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Vintage Dilbert March 7, 2007

Vintage Dilbert
March 7, 2007

At first I saw God as my observer, my judge, keeping track of the things I did wrong, so as to know whether I merited heaven or hell when I die. He was out there sort of like a president. I recognized his picture when I saw it, but I really didn’t know Him.

But later on, when I met God, it seemed as though life were rather like a bike ride, but it was a tandem bike, and I noticed that God was at the back, helping me pedal.

I don’t know when it was that He suggested that we change places, but life has not been the same since. When I had control I knew the way. It was rather boring, but predictable. It was the shortest distance between two points. But when He took the lead, He knew delightful long cuts, up mountains, and through rocky places at breakneck speeds. It was all I could do to hang on!

Even though it looked like madness, He said, “Pedal!” I worried and was anxious and asked, “Where are you taking me?” He laughed and didn’t answer, and I started to learn to trust. I forgot my boring life and entered into the adventure. And when I’d say, “I’m scared,” He’d lean back and touch my hand.

He took me to people with gifts that I needed; gifts of healing, acceptance and joy. They gave me gifts to take on my journey. And we were off again. He said, “give the gifts away; they’re extra baggage, too much weight.” So I did, to the people we met, and I found that in giving I received, and still our burden was light.

I did not trust Him, at first, in control of my life. I thought He’d wreck it; but He knows bike secrets, knows how to make it bend to take sharp corners, knows how to jump to clear high rocks, knows how to fly to shorten scary passages. And I am learning to shut up and pedal in the strangest places, and I’m beginning to enjoy the view and the cool breeze on my face with God as my delightful constant companion.

And when I’m sure I just can’t do anymore, He just smiles and says,

“Pedal!”

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I have..... 
Remember, "Just Pedal" 
Explore the MS&D archives for more than 1000 additional stories...
 Take Care and God Bless :-) Kenny T
Author Unknown - 
Please comment if you know the author so credit can be given
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Vintage Dilbert March 3, 2014

Vintage Dilbert
March 3, 2014

My mother taught me TO APPRECIATE A JOB WELL DONE.
“If you’re going to kill each other, do it outside. I just finished cleaning.”

My mother taught me RELIGION.
“You better pray that will come out of the carpet.”

My mother taught me about TIME TRAVEL.
“If you don’t straighten up, I’m going to knock you into the middle of next week!”

My mother taught me LOGIC.
“Because I said so, that’s why.”

My mother taught me MORE LOGIC.
“If you fall out of that swing and break your neck, you’re not going to the store with me.”

My mother taught me FORESIGHT.
“Make sure you wear clean underwear in case you’re in an accident.”

My mother taught me IRONY.
“Keep crying, and I’ll give you something to cry about!”

My mother taught me about the science of OSMOSIS.
“Shut your mouth and eat your supper.”

My mother taught me about CONTORTIONISTS.
“Will you look at that dirt on the back of your neck!”

My mother taught me about STAMINA.
“You’ll sit there until all that spinach is gone.”

My mother taught me about WEATHER.
“This room of yours looks as if a tornado went through it.”

My mother taught me about HYPOCRISY.
“If I told you once, I’ve told you a million times, don’t exaggerate!”

My mother taught me the CIRCLE OF LIFE.
“I brought you into this world, and I can take you out..”

My mother taught me about BEHAVIOR MODIFICATION.
“Stop acting like your father!”

I hope you enjoyed this story about MOM as much as I have..... 
Explore the MS&D archives for over 1000 additional stories... 
Take Care and God Bless :-) Kenny T
Author Unknown - Please comment if you know the author
 so credit can be given

 

Vintage Dilbert February 21,  2011

Vintage Dilbert
February 21, 2011

Her eyes met mine as she walked down the corridor peering apprehensively into the kennels. I felt her need instantly and knew I had to help her.

I wagged my tail, not too exuberantly, so she wouldn’t be afraid. As she stopped at my kennel I blocked her view from a little accident I had in the back of my cage. I didn’t want her to know that I hadn’t been walked today. Sometimes the overworked shelter keepers get too busy and I didn’t want her to think poorly of them.

As she read my kennel card I hoped that she wouldn’t feel sad about my past. I only have the future to look forward to and want to make a difference in someone’s life.

She got down on her knees and made little kissy sounds at me. I shoved my shoulder and side of my head up against the bars to comfort her. Gentle fingertips caressed my neck; she was desperate for companionship. A tear fell down her cheek and I raised my paw to assure her that all would be well.

Soon my kennel door opened and her smile was so bright that I instantly jumped into her arms.

I would promise to keep her safe.

I would promise to always be by her side.

I would promise to do everything I could to see that radiant smile and sparkle in her eyes.

I was so fortunate that she came down my corridor. So many more are out there who haven’t walked the corridors. So many more to be saved. At least I could save one.

I rescued a human today.

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I have..... Explore the MS&D 
Archives for over 1000 additional stories...  
Take Care and God Bless  :-)  Kenny T
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Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
October 14, 2004

A woman who died found herself standing outside the Pearly Gates, being greeted by St. Peter.

She asked him, “Oh, is this place what I really think it is? It’s so beautiful. Did I really make it to Heaven?”

To which St. Peter replied, “Yes, my dear, these are the Gates to Heaven. But you must do one more thing before you can enter.”

The woman was very excited, and asked of St. Peter what she must do to pass through the gates.

“Spell a word,” St. Peter replied. “What word?” she asked.

“Love,” answered St. Peter.  The woman promptly replied, “L-o-v-e.”

St. Peter congratulated her on her good fortune to have made it to Heaven, and asked her if she would mind taking his place at the gates for a few minutes while he went to the bathroom.

“I’d be honored,” she said, “but what should I do if someone comes while you are gone?”

St. Peter reassured her, and instructed the woman to simply have any newcomers to the Pearly Gates to spell a word as she had done.

So the woman is left sitting in St. Peter’s chair and watching the beautiful angels soaring around her when a man approaches the gates. She realizes it is her husband.

“What happened?” she cried, “Why are you here?”

Her husband stared at her for a moment, then said, “I was so drunk when I left your funeral, I was in an accident. And now I am here. Did I really make it to Heaven?”

To which the woman replied, “Not yet. You must spell a word first.”

“What word?” he asked.

The woman responded, “Czechoslovakia.”

Author Unknown - Please comment if you know the author
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Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
September 14, 1994

Courtesy wasn’t really optional in my childhood home. I grew up with two sisters just older than me. If I wasn’t courteous to them, they would slug me.

Yes, I saw the irony (even though in those days I thought “irony” was a shirt that needed a lot of pressing). And no, I didn’t say anything about it. That would’ve been rude.

And – let’s face it – painful.

Kathy, my youngest sister, had a strange fascination with my eating habits. She felt it was her duty to point out to our mother that I was taking more than my share of mashed potatoes, or that I was hiding my parsnips under pieces of fat from the roast beef. And whenever we traveled and Dad bought hamburgers for us to eat on the way, Kathy would intentionally wait until after I had hungrily wolfed mine down before she would start eating hers. And then she would torment me with the deliberately long, slow, luxurious mastication of her hamburger.

I thought that was rude. She said it was just good manners.

And then she stuck her bun-and-burger-and-special-sauce-covered tongue out at me.

Wanda Lynne, on the other hand, was anxious to make me a kind and courteous Lothario. Never mind that I was still years away from actually dating. Wanda Lynne wanted to make sure I would treat the girls I dated better than the boys she was dating were treating her – at least, that was my theory. So she made me open doors for her and help her into her chair at dinner. And when we walked up the hill to church she taught me to walk on the inside closest to the road. She said it was courteous for me to do this so if a car came by and splashed water or snow it would hit me before it hit the girl I was with. But I always thought she was secretly hoping an inattentive driver would come along and pick me off.

Years later I went away to college, and I remembered the things my sisters had taught me. I assumed that was the way that grown up people act, and as an 18-year-old college freshman I wanted more than anything else to act like a grown up. So as I walked into the university library for the first time, I noticed an older woman – probably at least a junior – walking behind me, and I held the door open for her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, glaring at me. “Do you think that because I’m a woman I’m not strong enough to open a door for myself?”

I was stunned … and speechless.

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Freshmen,” she muttered, brushing past me.

I stood there for a moment. My face was flushed and warm from embarrassment. I decided that there would be no more door opening or chair holding or closest-to-the-traffic walking for me. And if I wanted to eat the last of the mashed potatoes in the cafeteria, so be it!

As I stood there, however, another upperclassman approached the library door, her arms overloaded with textbooks. Instinctively I reached to open the door for her. I grimaced as soon as I realized what I had done, and I braced myself for the muttered invective that was sure to follow. Instead, I received a warm smile and a look of relief.

“Thanks!” she said brightly. “It’s nice to see we still have a few gentlemen around here!”

Of course, if I were REALLY a gentleman I would have offered to help her with her books. But I was still a little gun-shy, and I didn’t want to press my luck. Even so, I decided that the good feeling I got from performing an act of simple courtesy was worth the possibility of bluster. To do otherwise would be to go against a lifetime of training – not to mention rendering meaningless countless sisterly slugs. Three years later I met a beautiful freshman who actually appreciated my courtesy to her, and for 35 years we’ve been trying to out-nice each other.

I’ve been thinking about this lately, especially since September is National Courtesy Month. And I’ve noticed that while the world in which we live can be dark and sometimes foreboding, courtesy and kindness bring pleasant, refreshing light to our lives whether we are the giver, the receiver or just an interested observer. A teenager stands to give an elderly man her seat on a crowded bus. A motorist slows to allow another vehicle to merge onto the freeway smoothly and safely. A shopper with a week’s worth of groceries in his cart allows someone with only a few items to go ahead of him in the check out line. Such simple courtesies don’t necessarily change our lives, but they can certainly change the way we feel about them.

Even without the slugging.

 Author - Joseph B. Walker 
   Copyright © 2012 
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
September 4, 2002

My classroom was a sort of “dumping ground” at one point in my career.

The counselor, Mr. H., had a habit of coming to me with a timid smile and saying, “I have a kid for you who you’ll just love.

That was code for “I need to put a ‘bad’ kid in your class who’s gotten kicked out by another teacher.”

I sighed and answered, “Well, alright.” And thus, in walked Josh.

Some kids put up a little wall to prevent others from knowing their vulnerabilities. Josh had military-grade body armor.

He was a typical, tough-acting, fourteen-year-old boy: smack in the middle of adolescence, something to prove but nothing to prove it with just yet.

He didn’t like school and school didn’t like him.

The mention of Josh’s name yielded growls and steam in three grade levels of middle-school teachers.

I got him for four periods during his eighth-grade year.

He was in my history class, my study hall, my “student assistant” period, and he sat in my room during another teacher’s class, with whom he “didn’t get along.”

He worked some, but mostly, he drew lots and lots of pictures.

He brought with him frustration from other classes every day and would come in angry, ignore me, and get out paper.

I let him draw, but I frequently complained to him that he ought to be doing work for his other teachers.

He was difficult, so I just left him alone most of the time.

Pretty soon, Josh and I had come to an understanding. He held it together just enough to keep me sane.

When he was finished with his work for me he would ask for paper and pencils to draw.

I would reluctantly agree, as I knew it was not a battle I needed to pick during my busy day.

Other teachers had complained over and over that he drew pictures in their classes, so I was reluctant to encourage him.

He left a folder in my classroom with his drawings, but I never looked at it. I made it through the year, just barely, with my Josh-heavy experience.

At the end of the school year, I spoke briefly with Josh’s mother.

She explained that Josh’s father had been deployed for over fourteen months to Iraq and was frequently in combat.

I do not know how I didn’t know this — no one at the school had mentioned it.

I suppose there were so many deployments among our military families that it was overlooked.

Josh had to help her take care of his younger brother with special needs.

He hadn’t had a good year at school, but he’d had an even worse year at home.

The stress of the deployment had taken a toll on his family.

Because Josh liked to draw, the family psychologist suggested he draw whenever he felt frustrated or angry or sad or scared.

He drew all the time at home too. I felt so terrible.

Josh’s mother gave me a beautiful, handmade book. It had several of the most amazing drawings I had ever seen, and a couple of photos of Josh “to remember him by,” since they would be moving soon.

I couldn’t believe he was so talented and I had never taken a moment to notice.

He had drawn me working at my desk, the view out the classroom window, the furniture in my classroom, vegetables, fruits and many other things. They were amazing.

When I asked why she had given the book to me, she explained that she knew what a difficult child he was.

She told me that I was the only teacher who had not thrown his drawings away.

She said Josh had actually described me to the family psychologist as the “glue” that held his world together since his dad left. He said that I was the only teacher who was kind to him.

Because I had let him draw when he was sad or angry, he wanted me to have the book to say “thank you.”

She said he was too embarrassed to give me the book himself. She gave me a tearful hug and she left. I have not seen them since.

I do think about Josh a lot; I have one of his pieces — a radish — framed in my kitchen.

I am grateful that he thought of me as his school glue. But I regret not taking more advantage of a situation in which I could have more of an inspiration and encouragement to a young man who needed me.

I will not miss the opportunity again. I look for it in every encounter.

A teacher’s job is difficult. We forget sometimes, however, that day-to-day life can be far more difficult for many of our students.

I try to find something special in every student, but because of Josh, I try harder with the “complicated” kids.

I knew I had tried to be kind as difficult as it was sometimes, but I never knew I was glue — my eye opener.

But now I want to be more than glue; I want to be the cement stepping stone to encourage a child to the next level.

We all need a Josh to open our eyes to take a closer look at those around us to whom we can make a life a little brighter and be the glue that helps them keep things together.

Dorothy Goff Goulet
Teacher Tales
Chicken Soup for the Soul...
http://www.chickensoup.com
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
September 1, 2001

An old legend tells of a French monastery that was well-known throughout Europe

because of the extraordinary leadership of a man known only as Brother Leo.

Several monks began a pilgrimage to visit Brother Leo to learn from him. Almost

immediately, the monks began to bicker as to who should do various chores. On

the third day they met another monk who was also going to the monastery.

This monk never complained or shirked a duty. Whenever the others would fight

over a chore, he would gracefully volunteer to do it himself. By the last day,

the other monks were following his example, and everyone worked together

smoothly.

When they reached the monastery and asked to see Brother Leo, the man who

greeted them laughed. “But our brother is among you!” pointing to the fellow who

had joined them late in the trip.

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