A Bucket of Surprises - J. John & Mark Stibbe
A Bucket of Surprises - J. John & Mark Stibbe
For years J.John and Mark Stibbe have recorded the most wise, offbeat, hardhitting and bizarre material they come across in the course of their study and travel. With remarkable generosity they have agreed to share this selection with the rest of us. He who loses money, loses much; he who loses a friend, loses much more; he who loses faith, loses all. There is the story of a person who got up one sunday and announced to his congregation: "I have good news and bad news. The good news is, we have enough money to pay for our new building programme. The bad news is, it's still out there in your pockets". On the sixth day, God created the platypus. And God said: "Let's see the evolutionists try and figure this one out". Advice to fathers over 40: keep an open mind and a closed refrigerator.
Monarch
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Re: A Bucket of Surprises - J. John & Mark Stibbe
No sabía muy bien dónde ubicar este libro porque contiene historias cortas, chistes, proverbios, etc., al final lo he puesto aquí, pero si está en el sitio equivocado "movedme"
He disfrutado muchísimo con este libro, he reído, llorado, reflexionado, está muy bien. Voy a transcribir dos historias, una muy divertida y la otra muy triste.
He disfrutado muchísimo con este libro, he reído, llorado, reflexionado, está muy bien. Voy a transcribir dos historias, una muy divertida y la otra muy triste.
J. John & Mark Stibbe escribió:A couple had two little boys, ages eight and ten, who were excessively mischievous. The two were always getting into trouble and their parents could be assured that if any mischief occurred in their town their two young sons were in some way involved. The parents were at their wits' end as to what to do about their sons' behavior.
The mother had heard that a clergyman in town had been successful in disciplining children in the past, so she asked her husband if he thought they should send the boys to speak with the clergyman. The husband said, "We might as well. We need to do something before I really lose my temper!" The clergyman agreed to speak with the boys, but asked to see them individually.
The eight-year-old went to meet with him first. The clergyman sat the boy down and asked him sternly, "Where is God?".
The boy made no response, so the clergyman repeated the question in an even sterner tone, "Where is God?".
Again the boy made no attempt to answer. So the clergyman raised his voice even more and shook his finger in the boy's face, "WHERE IS GOD?".
At that the boy bolted from the room and ran straight home, slamming himself in the closet.
His older brother followed him into the closet and said, "What happened?".
The younger brother replied, "We are in BIG trouble this time. God is missing and they think we did it".
J. John & Mark Stibbe escribió:When the Christian head teacher Philip Lawrence was killed just before Christmas 1996, his only son Lucien wrote the following message to Father Christmas:
Dear Father Christmas,
I hope you are well and not too cold. I hope you won't think that I am being a nuisance but I have changed my mind what I want for christmas. I wanted to have a telescope but now I want to have my daddy back because without my daddy to help I will not be able to see the stars anyway. I am the only boy in the family now but I am not very big and I need my daddy to help me to stop my mummy and sisters from crying.
love from
lucien lawrence
Age 8
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Re: A Bucket of Surprises - J. John & Mark Stibbe
La segunda es absolutamente conmovedora.
Nuestra editorial: www.osapolar.es
Si cedes una libertad por egoísmo, acabarás perdiéndolas todas.
Mis diseños
Si cedes una libertad por egoísmo, acabarás perdiéndolas todas.
Mis diseños
Re: A Bucket of Surprises - J. John & Mark Stibbe
Sí, Lucía, es bastante fuerte.lucia escribió:La segunda es absolutamente conmovedora.
A ver si tengo tiempo mañana y escaneo una que a mí me gusta mucho, que es triste pero bella.
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Re: A Bucket of Surprises - J. John & Mark Stibbe
My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they first met. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm milk. "Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.
There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.
But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.
Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.
"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby.
Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.
S-h-m-i-l-y: See How Much I Love You.
They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm milk. "Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.
There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.
But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside.
Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.
"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time. Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby.
Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.
S-h-m-i-l-y: See How Much I Love You.
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