Quote from Forum Archives on September 2, 2003, 8:20 am

Posted by: bigguyhereagain <bigguyhereagain@...>

<>< The Puppy ><>

 

A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell. He painted a sign
advertising the pups and set about nailing it to a post on the edge of his yard.

 

As he was driving the last nail into the post, he felt a tug on his overalls.
He looked down into the eyes of a little boy.

 

Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."
"Well," said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat off the back of his neck,
"these puppies come from fine parents and cost a good deal of money."

 

The boy dropped his head for a moment. Then reaching deep into his
pocket, he pulled out a handful of change and held it up to the farmer
"I've got thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?"

 

"Sure," said the farmer. And with that he let out a whistle, "Here,
Dolly!" he called. Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly,
followed by four little balls of fur. The little boy pressed his face against
the chain link fence. His eyes danced with delight.

 

As the dogs made their way to the fence, the little boy noticed
something else stirring inside the doghouse.

 

Slowly another little ball appeared; this one noticeably smaller. Down
the ramp it slid. Then in a somewhat awkward manner the little pup began
hobbling toward the others, doing its best to catch up....

 

"I want that one," the little boy said, pointing to the runt.
The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and said, "Son, you don't want that puppy.

 

He will never be able to run and play with you like these other dogs would."

 

With that the little boy stepped back from the fence, reached down,
and began rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing so he revealed a
steel brace running down both sides of his leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe. Looking back up at the farmer, he said, "You see sir,
I don't run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands."

 

<><  <><  <><  <><  <><  <><  <><  <><  <><  <><

 

<>< At The Steak House ><>

 

It could have been any night of the week,
as I sat in one of those loud
and casual steak houses that are cropping up
all over the country. You know the type- a
bucket of peanuts on the table, shells
littering the floor, and a bunch of perky
college kids racing around
with longneck beers and sizzling platters.

 

Taking a sip of my iced tea, I studied the crowd
over the rim of my glass. I let my gaze linger
on a few of the tables next to me, where
several uniformed military members were enjoying their meals.

 

Smiling sadly, I glanced across my booth to the
 empty seat where my husband usually sat.
Had it had only been a few weeks since we had sat
at this very table talking about his upcoming
deployment to the Middle East?

 

He made me promise to come back to this
restaurant once a month, sit in our booth,
and treat myself to a nice dinner. He told me that he would
treasure the thought of me there eating a steak and
thinking about him until he came home. I
fingered the little flag pin I wear on my jacket
and wondered where at that moment he was.

 

Was he safe and warm? Was his cold any better?
Were any of my letters getting to him? As I
pondered all of these things, shrill feminine
voices from the next booth broke into my thoughts.

 

"I don't know what Bush is thinking invading Iraq.
Didn't he learn anything from his father's
mistakes? He is an idiot anyway, I can't
believe he is even in office. You know he stole the election."

 

I cut into my steak and tried not to listen as
they began an endless tirade of running down
our president. I thought about the last night I
was with my husband as he prepared to deploy.
He had just returned from getting his smallpox
and anthrax shots and the image of him standing in
our kitchen packing his gas mask still gave me chills.

 

Once again their voices invaded my thoughts.
"It is all about oil, you know. Our military will go
in and rape and pillage and steal all the oil
they can in the name of freedom. I wonder how
 many innocent lives our soldiers will take without
a thought? It is just pure greed."

 

My chest tightened and I stared at my wedding ring.
I could picture how handsome my husband was in
his mess dress the day he slipped it on my
finger. I wondered what he was wearing at that
 moment. He probably had
on his desert uniform, affectionately dubbed
coffee stains, over the top
of which he wore a heavy bulletproof vest.

 

"We should just leave Iraq alone. I don't think
they are hiding any weapons. I think it is all
a ploy to increase the president's popularity
and pad the budget of our military at the
expense of social security and
education. We are just asking for another 9-11
 and I can't say when it happens again that we
didn't deserve it."

 

Their words brought to mind the war protesters
 I had watched gathering outside our base. Did no
one appreciate the sacrifice of brave men and
women who leave their homes and family to ensure
our freedom? I glimpsed at the tables around me
and saw the faces of some of those courageous men,
looking sad as they listened to the ladies talk.

 

"Well, I for one, think it is a travesty to invade
Iraq and I am certainly sick of our tax dollars
 going to train the professional baby
killers we call a military."

 

Professional baby killers? As I thought about
what a wonderful father my husband is and
wondered how long it would be before he was able to see
his children again, indignation rose up within me.
Normally reserved, pride in my husband gave me
a boldness I had never known. Tonight, one
voice would cry out on behalf of the military.
One shy woman would stand
and let her pride in our troops be known.
I made my way to their table,
placed my palms flat on it and lowered myself
 to be eye level with them.

 

Smiling I said, "I couldn't help overhearing
your conversation. I am
sitting over here trying to enjoy my dinner alone.
Do you know why I am alone? Because my
husband, whom I love dearly, is halfway across
the world defending your right to say rotten things
about him. You have the right to your opinion,
and what you think is none of my business, but
what you say in my hearing is and I will not
sit by and listen to you run down my country,
my president, my husband, and all these other fine
men and women in here who put their lives on the
line to give you the freedom to complain.
Freedom is expensive, ladies, don't let your
actions cheapen it."

 

I must have been louder than I meant to be,
because about that time the manager came over and asked if everything was all right. "Yes, thank you."
I replied and then turned back to the ladies,
 "Enjoy the rest of your meal."

 

To my surprise, as I sat down to finish my steak,
a round of applause broke out in the restaurant.
Not long after the ladies picked up their
check and scurried away, the manager brought
 me a huge helping of apple cobbler and ice cream,
compliments of the table to my left. He told me
that the ladies had tried to pay for my dinner,
but someone had beaten them to it. When I asked
who, he said the couple had already left, but
that the man had mentioned he was a WWII vet
and wanted to take care of the wife of one of our boys.

 

I turned to thank the soldiers for the cobbler,
but they wouldn't hear a word of it, retorting,
"Thank you, you said what we wanted to say but
weren't allowed."

 

As I drove home that night, for the first time
in while, I didn't feel quite so alone. My heart
 was filled with the warmth of all the patrons
who had stopped by my table to tell me they too
were proud of my husband and that he would be
 in their prayers. I knew their flags would fly a
little higher the next day. Perhaps they would look
for tangible ways to show their pride in our country
and our troops, and maybe, just maybe, the two ladies
sitting at that table next to me would pause for a minute
to appreciate all the freedom this great country
offers and what it costs to maintain. As for me,
I had learned that one voice can make a difference.

 

Maybe the next time protesters gather outside
the gates of the base where I live, I will proudly
stand across the street with a sign of my
own. A sign that says "Thank you!"

 

Lori Kimble is a 31-year-old teacher and proud
military wife. She is a California native currently
living in Alabama.

 

><>  ><>  ><>  ><>  ><>  ><>  ><>  ><>  ><>  ><>

 

Have a Blessed Day

Dave and Barbara

 

Necessary Legal Information

I do not mail idea-central  unsolicited. If you are receiving this newsletter from me it's because you have subscribed to this mailing list. If you receive this newsletter and are not a subscriber then someone, other than me, has forwarded it to you.

 

Normal Subscribe:	idea-central-subscribe@welovegod.org
Normal Unsubscribe:	idea-central-unsubscribe@welovegod.org
Web Subscribe:	idea-central-allow-subscribe@welovegod.org
Web Unsubscribe:	idea-central-allow-unsubscribe@welovegod.org
Email Group Owner:	idea-central-owner@associate.com