I get a call from Margo. “He’s here,” she whispers, and I can hear the emotion in her voice. “The social worker brought him by an hour ago. He’s… he’s so shy. He looks scared. But he’s here.”
I blink back tears of joy. It’s the happiest news I’ve received in a long time. “That’s wonderful,” I tell her. “Thank you for letting me know.”
A couple of weeks pass, and one day, during a layover in Los Angeles, I get an unexpected invitation from Margo. She wants to thank me in person, if I’m willing. I’m a bit nervous, but also excited to see how Ben is doing. I arrive at Margo’s small bungalow near the beach, not quite sure what to expect.
The door swings open, and there’s Ben, standing in the doorway, the same stuffed bear in his arms. When he sees me, his eyes widen. “Leslie!” he yells, dropping the bear and rushing forward. He flings his arms around my waist, and I feel my heart swell with relief.
“You okay, buddy?” I ask, looking down at him. He nods furiously. “Margo is super nice. She lets me paint with her and everything!”
I step inside to meet Margo, a slender woman with paint-spattered overalls and a warm smile. She thanks me over and over, offering me tea and cookies. We sit in her small living room, the walls adorned with bright paintings of palm trees and waves. I see a new one drying on an easel—two figures standing together at sunset. Even without knowing, I can sense it’s her tribute to Ben and his mother.
“How’s your sister?” I ask gently.
Margo’s smile falters. “She’s in the hospital. It’s serious. But I’m in contact with her doctors. I’m trying to arrange to visit soon, maybe take Ben if it’s allowed. She did the best she could, given her circumstances. And now, I’ll do the best I can for him.”
Ben comes over, sitting next to me on the couch. He takes my hand. “Thank you for finding me in the bathroom,” he jokes, though his eyes shine with tears he’s trying to hold back. “I was so scared. You helped me.”
I muss his hair softly. “I just did what anyone would do. You’re one brave kid, Ben.”
We sit like that for a while, talking about everything and nothing, the weight of the past month melting into a gentle sense of relief. Ben is safe. He’s with family. There’s still a challenging road ahead for everyone—his mother’s illness, the legalities—but in this moment, there’s hope.
Before I leave, Ben presses a folded paper into my hand. “Open it later,” he whispers. I tuck it into my jacket pocket and give him a final hug.
Back at my hotel that evening, I remember the note. Inside, there’s a crayon drawing of an airplane, a flight attendant figure (me, presumably, with an oversized smile), and a little boy labeled “Ben” in big, blocky letters. The words at the bottom read: “Thank you for not giving up on me.”
I sit there for a long time, holding that drawing. Tears blur my vision, but it’s the good kind of tears. The whole experience reminds me that sometimes, when we least expect it, life throws us a situation that tests our empathy and compassion. We just have to be willing to respond with an open heart.
A few months later, I hear from Margo that Ben is attending a local school, slowly adapting to his new life, and even showing interest in painting. His mother remains in treatment, but there’s a glimmer of hope she’ll recover enough to be part of his life one day. It won’t be easy, but at least now they have a support system.
When I look back on that day I found Ben in the airplane bathroom, I realize just how important small acts of kindness can be. Whether it’s a pack of crackers and juice, a comforting word, or going the extra mile to make a phone call—every gesture has the power to change someone’s life.
Sometimes, the people who need help the most are the ones who are the hardest to notice. It would have been easy to dismiss the odd sound in the lavatory as “just another weird noise.” But taking that moment to check, to care, led to a child finding a safe home and a second chance. Compassion isn’t always about doing something grand; it’s about being willing to extend a hand when nobody else will.
Thank you for reading this story and following along on Ben’s journey. If it touched your heart in any way, please share it with someone who might need a little hope and encouragement today. And don’t forget to like this post—it helps us spread more stories of kindness and connection. We all need a reminder that even in the most unexpected places, a little empathy goes a long way.
I knock, expecting a passenger to answer, but nothing. Curious (and low-key panicking), I open the door and nearly jump out of my skin. No kitten. Instead, a little boy is curled up on the floor, crying his eyes out. I crouch down, trying to stay calm, and say, “Whoa, buddy, you scared me! I’m Leslie. What’s your name?”
Through teary eyes, he whispers, “Ben.”
I help him up and settle him into a jump seat while I try to figure out where he’s supposed to be. But here’s the kicker: there’s no “Ben” on the passenger list. Not a single one. My brain is spinning. “Ben, where are your parents? Are you lost?” He doesn’t answer, just clutches this ratty little paper bag like it’s a lifeline.
Trying to keep it together, I ask, “Alright, Ben. Focus. What’s in the bag?”
Ben looks at me with wide eyes, then gives the most subtle shake of his head, as if he’s too afraid or too upset to open the paper bag. I don’t want to push him, so I smile gently, leaning against the wall. We’re inside the narrow galley area at this point, other passengers oblivious. They’re dozing, reading magazines, or watching the in-flight entertainment. My coworker, Carmen, catches my eye from across the aisle. She mouths, “Everything okay?” I mouth back, “No idea yet,” and gesture for her to wait.
I turn to Ben again. “Do you remember how you got on the plane?” I ask, trying to keep my voice soothing, casual, like I’m talking to my nephew. Ben just shakes his head again. My heart clenches because I can see the terror in his little face. He can’t be more than eight or nine years old. I notice he’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt and shorts. No jacket. No luggage, except the paper bag he’s clutching.
At this point, I’m thinking of possible scenarios: maybe Ben’s traveling alone with an unaccompanied minor form that got lost in the shuffle. But that doesn’t explain why he wasn’t on the passenger list. And it definitely doesn’t explain how he ended up locked in the airplane bathroom.
“Let’s head to the back galley,” I suggest, keeping my voice light. “We can talk in private. Maybe I can find you a blanket, or some juice?” Ben nods, still blinking away tears, and follows me.
Carmen meets us in the back, and I quietly explain what’s going on. She’s as baffled as I am. “Should we alert the captain?” she whispers. I nod. “But first, let’s see if we can calm him down, get some details.”
We settle Ben in one of the empty seats near the back. Carmen pulls out some crackers and juice from the service cart. “Would you like some?” she asks him softly. Ben nods, but he’s hesitant, like he’s not used to people offering him food. He takes a cracker and sips the juice.
“Ben,” I try again. “Can you tell us about your parents or anyone who brought you to the airport?” He frowns, his small hands gripping the bag. It’s crumpled and torn at the edges, like it’s been through a storm. He glances at it, then turns away, as if the memory is too painful.
After a few minutes, he finally speaks. His voice is so soft, I have to lean in to catch every word. “Mama told me to go,” he says. “She put me on the plane so I could find my aunt. Aunt Margo.”
Carmen and I exchange a look. We don’t have an Aunt Margo on the manifest either. “Do you know your aunt’s last name?” Carmen asks gently. Ben shakes his head. “We just call her Aunt Margo,” he murmurs. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s trying hard not to cry.
I place a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out, alright? Let’s start with your last name. What’s your full name?”
He sniffles. “Ben Evers.”
Carmen nods, stepping away discreetly to check the passenger list on her tablet once more. Obviously, we’ve already established he’s not listed. But maybe there’s a Margo Evers on board. My mind is spinning with a dozen scenarios, each more bizarre than the last. Did someone smuggle him onto the plane? Did he run away from home? Was this some desperate act by a mother who felt she had no other choice?
Captain Baker, our pilot, calls me up to the cockpit a few minutes later. He looks concerned. He’s a kind older man, close to retirement, who’s seen almost every situation in the sky—but a hidden child stowaway is a new one, even for him.
“We need to contact ground control and let them know,” he says. “But first, we should confirm that the child is safe and not in any immediate danger. Does he seem hurt?”
I shake my head. “He seems frightened, but he’s not injured. We don’t know how he got onboard. He says his mother told him to find his aunt, but he doesn’t know anything else.”
Captain Baker’s eyebrows knit together. “We’ll handle it. But keep him calm. Make sure he’s comfortable until we land. Then we’ll have authorities and child services waiting to help sort things out.”
My stomach churns at the thought of turning this little boy over to strangers, even if they are officials who might help. But I know it’s protocol. We can’t just drop him off like a piece of luggage. There are rules, and for good reason.
Back in the cabin, I pull Carmen aside to strategize. We decide to keep Ben’s presence as discreet as possible. While it’s certainly a major concern for us, we don’t want to alarm the other passengers or cause panic. After all, we’re still mid-flight, with a few more hours to go.
Ben is nibbling on his crackers, staring out the small window in the door of the galley. I take a seat next to him and smile. “Feel any better?” I ask softly. He gives a tiny nod.
I decide to change the subject for a bit, lighten the mood. “You know, I used to love airplanes when I was a kid. My mom said I would stare at them in the sky and imagine all the places they were going.”
Ben looks at me, curious. “You did?”
“Yeah. That’s one reason I became a flight attendant. I love traveling, meeting new people.” I pause, then add gently, “Now I get to meet surprising people like you.”
He manages the faintest flicker of a smile. That’s progress.
Carmen and I continue our normal duties, delivering drinks and snacks to the passengers, but one of us always stays near Ben. The clock feels like it’s ticking so slowly. A couple of passengers in the rear rows notice Ben, but we quietly explain it’s a “family situation,” and so far, no one pushes for details.
Eventually, Ben tugs on my sleeve. “Can I open the bag now?” he asks, voice trembling slightly, like he’s both dreading and needing to see what’s inside.
I nod. “Of course, sweetheart. It’s your bag. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
He takes a shaky breath. Carmen and I watch as he slowly peels back the top of the paper bag. Inside, there’s a stuffed animal—a small, well-worn bear missing an eye—and a folded piece of paper. Ben pulls them out carefully, placing the bear in his lap, then opens the paper. It’s a letter, written in neat cursive.
“It’s from my mom,” he says, swallowing hard. “She wrote it before we left. She told me not to read it until I was in the air.”
He reads silently for a moment, lips trembling, then holds the letter out to me. “She said… she said she can’t take care of me anymore. That she’s sick. And that Aunt Margo is in Los Angeles. She thinks Aunt Margo can help.”
Tears prick my eyes as I skim the letter. It’s short, but heartbreaking. It speaks of hospital visits, unpaid bills, and the desperate hope that a relative might offer Ben a chance at a better life. My heart squeezes with empathy. The mother must have been truly terrified and out of options to put her child on a plane alone like this.
“We’ll do everything we can to help,” I promise him, carefully folding the letter and placing it back in the bag. “Do you remember anything else about Aunt Margo? Like, does she work somewhere specific, or does she have a specific hobby or something you heard your mom mention?”
He shrugs sadly. “I just know she’s a painter. She used to paint pictures and send them to me. Mama said she lives somewhere near a beach.”
That’s not much to go on, especially in a city as sprawling as Los Angeles. But it’s something.
Eventually, Carmen and I realize we need to update Captain Baker. We quietly explain the situation, highlighting the letter, the mother’s illness, and the mysterious Aunt Margo. Captain Baker sighs, running a hand across his forehead. “I’m sorry for the child, but we have to follow procedure. The authorities will meet us at the gate.”
I return to check on Ben, whose eyes are drooping with exhaustion. It’s been an overwhelming day, and we still have about two hours until we land. I find a pillow and a small blanket for him, gently suggesting he take a nap. He looks at me with tired gratitude and closes his eyes.
Watching him sleep, I feel a surge of protective instinct. I remember my younger cousins, or the neighborhood kids I used to babysit. They all had parents or guardians to guide them, to protect them. Ben, on the other hand, is suspended in this uncertain limbo—somewhere between the mother he had to leave behind and an aunt he’s never actually met. My heart aches for him.
Thirty minutes before landing, Carmen and I gently wake Ben. He rubs his eyes, clutching the stuffed bear in his arms. “What happens now?” he asks quietly, voice trembling.
I kneel beside him. “Ben, the police and some social workers will probably meet us when we land. They’ll want to make sure you’re safe. Then we’ll figure out how to reach your aunt.”
He looks like he’s about to cry again. “I’m scared,” he admits.
I press his hand in reassurance. “I know. But you’re not alone anymore, okay? We’re going to help you.”
He nods, trying to look brave, but I see how his hands shake. Carmen grabs an extra pair of wings—the little pin we give to kids sometimes—and fastens them on his shirt. “There,” she says gently. “Now you’re part of our flight crew.”
A timid smile lights up his face. “Thanks,” he whispers.
When we land, the passengers begin to disembark. It’s a typical flurry of suitcases, overhead bins popping open, people anxious to stretch their legs. Most have no idea what has transpired in the back of the plane. Carmen stays with Ben, who’s seated quietly, the paper bag in his lap. I help direct passengers off the aircraft, my eyes occasionally flicking back to see if he’s okay.
Finally, the cabin empties. Standing by the door is Officer Rodriquez, accompanied by a short woman in a blazer—likely a social worker named Ms. Delgado. Captain Baker motions for Ben to come forward.
“Hi, Ben,” Ms. Delgado says softly, bending down to his level. “My name is Carmen Delgado, I’m here to help you. We’re going to figure out how to contact your family.”
Ben’s lip quivers, but he nods. He glances at me, and I give him a thumbs-up. “You’re in good hands,” I tell him, even though I feel nervous for him.
Before he steps off, he runs back and gives me the biggest hug. “Thank you,” he whispers into my shirt. “And thanks for the crackers.”
My heart just about melts. I pat his back gently. “Anytime, buddy. You take care.”
Over the next week, I can’t stop thinking about Ben. I ask our airline supervisor if there’s any follow-up or any information about the case, but he says those records are usually private. Normally, that would be the end of my involvement. But something about Ben’s story stays with me, gnawing at my mind. I keep wondering: Did he ever find Aunt Margo? How’s his mother doing?
I decide to do a little searching on my own time, even though it’s a long shot. I hop online, searching for any local resources that might help me find “Margo Evers” or “Margo the painter” in Los Angeles. After a few tries, I come across a local gallery listing for an artist named Margaret Evers. The gallery features a few of her paintings—seascapes of an L.A. beach. My heart leaps.
I send an email to the gallery’s general inbox, explaining, in the vaguest terms possible, that I might have information about a relative of Ms. Evers. I don’t want to reveal too much, but I do mention the boy’s name: Ben. I leave my contact info, hoping for the best.
Days pass without a response. I start to lose hope, thinking maybe it’s just a wild goose chase. But then, late one evening, I get an email:
“Hello Leslie, My name is Margaret (Margo) Evers. I received your message from the gallery. You mentioned a boy named Ben. Could you please call me? Sincerely, Margo.”
My heart thumps. Without hesitation, I dial the number. A soft-spoken woman answers. I explain the situation, from finding Ben in the airplane bathroom to the letter from his mother. Margo’s voice catches.
“Oh my goodness,” she breathes. “I… I’ve been out of touch with my sister for years. I had no idea she was this ill. I’m so worried for both of them.”
I hear the urgency and compassion in her tone, and it’s like a weight lifts off my chest. Maybe there’s hope after all.
It takes about another week of phone calls, coordinating with Ms. Delgado, and waiting for the right paperwork to go through. Finally, Margo is able to prove she’s Ben’s aunt and that she’s ready to take him in. There are background checks, a flurry of forms, and a home study to ensure she’s fit to become his guardian. It’s a stressful, complicated process, but Margo pushes through every step with unwavering dedication.
One Wednesday afternoon, I get a call from Margo. “He’s here,” she whispers, and I can hear the emotion in her voice. “The social worker brought him by an hour ago. He’s… he’s so shy. He looks scared. But he’s here.”
I blink back tears of joy. It’s the happiest news I’ve received in a long time. “That’s wonderful,” I tell her. “Thank you for letting me know.”
A couple of weeks pass, and one day, during a layover in Los Angeles, I get an unexpected invitation from Margo. She wants to thank me in person, if I’m willing. I’m a bit nervous, but also excited to see how Ben is doing. I arrive at Margo’s small bungalow near the beach, not quite sure what to expect.
The door swings open, and there’s Ben, standing in the doorway, the same stuffed bear in his arms. When he sees me, his eyes widen. “Leslie!” he yells, dropping the bear and rushing forward. He flings his arms around my waist, and I feel my heart swell with relief.
“You okay, buddy?” I ask, looking down at him. He nods furiously. “Margo is super nice. She lets me paint with her and everything!”
I step inside to meet Margo, a slender woman with paint-spattered overalls and a warm smile. She thanks me over and over, offering me tea and cookies. We sit in her small living room, the walls adorned with bright paintings of palm trees and waves. I see a new one drying on an easel—two figures standing together at sunset. Even without knowing, I can sense it’s her tribute to Ben and his mother.
“How’s your sister?” I ask gently.
Margo’s smile falters. “She’s in the hospital. It’s serious. But I’m in contact with her doctors. I’m trying to arrange to visit soon, maybe take Ben if it’s allowed. She did the best she could, given her circumstances. And now, I’ll do the best I can for him.”
Ben comes over, sitting next to me on the couch. He takes my hand. “Thank you for finding me in the bathroom,” he jokes, though his eyes shine with tears he’s trying to hold back. “I was so scared. You helped me.”
I muss his hair softly. “I just did what anyone would do. You’re one brave kid, Ben.”
We sit like that for a while, talking about everything and nothing, the weight of the past month melting into a gentle sense of relief. Ben is safe. He’s with family. There’s still a challenging road ahead for everyone—his mother’s illness, the legalities—but in this moment, there’s hope.
Before I leave, Ben presses a folded paper into my hand. “Open it later,” he whispers. I tuck it into my jacket pocket and give him a final hug.
Back at my hotel that evening, I remember the note. Inside, there’s a crayon drawing of an airplane, a flight attendant figure (me, presumably, with an oversized smile), and a little boy labeled “Ben” in big, blocky letters. The words at the bottom read: “Thank you for not giving up on me.”
I sit there for a long time, holding that drawing. Tears blur my vision, but it’s the good kind of tears. The whole experience reminds me that sometimes, when we least expect it, life throws us a situation that tests our empathy and compassion. We just have to be willing to respond with an open heart.
A few months later, I hear from Margo that Ben is attending a local school, slowly adapting to his new life, and even showing interest in painting. His mother remains in treatment, but there’s a glimmer of hope she’ll recover enough to be part of his life one day. It won’t be easy, but at least now they have a support system.
When I look back on that day I found Ben in the airplane bathroom, I realize just how important small acts of kindness can be. Whether it’s a pack of crackers and juice, a comforting word, or going the extra mile to make a phone call—every gesture has the power to change someone’s life.
Sometimes, the people who need help the most are the ones who are the hardest to notice. It would have been easy to dismiss the odd sound in the lavatory as “just another weird noise.” But taking that moment to check, to care, led to a child finding a safe home and a second chance. Compassion isn’t always about doing something grand; it’s about being willing to extend a hand when nobody else will.
Thank you for reading this story and following along on Ben’s journey. If it touched your heart in any way, please share it with someone who might need a little hope and encouragement today. And don’t forget to like this post—it helps us spread more stories of kindness and connection. We all need a reminder that even in the most unexpected places, a little empathy goes a long way.
Very unfortunately, this story does not come with a date or year
Monday, December 23, 2024
90 Year Olds Asked - What Advice Would You Give Your 32 Year Old Self -
Instagram post by Sahil Bloom
Today is my 32nd birthday.
Over the last month, I asked several 80-year-olds what advice they would give their 32 year-old selves.
Here's the life advice everyone needs to hear:
1. Now and then, break out the fancy china and drink the good wine for no reason at all.
2. Dance at weddings until your feet are sore.
3. Tell your partner you love them every night before falling asleep. Someday you'll find the other side of the bed empty and wish you could.
4. Don't fear sadness, as it tends to sit right next to love.
5. Treat your body like a house you have to live in for another 70 years.
6. Never raise your voice, except for at a ballgame.
7. Do one good deed every single day, but never tell anyone about it.
8. Time doesn't heal anything when it comes to relationships. Don't delay difficult conversations.
9. Find the things that make your eyes light up. Do more of those.
10. Always remind yourself that your track record for making it through your bad days is perfect!
11. If something has a minor issue, repair it. Minor issues become major issues over time. Applies equally to love, friendship, health, and home.
12. The most damning lie you can tell is the lie you tell to yourself.
13. No one has ever argues their way to happiness.
14. If you're going to lose a fight, make sure the other person things twice before fighting you again.
15. Getting old is not picnic, but it's much better than the alternative.
16. You may occasionally disappoint others, but make sure to never disappoint yourself.
17. Never let a good friendship atrophy. Send the text, make the call, plan the trip. Good friendships must be treasured.
18. When you meet someone, look them in the eye, give a firm handshake, and call them by their name.
19. Give everybody a second change, but never a third.
20. The "good old days" are always happening right now.
21. Whenever you hug someone, make sure they are the one to let go first.
22. If it's raining on a warm summer evening, do outside and dance in it.
23. Taking no risk is the biggest risk you can take. Regret from inaction is always more painful than regret from action.
24. It doesn't have to be perfect for it to be wonderful.
25. When in doubt, love. We can always use more love.
26. Looking presentable is a matter of self-respect.
27. When you're feeling down, smile at yourself in the mirror for a full minute.
28. Travel as much as you can. Collect one token from every trip to remember it by.
29. If there's something bothering you, ask yourself whether it will matter in one month. If not, let it go right now.
30. Stop trying to change people who don't want to be changed.
31. You may win the argument, but if you lose the friend, what was the point?
32. Stubborn pride is the downfall of many men and women. Learn to forget the slight hurts and avoid grudges.
33. Do one thing that challenges your mind every single day. A Crossword puzzle, math problem, anything. Daily "exercise" will keep your mind sharp for the long haul.
34. If something isn't working and your gut tells you to try harder, first ask whether there's just an easier way to do it.
35. Allow your kids to fail. You will hate it, but it's so important.
36. There's nothing wrong with shedding old relationships as you grow and change.
37. No amount of money is ever worth trading for your peace of mind.
38. If you kid wants to dance in line at the store, join them.
39. Smile and say good morning to strangers on the street.
40. Laugh loudly and unapologetically whenever you feel like it.
Wednesday, August 28, 2024
BEST ACCEPTANCE SPEECH EVER!!
THE EMMY'S
Throughout his career Fred Rogers, both on television and off, emphasized the importance of creating a peaceful environment, and world where all children could grow and learn. "Our goal as a nation must be to make sure that no child is denied the chance to grow in knowledge and character from their very first years," Rogers said at a White House gathering for Early Childhood Initiative, a program for promoting literacy.
"In Mister Rogers' Neighborhood, every child is welcome into the world of learning -- not just a few, not just ones from certain neighborhoods, but every child."
Rogers was the recipient of two Peabody Awards, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation's highest civilian award, and four Emmy Awards, including the Lifetime Achievement Award, which was bestowed to him in 1997. Rogers, known for always taking the time to remember, reminded the audience that night that thoughtful expression should be followed by thoughtful reflection. As a reminder, below is Mr. Rogers' acceptance speech.
"So many people have helped me to come here to this night. Some of you are here, some are far away and some are even in Heaven. All of us have special ones who loved us into being. Would you just take, along with me, 10 seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are, those who cared about you and wanted what was best for you in life. 10 seconds, I'll watch the time. Whomever you've been thinking about, how pleased they must be to know the difference you feel they have made. You know they're kind of people television does well to offer our world. Special thanks to my family, my friends, and my co-workers in Public Broadcasting and Family Communications, and to this Academy for encouraging me, allowing me, all these years to be your neighbor. May God be with you. Thank you very much."
A library of an astonishing 900 Mister Rogers' Neighborhood episodes will continue to be available for broadcast on PBS stations around the country.
Monday, July 29, 2024
Finding Your Own HAPPINESS!!
Wonderful story below - watch a fellow share how this story changed his entire outlook on happiness -
She then asked them to find the balloon with their name on it, but none of them could.
She then asked them to take the first balloon they found and give it to the person whose name was on it. They completed the task in seconds.
The teacher concluded:
The balloons represent your happiness. Search for your own happiness and you may not find it, but help others find theirs, and you will find yours too.
Same video on instagram - not sure why - link will direct you to a new link.
Monday, March 18, 2024
I Gave You My All
By Joanne Boyle
I gave you my eyes,
so that you can see,
that each piece of you,
is a piece of me.
I gave you my heart,
so that you can know.
I am with you,
wherever you go.
I gave you my voice,
so that you can speak,
and say how you feel
each day of the week.
I gave you all of my pieces,
but you fill each hole.
You are My Child.
My Heart and Soul.
You can find the author
PAUL HARVEY'S LETTER TO HIS GRANDCHILDREN
I'd really like for them to know about hand me down clothes and homemade ice cream and leftover meat loaf sandwiches. I really would.
I hope you learn humility by being humiliated, and that you learn honesty by being cheated.
I hope you learn to make your own bed and mow the lawn and wash the car.
And I really hope nobody gives you a brand new car when you are sixteen.
It will be good if at least one time you can see puppies born and your old dog put to sleep.
I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.
I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother/sister. And it's all right if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room, but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he's scared, I hope you let him.
When you want to see a movie and your little brother/sister wants to tag along, I hope you'll let him/her.
I hope you have to walk uphill to school with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely.
On rainy days when you have to catch a ride, I hope you don't ask your driver to drop you two blocks away so you won't be seen riding with someone as uncool as your Mom.
If you want a slingshot, I hope your Dad teaches you how to make one instead of buying one.
I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books.
When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head.
I hope you get teased by your friends when you have your first crush on a boy / girl, and when you talk back to your mother that you learn what ivory soap tastes like.
May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on a stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.
I don't care if you try a beer once, but I hope you don't like it... And if a friend offers you dope or a joint, I hope you realize he/she is not your friend.
I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your Grandma/Grandpa and go fishing with your Uncle.
May you feel sorrow at a funeral and joy during the holidays.
I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through your neighbor's window and that she hugs you and kisses you at Christmas time when you give her a plaster mold of your hand.
These things I wish for you - tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness. To me, it's the only way to appreciate life.
Saturday, March 16, 2024
The Visitor
by Ken Merrell
When I was 18, as I was preparing to serve a mission for my church, my bishop called me to teach the 3 year old class. I had never before learned to love others more than myself until I had served those children in such a simple assignment. With time and patience I learned how to keep those seven children in their seats and listening to a simple lesson.
One day I invited Mike to come to church and sit in my class. Mike was my age but had stopped attending church completely by the time he was 12. We had remained friends over the years as I had served as a helper for the kids my age. He had been the topic of many fellowshipping discussions and was often part of my prayers as the years had passed. Once in a while Mike would accept my invitations to come to an activity. It always surprised me when he did, so I kept inviting him.
At that time, Mike had long, black hair and a beard. His complexion was dark and pleasant. I don’t remember when I invited him to my Primary class, but one day he showed up.
“Class, I would like to introduce you to my friend Mike,” is how I began my lesson. “He is visiting us today.”
Mike sat next to me in front. The children sat in a semicircle with their eyes fixed on him. They were much quieter than usual. I was about five or six minutes into the lesson when one little boy got up from his chair and walked across the room and stood directly in front of my friend. The boy paused for a moment and then climbed onto his lap. I continued with the lesson as I watched the two of them from the corner of my eye.
The boy sat looking into Mike’s face. Mike was quite uncomfortable but did not interrupt the lesson or turn the boy away. The other children watched the two of them for a few minutes.
Then one of the girls climbed off her seat and approached Mike. I was intently interested in seeing how Mike would react and did not want to instruct the two children to return to their seats. The girl stood with her hand on Mike’s knee looking into his face.
Then it happened. The boy on Mike’s lap reached up with both hands and turned Mike’s face directly to his. I stopped my lesson to see what was about to unfold.
With the innocence of a child, he said to Mike, “Are you Jesus?”
The look on Mike’s face was total surprise. It seemed, as I glanced at the children’s faces, they all had the same question on their minds.
Mike looked at me as if to say, Help, what do I say?
I stepped in. “No, this is not Jesus. This is His brother.”
Mike looked at me as if in shock.
Then without hesitation the boy in Mike’s lap reached up and wrapped his arms around Mike’s neck. “I can tell,” the boy said as he hugged Mike.
The rest of the children smiled and nodded in agreement as their simple question was answered. Mike blinked back the tears in response to the love he felt from this small child. The lesson went on, but that day the teacher who taught the most was a three-year-old child.
Mike spent more than a year getting ready to serve a mission. It thrilled me to learn that he left for the mission field a few months before I returned. I still think of the scripture in Matthew 18:5:
“And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.”
This story is slightly modified - find original story HERE
May 2000
Saturday, March 9, 2024
Do Not Lose Your Good Heart . . .
A man saw a snake being burned to death and decided to take it out of the fire. When he did, the snake bit him causing excruciating pain. The man dropped the snake, and the reptile fell right back into the fire.
So, the man looked around and found a metal pole and used it to take the snake out of the fire, saving its life.
Someone who was watching approached the man and said: “That snake bit you. Why are you still trying to save it?”
The man replied: “The nature of the snake is to bite, but that's not going to change my nature, which is to help.”
Do not change your nature simply because someone harms you. Do not lose your good heart, but learn to take precautions
Tuesday, February 20, 2024
Old Eddie - "A Funny Old Duck"??
Capt. E.V. “Eddie” Rickenbacker wearing the
Congressional Medal of Honor.
(U.S. Air Force photo)
Old Ed came strolling along the beach to his favorite pier. Clutched in his bony hand was a bucket of shrimp. Ed walks out to the end of the pier, where it seems he almost has the world to himself. The glow of the sun is a golden bronze now.
Everybody's gone, except for a few joggers on the beach. Standing out on the end of the pier, Ed is alone with his thoughts...and his bucket of shrimp.
Before long, however, he is no longer alone. Up in the sky a thousand white dots come screeching and squawking, winging their way toward that lanky frame standing there on the end of the pier. Before long, dozens of seagulls enveloped him, their wings fluttering and flapping wildly.
Ed stands there tossing shrimp to the hungry birds. As he does, if you listen closely, you can hear him say with a smile, 'Thank you. Thank you.'
In a few short minutes the bucket is empty. But Ed doesn't leave. He stands there lost in thought, as though transported to another time and place .
When he finally turns around and begins to walk back toward the beach, a few of the birds hop along the pier with him until he gets to the stairs, and then they, too, fly away.
And old Ed quietly makes his way down to the end of the beach and on home.
If you were sitting there on the pier with your fishing line in the water, Ed might seem like 'a funny old duck,' as my dad used to say. Or, to onlookers, he's just another old codger, lost in his own weird world, feeding the seagulls with a bucket full of shrimp. To the onlooker, rituals can look either very strange or very empty. They can seem altogether unimportant .....maybe even a lot of nonsense.
Old folks often do strange things, at least in the eyes of Boomers and Millennials. Most of them would probably write Old Ed off, down there in Florida ... That's too bad. They'd do well to know him better.
His full name: Eddie Rickenbacker. He was a famous hero in World War I, and then he was in WWII.
On one of his flying missions across the Pacific, he and his seven-member crew went down. Miraculously, all of the men survived, crawled out of their plane, and climbed into a life raft.
Captain Rickenbacker and his crew floated for days on the rough waters of the Pacific. They fought the sun. They fought sharks. Most of all, they fought hunger and thirst. By the eighth day their rations ran out. No food. No water. They were hundreds of miles from land and no one knew where they were or even if they were alive.
Every day across America millions wondered and prayed that Eddie Rickenbacker might somehow be found alive. The men adrift needed a miracle. That afternoon they had a simple devotional service and prayed for a miracle.
They tried to nap. Eddie leaned back and pulled his military cap over his nose. Time dragged on. All he could hear was the slap of the waves against the raft...suddenly Eddie felt something land on the top of his cap. It was a seagull!
Old Ed would later describe how he sat perfectly still, planning his next move. With a flash of his hand and a squawk from the gull, he managed to grab it and wring its neck. He tore the feathers off, and he and his starving crew made a meal of it - a very slight meal for eight men.
Then they used the intestines for bait. With it, they caught fish, which gave them food and more bait....and the cycle continued. With that simple survival technique, they were able to endure the rigors of the sea until they were found and rescued after 24 days at sea.
Eddie Rickenbacker lived many years beyond that ordeal, but he never forgot the sacrifice of that first life-saving seagull... And he never stopped saying, 'Thank you.'
That's why almost every Friday night he would walk to the end of the pier with a bucket full of shrimp and a heart full of gratitude.
Reference: (Max Lucado, "In The Eye of the Storm", pp...221, 225-226)
PS: Eddie Rickenbacker was the founder of Eastern Airlines. Before WWI he was race car driver. In WWI he was a pilot and became America's first ace. In WWII he was an instructor and military adviser, and he flew missions with the combat pilots. Eddie Rickenbacker is a true American hero. And now you know another story about the trials and sacrifices that brave men have endured for your freedom.
As you can see, I chose to pass this story along as it was passed to me from my father. It is a great story that many don't know...I think it exemplifies a couple of life's lessons to be remembered. You've got to be careful with old guys, you just never know what they have done during their lifetime. It also speaks to me about how we never know what we adversity we might face, but when we put our talent both mentally and physically together, we can overcome, but we must never forget what we learned and to remember to thank those that helped pull us through even if it was as something seemingly meaningless as a seagull and to pay it forward.
Monday, February 5, 2024
What would happen if we treated our Bible like we treat our cell phones?
A recent study by RescueTime has revealed that the average person spends 3 hours and 15 minutes a day on their cell phone. That might not sound like a lot of time, but it is almost 50 days a year when you add it up. By the end of the average person's life, they will have spent over 8 YEARS staring at their phone screen. Here is my question today -
What would happen if we treated our Bible like we treat our cell phones?
What if we carried it around in our purses or pockets?
What if we turned back to go get it if we forgot it?
What if we flipped through it several times a day?
What if we used it to receive messages from text?
What if we treated it like we couldn't live without it?
What if we used it as we traveled?
What if we used it in case of an emergency?
The cell phone is an amazing piece of technology. I love the fact that I can stay connected to the people I love and care about. I love that I can check to see what is happening on social media. I use my cell phone as often or even more often than the typical person. There is nothing wrong with having a cell phone and using it unless you become so obsessed with your cell phone that you never have time for anything else. Let's face it, too many people are addicted to their cell phone. For some people, it is the most important possession that they have.
Do you know that God won't ask how many minutes we went over every month or how many text messages we sent when we get to heaven? It's true. However, we will be responsible for what we did with His Word and how much we obeyed Him.
So, how about it? Is your cell phone more important to you than God's Word? If your answer is yes, don't feel guilty and beat yourself up. Commit to laying your cell phone down at some point each day and picking up God's Word. Ask God to speak and then listen up! The Bible will keep you connected to the God you love and care about.
Time Out
1. Write down when you are going to set your cell phone aside every day and spend some time with God.
2. 2 Timothy 3:16-17 tell us the importance of staying connected to God’s word.
What would happen if we treated our Bible like we treat our cell phones?
What if we carried it around in our purses or pockets?
What if we turned back to go get it if we forgot it?
What if we flipped through it several times a day?
What if we used it to receive messages from text?
What if we treated it like we couldn't live without it?
What if we used it as we traveled?
What if we used it in case of an emergency?
The cell phone is an amazing piece of technology. I love the fact that I can stay connected to the people I love and care about. I love that I can check to see what is happening on social media. I use my cell phone as often or even more often than the typical person. There is nothing wrong with having a cell phone and using it unless you become so obsessed with your cell phone that you never have time for anything else. Let's face it, too many people are addicted to their cell phone. For some people, it is the most important possession that they have.
Do you know that God won't ask how many minutes we went over every month or how many text messages we sent when we get to heaven? It's true. However, we will be responsible for what we did with His Word and how much we obeyed Him.
So, how about it? Is your cell phone more important to you than God's Word? If your answer is yes, don't feel guilty and beat yourself up. Commit to laying your cell phone down at some point each day and picking up God's Word. Ask God to speak and then listen up! The Bible will keep you connected to the God you love and care about.
Time Out
1. Write down when you are going to set your cell phone aside every day and spend some time with God.
2. 2 Timothy 3:16-17 tell us the importance of staying connected to God’s word.
In those two verses how is the Bible helpful to the Christian?
3. I have been reading my Bible pretty consistently since I was 15 years old. An old saying says that if your Bible is falling apart, your life probably isn't.
3. I have been reading my Bible pretty consistently since I was 15 years old. An old saying says that if your Bible is falling apart, your life probably isn't.
Do you agree with that statement?
Why do you think people don't read the Bible very much?
5. One more old saying for the day.
5. One more old saying for the day.
The Bible will keep you from sin, or sin will keep you from the Bible.
If a person isn't reading the Bible daily, they are setting themselves up for a big fall. If you make reading the Bible a priority of our life and keep that appointment you just made on question number one, you won't blow it as much, and as a result, you will probably live a God-honoring life. That is something to think about today.
See original article here:
See original article here:
Saturday, July 22, 2023
Friday, April 21, 2023
"Well Done, Good & Faithfull Servant . . . "
There was a certain Professor of Religion named Dr. Christianson who taught at a small college in the Western United States. Dr. Christianson taught the required survey course in Christianity at this particular institution. Every student was required to take this course his or her freshman year regardless of his or her major.
Although Dr. Christianson tried hard to communicate the essence of the gospel in his class, he found that most of his students looked upon the course as nothing but required drudgery. Despite his best efforts, most students refused to take Christianity seriously.
This year, Dr. Christianson had a special student named Steve. Steve was only a freshman but was studying with the intent of going onto seminary for the ministry. Steve was popular, he was well liked, and he was an imposing physical specimen. He was now the starting center on the school football team and was the best student in the professor's class.
One day, Dr. Christianson asked Steve to stay after class so he could talk with him. "How many pushups can you do?"
Steve said, "I do about 200 every night."
"200? That's pretty good, Steve," Dr. Christianson said.
Although Dr. Christianson tried hard to communicate the essence of the gospel in his class, he found that most of his students looked upon the course as nothing but required drudgery. Despite his best efforts, most students refused to take Christianity seriously.
This year, Dr. Christianson had a special student named Steve. Steve was only a freshman but was studying with the intent of going onto seminary for the ministry. Steve was popular, he was well liked, and he was an imposing physical specimen. He was now the starting center on the school football team and was the best student in the professor's class.
One day, Dr. Christianson asked Steve to stay after class so he could talk with him. "How many pushups can you do?"
Steve said, "I do about 200 every night."
"200? That's pretty good, Steve," Dr. Christianson said.
"Do you think you could do 300?"
Steve replied, "I don't know...I've never done 300 at a time."
"Do you think you could?" again asked Dr. Christianson.
"Well, I can try," said Steve.
"Can you do 300 in sets of 10? I have a class project in mind, and I need you to do about 300 pushups in sets of ten for this to work. Can you do it? I need you to tell me you can do it," said the professor.
Steve said, "Well...I think I can...yeah, I can do it."
Dr. Christianson said, "Good! I need you to do this on Friday. Let me explain what I have in mind."
Friday came, and Steve got to class early and sat in the front of the room. When class started, the professor pulled out a big box of donuts. These weren't the normal kinds of donuts, they were the extra fancy BIG kind, with cream centers and frosting swirls. Everyone was pretty excited it was Friday, the last class of the day, and they were going to get an early start on the weekend with a party in Dr. Christianson's class.
Dr. Christianson went to the first girl in the first row and asked, "Cynthia, do you want to have one of these donuts?" Cynthia said, "Yes." Dr. Christianson then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so that Cynthia can have a donut?" "Sure." Steve jumped down from his desk to do a quick ten. Then Steve again sat in his desk. Dr. Christianson put a donut on Cynthia's desk.
Dr. Christianson then went to Joe, the next person, and asked, "Joe, do you want a donut?" Joe said, "Yes." Dr. Christianson asked, "Steve would you do ten pushups so Joe can have a donut?" Steve did ten pushups, and Joe got a donut.
And so it went, down the first aisle, Steve did ten pushups for every person before they got their donut, and down the second aisle, till Dr. Christianson came to Scott. Scott was on the basketball team and in as good condition as Steve. He was very popular and never lacking for female companionship. When the professor asked, "Scott do you want a donut?" Scott's reply was, "Well, can I do my own pushups?" Dr. Christianson said, "No, Steve has to do them." Then Scott said, "Well, I don't want one then." Dr. Christianson shrugged and then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so Scott can have a donut he doesn't want?" With perfect obedience, Steve started to do ten pushups. Scott said, "HEY! I said I didn't want one!" Dr. Christianson said, "Look, this is my classroom, my class, my desks, and these are my donuts. Just leave it on the desk if you don't want it." And he put a donut on Scott's desk.
Now by this time, Steve had begun to slow down a little. He just stayed on the floor between sets because it took too much effort to be getting up and down. You could start to see a little perspiration coming out around his brow. Dr. Christianson started down the third row. Now the students were beginning to get a little angry. Dr. Christianson asked Jenny, "Jenny, do you want a donut?" Sternly, Jenny said, "No." Then Dr. Christianson asked Steve, "Steve, would you do ten more pushups so Jenny can have a donut that she doesn't want?" Steve did ten, and Jenny got a donut.
By now, a growing sense of uneasiness filled the room. The students were beginning to say "No" and there were all these uneaten donuts on the desks. Steve also had to really put forth a lot of extra effort to get these pushups done for each donut. There began to be a small pool of sweat on the floor beneath his face. His arms and brow were beginning to get red because of the physical effort involved.
Dr. Christianson started down the fourth row. During his class, however, some students from other classes had wandered in and sat down on the steps along the radiators that ran down the sides of the room. When the professor realized this, he did a quick count and saw that now there were 34 students in the room. He started to worry if Steve would be able to make it. Dr. Christianson went on to the next person and the next and the next. Near the end of that row, Steve was really having a rough time. He was taking a lot more time to complete each set.
A few moments later, Jason, a recent transfer student, came to the room and was about to come in when all the students yelled in one voice, "NO! Don't come in! Stay out!" Jason didn't know what was going on. Steve picked up his head and said, "No, let him come." Professor Christianson said, "You realize that if Jason comes in you will have to do ten pushups for him?" Steve said, "Yes, let him come in. Give him a donut." Dr. Christianson said, "Okay, Steve, I'll let you get Jason's out of the way right now. Jason, do you want a donut?" Jason, new to the room hardly knew what was going on. "Yes," he said, "give me a donut." "Steve, will you do ten pushups so that Jason can have a donut?" Steve did ten pushups very slowly and with great effort. Jason, bewildered, was handed a donut and sat down.
Dr. Christianson finished the fourth row then started on those visitors seated by the heaters. Steve's arms were now shaking with each pushup in a struggle to lift himself against the force of gravity. Sweat was profusely dropping off of his face and, by this time, there was no sound except his heavy breathing. There was not a dry eye in the room.
The very last two students in the room were two young women, both cheerleaders, and very popular. Dr. Christianson went to Linda, the second to last, and asked, "Linda, do you want a doughnut?" Linda said, very sadly, "No, thank you." Professor Christianson quietly asked, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so that Linda can have a donut she doesn't want?" Grunting from the effort, Steve did ten very slow pushups for Linda.
Then Dr. Christianson turned to the last girl, Susan. "Susan, do you want a donut?" Susan, with tears flowing down her face, began to cry. "Dr. Christianson, why can't I help him?" Dr. Christianson, with tears of his own, said, "No, Steve has to do it alone. I have given him this task and he is in charge of seeing that everyone has an opportunity for a donut whether they want it or not. When I decided to have a party this last day of class, I looked at my grade book. Steve is the only student with a perfect grade. Everyone else has failed a test, skipped class, or offered me inferior work. Steve told me that when a player messes up in football practice, he must do pushups. I told Steve that none of you could come to my party unless he paid the price by doing your pushups. He and I made a deal for your sakes. Steve, would you do ten pushups so Susan can have a donut?" As Steve very slowly finished his last pushup, with the understanding that he had accomplished all that was required of him, having done 350 pushups, his arms buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor.
Dr. Christianson turned to the room and said. "And so it was, that our Savior, Jesus Christ, on the cross, pled to the Father, 'into thy hands I commend my spirit.' With the understanding that He had done everything that was required of Him, he yielded up His life. And like some of those in this room, many of us leave the gift on the desk, uneaten."
Two students helped Steve up off the floor and to a seat, physically exhausted, but wearing a thin smile. "Well done, good and faithful servant," said the professor, adding, "Not all sermons are preached in words."
Turning to his class the professor said, "My wish is that you might understand and fully comprehend all the riches of grace and mercy that have been given to you through the sacrifice of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for us all, now and forever. Whether or not we choose to accept His gift to us, the price has been paid. Wouldn't you be foolish and ungrateful to leave it laying on the desk?"
Friday came, and Steve got to class early and sat in the front of the room. When class started, the professor pulled out a big box of donuts. These weren't the normal kinds of donuts, they were the extra fancy BIG kind, with cream centers and frosting swirls. Everyone was pretty excited it was Friday, the last class of the day, and they were going to get an early start on the weekend with a party in Dr. Christianson's class.
Dr. Christianson went to the first girl in the first row and asked, "Cynthia, do you want to have one of these donuts?" Cynthia said, "Yes." Dr. Christianson then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so that Cynthia can have a donut?" "Sure." Steve jumped down from his desk to do a quick ten. Then Steve again sat in his desk. Dr. Christianson put a donut on Cynthia's desk.
Dr. Christianson then went to Joe, the next person, and asked, "Joe, do you want a donut?" Joe said, "Yes." Dr. Christianson asked, "Steve would you do ten pushups so Joe can have a donut?" Steve did ten pushups, and Joe got a donut.
And so it went, down the first aisle, Steve did ten pushups for every person before they got their donut, and down the second aisle, till Dr. Christianson came to Scott. Scott was on the basketball team and in as good condition as Steve. He was very popular and never lacking for female companionship. When the professor asked, "Scott do you want a donut?" Scott's reply was, "Well, can I do my own pushups?" Dr. Christianson said, "No, Steve has to do them." Then Scott said, "Well, I don't want one then." Dr. Christianson shrugged and then turned to Steve and asked, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so Scott can have a donut he doesn't want?" With perfect obedience, Steve started to do ten pushups. Scott said, "HEY! I said I didn't want one!" Dr. Christianson said, "Look, this is my classroom, my class, my desks, and these are my donuts. Just leave it on the desk if you don't want it." And he put a donut on Scott's desk.
Now by this time, Steve had begun to slow down a little. He just stayed on the floor between sets because it took too much effort to be getting up and down. You could start to see a little perspiration coming out around his brow. Dr. Christianson started down the third row. Now the students were beginning to get a little angry. Dr. Christianson asked Jenny, "Jenny, do you want a donut?" Sternly, Jenny said, "No." Then Dr. Christianson asked Steve, "Steve, would you do ten more pushups so Jenny can have a donut that she doesn't want?" Steve did ten, and Jenny got a donut.
By now, a growing sense of uneasiness filled the room. The students were beginning to say "No" and there were all these uneaten donuts on the desks. Steve also had to really put forth a lot of extra effort to get these pushups done for each donut. There began to be a small pool of sweat on the floor beneath his face. His arms and brow were beginning to get red because of the physical effort involved.
Dr. Christianson started down the fourth row. During his class, however, some students from other classes had wandered in and sat down on the steps along the radiators that ran down the sides of the room. When the professor realized this, he did a quick count and saw that now there were 34 students in the room. He started to worry if Steve would be able to make it. Dr. Christianson went on to the next person and the next and the next. Near the end of that row, Steve was really having a rough time. He was taking a lot more time to complete each set.
A few moments later, Jason, a recent transfer student, came to the room and was about to come in when all the students yelled in one voice, "NO! Don't come in! Stay out!" Jason didn't know what was going on. Steve picked up his head and said, "No, let him come." Professor Christianson said, "You realize that if Jason comes in you will have to do ten pushups for him?" Steve said, "Yes, let him come in. Give him a donut." Dr. Christianson said, "Okay, Steve, I'll let you get Jason's out of the way right now. Jason, do you want a donut?" Jason, new to the room hardly knew what was going on. "Yes," he said, "give me a donut." "Steve, will you do ten pushups so that Jason can have a donut?" Steve did ten pushups very slowly and with great effort. Jason, bewildered, was handed a donut and sat down.
Dr. Christianson finished the fourth row then started on those visitors seated by the heaters. Steve's arms were now shaking with each pushup in a struggle to lift himself against the force of gravity. Sweat was profusely dropping off of his face and, by this time, there was no sound except his heavy breathing. There was not a dry eye in the room.
The very last two students in the room were two young women, both cheerleaders, and very popular. Dr. Christianson went to Linda, the second to last, and asked, "Linda, do you want a doughnut?" Linda said, very sadly, "No, thank you." Professor Christianson quietly asked, "Steve, would you do ten pushups so that Linda can have a donut she doesn't want?" Grunting from the effort, Steve did ten very slow pushups for Linda.
Then Dr. Christianson turned to the last girl, Susan. "Susan, do you want a donut?" Susan, with tears flowing down her face, began to cry. "Dr. Christianson, why can't I help him?" Dr. Christianson, with tears of his own, said, "No, Steve has to do it alone. I have given him this task and he is in charge of seeing that everyone has an opportunity for a donut whether they want it or not. When I decided to have a party this last day of class, I looked at my grade book. Steve is the only student with a perfect grade. Everyone else has failed a test, skipped class, or offered me inferior work. Steve told me that when a player messes up in football practice, he must do pushups. I told Steve that none of you could come to my party unless he paid the price by doing your pushups. He and I made a deal for your sakes. Steve, would you do ten pushups so Susan can have a donut?" As Steve very slowly finished his last pushup, with the understanding that he had accomplished all that was required of him, having done 350 pushups, his arms buckled beneath him and he fell to the floor.
Dr. Christianson turned to the room and said. "And so it was, that our Savior, Jesus Christ, on the cross, pled to the Father, 'into thy hands I commend my spirit.' With the understanding that He had done everything that was required of Him, he yielded up His life. And like some of those in this room, many of us leave the gift on the desk, uneaten."
Two students helped Steve up off the floor and to a seat, physically exhausted, but wearing a thin smile. "Well done, good and faithful servant," said the professor, adding, "Not all sermons are preached in words."
Turning to his class the professor said, "My wish is that you might understand and fully comprehend all the riches of grace and mercy that have been given to you through the sacrifice of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ for us all, now and forever. Whether or not we choose to accept His gift to us, the price has been paid. Wouldn't you be foolish and ungrateful to leave it laying on the desk?"
Absolutely Beautiful Rescue
This is an absolute must watch.
All I can say is there is hope for humanity!
Wednesday, May 11, 2022
Izzy and Easton - Incredibly Touching Soldier Dance
2019 America's Got Talent
11 year old Izzy and 14 year old Easton
They have been dancing for 5 years together.
They are not related
2019 America's Got Talent | Season 14 | Episode 5 | Auditions 5
Their First Appearance - full video
Izzy and Easton - Contemporary Dance
Tuesday, April 19, 2022
Thursday, July 29, 2021
Thursday, July 15, 2021
Friday, April 2, 2021
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