Rude Dog SPEAK!

*JUST LUNCH*

This story was copied from a magazine called 'Renewed &Ready.'
What a story it is, by Beverly Brass as told to her by Denny Kukich of Wood Dale, Illinois....
    
I put my carry-on in the luggage compartment and sat down in my assigned seat. It was going to be a long flight. 'I'm glad I have a good book to read. Perhaps I will get a short nap,' I thought. I fly frequently, and I always look for an opportunity to share God with someone. I wondered who it might be this time because there were empty seats all around me. Not much of a chance to talk to anyone. Just before take-off, a line of soldiers came down the aisle and filled all the vacant seats, totally surrounding me. 'This is more like it! OK, Lord, which one will it be? Who needs to hear about you?' 

I decided to start a conversation. Where are you headed?' I asked the soldier seated nearest to me.

'Chicago -- to Great Lakes Base. We'll be there for two weeks for special training, and then we're being deployed to Iraq.' After flying for about an hour, an announcement was made that sack lunches were available for five dollars. It would be several hours before we reached Chicago, and I quickly decided a lunch would help pass the time. As I reached for my wallet, I overheard a soldier ask his buddy if he planned to buy lunch.

'No, that seems like a lot of money for just a sack lunch. Probably wouldn't be worth five bucks. I'll wait till we get to Chicago.' His friend agreed. I looked around at the other soldiers. None were buying lunch. I was hungry, but could not bring myself to eat in front of them. I walked to the back of the plane and handed the flight attendant a fifty dollar bill. 'Take a lunch to all those soldiers.' 

She grabbed my arms and squeezed tightly. Her eyes wet with tears, she thanked me. 'My son was a soldier in Iraq. It's almost like you are doing it for him.' Picking up ten sacks, she headed up the aisle to where the soldiers were seated.

I Forgot About Me! Overwhelmed by her emotional response, I returned to my seat. She asked, 'Which do you like best--beef or chicken?' 'Chicken,' I replied, wondering why she asked. She turned and went to the front of plane, returning a minute later with a dinner plate from first class. 'This is your thanks.' Now I felt guilty--I had dinner and the soldiers had only a sack lunch. After we finished eating, I went again to the back of the plane, heading for the rest room. A man stopped me. 'I saw what you did. I want to be part of it. Here, take this.' He handed me twenty-five dollars.

Soon after I returned to my seat, I saw the Flight Captain coming down the aisle, looking at the aisle numbers as he walked, I hoped he was not looking for me, but noticed he was looking at the numbers only on my side of the plane. When he got to my row he stopped, smiled, held out his hand, and said, 'I want to shake your hand.' Quickly unfastening my seatbelt I stood and took the Captain's hand. With a booming voice he said, 'I was a soldier and I was a pilot. Once, someone bought me a lunch. It was an act of kindness I never forgot.'

I was embarrassed when applause was heard from all of the passengers. Later I walked to the front of the plane so I could stretch my legs. A man who was seated about six rows in front of me reached out his hand, wanting to shake mine. He left another twenty-five dollars in my palm.

When we landed in Chicago I gathered my belongings and started to deplane. Waiting just inside the airplane door was a man who stopped me, put something in my shirt pocket, turned, and walked away without saying a word. Another twenty-five dollars! Upon entering the terminal, I saw the soldiers gathering for their trip to the base. I walked over to them and handed them seventy-five dollars. 'It will take you some time to reach the base. It will be about time for a sandwich. God Bless You.' Ten young men left that flight feeling the love and respect of their fellow travelers.

As I walked briskly to my car, I whispered a prayer for their safe return. These soldiers were giving their all for our country.  I could only give them a couple of meals. It seemed so little....

So, my oldest child is 18 years old. She has graduated high school, and works in the marketing department at a law firm full time. Last month she bought her own car without any financial help from her parents. She is her own person now.

Some kids, our daughter’s age, are living the party life, completely irresponsible and doing things that no parent wants to think about.

I am so proud of her. It is very hard not to brag to everyone I see. Her mom and I did a good job I guess, and she came out a productive, self sufficient adult. What more can any parent want?

So why do I feel so sad?  I think I know why.

When she was just a little tyke around 3 years old, she came running down the hall in her pink “little mermaid” jammies and jumped in my lap.

“Good night daddy!” she said with a big kiss and hug. I looked at her and I said

“Are you going to grow up and get married and live somewhere else some day?” I had just watched the movie “Father of the Bride” and for the first time in my life I faced the idea of my little girl getting married and leaving me and her mother. I was somewhat emotional (I was a mess!).

She nodded her little head confidently

“Well” I said “that is going to make me very sad”

She looked at me with a strange look “Why daddy?”  

“Well because you will fall in love some day with man and you will marry him.  You will go and live with him at his house and start your own family. I will not like that day very much. I will miss you.”

My 3 year old daughter looked me deep in my eyes and she held my face in both hands and she said:

“Daddy…I’m just going night-night!”With that, she kissed me on the cheek, leaped off my lap and ran back down the hall to her room.

I smiled to myself and with teary eyes I starred at the wall. I realized that I still had at least 15 more years with her.

I went to sleep that night and It seems that I woke up 15 years later and my responsible 18 year old daughter just told me that her and her long time love interest/boyfriend are probably  getting married.

We discussed her plans and idea for a little while and then she said. “I’m tired Dad and I have to work in the morning. Goodnight dad. “She went to her room and closed the door.

I smiled to myself and with teary eyes I starred at the wall. I realized that the 15 years with her were nearly over.

That’s why I feel so sad. It’s not the bad kind of sad. It’s more of a happy-joyful sadness.

 After all, she is her own, independent, responsible woman and I am very proud of her. Oh and as for the “almost fiancé”…I like him a lot because he makes my little girl happy. He sort of reminds me of me! (I don’t tell him that though.)

Life goes on, that’s the point of life. However, no matter how happy and proud I am of my beautiful little girl, I can’t help but yearn for one more bedtime chat in her pink "Little Mermaid" jammies.

Rude Dog

I received this in an email from my mom and though it was worth sharing.

~ Rude Dog

August 1942. Piotrkow , Poland.

The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously. All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto had been herded into a square. Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.

"Whatever you do," Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me,"don't tell them your age. Say you're sixteen." I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might be deemed valuable as a worker.

An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He looked me up and down, then asked my age. "Sixteen,"I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers and other healthy young men already stood.

My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children, sick and elderly people. I whispered to Isidore, "Why?" He didn't answer. I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her. "No,"she said sternly. "Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers."

She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once, she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of her.

My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany . We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night weeks later and were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms and identification numbers."Don't call me Herman anymore." I said to my brothers. "Call me 94983."

I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a hand-cranked elevator. I, too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.

Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald's sub-camps near Berlin.  One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice,"Son," she said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel." Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream. But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And fear.

A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily see. I was alone. On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in German. "Do you have something to eat?" She didn't understand. I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.

She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence. I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say faintly, "I'll see you tomorrow." I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day. She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread or, better yet, an apple. We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both. I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life for me? Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.

Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia. "Don't return," I told the girl that day. "We're leaving." I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd never learned, the girl with the apples.

We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed. On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM. In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now, it was over. I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.

But at 8 A.M. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers. Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived; I'm not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been the key to my survival. In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none. My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.

Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America , where my brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years. By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was starting to settle in.

One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me. "I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date." A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me. But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma. I had to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.

The four of us drove out to Coney Island. Roma was easy to talk to,easy to be with. Turned out she was wary of blind dates too! We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.

We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat. As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, "Where were you," she asked softly, "during the war?" "The camps," I said, the terrible memories still vivid, the irreparable loss. I had tried to forget. But you can never forget. She nodded. "My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from Berlin ," she told me. "My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan papers." I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion. And yet here we were, both survivors, in a new world. "There was a camp next to the farm." Roma continued. "I saw a boy there and I would throw him apples every day."

What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. "What did he look like? I asked. "He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for six months." My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it. This couldn't be. "Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?" Roma looked at me in amazement. "Yes!" "That was me! " I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I couldn't believe it! My angel.

"I'm not letting you go." I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait. "You're crazy!" she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for Shabbat dinner the following week. There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness. For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never let her go.

That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her go.

Herman Rosenblat, Miami Beach, Florida

This is a true story and you can find out more by Googling Herman Rosenblat.  He was Bar Mitzvahed at age 75. This story is being made into a movie called The Fence. 

Carefully sipping a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea, Dave starred at his computer screen.  The desk clock blinked 4:19 am. The early morning hour provided nothing more than the sound of an electric fan humming in the corner. Here, alone with his thoughts, he reread the e-mail for the third time.

In all reality, the e-mail was not that important. It was just some thoughts from a friend regarding a conversation they had earlier that week.

“I asked for his opinion, I should be grateful.” He said to himself out loud.  

There was no reason to be concerned.  The e-mail was not all negative nor was it mean-spirited. It was a direct and honest opinion that Dave himself had solicited.   Yet, a dark mood drifted over him. “Within seconds, he mentally reached into the past and resurrected every mistake he had made, every unkind word that was said to him, and every failure.

“Idiot… Why do you even try?”

The dark mood, now fully surrounding him, recalled his every shortcoming.

The most dominating thought was that of Dave’s 4^th grade teacher who had announced to rest of the class that Dave had a “mental problem” and was not as smart as everyone else. This was due to a nervous laugh that 8 year old Dave had when he spoke. He remembered vividly how the other kids teased him on the playground about his “mental problem” and some called him retarded. He remembered his 4^th grade teacher removing his name from the Crossing Guard list right in front of him, saying “Little boys, who giggle, don’t deserve to be crossing guards.”

Drawing another sip of tea, he digested his feeling and thoughts.  At age 43, he had recalled this moment of his childhood thousands of times. For over 35 years he had played back this moment every time failure breached his path. “Maybe she was right, maybe there is something wrong with me and I am just an epic failure.” 

Dave set his mug down to pick up his orange tabby, Kat-cat, and ask

“Do you think I’m an epic failure?” Kat-cat just stared back blankly.

“Nope, didn’t think so.” Dave said, scratching Kat-cat on the head.  “Nor do I, Kat, Nor do I.”

The dark mood slithered away defeated and Dave replaced it with the monumental victories in his life: His three kids, his marriage of 20years, his undying love for people, his relentless will that never quit and his addiction to hope. “If I am a failure…I don’t want success.” Dave thought to himself.

Dave had failed many times in his life. In fact, many of Dave’s successes had only been birthed out of countless failures. But, none of them had killed him and none were irrevocable.  When things would go wrong, Dave always would say “Failure is neither fatal nor final.” This he heard from a visiting pastor and decided to adopt it as a personal motto.

 But still, the agonizing memory of his 4^th grade teacher would show up. This happens to everyone. We naturally tend to reach back and recall pain. Sometimes the hurtful things are the most familiar. It is when we rise above pain and see that failure should be embraced even more so than success. For through failure come our greatest victories and achievements. Failures have produced some of the greatest ideas, thinkers, inventors, and human beings that have ever been.

Failure is neither fatal nor final.

Dave took another sip of his Earl Grey and let Kat-cat go to curl up at his feet. He answered the e-mail and thanked his friend for his unbiased comments and confirmed their appointment for coffee in a few days.  Dave opens his blog and started writing his thoughts for the moment:  Carefully sipping a steaming mug of Earl Grey tea, Dave starred at his computer screen...

~ Rude Dog

“I”

I will not Abandon

I will not Betray

I will not Confuse

I will not bruise you or break you or say things that hurt you

And I will not ever shame you

I cannot Alienate

I cannot Belittle

I cannot Cheat

I cannot tempt you, ignore you or fail you

And I cannot lie to you, not now not ever.

I am not Angry

I am not a Bully

I am not Cruel

I am not Misleading, Uncaring, Hateful or Hiding

And I am not Dead

~~~~~

I will keep you and never give up

I will Protect you

I will Enlighten you

I will mend you and heal you and cheer for you

And I will always honor you with fondness and pride

I can engage you

I can admire and applaud for you

I can be loyal like no friend can

I can encourage you, always taking notice of you to bring you satisfaction and joy

And I am truth today and forever.

I am Calm

I am Delighted in you

I am Kind

I am your leader, forgiver, and the lover of your soul

I am revealing myself to you

I am Life, I am Alive!

I am God!

My Aunt Ginny has a funny way to describe life. She says that her life is like sitting in the bottom of  a trash can with the lid on and ever so often God takes the lid off and yells down to her: “ Have you had enough yet!” and then slams the lid down. Every time I hear her say this I laugh out loud and look around to see who else is laughing. Most people do. In some cases, there are looks of disapproval as if she has crossed some righteous line and in other cases, there are looks of terror as if this could somehow be true.

But the truth is, I have felt like this from time to time and I wonder how many people in this world feel stuck in the trashcan. How many people feel like there life has been reduced to sitting and stewing in the slime, muck and mold? Too many! I meet them everywhere. They are from all walks of life, tax brackets and religious affiliations. Just people stuck in the trashcan, with no way out and no hope. 

But God didn’t put you there.

Oh he knows you are there and he is going to lift the lid. He is going to look down at you and see where you are and he is going to see all the garbage, and the stink and the filth and he is going to know. He is going to know why you are there. It’s either because of your own corruption or because you just woke one day and there you were. He knows what you are - sitting there in the scum, Oh and he is going to say “Have you had enough yet?”

Then he will reach in... and pull… you… out.

God’s has been digging in the garbage, and pilfering through dumpster and trashcans for centuries to salvage the broken and discarded. He fixes us up, cleans us up, disinfects us and restores us to a  complete and stable condition. Yes, God is a junk-man and you and I are the junk he collects. Junk that he finds invaluable. (Psalm40:2)

~Rude Dog