Yours truly has taken ill, requiring emergency intestinal surgery last week. It’ll take some time, but I hope to be back on my feet soon.

Wayno

From

Once upon a time in a large forest there lived a very furry bunny. He had one lop ear, a tiny black nose, and unusually shiny eyes. His name was Barrington.

Barrington was not really a very handsome bunny. He was brown and speckled and his ears didn’t stand up right. But he could hop, and he was, as I have said, very furry.

In a way, winter is fun for bunnies. After all, it gives them an opportunity to hop in the snow and then turn around to see where they have hopped. So, in a way, winter was fun for Barrington.

But in another way winter made Barrington sad. For, you see, winter marked the time where all of the animal families got together in their cozy homes to celebrate Christmas. He could hop, and he was very furry. But as far as Barrington knew, he was the only bunny in the forest.

When Christmas Eve finally came, Barrington did not feel like going home all by himself. So he decided he would hop for awhile in the clearing at the center of the forest.

Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. Barrington made tracks in the fresh snow.

Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. Then he cocked his head and looked back at the wonderful designs he had made.

“Bunnies,” he thought to himself, “can hop. And they are very warm, too, because of how furry they are.”

(But Barrington didn’t really know whether or not this was true of all bunnies, since he had never met another bunny.)

When it got too dark to see the tracks he was making, Barrington made up his mind to go home.

On his way, however, he passed a large oak tree. High in the branches there was a great deal of excited chattering going on. Barrington looked up. It was a squirrel family! What a marvelous time they seemed to be having.

“Hello, up there,” called Barrington.

“Hello, down there,” came the reply.

“Having a Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

“Oh, yes!” answered the squirrels. “It’s Christmas Eve. Everybody is having a Christmas party!”

“May I come to your party?” said Barrington softly.

“Are you a squirrel?”

“No.”

“What are you, then?”

“A bunny.”

“A bunny?”

“Yes.”

“Well, how can you come to the party if you’re a bunny? Bunnies can’t climb trees.”

“That’s true,” said Barrington thoughtfully. “But I can hop and I’m very furry and warm.”

“We’re sorry,” called the squirrels. “We don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but we do know that in order to come to our house you have to be able to climb trees.”

“Oh, well,” said Barrington. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” chattered the squirrels.

And the unfortunate bunny hopped off toward his tiny house.

It was beginning to snow when Barrington reached the river. Near the river bank was a wonderfully constructed house of sticks and mud. Inside there was singing.

“It’s the beavers,” thought Barrington. “Maybe they will let me come to their party.”

And so he knocked on the door.

“Who’s out there?” called a voice.

“Barrington Bunny,” he replied.

There was a long pause and then a shiny beaver head broke the water.

“Hello, Barrington,” said the beaver.

“May I come to your Christmas party?” asked Barrington.

The beaver thought for awhile and then he said, “I suppose so. Do you know how to swim?”

“No,” said Barrington, “but I can hop and I am very furry and warm.”

“Sorry,” said the beaver. “I don’t know anything about hopping and being furry, but I do know that in order to come to our house you have to be able to swim.”

“Oh, well,” Barrington muttered, his eyes filling with tears. “I suppose that’s true-Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” called the beaver. And he disappeared beneath the surface of the water.

Even as furry as he was, Barrington was starting to get cold. And the snow was falling so hard that his tiny, bunny eyes could scarcely see what was ahead of him.

He was almost home, however, when he heard the excited squeaking of field mice beneath the ground.

“It’s a party,” thought Barrington. And suddenly he blurted out through his tears, “Hello, field mice. This is Barrington Bunny. May I come to your party?”

But the wind was howling so loudly and Barrington was sobbing so much that no one heard him.

And when there was no response at all, Barrington just sat down in the snow and began to cry with all his might.

“Bunnies,” he thought, aren’t any good to anyone. What good is it to be furry and to be able to hop if you don’t have any family on Christmas Eve?”

Barrington cried and cried. When he stopped crying he began to bite on his bunny’s foot, but he did not move from where he was sitting in the snow.

Suddenly, Barrington was aware he was not alone. He looked up and strained his shiny eyes to see who was there.

To his surprise he saw a great silver wolf. The wolf was large and strong and his eyes flashed fire. He was the most beautiful animal Barrington had ever seen.

For a long time the silver wolf didn’t say anything at all. He just stood there and looked at Barrington with those terrible eyes.

Then slowly and deliberately the wolf spoke. “Barrington,” he asked in a gentle voice, “why are you sitting in the snow?”

“Because it’s Christmas Eve,” said Barrington, “and I don’t have any family, and bunnies aren’t any good to anyone.”

“Bunnies are, too, good,” said the wolf. “Bunnies can hop and they are very warm.”

“What good is that?” Barrington sniffed.

“It is very good indeed,” the wolf went on, “because it is a gift that bunnies are given, a free gift with no strings attached. And every gift that is given to anyone is given for a reason. Someday you will see why it is good to hop and to be warm and furry.”

“But it’s Christmas,” moaned Barrington, “and I’m all alone. I don’t have any family at all.”

“Of course you do,” replied the great silver wolf. “All of the animals in the forest are your family.”

And then the wolf disappeared. He simply wasn’t there. Barrington had only blinked his eyes, and when he looked-the wolf was gone.

“All of the animals in the forest are my family,” thought Barrington. “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies can hop. That’s a gift.” And then he said it again. “A gift. A free gift.”

On in the night Barrington worked. First he found the best stick he could. (And that was difficult because of the snow.)

Then hop. Hop. Hippity-hop. To beaver’s house. He left the stick just outside the door. With a note on it that read: “Here is a good stick for your house. It is a gift. A free gift. No strings attached. Signed, a member of your family.”

“It is a good thing that I can hop, he thought, “because the snow is very deep.”

Then Barrington dug and dug. Soon he had gathered together enough dead leaves and grass to make the squirrels’ nest warmer. Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop.

He laid the grass and leaves just under the large oak tree and attached this message: “A gift. A free gift. From a member of your family.”

It was late when Barrington finally started home. And what made things worse was that he knew a blizzard was beginning.

Hop. Hop. Hippity-hop.

Soon poor Barrington was lost. The wind howled furiously, and it was very, very cold. “It certainly is cold,” he said out loud. “It’s a good thing I’m so furry. But if I don’t find my way home pretty soon I might freeze!”

Squeak. Squeak. . . .

And then he saw it-a baby field mouse lost in the snow. And the little mouse was crying.

“Hello, little mouse,” Barrington called.

“Don’t cry. I’ll be right there.” Hippity-hop, and Barrington was beside the tiny mouse.

“I’m lost,” sobbed the little fellow. “I’ll never find my way home, and I know I’m going to freeze.”

“You won’t freeze,” said Barrington. “I’m a bunny and bunnies are very furry and warm. You stay right where you are and I’ll cover you up.”

Barrington lay on top of the little mouse and hugged him tight. The tiny fellow felt himself surrounded by warm fur. He cried for awhile but soon, snug and warm, he fell asleep.

Barrington had only two thoughts that long, cold night. First he thought, “It’s good to be a bunny. Bunnies are very furry and warm.” And then, when he felt the heart of the tiny mouse beating regularly, he thought, “All the animals in the forest are my family.”

Next morning, the field mice found their little boy, asleep in the snow, warm and snug beneath the furry carcass of a dead bunny. Their relief and excitement was so great that they didn’t even think to question where the bunny had come from.

And as for the beavers and the squirrels, they still wonder which member of their family left the little gift for them that Christmas Eve.

After the field mice had left, Barrington’s frozen body simply lay in the snow. There was no sound except that of the howling wind. And no one anywhere in the forest noticed the great silver wolf who came to stand beside that brown, lop-eared carcass.

But the wolf did come.

And he stood there.

Without moving or saying a word.

All Christmas Day.

Until it was night.

And then he disappeared into the forest.

I first heard this, on Christmas 1960, (at the ripe old age
of Eight) and it has remained one of my favourites!

Christmas Thoughts for all the Year

By the Editors of Mc Call’s, December, 1959

CHRISTMAS is celebration; and celebration is instinct in the
heart.  With gift and feast,  with scarlet ribbon and fresh
green  bough,  with  merriment and the sound  of  music,  we
commend the day –  oasis in the long, long landscape of the
commonplace.  Through  how many centuries,  through  how may
threatening circumstances,  has Christmas  been  celebrated,
since that cry came ringing down the ages,  “Fear not:  for,
behold,  I bring you good tidings of great joy,  which shall
be to all people.  For unto you is born this day in the city
of  David,  a Saviour,  which  is Christ  the  Lord.”  (Luke
2:10-11 KJV)

Christmas  is celebration,  but the  traditions that cluster
sweetly  around the  day  have  significance  only  if  they
translate the heart’s intention — the yearning of the human
spirit  to  compass  and  express faith  and hope and  love.
Without  this  intention,   the  gift  is  bare,   and   the
celebration a touch of tinsel, and the time without meaning.
As  these  attributes,  exemplifying  the  divine  spark  in
mankind,  informed the first Christmas and have survived the
onslaughts of relentless time,  so do they shine untarnished
in this present year of our Lord.

Faith and hope and love,  which cannot  be bought or sold or
bartered,  but only given away are the wellsprings, firm and
deep of Christmas celebration.  These are the gifts  without
price, the ornaments incapable of imitation, discovered only
within oneself and therefore  unique.  They  are  not always
easy to  come by,  but  they are in unlimited supply ever in
the province of all.

THIS CHRISTMAS. mend a quarrel. Seek out a forgotten friend.
Dismiss suspicion,  and replace it with trust.  Write a love
letter.  Share some treasure. Give a soft answer. Encourage
youth.  Manifest  your loyalty  in  word and  deed.  Keep a
promise.  Find the time.  Forgo a grudge.  Forgive an enemy.
Listen.  Apologize  if you were wrong.  Try  to  understand.
Flout envy.  Examine your demands on others.  Think first of
someone  else.  Appreciate.  Be  kind;  be  gentle.  Laugh a
little.  Laugh a little more.  Deserve  confidence.  Take up
arms  against  malice.   Decry  complacency.  Express  your
gratitude.  Go to church.  Welcome a stranger.  Gladden the
heart of a child.  Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of
the earth.  Speak your love.  Speak it again. Speak it still
once again.

These are but inklings of a vast category; a mere scratching
of the surface.  They are simple things; you have heard them
all before; but their influence has never been measured.

Christmas is celebration,  and  there is no celebration that
compares with the  realization of  its true meaning –  with
the sudden stirring of  the  heart that has extended  itself
toward the core of life.  Then, only then, is it possible to
grasp the significance of the first Christmas — to savor in
the inward ear the wild,  sweet music of the angel choir; to
envision  the  star-struck  sky,  and  glimpse,  behind  the
eyelids the  ray of light that feel  athwart a darkened path
and changed the world.

Happy Holidays

Wayno

Just a few lines to update you, on me!

Wayno

—————

C h r i s t m a s ,  2 0 0 8

It has been the year, and I have survived!

As most of you know, I underwent Coronary Artery Bypass Graft (due to a congenital defect) on October 22,  2008.  No Coronary Artery Disease.  Everything went well.  I am 6 weeks out, and feel great.  I was in the hospital for 3 days!  (done off pump)

Mom spent about 3 weeks here in Tucson, helping me get through the first days after surgery.  Thank you Mom and Dad!

I just had a check-up with the Cardiologist, and he said things are looking fine.  I really don’t need Cardiac Rehab, but he thinks the educational aspects of it would be good, so he’s submitting the request to my HMO for authorisation.

All labs look good, and I should be “good-to-go “for the hernia repair in February, 2009.  Looking at about July, 2009 for the Rotator Cuff repair.

Thanks for your prayers.  They made a difference!  A special thank you to the folks at Drexel Heights for helping me in my time of need.  ( http://www.dhbctucson.org - be sure to check our blog)

During the summer, I was diagnosed with Asperger Syndrome:  a mild form of Autism.  I have made some good Aspie friends:  Myra and Will.

I have been quite busy of late.  With my 5+ year old computers failing, Mom and Dad got me a new computer for Christmas.  With help from my friend Joe Sloan (from Toyota), we installed the 64 bit (dual processor version) of Ubuntu Linux.  I have been using SuSE Linux for over 2 years, so the switch went well.

Pastor Dan and I sat down, and I will be teaching a class on Budgeting, starting in January, 2009.   With the economy on the downturn, this has become an urgent need.

We are also looking at ways to incorporate Spanish into our church, since we are literally surrounded by a large Spanish Speaking community here in Tucson.  I’m looking at brushing up my Spanish Skills, and we are considering doing an ESL (English as a Second Language) outreach.  (Pastor Dan is bi-lingual)

Happy Holidays, “Old Friends!”  (from Wayno, Hetty & Abby)

November 26, 2008

THANKSGIVING
by Charles R. Swindoll

My love affair with Thanksgiving takes me all the way back to my boyhood days. I had just turned 10 years of age and was in fifth grade at Southmayd Elementary School in East Houston. As I recall, I was still going barefoot to school–and I combed my hair, maybe three times a week. Girls didn’t matter a lot to me when I was 10! It was on a Wednesday, the day before our Thanksgiving holidays began.

The year was 1944. Our nation was at war across the Atlantic into Europe as well as in the Pacific and far beyond. Times were simple back then but they were also rugged. Everything was rationed. Framed stars hung proudly in neighborhood windows–and sometimes they were quietly changed to crosses. Everyone I knew was patriotic to the core. Without television, we relied on “newsreels” that were shown at the movies, bold newspaper headlines, and LIFE magazine, which carried photos and moving stories of courage in battle and deaths at sea. Signs were posted inside most stores and on street corners, all of them with the same four words:

“Uncle Sam Wants YOU”

Draped high across the front of our classroom was a huge American flag with its 48 stars and 13 stripes. We began that Wednesday as we did every other day in school, standing erect beside our desks, repeating the Pledge of Allegiance and then bowing our heads as our teacher led us in prayer. Hanging just below the flag was a large picture of our 32nd president, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. She always remembered to pray for him–and our “soldier boys”; who were serving their country in dark, dreary, and dangerous places a half a world away from my fifth-grade class.

My teacher had lost her husband on the blood-washed shores of Normandy the previous June. After we had saluted the flag, a hush fell across the room as we bowed our heads together. No one moved. As she began to pray and give thanks, her voice broke and she started to weep. I did too. So did Richard Webb, my best buddy. And Wanda Ragland.  Even Charles White and Warren Cook, two tough kids who later played high school football when we were all Milby Buffaloes, wiped back their tears. No one moved as she stumbled and sobbed her way through her prayer, which was filled with some of the most moving expressions of gratitude and praise that I have ever heard emerge from a soul plunged in personal grief and pain.

In that epochal moment, time stood still. And I believe it was then–right then–that I fell in love with Thanksgiving. It became, for me, far more than just another holiday; it took on a significance that bordered the sacred.

Lost in sympathy and a 10-year-old-boy’s pity for his teacher, I walked home much slower that autumn afternoon. Although only a child, I entertained deep and profound feelings of gratitude for my country, kept free by the bravery and blood of men and women only a few years older than I, most of them fresh out of high school. On that cool afternoon I felt a renewed surge of thankfulness for my mom and dad, my older brother and sister . . . my maternal grandparents . . . my friends . . . for my school . . . my neighborhood . . . my church. Though only a child, I promised God that I would fight to the end to keep this land free from enemies who would take away our liberty and erase America’s distinctives and steal the joys of living in this good land.

I have never forgotten that childhood promise. I remembered it at another Thanksgiving, fourteen years later in late November of 1958, when I wore the uniform and silently walked the same beaches of Okinawa where my fellow Marines had sacrificed their lives in the last great battle of the South Pacific in WWII. And as Thanksgiving returns annually, I still pause; I still let the wonder in.

Thanksgiving puts steel in our nerves and causes fresh blood to course through our patriotic veins. It reminds us of our great heritage. It carries us back with humbling nostalgia to those first dreadful winters at places like Plymouth and Jamestown, where less than half of those who first landed survived. But what grand men and women those pioneers became–those who pressed on. Reading their names today is like reading a page out of our national heroes’ Hall of Fame. In words taken from Hebrews 11, they were those “of whom the world was not worthy.” At this time every year I pause and remember how thankful I am for each one of them. They had the stuff of which greatness is made.

(to be continued on Thursday)

Copyright © 2007 Charles R. Swindoll, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide.

This was written on the 40th Anniversary — Today mark’s the 45th Anniversary. Wayno ———— The Age of Innocence: Remembering JFK 40 years later.

[Nov. 22nd, 2003|02:42 pm]

[ mood | blank ] At sometime in our life, we don’t always know exactly when, the age of innocence seems to leave our young lives, and we are thrust into adulthood, in a manner few will know or understand. I have NEVER related this story to anyone. It is known only by my sister, our long past cat Fluffy, and me. It was a fall day in San Diego, California. A cool day. A nice day for a sweater. The air was cool and clean, and hardly a cloud passed by. It was 11:15 am pacific time, on that fateful Friday morning, November 22, 1963. I was preparing to do my job as a crossing guard that day. I was in the 6th grade, and all of 11 years old. As I took my post that day, I was unaware of the tragedy unfolding in Dallas, Texas, a few thousand miles away. My attention was focused on making sure the little ones crossed the street safely that day. I don’t remember when exactly, but I’d say about 15-20 minutes into my shift, a lone car pulled up to the side, near where I was working. A lady emerged from the ancient station wagon….she was sobbing uncontrollably. I didn’t know someone could be so sad. Rarely in those days, did you see the display of such raw emotion. She spoke to me — in uncontrollable sobs at first — but she was later able to blurt out: “The President’s been shot!” “Oh lady don’t even say such things!” But I could tell by the blank stare in her face, something awful had happened. She crossed the street, and went into the administration building of the Elementary School I attended in California. I was left wondering about this lady and her mutterings. Could the President really be shot? As my shift ended, we prepared to go back to class. A general announcement had been made, “President Kennedy had died in Dallas, Texas, at approximately 11 am, pacific time.” I could not believe such a thing! It seems to incredible, it was unbelievable. Your mind doesn’t want to accept something that horrible. The rest of the school day seems a blur. I was there in body, but my mind continued to wander — What if….what if all these horrible things they are saying are true? Was my sister safe? She went to the same school as me, but she was in the 2nd grade. My sister Cyndi and I bolted out of school that day, and raced home. We were greeted by our gray and white cat, Fluffy when we arrived home that day. She was a beautiful Persian Angorra with long coat. I looked over my shoulder, and there it was: the portroit picture shot of JFK my Mom had hanging in the kitchen. It was the only President we ever had a picture of, in our home. We only lived about a 5-10 walk from the school. While we were fortunate enough to have a Television in those days (Black and White), Cyndi, I, and Fluffy (the cat) tuned into the radio for news. As we stood there, in our garage and listened to that grand old National Shortwave radio, we tuned it to XTRA News, it all seems surreal. Somewhere words like “assassin” and “assassination” find there way into your vocabulary. We remember hearing on the radio, the swearing in of Lyndon Johnson as President. We knew life would continue, but how? America would mourn the loss of it’s beloved President that weekend. Names like Lee Harvey Oswald and Jack Ruby would be etched into the minds of American’s everywhere. And somewhere, during this grand adventure, young kids like myself and my sister would grow up and face the uncertainty of yet more unspeakable words like Nuclear Bombs and Shelters. America lost its innocence that day — and we all grew up facing a decidedly different future. Original Copy by Wayne Guerrini Mesa, Arizona

This note came across my desk this afternoon. I have known the Stratmeyer’s for over 30 years.

Jacaltec People

“You know you’re getting old, when you have to start burying your friends.” — Rod Page

Wayno

—————-

Dear family and friends,

Yesterday morning, 9:05, Friday Nov.14, Den was carried by the angels into the arms of his Lord and Savior. Jane, Den’s friend Hank Warren, a hospice nurse and I were there as he was released from this earth to heaven. We thank the Lord that he is no longer suffering; no more pain for him, but a sadness remains in our hearts as we miss him.

He wanted his body to be donated for medical research; we are planning a memorial service on Saturday December 6th at 2:00 PM here in Oklahoma City at Metropolitan Baptist Church,

We are grateful to the Lord for His care, and to you for your very special prayers for Den, me and our family. ‘Hospice Care’ was a gift for Den and our family. They provided a hospital bed and other equipment when Den did not have the strength to get out of bed; medicines to keep him comfortable and a nurse’s aid to bath and assist Den. The nurse, Gayla was wonderful as she helped guide us through the dying process. She was truly a gift.

While Jane came to be with Den, I made a quick trip to Guatemala at Den’s request. I spent two days traveling and two days in Guatemala to connect with workers.

There is good news from Guatemala, Mariano and teachers are preparing for VBS November 17 - 22, Gaspar, Mariano and José are caring for radio programing, and Eliseo is continuing to translate first draft of the Old Testament. Malachi is the only book left for him to finish that project.

A related language team has asked permission to have copies of our unpublished Old Testament manuscripts for reference as they work on their Old Testament project.

Gail and family have been with us, Neil and Carol are here for the week-end, and Mark keeps in frequent contact from Spain. Praise the Lord for family!

We thank the Lord for His Word; Den’s facial expression relaxed as we read it and some hymns when he could no longer talk to us.

Memorial gifts could be sent for Jacaltec work in Guatemala to:

Cignet, Inc.
P.O. Box 12776
Oklahoma City, OK 73157

Many blessings,

Jean

“Though my soul may dwell in darkness,
it will arise in perfect light.
I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night.”
– Colleen Henry

Wayno

Our deepest prayers and condolences to the Obama Family at the loss of their Grandmother

Pastor Bob’s Two Minute Devotion
November 3, 2008

God Notices Prayer

Sometimes we wonder if praying makes a difference.

We look at the evidence in Acts 9 to substantiate
the knowledge that God does hear and He moves to
answer prayer.  In Damascus there was a disciple
named Ananias.   The Lord called to him in a vision,
“Ananias!” “Yes, Lord,” he answered.
The Lord told him, “Go to the house of Judas on
Straight Street and ask for a man from Tarsus named
Saul, for he is praying. Acts 9:10-11

God notices.  The moment Saul started to pray,
God heard him.

Wherever there is sorrow, wherever there is pain,
wherever there is danger, He comes to comfort and
protect.  When there are decisions to be made,
tests to be taken, confusion to be cleared up,
He comes to offer guidance and direction.

He orchestrates the answers to our prayers with
the skill and artistry of a symphony conductor.
He moves in the world with wisdom and justice.
His purpose is to do what is necessary, what is best,
in the eternal symphony.

We stand on the eve of one of the most monumental
elections our country has ever held.  We pray for
guidance in this decision.  We pray that God’s purpose
will be carried out as He ordains it.  May we do our part.

Therefore let everyone who is godly pray to you while
you may be found; surely when the mighty waters rise,
they will not reach him. You are my hiding place;
you will protect me from trouble and surround me with
songs of deliverance.  Psalms 32:6-7

In prayer,
Pastor Bob and Marion Rieth

Click here for an archive of Pastor Bob’s Two-Minute Devotions

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I am 5 days post op — this song came across my desk today:

He Is Not Silent

Out of the Grey

The people said this desert never ends
We have no bread our throats are dry
Our heads are heavy and our feet need rest
Has He left us here to die?

And we’ve forgotten all His words
As if we never heard
We take our hearts and turn away

But He is not silent
He is not whispering
We are not quiet
We are not listening
He sends a lifeline
We keep resisting Him
He is not silent
We are not listening

We wander through this world
In disbelief
Shake our heads at every tear
Searching endlessly
For some relief
Has He left us dying here?

But we’ve forgotten all His words
Pretend we never heard
We take our hearts and turn away

But He is not silent
He is not whispering
We are not quiet
We are not listening
He sends a lifeline
We keep resisting Him
He is not silent
We are not listening
No, we are not listening

We take our daily bread
And after we’ve been fed
We take our hearts and turn away