How many marbles do you have?

The older I get, the more I enjoy Saturday mornings. Perhaps it’s the quiet solitude that comes with being the first to rise, of maybe it’s the unbounded joy of not having to be at work. Either way, the first few hours of a Saturday morning are most enjoyable.

A few weeks ago, I was shuffling toward the kitchen, with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and the morning paper in the other. What began as a typical Saturday morning turned into one of those lessons that life seems to hand you from time to time.

Let me tell you about it. I turned the volume up on my radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning talk show. I heard an older sounding chap with a golden voice. You know the kind, he sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business himself.

He was talking about “a thousand marbles” to someone named “Tom”. I was intrigued and sat down to listen to what he had to say. “Well, Tom, it sure sounds like you’re busy with your job. I’m sure they pay you well but it’s a shame you have to be away from home and your family so much. Hard to believe a young fellow should have to work sixty or seventy hours a week to make ends meet. Too bad you missed your daughter’s dance recital. ” He continued, “Let me tell you something Tom, something that has helped me keep a good perspective on my own priorities.” And that’s when he began to explain his theory of a “thousand marbles.” (more…)

My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister’s bureau and
lifted out a tissue-wrapped package. “This,” he said, “is not a slip.
This is lingerie.” He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It
was exquisite; silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The
price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still attached. “Jan
bought this the first time we went to New York, at least 8 or 9 years
ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a special occasion. Well,
I guess this is the occasion.” He took the slip from me and put it on
the bed with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His
hands lingered on the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the
drawer shut and turned to me. “Don’t ever save anything for a special
occasion. Every day you’re alive is a special occasion.”

I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that
followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores
that follow an unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane
returning to California from the Midwestern town where my sister’s
family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn’t seen or
heard or done. I thought about the things that she had done without
realizing that they were special. I’m still thinking about his words,
and they’ve changed my life.

I’m reading more and dusting less. I’m sitting on the deck and admiring
the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. (more…)

One night, at 11:30 pm, an older African-American woman was
standing on the side of a Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing
rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride.
Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young white
man stopped to help her – generally unheard of in those conflict-filled
1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and
put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote
down his address, thanked him and drove away. Seven days went by and a
knock came on the man’s door. To his surprise, a giant
combination console color TV and stereo record player were delivered to
his home.
A special note was attached. The note read: Dear Mr. James:
Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The
rain drenched not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came
along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband’s
bedside just before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and
unselfishly serving others.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole.