Picked up this great nugget in Church yesterday:

“In the end it will be OK, and if it’s not OK, it’s not the end!”

I love it! It reminds me of my dad’s e-mail signature, which ends with:

“Everything will be alright.”

Every time I get an e-mail from him I love that little spark of positive energy at the end of every message.

Remember the “Gratitude Rock” story from the Secret? It comes from Lee Brower, and a couple of weeks ago my wife and I attended an event called “The Secret In Words And Music” and were able to meet Mr. Brower, who was gracious enough to spend a few minutes with us during the break.

It was a great experience, the highlight of which was when he gave us both one of his rocks! He also wrote a nice inscription in the cover of his book that I bought there, “The Brower Quadrant,” which by the way, is a really great book.

If you aren’t familiar with the Gratitude Rock, check out the post I did on my business blog about a year ago, it has the whole story, well worth the read.

Have you seen the movie Invictus? If not, it’s a great one, well worth watching. Since I saw it I wrote out the poem in my journal and am working on memorizing it.

Check it out:

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

-William Ernest Henley. 1849–1903

I love inspirational poetry, and have heard this one throughout my life, so I thought I’d share it with you in case you have never heard it. If you have, enjoy it again!

The Touch of the Masters Hand

It was battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
Hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.
“What am I bid, good people”, he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three”,

But, No,
From the room far back a grey haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet,
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its’ bow.
“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone”, said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
“We just don’t understand.”
“What changed its’ worth?”
Swift came the reply.
“The Touch of the Masters Hand.”

And many a man with life out of tune,
All battered with bourbon and gin,
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin.
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.
But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Master’s Hand.

Myra ‘Brooks’ Welch

A few weeks ago a man shared a true story in church that really stuck with me. I liked it so much I asked him where it got it, tracked it down, and want to share it, enjoy!

Fresh Crab And French Bread

By Garnee Faulkner

It was a typical winter day in San Francisco, cool and damp. We had lived there a few years before and were back renewing memories. Seeing the large, steaming crab vats as we walked along Fisherman’s Wharf, I exclaimed, “Oh, let’s take some crab home to Emma.”

“Crab?” asked my husband. “Why crab?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she would enjoy it.”

Sensing my ever-present desire to bring cheer to a grieving widow in our ward (congregation), Ron counseled me to find a more easily transported gift. He suggested that we find something more suitable in one of the souvenir shops beckoning us.

In and out of the shops we went, searching in vain for just the right memento. Empty-handed and tired, we started for our car, only to pass the crab vats once more.

“Ron, I still want to take some crab to Emma,” I pleaded.

He was still resistant to hauling crab 150 miles, especially when I wasn’t even sure Emma liked it. Nevertheless, we asked the vendor about transporting un-refrigerated crab that distance.

Soon we were crossing the Bay Bridge with the crab carefully wrapped in many thicknesses of paper; a long loaf of the Wharf’s famous french bread was tucked in the side of the sack.

On the trip home my thoughts turned to Emma. I remembered the (church) meeting ten months before when Emma, her husband, Ed, and their oldest son, David, had spoken just before David left to serve a mission. That was the last time we saw Ed. After accompanying David to the Missionary Training Center, Ed suffered a fatal heart attack while still in Utah. He never returned to California.

Ed was a gifted surgeon, highly respected in our community. His passing was felt deeply. In addition to Emma, he left six children, the youngest just a toddler.

Though many grieved with the family, it was difficult to express their sympathy because Emma was extremely reserved and quiet. Few knew her well. As the months went on, her sorrow did not seem to lessen. Grief and poor health found her withdrawing from activity outside her home.

I was determined to be her friend, her sister in the gospel, and not let fear or personal rejection dilute my concern. Each week I went to her home, sometimes to be invited in while she shared her heartache. Other times she met me at the door but quickly terminated the visit with, “Thank you for coming.”

As I rang the doorbell that day I could hear many feet running to answer. The door opened. Emma, surrounded by her children, stood there puzzled at my brown sack and protruding loaf of bread.

“Yes?” she inquired.

My spirits were dampened by her coolness, but I faked enthusiasm over our trip to the city and the gift we had brought.

As she took the fresh crab and french bread, Emma asked, “Is this for any special occasion?”

“No,” I replied, “I just thought you might enjoy some crab from the Wharf.”

“Thank you very much,” she said, expressionless, and closed the door.

I returned to the car and slumped down into the seat, deflated. All I could say to Ron was, “I’m not sure Emma likes crab.” We finished the drive home in silence.

Two days later came the following letter:

My dear friends:

I was very touched by your kind gesture last night and feel compelled to share a few thoughts with you.

Yesterday morning began with the usual daily tasks. I was out sweeping the walks when I looked up to the heavens and, noting the vast, billowing, white clouds, asked, “Ed, do you know what day this is? Do dates have a meaning in heaven? Can you possibly know how much I love you and how desperately you are missed; how I long to be taken into your strong arms and held again just for a minute?”

With tear-stained cheeks I wanted to know if he remembered twenty-three years ago, or even two years ago this day.

All day long memories came rushing back. I remembered our first trip to San Francisco and how cold it was as we walked by the steaming crab pots at the Wharf. Ed was so handsome in his Navy uniform. He always took my hand in his, and holding it tight placed both in his overcoat pocket. How comforting the warmth was. I could see him sitting in the cable car, with his boyish grin, a loaf of bread and a crab under each arm. So many times he repeated this procedure.

San Francisco was our playground. I cannot begin to count the number of seminars and scientific meetings we attended there. To learn more was almost a disease with Ed. After each session we always ended our stay by going to the Wharf. A loaf of bread and a fresh crab became symbolic of a wonderful time together. Now that he’s gone, I wonder what mysteries of heaven he is exploring, what avenues are being opened to him. So many unanswered questions … so impatient I am.

Yesterday was a difficult day to get through. In late afternoon a beautiful floral arrangement arrived with a card from the children declaring their love for me. It was heartwarming. As I looked at the two little ones, then at Eddie and Janet and Miriam—then remembered David—I could see a part of Ed in each and realized that my cup runneth over.

Then at the close of day when I opened the door and saw you standing there with a loaf of bread and a package of fresh crab, it was like a direct message. You denied knowing it was a special day. Therefore I felt it was Ed’s way of saying, “Happy anniversary. I do remember.”

As ever,
Emma