The stories some of our friends sent our way have been on my mind the last few days. I’ve promised to share them with our readers. Here are some of them.
A fun love story or two.
An anthropologist asked a Hopi Indian why so many of his people’s songs dealt with rain. He answered, “Because we need it so badly and it’s so scarce.” Then, after a moment, the Hopi said, “Why are so many of your songs about love?”
The young girl brought her guy home to meet her parents. Her mother was terrified on seeing the tattooed, spiked-haired, bearded, earring-wearing, rough-looking young man. She said, “Honey, is he nice?”
The daughter was offended. “Certainly he’s nice,” she said. “If he wasn’t nice, why would he be doing 5,000 hours of community service!”
This woman loved her man.
Pastor E. V. Hill led a church in the Watts section of Los Angeles during some of the worst racial trouble of the sixties and seventies. At one time, the rioting was so bad, an African-American preacher was killed because he associated with the Whites. According to rumor, Dr. Hill was next on the list.
A phone call in the middle of the night woke up Pastor Hill. An anonymous called informed him that his car was a target for bombing. He tried to keep this from his wife, but she would have none of that. She insisted he tell her.
The next morning, Pastor Hill could not find his wife. Then he noticed his car was gone. After a few minutes, the car drove up to the house and she got out.
He asked, “Now, why did you do that?”
She said, “If your car was to be bombed, I wanted to die instead of you.”
Pastor Hill would tell that story and add, “Since that day I have never asked my wife, ‘Do you love me?’ I know.”
He would add, “And since that day two thousand years ago when the Son of God died on that cross, I have not needed to ask God, ‘Do you love me?’ I already know.”