{"product_id":"more-stories-for-the-heart-isbn-9781576731420","title":"More Stories for the Heart","description":"A sequel to Stories for the Heart, More Stories for the Heart offers up  over one hundred stories that hug readers' hearts and encourage their  souls. This treasury of timeless tales-written by some of the best  Christian communicators today-offers a wealth of compassion and love  certain to minister to multiple generations. Readers will find  themselves sharing these uplifting tales in conversation and letting the  stories' wisdom inspire their thinking. These are stories that will add  flavor to readers' views...and will be carried in their hearts. Whether  read during peaceful moments spent cuddled up by the fire, during  moments basking in the sunshine...or during read-aloud family times with  loved ones, More Stories for the Heart is certain to encourage the  soul.\u003cb\u003eAlice Gray \u003c\/b\u003eis an inspirational conference speaker and the creator and compiler of the bestselling Stories for the Heart book series, with more than 5 million in print. She and her husband, Al, live in Arizona.\u003cb\u003eThe Day Philip Joined the Group\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePAUL HARVEY with acknowledgement to Rev. Harry Pritchett Jr., rector of All Saints Episcopal Church in Atlanta, who called my attention to a boy named Philip.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was 9—in a Sunday school class of 8-year-olds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEight-year-olds can be cruel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe third-graders did not welcome Philip to their group. Not just because\u003cbr\u003ehe was older. He was “different.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe suffered from Down’s syndrome and its obvious manifestations:\u003cbr\u003efacial characteristics, slow responses, symptoms of retardation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne Sunday after Easter the Sunday school teacher gathered some of\u003cbr\u003ethose plastic eggs that pull apart in the middle—the kind in which some\u003cbr\u003eladies’ pantyhose are packaged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Sunday school teacher gave one of these plastic eggs to each\u003cbr\u003echild.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn that beautiful spring day each child was to go outdoors and discover\u003cbr\u003efor himself some symbol of “new life” and place that symbolic seed\u003cbr\u003eor leaf or whatever inside his egg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey would then open their eggs one by one, and each youngster\u003cbr\u003ewould explain how his find was a symbol of “new life.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo…\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe youngsters gathered ’round on the appointed day and put their\u003cbr\u003eeggs on a table, and the teacher began to open them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne child had found a flower.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll the children “oohed” and “aahed” at the lovely symbol of new life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn another was a butterfly. “Beautiful,” the girls said. And it’s not easy\u003cbr\u003efor an 8-year-old to say “beautiful.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother egg was opened to reveal a rock. Some of the children\u003cbr\u003elaughed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s crazy!” one said. “How’s a rock supposed to be like a ‘new\u003cbr\u003elife’?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImmediately a little boy spoke up and said, “That’s mine. I knew\u003cbr\u003eeverybody would get flowers and leaves and butterflies and all that stuff,\u003cbr\u003eso I got a rock to be different.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone laughed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe teacher opened the last one, and there was nothing inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s not fair,” someone said. “That’s stupid,” said another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTeacher felt a tug on his shirt. It was Philip. Looking up he said, “It’s\u003cbr\u003emine. I did do it. It’s empty. I have new life because the tomb is empty.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe class fell silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrom that day on Philip became part of the group. They welcomed\u003cbr\u003ehim. Whatever had made him different was never mentioned again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePhilip’s family had known he would not live a long life; just too many\u003cbr\u003ethings wrong with the tiny body. That summer, overcome with infection,\u003cbr\u003ePhilip died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the day of his funeral nine 8-year-old boys and girls confronted\u003cbr\u003ethe reality of death and marched up to the altar—not with flowers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNine children with their Sunday school teacher placed on the casket\u003cbr\u003eof their friend their gift of love—an empty egg.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA Song in the Dark\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMAX LUCADO, from \u003ci\u003eGod Came Near\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn any other day, I probably wouldn’t have stopped. Like\u003cbr\u003ethe majority of people on the busy avenue, I would\u003cbr\u003ehardly have noticed him standing there. But the very thing on my mind\u003cbr\u003ewas the very reason he was there, so I stopped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d just spent a portion of the morning preparing a lesson out of the\u003cbr\u003eninth chapter of John, the chapter that contains the story about the man\u003cbr\u003eblind from birth. I’d finished lunch and was returning to my office when\u003cbr\u003eI saw him. He was singing. An aluminum cane was in his left hand; his\u003cbr\u003eright hand was extended and open, awaiting donations. He was blind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter walking past him about five steps, I stopped and mumbled\u003cbr\u003esomething to myself about the epitome of hypocrisy and went back in his\u003cbr\u003edirection. I put some change in his hand. “Thank you,” he said and then\u003cbr\u003eoffered me a common Brazilian translation, “and may you have health.”\u003cbr\u003eIronic wish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce again I started on my way. Once again the morning’s study of\u003cbr\u003eJohn 9 stopped me. “Jesus saw a man, blind from birth.” I paused and\u003cbr\u003epondered. If Jesus were here he would see this man. I wasn’t sure what\u003cbr\u003ethat meant. But I was sure I hadn’t done it. So I turned around again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs if the giving of a donation entitled me to do so, I stopped beside a\u003cbr\u003enearby car and observed. I challenged myself to see him. I would stay here\u003cbr\u003euntil I saw more than a sightless indigent on a busy thoroughfare in\u003cbr\u003edowntown Rio de Janeiro.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI watched him sing. Some beggars grovel in a corner cultivating pity.\u003cbr\u003eOthers unashamedly lay their children on blankets in the middle of the\u003cbr\u003esidewalk thinking that only the hardest of hearts would ignore a dirty,\u003cbr\u003enaked infant asking for bread.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut this man did none of that. He stood. He stood tall. And he sang.\u003cbr\u003eLoudly. Even proudly. All of us had more reason to sing than he, but he\u003cbr\u003ewas the one singing. Mainly, he sang folk songs. Once I thought he was\u003cbr\u003esinging a hymn, though I wasn’t sure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis husky voice was out of place amid the buzz of commerce. Like a\u003cbr\u003esparrow who found his way into a noisy factory, or a lost fawn on an interstate,\u003cbr\u003ehis singing conjured up an awkward marriage between progress and\u003cbr\u003esimplicity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe passersby had various reactions. Some were curious and gazed\u003cbr\u003eunabashedly. Others were uncomfortable. They were quick to duck their\u003cbr\u003eheads or walk in a wider circle. “No reminders of harshness today, please.”\u003cbr\u003eMost, however, hardly noticed him. Their thoughts were occupied, their\u003cbr\u003eagendas were full and he was…well, he was a blind beggar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was thankful he couldn’t see the way they looked at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter a few minutes, I went up to him again. “Have you had any\u003cbr\u003elunch?” I asked. He stopped singing. He turned his head toward the\u003cbr\u003esound of my voice and directed his face somewhere past my ear. His eye\u003cbr\u003esockets were empty. He said he was hungry. I went to a nearby restaurant\u003cbr\u003eand bought him a sandwich and something cold to drink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I came back he was still singing and his hands were still empty.\u003cbr\u003eHe was grateful for the food. We sat down on a nearby bench. Between\u003cbr\u003ebites he told me about himself. Twenty-eight years old. Single. Living with\u003cbr\u003ehis parents and seven brothers. “Were you born blind?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, when I was young I had an accident.” He didn’t volunteer any\u003cbr\u003edetails and I didn’t have the gall to request them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough we were almost the same age, we were light-years apart. My\u003cbr\u003ethree decades had been a summer vacation of family excursions, Sunday\u003cbr\u003eschool, debate teams, football, and a search for the Mighty One. Growing\u003cbr\u003eup blind in the Third World surely offered none of these. My daily concern\u003cbr\u003enow involved people, thoughts, concepts, and communication. His\u003cbr\u003eday was stitched with concerns of survival: coins, handouts, and food. I’d\u003cbr\u003ego home to a nice apartment, a hot meal, and a good wife. I hated to think\u003cbr\u003eof the home he would encounter. I’d seen enough overcrowded huts on\u003cbr\u003ethe hills of Rio to make a reasonable guess. And his reception…would\u003cbr\u003ethere be anyone there to make him feel special when he got home?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI came whisker-close to asking him, “Does it make you mad that I’m\u003cbr\u003enot you?” “Do you ever lie awake at night wondering why the hand you\u003cbr\u003ewere dealt was so different from the one given a million or so others born\u003cbr\u003ethirty years ago?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wore a shirt and tie and some new shoes. His shoes had holes and his\u003cbr\u003ecoat was oversized and bulky. His pants gaped open from a rip in the knee.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd still he sang. Though a sightless, penniless hobo, he still found\u003cbr\u003ea song and sang it courageously. (I wondered which room in his heart that\u003cbr\u003esong came from.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt worst, I figured, he sang from desperation. His song was all he had.\u003cbr\u003eEven when no one gave any coins, he still had his song. Yet he seemed too\u003cbr\u003epeaceful to be singing out of self-preservation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOr perhaps he sang from ignorance. Maybe he didn’t know what he\u003cbr\u003ehad never had.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo, I decided the motivation that fit his demeanor was the one you’d\u003cbr\u003eleast expect. He was singing from contentment. Somehow this eyeless\u003cbr\u003epauper had discovered a candle called satisfaction and it glowed in his\u003cbr\u003edark world. Someone had told him, or maybe he’d told himself, that\u003cbr\u003etomorrow’s joy is fathered by today’s acceptance. Acceptance of what, at\u003cbr\u003eleast for the moment, you cannot alter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked up at the Niagara of faces that flowed past us. Grim.\u003cbr\u003eProfessional. Some determined. Some disguised. But none were singing,\u003cbr\u003enot even silently. What if each face were a billboard that announced the\u003cbr\u003etrue state of the owner’s heart? How many would say “Desperate! Business\u003cbr\u003eon the rocks!” or “Broken: In Need of Repair,” or “Faithless, Frantic, and\u003cbr\u003eFearful”? Quite a few.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe irony was painfully amusing. This blind man could be the most\u003cbr\u003epeaceful fellow on the street. No diploma, no awards, and no future—at\u003cbr\u003eleast in the aggressive sense of the word. But I wondered how many in that\u003cbr\u003eurban stampede would trade their boardrooms and blue suits in a second\u003cbr\u003efor a chance to drink at this young man’s well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Faith is the bird that sings while it is yet dark.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore I helped my friend back to his position, I tried to verbalize my\u003cbr\u003eempathy. “Life is hard, isn’t it?” A slight smile. He again turned his face\u003cbr\u003etoward the direction of my voice and started to respond, then paused and\u003cbr\u003esaid, “I’d better get back to work.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor almost a block, I could hear him singing. And in my mind’s eye I\u003cbr\u003ecould still see him. But the man I now saw was a different one than the\u003cbr\u003eone to whom I’d given a few coins. Though the man I now saw was still\u003cbr\u003esightless, he was remarkably insightful. And though I was the one with\u003cbr\u003eeyes, it was he who gave me a new vision.","brand":"Multnomah","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301614670053,"sku":"NP9781576731420","price":16.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781576731420.jpg?v=1767732968","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/more-stories-for-the-heart-isbn-9781576731420","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}