@DKeerty13403 @lexi_trades1 Oh, forget it!! Such drama over nothing.
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char barton
21.8K posts
char barton
@charb33
988 National 3 digit suicide hotline # NEEDS TO BE FUNDED/ACTIVATED. Believer in democracy equal opportunity. Universal Health Care. UPDATE MEDICAL SYSTEMS
California, USA Katılım Temmuz 2010
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@lexi_trades1 The moment you start choosing peace over honesty with someone you love you're not protecting the relationship you're just delaying its funeral.
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Just thought it was kind to share this! 😭❤
I'm a substitute teacher. Different school every week. Kids never remember your name. You're just "the sub."
Last year, I got assigned to a rough middle school. 8th grade English. The regular teacher left a note: "Good luck with Marcus. Sits in the back. Won't participate. Don't push it."
First day, I spot Marcus immediately. Hood up, headphones in, head down on the desk.
I didn't call him out. Just started class.
Halfway through, I'm reading a poem about loneliness. I see his head lift slightly. He's listening.
After class, everyone leaves. Marcus stays behind, packing slowly.
"You actually like poetry?" I ask.
He shrugs. "It's whatever."
"That poem I read—Langston Hughes. You know his stuff?"
"A little." He pauses. "My mom used to read it to me."
"Used to?"
"She died two years ago. Cancer."
My heart sank. "I'm so sorry, Marcus."
He shrugged again, but I could see his jaw tighten. "It's fine. Everyone says that."
"What if instead of saying sorry, I just... brought more poems tomorrow? We could talk about them if you want."
He didn't answer. Just walked out.
But the next day, he came to class early. Sat in the front. No hood. No headphones.
For the next two weeks (I extended my assignment), Marcus and I had this routine. After class, we'd spend 15 minutes talking about poetry, life, grief.
He told me about his mom. How she worked two jobs but still made time to read to him every night. How the house felt empty without her voice. How his dad tried but didn't really know how to talk about feelings.
"She'd want you to keep going," I said one day. "Keep reading. Keep feeling. That's how you keep her alive."
On my last day, Marcus handed me a folded piece of paper.
"I wrote something," he mumbled. "You don't have to read it now."
I waited until I got to my car. Unfolded it. It was a poem. About his mom. About loss. About learning to breathe again.
It was beautiful. Raw. Real.
I drove back into the school. Found him in the hallway.
"Marcus, this is incredible. Have you shown this to anyone?"
"No. It's stupid."
"It's not. It's powerful. You have a gift."
He looked at me like I'd just told him he could fly.
I helped him submit it to a youth poetry contest. Didn't tell him.
Three months later, I got an email. Marcus won second place. $500 prize and publication in a national magazine.
I texted his dad (got the number from the school). He called me crying.
"He hasn't smiled in two years. He's smiling now."
Sometimes all someone needs is to be seen. To be heard. To be told their pain matters.
"I hope this story reminds you that good people still exist.
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I’m two months away from my wedding, and my entire bridal party has started “gently suggesting” that I find something more classic. My mother-in-law even offered to buy me a “proper” white gown from a bridal shop.
But when I put on this dress — the one covered in colorful embroidery and tiny stitched birds — I feel something I’ve never felt in my life: like me.
It’s not traditional. It’s not what people expect. But when I see myself in the mirror, I see my grandmother’s garden — the one she tended in her small village before she immigrated. I see the stories she told me about celebrations where women wore color like pride, where every stitch meant something, where love was celebrated in shades of red and gold and blue.
When I wear this dress, I feel her hands guiding mine. I feel roots, history, and belonging.
Still, part of me hesitates. I know there will be whispers. Some people will call it “too different.” Others will think I’m being stubborn.
But isn’t a wedding dress supposed to make you feel like the truest version of yourself? Isn’t that what love is — choosing what feels right in your heart, even when others don’t understand?
Maybe peace isn’t about pleasing everyone. Maybe peace is wearing the dress that makes your heart sing.
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Check out thisislorenzooo's video! #TikTok tiktok.com/t/ZP8fNRsuk/
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@John_Dabell So hoppe you can eat if you want to eat♥️♥️. I jn hospice too. I eat. Good luck❤️❤️❤️❤️
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Culturally and psychologically, “not eating or drinking” is associated with:
* dying
* hospice
* final stages
* withdrawal from the world
Being nil by mouth is certainly challenging my mind, body and soul. To be honest, it is existentially terrifying and after 2 months, I'm struggling every day. I've lost 3 stones in weight since being in Critical Care. Christmas, New Year and the cold weather haven't helped. All I want to do is eat and drink but this is not ever going to be a safe option for me again. I'll be writing a blog soon in this to get it off my chest. Sorry to moan!
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Roald Dahl on Measles: Olivia, my eldest daughter, caught measles when she was seven years old. As the illness took its usual course I can remember reading to her often in bed and not feeling particularly alarmed about it. Then one morning, when she was well on the road to recovery, I was sitting on her bed showing her how to fashion little animals out of coloured pipe-cleaners, and when it came to her turn to make one herself, I noticed that her fingers and her mind were not working together and she couldn’t do anything.
'Are you feeling all right?' I asked her.
'I feel all sleepy,' she said.
In an hour, she was unconscious. In twelve hours she was dead.
The measles had turned into a terrible thing called measles encephalitis and there was nothing the doctors could do to save her. That was...in 1962, but even now, if a child with measles happens to develop the same deadly reaction from measles as Olivia did, there would still be nothing the doctors could do to help her. On the other hand, there is today something that parents can do to make sure that this sort of tragedy does not happen to a child of theirs. They can insist that their child is immunised against measles.
...I dedicated two of my books to Olivia, the first was ‘James and the Giant Peach’. That was when she was still alive. The second was ‘The BFG’, dedicated to her memory after she had died from measles. You will see her name at the beginning of each of these books. And I know how happy she would be if only she could know that her death had helped to save a good deal of illness and death among other children.
Roald Dahl, 1986
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"My name's Raymond. I'm 73. I work the parking lot at St. Joseph's Hospital. Minimum wage, orange vest, a whistle I barely use. Most people don't even look at me. I'm just the old man waving cars into spaces.
But I see everything.
Like the black sedan that circled the lot every morning at 6 a.m. for three weeks. Young man driving, grandmother in the passenger seat. Chemotherapy, I figured. He'd drop her at the entrance, then spend 20 minutes hunting for parking, missing her appointments.
One morning, I stopped him. "What time tomorrow?"
"6:15," he said, confused.
"Space A-7 will be empty. I'll save it."
He blinked. "You... you can do that?"
"I can now," I said.
Next morning, I stood in A-7, holding my ground as cars circled angrily. When his sedan pulled up, I moved. He rolled down his window, speechless. "Why?"
"Because she needs you in there with her," I said. "Not out here stressing."
He cried. Right there in the parking lot.
Word spread quietly. A father with a sick baby asked if I could help. A woman visiting her dying husband. I started arriving at 5 a.m., notebook in hand, tracking who needed what. Saved spots became sacred. People stopped honking. They waited. Because they knew someone else was fighting something bigger than traffic.
But here's what changed everything, A businessman in a Mercedes screamed at me one morning. "I'm not sick! I need that spot for a meeting!"
"Then walk," I said calmly. "That space is for someone whose hands are shaking too hard to grip a steering wheel."
He sped off, furious. But a woman behind him got out of her car and hugged me. "My son has leukemia," she sobbed. "Thank you for seeing us."
The hospital tried to stop me. "Liability issues," they said. But then families started writing letters. Dozens. "Raymond made the worst days bearable." "He gave us one less thing to break over."
Last month, they made it official. "Reserved Parking for Families in Crisis." Ten spots, marked with blue signs. And they asked me to manage it.
But the best part? A man I'd helped two years ago, his mother survived, came back. He's a carpenter. Built a small wooden box, mounted it by the reserved spaces. Inside? Prayer cards, tissues, breath mints, and a note,
"Take what you need. You're not alone. -Raymond & Friends"
People leave things now. Granola bars. Phone chargers. Yesterday, someone left a hand-knitted blanket.
I'm 73. I direct traffic in a hospital parking lot. But I've learned this: Healing doesn't just happen in operating rooms. Sometimes it starts in a parking space. When someone says, "I see your crisis. Let me carry this one small piece."
So pay attention. At the grocery checkout, the coffee line, wherever you are. Someone's drowning in the little things while fighting the big ones.
Hold a door. Save a spot. Carry the weight no one else sees.
It's not glamorous. But it's everything."
Let this story reach more hearts....
Credit: Mary Nelson
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Sad story I found: While shopping at Walmart one afternoon, I noticed a woman quietly following me and my dog, Juno. He’s a ten-year-old GS wearing his service vest—just a regular grocery trip for us. But she kept her distance, watching us from aisle to aisle. It didn’t feel threatening, just deeply sad.
When we reached the parking lot, she finally came over.
Her voice trembled as she asked, “I’m sorry to bother you… but is his name Juno?”
Instantly, my guard went up. “How do you know that?” I asked.
And then, right there by the shopping carts, she started crying.
“I was his puppy raiser,” she said through tears. “I took care of him from eight weeks old until eighteen months, then sent him off for guide dog training. That was nine years ago. I’ve thought about him every single day.”
She showed me photos on her phone—baby Juno with the same curious eyes, and a final picture of her holding him, both of them crying the day she had to let him go.
“They told me he didn’t finish guide dog training,” she continued, smiling softly through tears. “Said he was too friendly. I always wondered where he ended up.” Her gaze fell on his vest. “What does he do now?”
“Diabetic alert,” I told her. “He’s saved my life sixteen times.”
I hadn’t planned to say the number, but it came out naturally.
She covered her mouth, sobbing again. “That makes sense,” she said. “Even as a puppy, he knew when something was wrong. He’d bring me my phone if my medication alarm went off. No one taught him—he just knew.”
We talked for twenty minutes. She told me stories only someone who truly loved him could remember—how he used to steal socks, run from the vacuum, and sleep upside down with his paws in the air.
Before leaving, she knelt down. Juno walked right over, wagging his tail, and rested his head on her shoulder as if no time had passed at all.
“Thank you for keeping him safe,” she whispered to him. Then she looked at me. “And thank you for letting me see that he’s exactly where he was meant to be.”
Now, I send her a photo of Juno every week.
And yes, he still sleeps on his back with his legs in the air.
For everyone who’s ever fostered, raised, or loved a dog they couldn’t keep—know this: they never forget you. You live in their hearts forever. ❤️
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@CrazyVibes_1 That iy were always true. Many work/! at hard menial jobs every day For nothing.
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Two kids knocked on my door offering to rake my entire yard for $10 total—and what I did next changed how they'll see hard work forever.
It was a Saturday afternoon when I heard the doorbell. Two boys, probably around 11 or 12, stood on my porch holding rakes that looked almost too big for them. The taller one cleared his throat nervously: "Excuse me, sir. Would you like us to rake your yard? We'll do the whole thing for ten dollars."
I looked past them at my lawn. Leaves everywhere. It was going to be at least two hours of work, maybe three.
"Ten dollars each?" I asked.
They glanced at each other. The shorter one shook his head. "No sir. Ten dollars total. We'll split it."
Five dollars each. For hours of hard labor.
I could have said yes. I could have gotten my entire yard raked for pocket change and called it a teaching moment about negotiation. But something about the way they stood there—hopeful, polite, willing to work—reminded me of myself at that age. Hustling. Trying. Just wanting a chance.
"Alright," I said. "You've got a deal. Get started."
For the next two and a half hours, I watched those kids work. They didn't cut corners. They didn't complain. They raked every section, bagged the leaves, and even swept off my driveway without being asked. When they finally knocked to let me know they were done, they were sweating, exhausted, and smiling.
I walked out with my wallet. "You boys did incredible work," I said, handing them four twenty-dollar bills. "Here's your payment."
The taller one's eyes went wide. "Sir, we said ten—"
"I know what you said. But I also know what two hours of quality work is worth. You earned every dollar of this."
They stared at the money like they couldn't believe it was real. Then the shorter one looked up at me and said quietly, "Thank you. Really. Thank you."
As they walked away, I heard them talking excitedly about what they'd spend it on. And I realized something: we talk a lot about teaching kids the value of hard work, but we don't always show them that hard work actually gets valued.
Those boys didn't ask for a handout. They offered a service. They showed up. They delivered. And in a world that sometimes feels like it punishes effort and rewards shortcuts, I wanted them to walk away knowing that good work doesn't go unnoticed.
If you work hard, if you show up with integrity, if you give your best even when nobody's watching—good people will see it. And they'll bless you for it.
That's not just a lesson for kids. That's a lesson for all of us.
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@MilaLovesJoe Call me racist or what ever you want, those ass hole Islamic Muslims are a cancer to the values of all Americans.
Americans have a higher moral value and are not communists.
They all have to be removed !!
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@MilaLovesJoe You are a racist. How many Islamist’s do you know? Yeah thought so.
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@SaraGonzalesTX Well, a lot of folks here want your kind deported NOW!
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I want Texas to become completely inhospitable to Islam and I don’t care how that makes anyone feel.
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Islam is NOT compatible with American society, and it should be REJECTED FULLY!
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@AmyMek Well, wave your flag while studying your Constitution. Freedomof Religion is key.
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I don’t care what party you’re in - if you’re aiding or abetting the Islamic takeover of America, I will expose you.
The days of hiding behind willful ignorance are over. You either stand for this country - or you stand against it.
I don’t just say America First, I live it 🇺🇸
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@AlexDuncanTX Oh, STOP! You self righteous fake Christians need to read the book of Luke and see what Jesus actually said. Like “Love thy Neighbor””
Just start there.
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One, simple way, to start ending the Islamization of America is to ban all Muslims from holding elected office, as their allegiance is solely to Islam, not America. Ban Sharia law in its entirety in the US, and designate CAIR and the Muslim Brotherhood as terrorist organizations.
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@atensnut How insulting. No one i know who gets food assistance has any extra money for such. So unkind, cruel, demeaning.
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