Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
December 18, 1998

Kleenex Alert

On Christmas Eve a young soldier feeling trapped in London during the 2nd World War was very lonely and sad to be away from his family and home.

As the war still raged on in London this was a very dangerous time and place with Churches and most other social and public places either closed or destroyed. And so in spite of this, the young soldier organized amongst a few of his mates to go out on Christmas Eve and to make Christmas of whatever they found. Shortly after leaving their military compound they came across an old grey building with an affixed sign, which said, “Queen Anne’s Orphanage”.

This was perfect they all thought. The young men’s hearts pounded quickly and they gathered themselves and knocked on the door. The door slowly opened as a kind elderly woman cautiously emerged from behind it and bid them all a Merry Christmas, then, asking how she might be of any help?

The young soldier then stepped forward and asked if they could come in for a few minutes to greet and talk with the children. The elderly keeper with a beaming smile then welcomed and invited them in. As the soldiers began to enter they could hear the clamoring of children in the background as they came running down the stairs to see who was at the door. Again, the soldiers’ minds raced in anticipation and thinking about the goodness they were all about to unselfishly perform but upon entering their hearts sank.

Once inside this old grey building and faced with the curiosity, innocence and happiness of the children they were shocked by the contrast as they witnessed the undeniable poverty of this abode and that which also must have also stricken the lives of these orphans. The children were all very poorly dressed. There was no Christmas tree or decorations of any sorts. No real furnishing to speak of, just a barren and empty cold dark place.

The soldiers then mustered their spirits and stepped forward and did what they came to do. They greeted and spent time talking with the children and searched their pockets for anything that they could possibly offer and share with these youngsters, a stick of gum, candy, special coins, ribbons, whistles … just anything.

Their hearts and souls were filled with the spirit of giving as they could see that by their very presence and their sincere and genuine attention to these innocent children which society had forgotten that they were making a difference no matter how small. The young men all felt the warmth inside of giving and sharing.

Then when it was time to leave and as the young soldier was getting ready to step out the door he noticed one small boy of about five years old standing in the corner all by himself crying softly.

As he looked on at the boy from afar he was then reminded of his own son back home who would now surely be about the same age. The soldier paused and was overtaken with flooding emotions as he rekindled in his heart and his mind the feeling and vision of seeing and being with his young son again.

He then deliberately walked over to the young crying orphan boy, seeing the tears stream down his tiny pink cheeks while his bottom lip quivered as he approached. He tried to regain his composure but the boy could also see the emotion in the soldier eyes.

He then knelt down on one knee so that he could look the boy in the eyes; and then, with great sentiment, care and kindness he asked, “Hey little fella, what would you like for Christmas?”

Without hesitation the young boy stepped forward and simply said, “Hold me! Hold me tight!”

Author Unknown - Please comment if you know the author
 so credit can be given
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
December 17, 2007

Depressed and brokenhearted, a man named Bob May stared out of his drafty apartment window in to the chilling December night. His four year-old daughter, Barbara, sat on his lap quietly sobbing.

Bob’s wife, Evelyn, was dying of cancer. Little Barbara could not understand why her mother could never come home. Barbara looked up into her dad’s eyes and asked, “Why isn’t mummy just like everybody else’s mummy?”

Bob’s jaw tightened and his eyes welled with tears. Her question brought waves not only of grief, but also of anger.

It had been the story of Bob’s life, which always had to be different for him.

As a child, Bob was often bullied by other boys. He was too little at the time to compete in sports. He was frequently called names he would rather not remember.

From childhood, Bob was different and never seemed to fit in. However, Bob completed college, married his loving wife and was grateful to get a job as a copy-writer at Montgomery Ward during the great depression. Then he was blessed with his little girl.

But it was all short-lived. Evelyn’s battle with cancer stripped them of all their savings. Now Bob and his daughter were forced to live in a two-room apartment in the Chicago slums. Evelyn passed on just days before Christmas in 1938.

Bob struggled to give hope to his child, for whom he couldn’t even afford to buy a Christmas gift. But if he could not purchase a present, he was determined to make one – a storybook.

Bob had created a character in his own mind and told the animal’s story to little Barbara to give her comfort and hope. Again and again, Bob told the story, embellishing it more with each telling.

Who was the character? What was the story all about? The tale Bob created was his own autobiography in fable form. The character he created was a misfit outcast like he was. The name of the character? A little reindeer named Rudolph, with a big shiny nose.

Bob finished the book just in time to give it to his little girl on Christmas Day – but the story doesn’t end there.

The general manage of Montgomery Ward caught wind of the little storybook and offered Bob a nominal fee to purchase the rights to print the book. Wards went on to print “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and distributed it to children visiting Santa Claus in their stores.

By 1946, Wards had printed and distributed more than six million copies of “Rudolph”. That same year, a major publisher wanted to purchase the rights from Wards to print an updated version of the book.

In an unprecedented gesture of Kindness, the chief executive officer of Wards returned all the rights to Bob. The book became a best seller!

Many toy and marketing deals followed. Bob, now remarried with a growing family, became wealthy from the story he created to comfort his grieving daughter.

But the story doesn’t end their either…………………

Bob’s brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, made a song adaptation to “Rudolph”. Though the song was turned down by such popular vocalists as Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore, it was recorded by Gene Autry, the singing cowboy.

“Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” was released in 1949 and became a phenomenal success, selling more records than any other Christmas song, with the exception of White Christmas.

The gift of love that Bob created for his daughter so long ago kept on returning to bless him again and again.

And Bob learned the lesson, just like his dear friend Rudolph, that being different can be a blessing.

By – Geoffrey Keyte

Originally posted on Morning Story and Dilbert:

Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
March 22, 2000

The white frame country church beside the road had stood for almost 100 years and was the center of religious as well as social life for the people of the valley. About a dozen families worshiped there. One of the members of the rural church was ten-year-old Billy Jenkins, an average kid in a community of average families.

The story began just before Christmas one year. Pastor Lee, the leader of the church, suggested that the congregation think of a project the church could do as a whole to bring honor to the celebration of Jesus’ birth.

It didn’t take long for folks to speak up. Nearly everyone had an idea to share. Ben Johnson, the Men’s Sunday school teacher, thought the church should have a new podium. Mrs. Ima Lacy suggested painting the inside of the sanctuary a lovely shade of pink to brighten…

View original 1,297 more words

Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
December 15, 2012

He woke suddenly and completely. It was four o’clock, the hour at which his father had always called him to get up and help with the milking. Strange how the habits of his youth clung to him still! Fifty years ago, and his father had been dead for thirty years, and yet he waked at four o’clock in the morning. He had trained himself to turn over and go to sleep, but this morning it was Christmas, he did not try to sleep.

Why did he feel so awake tonight? He slipped back in time, as he did so easily nowadays. He was fifteen years old and still on his father’s farm. He loved his father. He had not known it until one day a few days before Christmas, when he had overheard what his father was saying to his mother.

“Mary, I hate to call Rob in the mornings. He’s growing so fast and he needs his sleep. If you could see how he sleeps when I go in to wake him up! I wish I could manage alone.”

“Well, you can’t, Adam.” His mother’s voice was brisk. “Besides, he isn’t a child anymore. It’s time he tok his turn.”

“Yes,” his father said slowly. “But I sure do hate to wake him.”

When he heard these words, something in him spoke: his father loved him! He had never thought of that before, taking for granted the tie of their blood. Neither his father nor his mother talked about loving their children–they had no time for such things. There was always so much to do on the farm.

Now that he knew his father loved him, there would be no loitering in the mornings and having to be called again. He got up after that, stumbling blindly in his sleep, and pulled on his clothes, his eyes shut, but he got up.

And then on the night before Christmas, that year when he was fifteen, he lay for a few minutes thinking about the next day. They were poor, and most of the excitement was in the turkey they had raised themselves and mince pies his mother made. His sisters sewed presents and his mother and father always bought him something he needed, not only a warm jacket, maybe, but something more, such as a book. And he saved and bought them each something, too.

He wished, that Christmas when he was fifteen, he had a better present for his father. As usual he had gone to the ten-cent store and bought a tie. It had seemed nice enough until he lay thinking the night before Christmas. He looked out of his attic window, the stars were bright.

“Dad,” he had once asked when he was a little boy, “What is a stable?”

“It’s just a barn,” his father had replied, “like ours.”

Then Jesus had been born in a barn, and to a barn the shepherds had come…

The thought struck him like a silver dagger. Why should he not give his father a special gift too, out there in the barn? He could get up early, earlier than four o’clock, and he could creep into the barn and get all the milking done. He’d do it alone, milk and clean up, and then when his father went in to start the milking he’d see it all done. And he would know who had done it. He laughed to himself as he gazed at the stars. It was what he would do, and he musn’t sleep too sound.

He must have waked twenty times, scratching a match to look each time to look at his old watch — midnight, and half past one, and then two o’clock.

At a quarter to three he got up and put on his clothes. He crept downstairs, careful of the creaky boards, and let himself out. The cows looked at him, sleepy and surprised. It was early for them, too.

He had never milked all alone before, but it seemed almost easy. He kept thinking about his father’s surprise. His father would come in and get him, saying that he would get things started while Rob was getting dressed. He’d go to the barn, open the door, and then he’d go get the two big empty milk cans. But they wouldn’t be waiting or empty, they’d be standing in the milk-house, filled.

“What the–,” he could hear his father exclaiming.

He smiled and milked steadily, two strong streams rushing into the pail, frothing and fragrant.

The task went more easily than he had ever known it to go before. Milking for once was not a chore. It was something else, a gift to his father who loved him. He finished, the two milk cans were full, and he covered them and closed the milk-house door carefully, making sure of the latch.

Back in his room he had only a minute to pull off his clothes in the darkness and jump into bed, for he heard his father up. He put the covers over his head to silence his quick breathing. The door opened.

“Rob!” His father called. “We have to get up, son, even if it is Christmas.”

“Aw-right,” he said sleepily.

The door closed and he lay still, laughing to himself. In just a few minutes his father would know. His dancing heart was ready to jump from his body.

The minutes were endless — ten, fifteen, he did not know how many — and he heard his father’s footsteps again. The door opened and he lay still.

“Rob!”

“Yes, Dad–“

His father was laughing, a queer sobbing sort of laugh.

“Thought you’d fool me, did you?” His father was standing by his bed, feeling for him, pulling away the cover.

“It’s for Christmas, Dad!”

He found his father and clutched him in a great hug. He felt his father’s arms go around him. It was dark and they could not see each others faces.

“Son, I thank you. Nobody ever did a nicer thing–“

“Oh, Dad, I want you to know — I do want to be good!” The words broke from him of their own will. He did not know what to say. His heart was bursting with love.

He got up and pulled on his clothes again and they went down to the Christmas tree. Oh what a Christmas, and how his heart had nearly burst again with shyness and pride as his father told his mother and made the younger children listen about how he, Rob, had got up all by himself.

“The best Christmas gift I ever had, and I’ll remember it, son every year on Christmas morning, so long as I live.”

They had both remembered it, and now that his father was dead, he remembered it alone: that blessed Christmas dawn when, alone with the cows in the barn, he had made his first gift of true love.

This Christmas he wanted to write a card to his wife and tell her how much he loved her, it had been a long time since he had really told her, although he loved her in a very special way, much more than he ever had when they were young. He had been fortunate that she had loved him. Ah, that was the true joy of life, the ability to love. Love was still alive in him, it still was.

It occurred to him suddenly that it was alive because long ago it had been born in him when he knew his father loved him. That was it: Love alone could awaken love. And he could give the gift again and again.This morning, this blessed Christmas morning, he would give it to his beloved wife. He could write it down in a letter for her to read and keep forever. He went to his desk and began his love letter to his wife: My dearest love…

Such a happy, happy Christmas!

By Pearl S. Buck

Originally posted on Morning Story and Dilbert:

Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
December 13, 1999

This is a two cup story…    Kleenex needed…..    Kenny  T

Cup One
Dear Mom,

We’re still in Bethlehem–Mary and I and little Jesus.

There were lots of things I couldn’t talk to you about last summer. You wouldn’t have believed me then, but maybe I can tell you now. I hope you can understand.

You know, Mom, I’ve always loved Mary. You and dad used to tease me about her when she was still a girl. She and her brothers used to play on our street. Our families got together for supper. But the hardest day of my life came scarcely a year ago when I was twenty and she only fifteen. You remember that day, don’t you?

The trouble started after we were betrothed and signed the marriage agreement at our engagement. That same spring Mary had left abruptly to visit her…

View original 1,235 more words

morningstoryanddilbert:

Please enjoy this Christmas reblog. My wife and her sister are singing songs of praise to our Heavenly Father as we watch my mother inlaw slowly journey into eternity… Take care and God Bless :-) Kenny T

Originally posted on Morning Story and Dilbert:

Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
December 16, 1994

Last December, I vowed to make Christmas a calm and peaceful experience. I had cut back on nonessential obligations – extensive card writing, endless baking, decorating, and even overspending. Yet still, I found myself exhausted, unable to appreciate the precious family moments, and of course, the true meaning of Christmas.

My son, Nicholas, was in kindergarten that year. It was an exciting season for a six year old. For weeks, he’d been memorizing songs for his school’s “Winter Pageant.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d be working the night of the production. Unwilling to miss his shining moment, I spoke with his teacher. She assured me there’d be a dress rehearsal the morning of the presentation. All parents unable to attend that evening were welcome to come then. Fortunately, Nicholas seemed happy with the compromise.

So, the morning of the dress rehearsal…

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Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
December 10, 2010

Chippenham George worked for the Post Office and his job was to process all the mail that had illegible addresses.  One day just before Christmas, a letter landed on his desk simply addressed in shaky handwriting: ‘To God’.  With no other clue on the envelope, George opened the letter and read:

Dear God,

I am an 93 year old widow living on the State pension.  Yesterday someone stole my purse.  It had £100 in it, which was all the money I had in the world and no pension due until after Christmas.  Next week is Christmas and I had invited two of my friends over for Christmas lunch.  Without that money, I have nothing to buy food with.  I have no family to turn to, and you are my only hope.  God; can you please help me?

Chippenham George was really touched, and being kind hearted, he put a copy of the letter up on the staff notice board at the main Fareham sorting office where he worked.  The letter touched the other postmen and they all dug into their pockets and had a whip round.  Between them they raised £95.  [$170 USD] Using an officially franked Post Office envelope, they sent the cash on to the old lady, and for the rest of the day, all the workers felt a warm glow thinking of the nice thing they had done.

Christmas came and went.  A few days later, another letter simply addressed to ‘God’ landed in the Sorting Office.  Many of the postmen gathered around while George opened the letter.  It read,

Dear God,

How can I ever thank you enough for what you did for me? Because of your generosity, I was able to provide a lovely luncheon for my friends.  We had a very nice day, and I told my friends of your wonderful gift – in fact we haven’t gotten over it and even Father John, our parish priest, is beside himself with joy.  By the way, there was £5 [$10 USD] missing.  I think it must have been those thieving fellows at the Post Office.

Author Unknown - Please comment if you know the author
 so credit can be given
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