http://myspace.com/karyngarciaofficial http://myspace.com/karyngarciaofficial This song GO AWAY is one of the songs I’ve written for my future album. This music video was made by me, my father and my friend. We directed, filmed and I edited it! =) ! ps. this is the remixed version of Go away, not the original one. I hope you like it! Related: North DistrictPeugeot Chinacyber monday deals 2008#1 DVD Ripper More: Go away (music video) - remix - KARYN GARCIA Source: www.youtube.com
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http://myspace.com/karyngarciaofficial http://myspace.com/karyngarciaofficial This song GO AWAY is one of the songs I’ve written for my future album. This music video was made by me, my father and my friend. We directed, filmed and I edited it! =) ! ps. this is the remixed version of Go away, not the original one. I hope you like it! Related: CarsMovie Now!cold onesgotti boys More: Go away (music video) - remix - KARYN GARCIA Source: www.youtube.com
Sinner or Saint Brother ought to say: “Out of our way, I am not just my sister’s keeper, but her emergency medical technician.”_5216 www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/w/william_shakespeare…. William Shakespeare, English Dramatist Quotes Born April 26, 1564; Died April 23, 1616
Modest doubt is called the beacon of the wise.
Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
My pride fell with my fortunes.
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
______________________________________
The Old Man and the Dog by Catherine Moore
“Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!” My father yelled at me.
“Can’t you do anything right?”
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another battle.
“I saw the car, Dad. Please don’t yell at me when I’m driving.” My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn’t lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn’t do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor’s orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, “I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.” I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. “Can you tell me about him?” The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.
“He’s a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we’ve heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.” He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. “You mean you’re going to kill him?”
“Ma’am,” he said gently, “that’s our policy. We don’t have room for every unclaimed dog.”
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. “I’ll take him,” I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
“Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!” I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. “If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don’t want it” Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples.
“You’d better get used to him, Dad. He’s staying!” Dad ignored me. “Did you hear me, Dad?” I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad’s lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad’s bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father’s room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad’s bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad’s peace of mind.
The morning of Dad’s funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.”
“I’ve often thanked God for sending that angel,” he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article…
Cheyenne’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter… his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father…and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood.
I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly.
Live While You Are Alive.
Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity.
Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.
And if you don’t send this to at least 4 people - who cares? But do share this with someone.
Lost time can never be found.
________________________ Tuesday, July 22, 2008 Former sinner now Saint Mary Magdalene
Scripture from today’s Liturgy of the Word: Micah 7:14-15, 18-20 Psalm 85:2-4, 5-6, 7-8 John 20:1-2, 11-18
A reflection on today’s Sacred Scripture:
Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early in the morning. . . .
There are so many different ways to look at this passage, but one that I have seen rarely mentioned is the nature of this privileged position of Mary Magdalene. Why Mary Magdalene of all people? Why not Peter, or the Blessed Virgin, or John, the beloved disciple? Why Mary Magdalene?
We may only know the answer when we get to heaven. However, one way to think about it is this—we never know whom God will select to carry out His particular mission. While we sit back in the pews and expect our priests, bishops, and missionaries to fulfill this role (and often they do), it may be the least expected—you, the person sitting next to you, the person with the wailing baby three rows back. God selects for a purpose that we might not know during our time on Earth, but He knows.
Why, then, Mary Magdalene?
Perhaps it was because she was unexpected. She was the least of “these little ones.” She was a woman in a society that did not necessarily appreciate women. She is each one of us—the unknown, the small, the unlikely. And she was chosen to proclaim the great good news of the resurrection. As are we. And she was largely ignored or thought to be mad—as we might be. But this particular mission fell to her because she was ready to do it. Her love for the Lord had her up early and at the tomb.
If we are prepared, if we too love the Lord enough to go out of our way for Him, to break the routine and to look for Him in unlikely places, we too can be a sign to those around us. We can proclaim His glorious resurrection without saying a word—for the love we show, the devotion we carry, will speak louder and longer than we could ever do.
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