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Father Knows Best, by Doug Bartlett

13/9/2019

“Dad, I don’t get this prayer thing,” my young son exclaimed.
“What about it?” I asked.
“Well, many of my prayers don’t get answered the way I have asked,” he responded.
“They don’t,” I chuckled, “There is a good reason for that. It’s like when you come to me with a request and I don’t allow it. You think it’s a good idea but I have a better plan for you.”
“I still don’t get it, Dad,” my son replied with frustration.
“Let me put it this way,” I stated, “Years ago I prayed long and hard for who I would someday marry. One day I finally met this wonderful lady named Martha and I began praying even harder that she would marry me.”
“But,” my son interrupted, “Mom’s name is Jennifer.”
“Exactly,” I said, “Had I married Martha you would not exist.”
“Wow,” my son exclaimed, “I’m beginning to understand. Thanks, Dad."

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Dark Clouds, by Rod Drake

8/9/2019

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JFK stood alone in the Oval Office, looking out a window at the pelting rain outside. October 1962. The Cuban Blockade. Would Russian back down? No one, none of his advisors, or he himself, really knew. An enormous gamble. The whole world
was at stake. The rain slackened for a few minutes, then picked up again. A cold, dismal rain blanketed D.C. today.
“Sir?” His secretary leaned in at the door. “The Attorney General is here.”
JFK turned around. “Send him in, please.”
RFK hurried in, looking tired.
“Any word?” the President asked him.
“I think,” the Attorney General replied,” that we may have a deal. But we have to agree to remove our 15 Jupiter missiles from Turkey aimed at the Soviet Union.”
Bobby sat down on a couch. “Not much to give up really. They’re already outmoded, not very effective defensive weapons anymore. I think it’s just a face-saving gesture for Khrushchev.”
JFK looked back out the window; the rain had stopped and a thin ray of sunshine cut through the dark clouds. “Agree to it,” he said.
RFK rushed out of the room, and the President wondered if the rain had really stopped now.

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A Talk With Mother Nature, by Bruce Levine

7/9/2019

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“It’s still cold out,” she said as soon as she returned from walking their dog. “Time to have a talk with Mother Nature.”

The calendar was nearing April, he agreed, and while the temperature was considered seasonable by the television and radio weather reporters, the meteorologists, it didn’t feel seasonable, at least not to Bree or her husband, Franklin.

Actually Franklin had always wondered how many of them were actually meteorologists at all, but rather aspiring television or radio personalities who hadn’t graduated to the reporter level and were relegated to the weather segment of the news. Perhaps, he thought, there was a hierarchy of the stages – weather person, in the street reporter, in the studio commentator and so on until one reached the eminence of anchor.

As to the weather person it seemed that it was a job in which being right had very little to do with job security. In point of fact Franklin had often suggested that, after a report of a sun-filled afternoon which was, in reality, actually filled with a continuous down-pour of rain, that the newsroom do better if it installed a window so the weather person could look out and get the forecast right.

Today though, Franklin could only respond by simply saying – “I agree. I’ll put it on my To Do list.”

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The Investment, by Jim Bartlett

6/9/2019

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“Yes, Mr. Jenkins, your IRA is doing quite well. As I told you before, I take your money personally. I only invest in the sorts of things I, myself, am involved in.” Pete Smithers shifts his phone from one ear to the other as he hands the boarding agent his ticket.

“Enjoy the Caymans,” the agent says with a smile, already looking to the next in line.

“No, Mr. Jenkins,” Pete continues, as he walks down the jet way. “It’s common for the SEC and other regulatory agencies to audit financial firms, even mine. It’s what keeps us honest. I wouldn’t waste any time worrying about that story on CNN.” Pete nods to the stewardess as he steps onto the plane, then turns down the aisle. With his focus on the first class seat numbers, he catches his wheelie carry-on against the divider. “Shoot!”

“No, no, that wasn’t directed at you, Mr. Jenkins. I’m about to step into a real important meeting - another great opportunity for your money – so I have to go. I promise I’ll call you later to—“

Pete stops, as two men in dark suits stand in his way. The closest, a tall young man, a serious look upon his face, holds a cell phone to his ear with one hand, and a badge emblazoned with the FBI logo and the agent’s name in the other.

“You promise you’ll call me later, Mr. Smithers?” Special Agent Jenkins says into the phone.

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The Transparency, by Sankar Chatterjee

6/9/2019

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Ms. Ludmila Vertov, a brilliant Russian exchange-student was attending a summer semester in the university in Berlin. Of all the courses she signed up, one was on the topic of “Factors Leading to the World War II”. Growing up, Ludmila learned the same event as the “Great Patriotic War”, since her country was attacked by the enemy. Among all her classmates, Mr. Tomas Bauer, a fellow blue-eyed German student stood out. Tomas was 6-feet tall, well-built and took part in two different sports, football and rugby.

Soon two became friends. Tomas confided to Ludmila that his now-deceased grandfather was an air-force pilot under Nazi regime. He learned that his grandfather was shot down over Minsk, while taking part in an aerial bombing mission. Though severely wounded, he miraculously survived after being infused with huge amount of blood in a Nazi-run hospital on the ground. Ludmila remembered how her now-deceased grandmother used to tell all the grandchildren about her wartime experience in an orphanage in Minsk, both parents being on the frontline fighting the enemy.

On a bright Sunday afternoon, Tomas invited Ludmila to show her the modern Reichstag (German Parliament) building, an architectural marvel. On the way, they passed the ruins of the old one. The spray-painted graffiti by the Russian soldiers could still be seen. They were the first Allied soldiers to enter Berlin, bringing demise to the Nazi-s. In the new structure, an enclosed glass elevator, protected by the security guards, took them to the roof of the building where the dome rested. With other visitors, they circled around the dome to experience aerial view of Berlin from different directions. Coming down, they were instructed not to avail the elevator, instead led to a walkway spiraling down and around the main chamber of the Reichstag. From each point of this journey, the entire hall was visible. Thus, when the parliament would be in session, the politicians would be aware that their actions being watched by the world citizenry. Tomas chimed in “Given the dark history of our nation’s past, this was the only way to make the political process transparent.”

Ludmila began to shiver. Suddenly, she remembered the black and blue permanent marks on both arms of her grandmother. Only when Ludmila became a teenager, her grandmother confided to her a dark secret: in her childhood orphanage, the German doctors would regularly separate out a group of healthy children to draw out blood to infuse into their wounded soldiers in the macabre belief that such infusion would make their recovery faster, while gaining strength. Ludmila looked at Tomas and wondered whether his grandfather was such a beneficiary in Minsk.

Ludmila then pondered whether the country’s history textbooks remain transparent to all the committed atrocities from past, not to repeat them.

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The Face in the Mirror, by Linda Cornelissen

6/9/2019

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Sometimes, the face I see in the mirror is my mother’s. When I notice or re-notice similarities in face structure, features, or posture. Even though I often struggle to visualise her clearly – looking myself in the eye can sometimes take my thoughts to her.

How do people who’ve lost all of their photos, manage to recall the faces of those long gone? What did people do before the days of photographs, if they weren’t fortunate enough to have a portrait artist handy? Is there some skill those people had honed much sharper than we do? Is it one more skill that we are losing, because we have easy external substitutes to save us the effort?

As I’m walking out to my car, to go to an appointment, my thoughts race to all of the wonderful things our cars can do for us now. All of those must haves, saving us all the effort and stress of having to think for ourselves. Reminder buzzers about shutting our doors and putting on our seatbelts. Things to save us the toil of winding our windows up and down, changing gear, remembering how to park, safely change lanes, see what’s behind us. We can even have someone (not actually a someone, but a proximity of, sort of) who can tell us where to go, arrange our entertainment, ring someone for us so we don’t get lonely, tell us what the weather is, tell us the time, regularly remind us of how far we have to go in our journey, and the list goes on.

Who else can’t wait till our house can do all of these things for us as well?

I look in my passenger side door mirror to check for anyone in the lane I wish to merge into, and merge across safely. I had looked up the names of the two streets before the one I needed, and notice the first of those two, which gives me the heads up that I am close. While waiting at the traffic lights, I (manually) wind up the window of my car, knowing instinctively that I’m close to my destination. When I see the building ahead, I look for a parking spot nearby, indicate my intentions, and when safe reverse my car, using my rear vision mirror, into an empty spot.

Another quick glance in the mirror elicits a smile that surprises even me. I’ve just caught a hint of an expression my mother used to have, and the smile is when I think about telling Mum my thoughts. MUM. I’m going to write you a letter later, and let you know all of the wonderful advances in our lives – just to see if you think that all your wishes for my sister and I to have so much more than you did have been realised. I’m sure it will give you a laugh. Miss you. And I blew her a kiss in the mirror.

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How About Murder? Doug Bartlett

6/9/2019

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I had just explained to my new friend how much God loved him and that God wanted to have a personal relationship with him.
“But I’ve done some bad things in my life. Surely, God wouldn’t want a relationship with me. I’m not worthy,” he stated.
“No one is worthy,” I replied, “Those bad things that have been done are called sin. God is willing to forgive us of those sins if we are truly serious about wanting them to be forgiven, and we desire to not do them again.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’ve done some really terrible things,” he responded.
“Have you ever committed murder?” I asked.
“Well, no I haven’t,” he stated.
“Do you realize that over half the Bible is written by former murderers?” I asked.
“You have got to be kidding! Really?” he asked.
“Really!” I continued, “God can use anybody who is willing to be used by Him."

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Father Knows Best, by Doug Bartlett

Dark Clouds, by Rod Drake

A Talk With Mother Nature, by Bruce Levine

The Investment, by Jim Bartlett

The Transparency, by Sankar Chatterjee

The Face in the Mirror, by Linda Cornelissen

How About Murder? Doug Bartlett

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