Homelessness In The News

In Ohio, a man was ordered by a judge to spend three days in jail and one night homeless after being convicted of stealing a Salvation Army Kettle with $250.00 in it. The man does not think the sentence was too harsh. Harsh? One day as a homeless person is hardly harsh.
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22840216/

In Austria, a shelter where Matthew Hiasl Pan has lived for 25 years is going bankrupt, threatening to leave him homeless. Donors have offered to help support him, but in Austria the law says that only people can receive personal gifts. Matthew is a chimp. Animal rights activists have tried to have him declared a person, thankfully common sense has prevaled and the Supreme Court has declared that legally a chimp is not a person. The rights group plans to take the case to the European Court of Human Rights. Don't they understand what "human rights" mean?
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/22670956/

In Winnipeg, 12 year old Hannah Taylor founded the Ladybug Foundation five years ago. The foundation has since raised over $1 million dollars to assist homeless people. She is trying to have January 31 named National Red Scarf Day to raise awareness of the nation's homeless population.
http://www.cbc.ca/canada/manitoba/story/2008/01/30/scarf-day.html

Winter in Edmonton

Sunday January 27, 2008 was not a good day for the homeless in Edmonton. The temperature plummeted to -41 with the wind chill, the wind bit through clothing, it snowed and the blowing snow made roads and sidewalks treacherous. Near white out conditions made traffic hazardous. It was a day not fit for man nor beast nor machine. And the forecast is not predicting relief any time soon. The next few days will be more of the same.


The Ministry Van prowled the streets looking for those in need of food, clothing, a ride to a shelter, but we didn't find many. I pray that is because they found shelter early in the day and were already safe and warm somewhere.


I'm afraid to listen to the news today. I'm praying no one will be found in a snowbank or behind a building frozen to death. Every winter some of the homeless succumb to hypothermia. Please, Lord, not this time.

The Best Dance Ever.... (Makes You Cry)

This is awe-inspiring. They are far more graceful than many people I know who have both of their arms and legs. It shows the passion and determination of the human spirit - made in the Image of God.

The Magic of Water

One of the best known bits of medical common knowledge is that people need 10-12 large glasses of water per day to be in optimum condition. We are told that this will improve the look of our hair and skin, help us to lose weight, give us more energy, flush out toxins, prevent muscle cramps as well as assist us with a myriad of other ailments. But is this really true? New research indicates that it might not be. It is possible that drinking that much water may not be all that helpful and that it might very well be detrimental to our health.

I listened to to a doctor, whose name escapes me [I know, I know, poor Journalist skills when I can't cite my source better than that] speaking on an Edmonton radio station, CHED, this past week who said that it is all a myth. He claims that the actual figure should be 8-10 cups, as in measuring cups (8 ounces). He said that at least half of that can be derived from the water that is in our other foods such as juicy fruits and vegetables - celery and lettuce, for example, are 90% water. He also said that any fluid is suitable, including fruit and vegetable juices, milk and even coffee.

Many people apparently don't believe coffee should count because it is a diuretic that may help to dehydrate us. I did some further research on the Internet and found several sources that said that although coffee is a diuretic, it's high water content still exceeds it's dehydrating ability. In fact, the only common drink that will actually contribute to a negative fluid balance in our bodies is alcohol.

The nameless doctor quoted above said that not only will high water intake not be a benefit to our health, it may actually damage our kidneys by prematurely aging them. He qualified this statement by saying that this still requires further research to verify it. He also said that the "flushing" theory may not be such a good idea since proteins will also be flushed and proteins can lead to kidney damage. We should have a definitive answer to all of this within the year.

How do we know what is the "proper" amount of water we need in a day? We obviously need to replace the water that we sweat and expel as waste. The best idea is to drink when we are thirsty. The body is uncannily good at letting us know when our water levels have gotten too low.

So why on earth would anyone want to promote the idea of drinking all of this water if it does no good? Think about it. Fifteen years ago anyone who suggested that people would be willing to pay twice as much for a litre of water as they would for a litre of gasoline would have been laughed at and considered a lunatic. Now take a look at your bottle of Dasani. Get it?

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.

Hebrews 13:2

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

The More Things Change.......

There is an old saying - The more things change the more they stay the same. An archaeology site in Northumberland demonstrates that Roman soldiers stationed in Britain some 1500-2000 years ago were not much different than people are today. Letters to and from Gaul (AD 43-410), where most of the soldiers were from, were found that had been written on slices of oak with ink made from gum arabic and water.



One of the most often written about complaints by the soldiers was the cold weather. One such letter contained a soldiers wish list. "Paria udonum ab Sattua solearum duo et subligariorum duo." - or : socks, two pairs of sandals, two pairs of underpants. Ironically the most asked for items from the Ministry Van by the homeless people are: socks, running shoes, underwear.


Cultures, traditions and lifestyles may change but the needs of people do not.


http://www.dailymail.co.uk/pages/live/articles/news/news.html?in_article_id=508044&in_page_id=1770

More About Microchips

On July 25, 2007 I posted an item about Microchips being implanted in human beings for security reasons as well as for buying and selling. A lot of information can be contained on a tiny chip the size of a grain of rice; security information that might be on a card that is scanned to gain access to a building or office or financial information like on your debit card. If the information is contained on a Microchip that is implanted under your skin their is no danger of losing the card or forgetting to take your card with you.

http://keyholeministry.blogspot.com/2007/07/microchips.html

On the other hand, such an implant could also be used to track your movements, your spending habits and possibly anything else that "someone" might want to know about you.

The United Kingdom is currently considering chipping prisoners so that they can deal with overcrowding in the prison system. The chip would work in the same way that "house arrest" ankle bracelets are now being used to monitor the movements of prisoners, but with less danger of the prisoner tampering with the device.

http://news.independent.co.uk/uk/politics/article3333852.ece


Revelation 13:15-18
And he had power to give life unto the image of the beast, that the image of the beast should both speak, and cause that as many as would not worship the image of the beast should be killed.
And he causeth all, both small and great, rich and poor, free and bond, to receive a mark in their right hand, or in their foreheads:
And that no man might buy or sell, save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the number of his name.
Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.