It is a shame I am your lover.

Sunday, August 9, 2009, 00:03

Old Jack & Penelope

I've got a story to share. got it from an email from a friend (:
thought i should share it. kind of dont like forwarding emails much.

The man slowly looked up. This was a woman clearly accustomed to the finer things of life. Her coat was brand new. She looked like she had never missed a meal in her life. His first thought was that she wanted to make fun of him, like so many others had done before.

"Leave me alone," he growled.

To his amazement, the woman continued standing there. She was smiling, her even white teeth displayed in two dazzling rows.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"No," he answered sarcastically. "I've just finished dining with the president.. Now go away."

The woman's smile became even broader.

Suddenly the man felt a gentle hand under his arm.

"What are you doing, lady?" the man asked angrily. "I said to leave me alone."

Just then a policeman came up.

"Is there any problem, ma'am?" he asked.

"No problem here, officer," the woman answered. "I'm just trying to get this man to his feet. Will you help me?"

The officer scratched his head. "That's old Jack. He's been a fixture around here for a couple of years. What do you want with him?"

"See that cafeteria over there?" she asked. "I'm going to get him something to eat and get him out of the cold for a while."

"Are you crazy, lady?" old Jack resisted. "I don't want to go in there!" Then he felt strong hands grab his other arm and lift him up.

"Let me go, officer. I didn't do anything.."

"This is a good deal for you, Jack," the officer answered. "Don't blow it."

Finally, and with some difficulty, the woman and the police officer got old Jack into the cafeteria and sat him at a table in a remote corner. It was the middle of the morning, so most of the breakfast crowd had already left and the lunch crowd had yet arrived.

The manager strode across the cafeteria and stood by the table.

"What's going on here, officer?" he asked."What is all this, is this man in trouble?"

"This lady brought this man in here to be fed," the policeman answered.

"Not in here!" the manager replied angrily. "Having a person like that here is bad for business."

Old Jack smiled a toothless grin. "See, lady. I told you so. Now if you'll let me go. I didn't want to come here in the first place."

The woman turned to the cafeteria manager and smiled.

"Sir, are you familiar with Eddy and Associates, the banking firm down the street?"

"Of course I am," the manager answered impatiently. "They hold their weekly meetings in one of my banquet rooms."

"And do you make a good amount of money providing food at these weekly meetings?"

"What business is that of yours?"

"I, sir, am Penelope Eddy, president and CEO of the company."

"Oh..."

The woman smiled again.. "I thought that might make a difference."

She glanced at the cop who was busy stifling a laugh. "Would you like to join us in a cup of coffee and a meal, officer?"

"No thanks, ma'am," the officer replied. "I'm on duty.."

"Then, perhaps, a cup of coffee to go?"

"Yes, ma'am. That would be very nice."

The cafeteria manager turned on his heel.

"I'll get your coffee for you right away, officer."

The officer watched him walk away.
"You certainly put him in his place," he said.

"That was not my intention. Believe it or not, I have a reason for all this."

She sat down at the table across amazed old Jack. She stared at him intently.

"Jack, do you remember me?"

Old Jack searched her face with his old, rheumy eyes. "I think so- I mean, you do look so familiar."

"I'm a little older perhaps," she said. "Maybe I've even filled out more than in my younger days when you worked here, and I came through that very door, cold and hungry."

"Ma'am?" the officer said questioningly. He couldn't believe that such a magnificent looking woman could ever have been hungry.

"I was just out of college," the woman began. "I had come to the city looking for a job, but I couldn't find anything. Finally I was down to my last few cents and had been kicked out of my apartment. I walked the streets for days. It was February and I was cold and nearly starving. I saw this place and walked in, hoping that I could get something to eat."

Jack's face lit up with a smile. "Now I remember," he said.. "I was behind the serving counter. You came up and asked me if you could work for something to eat. I said that it was against company policy."

"I know," the woman continued. "Then you made me the biggest roast beef sandwich that I had ever seen, gave me a cup of coffee, and told me to go over to this very corner table and enjoy it. I was afraid that you would get into trouble. Then, when I looked over and saw you putting money out of your own pockets into the cash register, I knew then, that everything would be all right."

"So you started your own business?" Old Jack said.

"I got a job that very afternoon. I worked my way up. Eventually I started my own business that, with the help of God, prospered..."

She opened her purse and pulled out a business card. "When you are finished here, I want you to pay a visit to a Mr. Lyons. He's the personnel director of my company. I'll go talk to him now and I'm certain he'll find something for you to do around the office."

She smiled. "I think he might even find the funds to give you a little advance so that you can buy some clothes and get a place to live until you get on your feet. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you."

There were tears in the old man's eyes. "How can I ever thank you?" he asked.

"Don't thank me," the woman answered. "To God goes the glory. He led me to you."

Outside the cafeteria, the officer and the woman paused at the entrance before going their separate ways.

"Thank you for all your help, officer," she said.

"On the contrary, Ms. Eddy," he answered. Thank you. I saw a miracle today, something that I will never forget. And...And thank you for the coffee."

When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully and let go.
Only one of two things will happen, either He'll catch you when you fall, or He'll teach you how to fly.

God is so big He can cover the whole world with his Love, and yet so small He can curl up inside your heart.

God closes doors no man can open & God opens doors no man can close.

Long email. but a nice story.

*****

Went to IMM for lunch-dinner with Steve. was craving for pastamania while working the previous night, and zhixian told me that there is a new outlet at IMM, closest to my house, so i decided to go there. to find that there is no pastamania!!! sad or what. was just mad craving for Chicken cheese salsicca. but ): sad.
so we settled for Cafe cartel. food was alright, serving was huge. only finished half-ish. still got a craving for pastamania. ):.
irritating. anyway.
i really like Singapore's 2009 theme song! go search on imeem.com: what do you see.

and! i just did my nailz. blue and needed t do something to cheer meself up. so im orange!

dont dare to take a close up pict cuz it looks kind of off now. must see tmr. it'll look better.

i also chopped off half my bangs!

was with aly few nights back.. watched UP at JP. good show. catch it! i'm gonna watch it again with steve.

kay. gotta go. math!

Control.

Labels: A Story., Fooding, Out., PICTUREZ., Songcraze, Studyinghard, Work :0

Friday, April 10, 2009, 23:52

Who will take the Son?

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare art pieces. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art. When the Vietnam Conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous, but unfortunately died while saving a fellow soldier. The father was notified immediately, and he grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, on an ordinary afternoon, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said,

'Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your shared love for the art.'

The young man held out the large bulky package.

'I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this.'

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man himself. He stared in awe at the way the young man had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture.

'Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift.'

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.

The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his collection of arts. Many influential people turned up for the auction, excited to see the great collection and also at the opportunity to purchase them to add to their own collection.

On the platform sat the first item: the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel.

'We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?'

There was silence.

Then a voice in the back of the room shouted,

'We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one.'

But the auctioneer persisted.

'Will somebody bid for this painting? Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?'

Another voice raised angrily.

'We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Gogh's, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!'

But still the auctioneer continued.

'The son! The son! Who'll take the son?'

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son.

'I'll give $10 for the painting.'

Being a poor man, it was all he could afford.

'We have $10, who will bid $20?'

'Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters.'

The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.

The auctioneer pounded the gavel.

'Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!'

A man sitting on the second row shouted,

'Now let's get on with the collection!'

The auctioneer laid down his gavel.

'I'm sorry, the auction is over.'

'What about the paintings?'

'I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the collection of arts.

The man who took the son gets everything!

God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross.. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is:

'The son, the son, who'll take the son?'

Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.

Labels: A Story.

Wednesday, November 12, 2008, 00:28

And you, you.

When I born, I black

When I grow up, I black

When I go in Sun, I black

When I scared, I black

When I sick, I black

And when I die, I still black

And you white fellow

When you born, you pink

When you grow up, you white

When you go in sun, you red

When you cold, you blue

When you scared, you yellow

When you sick, you green

And when you die, you gray

And you calling me colored?

This poem was nominated by UN as the best poem of 2006, Written by an

African Kid, adapted from an email.

Labels: A Story.

Thursday, September 18, 2008, 00:04

Mask.

Everyone wears a mask, or several masks, even, on a daily basis. different masks for different occasion, even i do that too. a happy mask for outings, a glum one for school, an angry one at home, and confident one for when meeting new friends. it's a thing that people do, normally out of pure habit, sometimes to escape reality, and other times, still, to hide their real faces- and flaws. when- or if- you ever uncover the mask of a friend, remember that everyone is raw and vulnerable underneath these ever-changing masks, and if a friend ever, ever show you their real side, pray do not show no mercy and run away.

Labels: A Story.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008, 22:35

The room.

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read 'Girls I have liked'. I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

A file named 'Friends' was next to one marked 'Friends I have betrayed.' The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird 'Books I Have Read,' 'Lies I Have Told,' 'Comfort I have Given', 'Jokes I Have Laughed at .' Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: 'Things I've yelled at my brothers.' Others I couldn't laugh at: 'Things I Have Done in My Anger', 'Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents'. I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.

Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked 'TV Shows I have watched', I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked 'Lustful Thoughts,' I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!' In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title bore 'People I Have Shared the Gospel With.' The handle was brighter than those around it,seemed newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. 'No!' I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was 'No, no,' as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, 'It is finished.' I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written.

'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.'-Phil. 4:13

'For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.'-John 3:16

'He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.'-1 Peter 2:24

Labels: A Story.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008, 23:12

Nail it In.

There once was a boy who had a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him that everytime he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into the back of the fence. The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, as he learn to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive the nails into the fence. Finally the day came when he did not use the hammer at all. He told his father, who suggested that for everyday that he hold his temper in check he pull out one nail from the fence. Few weeks later he was proud to tell his father that all nails have been removed. Father took his hand and they walked over to the fence... He said, " you have done well, my son, but look at the holes. The fence will never be the same again. When you say something in anger, they leave a scar just like this one."
"You can put a knife in a man and say i'm sorry, but the wound is still there."

Babes, i don't feel good D: someone be my ear. i think i need to cry. haha. think only ah.

Labels: A Story.

jolly fine Bandyaids.



	Hi, my name is Your mom. + Archives April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 May 2009 June 2009 July 2009 August 2009 + Credits Host: Blogger Layout © the bikini boy	Sunday, August 9, 2009, 00:03 Old Jack & Penelope I've got a story to share. got it from an email from a friend (: thought i should share it. kind of dont like forwarding emails much. The man slowly looked up. This was a woman clearly accustomed to the finer things of life. Her coat was brand new. She looked like she had never missed a meal in her life. His first thought was that she wanted to make fun of him, like so many others had done before. "Leave me alone," he growled. To his amazement, the woman continued standing there. She was smiling, her even white teeth displayed in two dazzling rows. "Are you hungry?" she asked. "No," he answered sarcastically. "I've just finished dining with the president.. Now go away." The woman's smile became even broader. Suddenly the man felt a gentle hand under his arm. "What are you doing, lady?" the man asked angrily. "I said to leave me alone." Just then a policeman came up. "Is there any problem, ma'am?" he asked. "No problem here, officer," the woman answered. "I'm just trying to get this man to his feet. Will you help me?" The officer scratched his head. "That's old Jack. He's been a fixture around here for a couple of years. What do you want with him?" "See that cafeteria over there?" she asked. "I'm going to get him something to eat and get him out of the cold for a while." "Are you crazy, lady?" old Jack resisted. "I don't want to go in there!" Then he felt strong hands grab his other arm and lift him up. "Let me go, officer. I didn't do anything.." "This is a good deal for you, Jack," the officer answered. "Don't blow it." Finally, and with some difficulty, the woman and the police officer got old Jack into the cafeteria and sat him at a table in a remote corner. It was the middle of the morning, so most of the breakfast crowd had already left and the lunch crowd had yet arrived. The manager strode across the cafeteria and stood by the table. "What's going on here, officer?" he asked."What is all this, is this man in trouble?" "This lady brought this man in here to be fed," the policeman answered. "Not in here!" the manager replied angrily. "Having a person like that here is bad for business." Old Jack smiled a toothless grin. "See, lady. I told you so. Now if you'll let me go. I didn't want to come here in the first place." The woman turned to the cafeteria manager and smiled. "Sir, are you familiar with Eddy and Associates, the banking firm down the street?" "Of course I am," the manager answered impatiently. "They hold their weekly meetings in one of my banquet rooms." "And do you make a good amount of money providing food at these weekly meetings?" "What business is that of yours?" "I, sir, am Penelope Eddy, president and CEO of the company." "Oh..." The woman smiled again.. "I thought that might make a difference." She glanced at the cop who was busy stifling a laugh. "Would you like to join us in a cup of coffee and a meal, officer?" "No thanks, ma'am," the officer replied. "I'm on duty.." "Then, perhaps, a cup of coffee to go?" "Yes, ma'am. That would be very nice." The cafeteria manager turned on his heel. "I'll get your coffee for you right away, officer." The officer watched him walk away. "You certainly put him in his place," he said. "That was not my intention. Believe it or not, I have a reason for all this." She sat down at the table across amazed old Jack. She stared at him intently. "Jack, do you remember me?" Old Jack searched her face with his old, rheumy eyes. "I think so- I mean, you do look so familiar." "I'm a little older perhaps," she said. "Maybe I've even filled out more than in my younger days when you worked here, and I came through that very door, cold and hungry." "Ma'am?" the officer said questioningly. He couldn't believe that such a magnificent looking woman could ever have been hungry. "I was just out of college," the woman began. "I had come to the city looking for a job, but I couldn't find anything. Finally I was down to my last few cents and had been kicked out of my apartment. I walked the streets for days. It was February and I was cold and nearly starving. I saw this place and walked in, hoping that I could get something to eat." Jack's face lit up with a smile. "Now I remember," he said.. "I was behind the serving counter. You came up and asked me if you could work for something to eat. I said that it was against company policy." "I know," the woman continued. "Then you made me the biggest roast beef sandwich that I had ever seen, gave me a cup of coffee, and told me to go over to this very corner table and enjoy it. I was afraid that you would get into trouble. Then, when I looked over and saw you putting money out of your own pockets into the cash register, I knew then, that everything would be all right." "So you started your own business?" Old Jack said. "I got a job that very afternoon. I worked my way up. Eventually I started my own business that, with the help of God, prospered..." She opened her purse and pulled out a business card. "When you are finished here, I want you to pay a visit to a Mr. Lyons. He's the personnel director of my company. I'll go talk to him now and I'm certain he'll find something for you to do around the office." She smiled. "I think he might even find the funds to give you a little advance so that you can buy some clothes and get a place to live until you get on your feet. If you ever need anything, my door is always open to you." There were tears in the old man's eyes. "How can I ever thank you?" he asked. "Don't thank me," the woman answered. "To God goes the glory. He led me to you." Outside the cafeteria, the officer and the woman paused at the entrance before going their separate ways. "Thank you for all your help, officer," she said. "On the contrary, Ms. Eddy," he answered. Thank you. I saw a miracle today, something that I will never forget. And...And thank you for the coffee." When God leads you to the edge of the cliff, trust Him fully and let go. Only one of two things will happen, either He'll catch you when you fall, or He'll teach you how to fly. God is so big He can cover the whole world with his Love, and yet so small He can curl up inside your heart. God closes doors no man can open & God opens doors no man can close. Long email. but a nice story. ***** Went to IMM for lunch-dinner with Steve. was craving for pastamania while working the previous night, and zhixian told me that there is a new outlet at IMM, closest to my house, so i decided to go there. to find that there is no pastamania!!! sad or what. was just mad craving for Chicken cheese salsicca. but ): sad. so we settled for Cafe cartel. food was alright, serving was huge. only finished half-ish. still got a craving for pastamania. ):. irritating. anyway. i really like Singapore's 2009 theme song! go search on imeem.com: what do you see. and! i just did my nailz. blue and needed t do something to cheer meself up. so im orange! dont dare to take a close up pict cuz it looks kind of off now. must see tmr. it'll look better. i also chopped off half my bangs! was with aly few nights back.. watched UP at JP. good show. catch it! i'm gonna watch it again with steve. kay. gotta go. math! Control. Labels: A Story., Fooding, Out., PICTUREZ., Songcraze, Studyinghard, Work :0 Friday, April 10, 2009, 23:52 Who will take the Son? A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare art pieces. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art. When the Vietnam Conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous, but unfortunately died while saving a fellow soldier. The father was notified immediately, and he grieved deeply for his only son. About a month later, on an ordinary afternoon, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, 'Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your shared love for the art.' The young man held out the large bulky package. 'I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this.' The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man himself. He stared in awe at the way the young man had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. 'Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift.' The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected. The man died a few months later. There was to be a great auction of his collection of arts. Many influential people turned up for the auction, excited to see the great collection and also at the opportunity to purchase them to add to their own collection. On the platform sat the first item: the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. 'We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?' There was silence. Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, 'We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one.' But the auctioneer persisted. 'Will somebody bid for this painting? Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?' Another voice raised angrily. 'We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Gogh's, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!' But still the auctioneer continued. 'The son! The son! Who'll take the son?' Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. 'I'll give $10 for the painting.' Being a poor man, it was all he could afford. 'We have $10, who will bid $20?' 'Give it to him for $10. Let's see the masters.' The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections. The auctioneer pounded the gavel. 'Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!' A man sitting on the second row shouted, 'Now let's get on with the collection!' The auctioneer laid down his gavel. 'I'm sorry, the auction is over.' 'What about the paintings?' 'I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the collection of arts. The man who took the son gets everything! God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross.. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: 'The son, the son, who'll take the son?' Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything. Labels: A Story. Wednesday, November 12, 2008, 00:28 And you, you. When I born, I black When I grow up, I black When I go in Sun, I black When I scared, I black When I sick, I black And when I die, I still black And you white fellow When you born, you pink When you grow up, you white When you go in sun, you red When you cold, you blue When you scared, you yellow When you sick, you green And when you die, you gray And you calling me colored? This poem was nominated by UN as the best poem of 2006, Written by an African Kid, adapted from an email. Labels: A Story. Thursday, September 18, 2008, 00:04 Mask. Everyone wears a mask, or several masks, even, on a daily basis. different masks for different occasion, even i do that too. a happy mask for outings, a glum one for school, an angry one at home, and confident one for when meeting new friends. it's a thing that people do, normally out of pure habit, sometimes to escape reality, and other times, still, to hide their real faces- and flaws. when- or if- you ever uncover the mask of a friend, remember that everyone is raw and vulnerable underneath these ever-changing masks, and if a friend ever, ever show you their real side, pray do not show no mercy and run away. Labels: A Story. Tuesday, September 16, 2008, 22:35 The room. In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features except for the one wall covered with small index card files. They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical order. But these files, which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly endless in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the first to catch my attention was one that read 'Girls I have liked'. I opened it and began flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that I recognized the names written on each one. And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was. This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and small, in a detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named 'Friends' was next to one marked 'Friends I have betrayed.' The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird 'Books I Have Read,' 'Lies I Have Told,' 'Comfort I have Given', 'Jokes I Have Laughed at .' Some were almost hilarious in their exactness: 'Things I've yelled at my brothers.' Others I couldn't laugh at: 'Things I Have Done in My Anger', 'Things I Have Muttered Under My Breath at My Parents'. I never ceased to be surprised by the contents. Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it be possible that I had the time in my years to fill each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature. When I pulled out the file marked 'TV Shows I have watched', I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of shows but more by the vast time I knew that file represented. When I came to a file marked 'Lustful Thoughts,' I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch, not willing to test its size and drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had been recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!' In insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong as steel when I tried to tear it. Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying sigh. And then I saw it.. The title bore 'People I Have Shared the Gospel With.' The handle was brighter than those around it,seemed newer, almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it contained on one hand. And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him. No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room. He looked at me with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried with me. Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files. Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on each card. 'No!' I shouted rushing to Him. All I could find to say was 'No, no,' as I pulled the card from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was written with His blood. He gently took the card back. He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, 'It is finished.' I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on its door. There were still cards to be written. 'I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.'-Phil. 4:13 'For God so loved the world that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.'-John 3:16 'He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed.'-1 Peter 2:24 Labels: A Story. Tuesday, July 8, 2008, 23:12 Nail it In. There once was a boy who had a bad temper. His father gave him a bag of nails and told him that everytime he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into the back of the fence. The first day the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, as he learn to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. He discovered it was easier to hold his temper than to drive the nails into the fence. Finally the day came when he did not use the hammer at all. He told his father, who suggested that for everyday that he hold his temper in check he pull out one nail from the fence. Few weeks later he was proud to tell his father that all nails have been removed. Father took his hand and they walked over to the fence... He said, " you have done well, my son, but look at the holes. The fence will never be the same again. When you say something in anger, they leave a scar just like this one." "You can put a knife in a man and say i'm sorry, but the wound is still there." Babes, i don't feel good D: someone be my ear. i think i need to cry. haha. think only ah. Labels: A Story.