As I mentioned in my blog introduction, I am not a writer nor a publisher. I love reading beautiful poems and positive inspirations. On my husband's 60th anniversary I wanted to do something special for the occasion, I wanted him to know how much I appreciate and love him.
I wrote a poem dedicated to the love of my life. Through my eyes and my heart I hoped he would discover the man I love and cherish.
I offer you the translation of this poem, it was first written in french, the language we speak and express ourselves.
Today, Réjean, I want you to look at yourself, not in a mirror to fix your hair but through my eyes. I would like for you to see who you are, I want you to see past your little wrinkles in the corner of your eyes that add to your charm.
Réjean, you are an extraordinary man, passionate and devoted. You are not afraid to put in the effort to provide for your family. In your presence the room lights up and you bring happiness to people. You are my sunshine and the man of my life.
Réjean, you are a true friend, funny and respectful. You have a way of making people feel good about themselves, you listen to them and let them know they are important. You are my best friend, I admire and appreciate you so much.
Réjean, you are a wonderful lover and mate. Cuddled up in your arms I am the happiest woman in the world. You have a special place in my heart reserved just for you and you’re the only one that has access to it.
Réjean, you are an incredible father, responsible and generous. Your children know that they can count on you and that you are always there for them. You share your experiences and you teach them the values of life. You are concerned about their happiness and you assure their security. I thank you for giving me this precious gift of love.
A man like you, Réjean, is a real blessing in my life. Constant source of happiness and joy, you're a real gem that I keep as a precious treasure. May this anniversary be very special because someone so wonderful is worthy to receive only the best.
I wish you many more beautiful years filled with joy, love, health and surprises. I wish you to achieve your dreams and live your passions intensely.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
A Perfect Recipe For The Time We Live In
I would love to share this poem with as many people as possible. With all the crimes, the hatred and the wars all over the world, I strongly believe if we follow this Great Recipe we can make a difference, we can change the world.
I challenge everyone to try this recipe, serve it as often as you wish, for breakfast, for lunch or dinner. Share it with friends,
family, co-workers, neighbours and while you're at it... share it with a stranger.
A Perfect Recipe
I challenge everyone to try this recipe, serve it as often as you wish, for breakfast, for lunch or dinner. Share it with friends,
family, co-workers, neighbours and while you're at it... share it with a stranger.
A Perfect Recipe
Fold two hands together,
And express a dash of sorrow.
Marinate it overnight,
And work on it tomorrow.
Chop one grudge in tiny pieces,
Add several cups of love.
Dredge with a large sized smile,
Mix with the ingredients above.
Dissolve the hate within you,
By doing a good deed.
Cut in and help your friend,
If he/she should be in need.
Stir in laughter, love and kindness,
From the heart it has to come.
Toss with genuine forgiveness,
And give your friends some.
The amount of people served,
Will depend on you.
It can serve the whole wide world.
If you really want it to!!!
Author unknown
The Yellow Shirt
The yellow shirt had long sleeves, four extra-large pockets trimmed in black thread and snaps up the front. It was faded from years of wear, but still in decent shape. I found it in 1963 when I was home from college on Christmas break, rummaging through bags of clothes Mom intended to give away. 'You're not taking that old thing, are you?' Mom said when she saw me packing the yellow shirt. 'I wore that when I was pregnant with your brother in 1954!'
'It's just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class, Mom. Thanks!' I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object. The yellow shirt be came a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it. After graduation, I wore the shirt the day I moved into my new apartment and on Saturday mornings when I cleaned.
The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I wore the yellow shirt during big-belly days. I missed Mom and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois, but that shirt helped. I smiled, remembering that Mother had worn it when she was pregnant, 15 years earlier.
That Christmas, mindful of the warm feelings the shirt had given me, I patched one elbow, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to Mom. When Mom wrote to thank me for her 'real' gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it again.
The next year, my husband, daughter and I stopped at Mom and Dad's to pick up some furniture.
Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to its bottom. The shirt!
And so the pattern was set.
On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt under Mom and Dad's mattress. I don't know how long it took for her to find it, but almost two years passed before I discovered it under the base of our living-room floor lamp. The yellow shirt was just what I needed nowwhile refinishing furniture. The walnut stains added character.
In 1975 my husband and I divorced. With my three children, I prepared to move back to Illinois. As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my own. I wondered if I would find a job. I paged through the Bible, looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, 'So use every piece of God's armour to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up.'
I tried to picture myself wearing God's armour, but all I saw was the stained yellow shirt. Slowly, it dawned on me. Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armour? My courage was renewed.
Unpacking in our new home, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer.
Meanwhile, I found a good job at a radio station. A year later I discovered the yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet.
Something new had been added. Embroidered in bright green across the breast pocket were the words 'I BELONG TO PAT.'
Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, 'I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER.' But I didn't stop there. I zig-zagged all the frayed seams, then had a friend mail the shirt in a fancy box to Mom from Arlington, VA.
We enclosed an official looking letter from 'The Institute for the Destitute,' announcing that she was the recipient of an award for good deeds. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the box. But, of course, she never mentioned it.
Two years later, in 1978, I remarried. The day of our wedding, Harold and I put our car in a friend's garage to avoid practical jokers. After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our honeymoon suite, I reached for a pillow in the car to rest my head. It felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and found, wrapped in wedding paper, the yellow shirt. Inside a pocket was a note: 'Read John 14:27-29. I love you both, Mother.'
That night I paged through the Bible in a hotel room and found the verses: 'I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will believe in me.'
The shirt was Mother's final gift. She had known for three months that she had terminal Lou Gehrig's disease. Mother died the following year at age 57.
I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years. Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art. And every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets.
Unknowne author
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did. It saddens me because I don't have a close relationship with my mom... but we're working on it.
'It's just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class, Mom. Thanks!' I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object. The yellow shirt be came a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it. After graduation, I wore the shirt the day I moved into my new apartment and on Saturday mornings when I cleaned.
The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I wore the yellow shirt during big-belly days. I missed Mom and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois, but that shirt helped. I smiled, remembering that Mother had worn it when she was pregnant, 15 years earlier.
That Christmas, mindful of the warm feelings the shirt had given me, I patched one elbow, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to Mom. When Mom wrote to thank me for her 'real' gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it again.
The next year, my husband, daughter and I stopped at Mom and Dad's to pick up some furniture.
Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to its bottom. The shirt!
And so the pattern was set.
On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt under Mom and Dad's mattress. I don't know how long it took for her to find it, but almost two years passed before I discovered it under the base of our living-room floor lamp. The yellow shirt was just what I needed nowwhile refinishing furniture. The walnut stains added character.
In 1975 my husband and I divorced. With my three children, I prepared to move back to Illinois. As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my own. I wondered if I would find a job. I paged through the Bible, looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, 'So use every piece of God's armour to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up.'
I tried to picture myself wearing God's armour, but all I saw was the stained yellow shirt. Slowly, it dawned on me. Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armour? My courage was renewed.
Unpacking in our new home, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer.
Meanwhile, I found a good job at a radio station. A year later I discovered the yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet.
Something new had been added. Embroidered in bright green across the breast pocket were the words 'I BELONG TO PAT.'
Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, 'I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER.' But I didn't stop there. I zig-zagged all the frayed seams, then had a friend mail the shirt in a fancy box to Mom from Arlington, VA.
We enclosed an official looking letter from 'The Institute for the Destitute,' announcing that she was the recipient of an award for good deeds. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the box. But, of course, she never mentioned it.
Two years later, in 1978, I remarried. The day of our wedding, Harold and I put our car in a friend's garage to avoid practical jokers. After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our honeymoon suite, I reached for a pillow in the car to rest my head. It felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and found, wrapped in wedding paper, the yellow shirt. Inside a pocket was a note: 'Read John 14:27-29. I love you both, Mother.'
That night I paged through the Bible in a hotel room and found the verses: 'I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will believe in me.'
The shirt was Mother's final gift. She had known for three months that she had terminal Lou Gehrig's disease. Mother died the following year at age 57.
I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years. Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art. And every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets.
Unknowne author
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I did. It saddens me because I don't have a close relationship with my mom... but we're working on it.
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