Chapter 1

Love for Family and Friends

“In family life, love is the oil that eases friction, the cement that binds closer together, and the music that brings harmony.” —Eva Evelyn Burrows, 13th General of the Salvation Army

Family has been celebrated in numerous popular songs, e.g., the bouncy Sister Sledge anthem “We Are Family” and— my personal favorite—Carole King’s “Child of Mine,” and with reason, because the family is the foundation for all of our love relationships to come, good or bad. I believe if children have but one person in their world who loves them fiercely, they will survive. If they don’t have the assurance that they matter from at least one adult, then they are broken for life. I was raised in a traditional “nuclear” family, the norm in our little town in Reedsport, Oregon. It wasn’t until years after I left home that I discovered how “un-normal” our American concept of family—a mother, father, two kids and a dog—is in many other cultures. Elsewhere in the world families live in dwellings with multiple generations, extended family members and even, in some cultures, multiple wives. My children have never experienced a “normal” family atmosphere, with a mother and father and full siblings. But they have known that they have a mother who loves them fiercely, and they know that I will love them unconditionally all the days of their lives.

As a child, I learned to love from the best, my mom, Wilma. Whatever her shortcomings, she believed in all four of her children and made sure we believed in ourselves. Her encouragement created in me a solid core of self-confidence that has been invaluable to me in my career as a radio host. Mom was a big woman—she stood over six feet tall, and her arm span was that of a giant. And, oh, when she wrapped you in those strong arms, you knew you were loved!

Wilma showed her love in a million different ways—one was that she baked treats for her family. How we loved her cookies! Chocolate chip for the boys, oatmeal raisin for me and Dad, sugar cookies and applesauce with spice during the holidays. My parents both died within a few years of each other, each at the age of fifty-seven, and among the houseful of “stuff” that my siblings and I were left to sell or donate was a cookie jar. That cookie jar sat in Mom’s kitchen for forty years and was rarely empty. Years later I walked into a thrift store and saw an identical cookie jar and started to cry, so I bought it and took it home. Not because I needed a new cookie jar, but because that ceramic jar reminded me of the hot cookies my mom would bake for us every week and the way she would ask, “Sis, you want to help me bake cookies?” This question was really an invitation to stand in our tiny kitchen and spend time laughing and talking to Mom about my friends, my homework, my latest crush, my future dreams. As we made cookies together, my mom and I bonded in love.

I also learned a lot about love from my father. It is only now, as my own children are growing at the speed of light, that his lessons are resounding in my heart. He was a stoic man, not one to hug and kiss and gush like Mom, but he showed his love through his steadfast commitment to his family. When the toaster broke, he would stay up all night to repair it, so we could have toast with our eggs in the morning. When the holidays rolled around, he disappeared into the garage, his makeshift Santa’s workshop, to build toys and wooden objects for everyone in our neighborhood.

Although our parents give us our first lessons in love, perhaps our best teachers about love are our kids. The greatest joy of love in my life has been in giving birth to three wonderful children and adopting seven more. When I held my firstborn, Isaiah, I knew that my life would never be the same. For the rest of my natural life, my heart would be walking around outside my body, in the form of my child. I learned more about love from Isaiah in the first few hours of his life than I had learned in the twenty-four years of my life prior to nursing him to my breast. For eight years Isaiah and I were alone, just the two of us, going camping and dirt biking, moving from state to state and exploring every patch of beauty along the way.

All of my kids are special, and all are very different. I stand in amazement when I ponder my three biological children, how they could have emerged from the same womb and all be so completely different from one another. My firstborn, Isaiah, was never once sent to the principal’s office during all his years in school. He was never in a fight. . .he never talked back to a teacher. . .he obeyed all the rules, and would get so frustrated with me when I would break all the rules. My lastborn, Zachariah, gets a note sent home from school every day. His talking back has been elevated to an art form. He doesn’t own a pair of jeans for twenty-four hours before the knees are ripped. As Isaiah taught me about God’s quiet and gentle love, Zachariah has taught me that God has a wicked sense of humor!

Lonika is my oldest daughter, and although I did not give birth to her or raise her (she was adopted as an adult), she is the daughter of my heart. A single mother, Lonika works hard every day to provide for her daughter, Jayla. Lonni has a great sense of humor, and when she sets her mind to accomplish something, she does not give up. She is determined, focused and very gracious.

Shaylah has a tender, sweet heart. Like my firstborn, my second born was also graced with a very gentle spirit. She is not a rough-and-tumble sort of girl the way I was. She moves with grace and is always a peacemaker, not a troublemaker like her momma!

Emanuel, Tanginique and Trey Jerome are siblings—all born to the same mother but with different fathers—whom I adopted out of our very broken foster care system. Tragically, they were even more abused by foster care givers than they were by their drug-addicted mother. Because of all the upheaval and abuse in their lives before they came, in their early teens, under my care, Manny, Tangi and Trey Jerome have attachment issues, and they all left my home less than five years after I adopted them. All three have beautiful smiles, outgoing personalities and strong wills to survive. The youngest of the three, TJ, works for me now and lives close by with his girlfriend and his infant son. When TJ found out Abbi was pregnant, he was only eighteen. I’m so proud of the way he stepped up to the plate and vowed he would be the father to his son that he never had, and of the way he parents his son. He is totally committed to his baby and to his fiancée and works hard every day to provide for his young family. When I see TJ holding Nehemiah, and talking to him with such deep love, I know the many trials and tribulations that I went through when Trey was a teenager have paid off. We are far closer today than when he came into my life at the age of nine, and I pray that one day his siblings will also decide to walk away from the trauma and poverty of their current life and walk back into the family that is waiting to welcome them.

My two youngest boys are Zacky and TK (Thomas Karlton). TK also became a part of my life through adoption. A woman who facilitates adoptions contacted me one day, wondering if I knew anyone who’d be interested in adopting a young African-American toddler whose fourteen-year-old mom felt overwhelmed. I asked her to send me photos and information, and I’d make inquiries. Less than a month later, two-year-old Thomas Karlton was a part of our family. It was an impulsive decision on my part, and the timing wasn’t the best, as I was going through a divorce and Zacky had been diagnosed with mild autism and other special needs. But something about TK’s wide dark eyes melted my heart, and I couldn’t bear the thought that he might have to go into foster care. TK is always eager to help and please others. He has a huge bright smile, and loves to play silly games, like crawling on his knees on the floor and pretending to be an alligator or a space monster, as he chases his younger sister and nephew.

And as I write this, I have just adopted two more children, daughters from Ghana, Africa, whom I’ve come to know on my mission trips there. At thirteen, Angel is a tiny slip of a girl, just six months younger than my mini-me, Shaylah, but she is over a foot shorter and weighs just seventy-five pounds. She has suffered malnutrition all her life, as well as malaria and other diseases. Blessing is only four. The day the adoption was final, I took the girls out to breakfast to celebrate. Angel and even little Blessing ate six eggs apiece! They had never seen a smorgasbord before, and could not stop returning for more boiled eggs.

It seems most of my adult life has been spent folding laundry and trying to come up with creative Halloween costumes made from paper bags and pipe cleaners, screeching “Get in your car seat!” and “Stop hitting your brother!” and driving carloads of kids on field trips. But each day my children teach me. About patience. About forgiveness. About life. About love.

What have you learned from your children? And equally important, what are they learning from you?

.A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.” —Unknown

After the family, the next stage in our education about love comes from friendship. Most of us can remember how proud we were as youngsters to have a “best friend.” As adults, too, we cherish our friends—those special people in our lives who are there for us at the best and worst of times, who add the icing to the cake of our successes and bring light to the darkness of our sorrows. Rock music has paid tribute to friendship in songs like Michael W. Smith’s “Friends Are Friends Forever,” Bill Withers’s “Lean on Me” and the theme song from the movie Toy Story, “You’ve Got a Friend in Me,” by Randy Newman.

The joy of friendship has been abundantly mine. I have been blessed to know some pretty amazing people thus far in my life, and for whatever reason, God has allowed me to peer inside the soul of some of His finest handiwork. Friendship is precious to me, and I am deeply thankful for my many wonderful experiences of this kind of love. My childhood friends Natasha, Dee Dee and Billy are still a big part of my life today. Dee Dee and I share so many memories of past stages in our lives, and often reminisce and laugh about our days in disco dresses and halter tops, and the guys we were trying to attract (and sometimes did, with mixed results) by wearing them. Janey, my producer, is a friend who is closer than a sister. We were roommates for many years, she was my birthing coach for my last two biological children and we’ve worked together for the past eighteen years. I know if I needed a new lung, Janey would be the first to try and donate hers. And because of the strength of the love my girlfriends share with me, each week, on the air, I bond with my “Friday nite girls.”

As you read about the friendships here, think about your own “friends of the heart,” and the difference they’ve made and continue to make in your life. You may find yourself agreeing with Ralph Waldo Emerson, who said, “A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature.”

“To Where You Are”

Dear Delilah,

I have been a professional Santa for over thirty years now. I could tell you many stories, but there’s one I especially want to share.

A few years ago I was at one of the Ronald McDonald Houses for their family Christmas party the week before Christmas. After I visited with all the children there, a mother came up to me and quietly asked me if I had time to go and visit her daughter in the hospital. Ashley was six years old and too sick to leave the hospital to see Santa, but she wanted to tell him something special. I told the mother, “Let’s go right now!”

As we approached Ashley’s room, one of the nurses told me the little girl had advanced cancer, and that her doctors didn’t expect her to make it to Christmas. This took my breath away, and I sent her mother in ahead of me. Then suddenly I burst through the door with my sleigh bells jingling, and in a big, booming voice, I said, “Ashley, I understand you want to talk to me!”

The child got up on her knees with tubes running in and out of her, and said, “Oh, yes, Santa!” She had lost all her hair, but she had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

I walked over and asked her if I could sit on her bed, then I pulled her over on my lap. We talked and sang Christmas carols, and she played with my sleigh bells.

We visited and laughed for over an hour, until she fell asleep in my arms. I tried to quietly lay her down, but my bells rang, and her amazingly blue eyes popped open. I said, “Oh, Ashley, I’m glad you woke up, I have something very important to ask you. What do you want for Christmas?”

She didn’t have to think even a second. She said, “My sisters want Teletubbies!”

I said, “I can do that, but what do you want?”

Again she didn’t have to think, and said, “My brother wants a Nintendo!” And again I said, “I can do that! But what do you want?”

She thought for a couple minutes and then said quietly, “I’m going to die soon, I know that, and I’m going to go and live with Grandma and Grandpa and I’m not going to hurt anymore. What I want is for Mom to stop crying—she is going to be here alone and needs to take care of my brother and sisters.”

Speechless, I looked at this little angel. She could have asked for anything from Santa, and all she cared about was her family. I wrapped my arms around this beautiful little girl and planted a big kiss right on that cute little bald head. I told her, “Don’t you worry, your mom is going to be just fine.”

The mother had been doing some needlepoint, and I did something then that I had never done before and have never done since. I borrowed the mother’s scissors, cut off one of my sleigh bells and gave it to Ashley. Then I wiped a tear from my eye, gave her mother a big parting hug, and asked her to keep me posted.

Christmas came and went, and I didn’t hear anything. Then, two days after Christmas, I received the call that I really didn’t want to get. Ashley had passed away that morning. I found out when and where the funeral was going to be. On the day, I dressed in my best suit and Santa tie and went to pay my respects. As I walked in, her mother saw me and came over. She told me that during Ashley’s last week she had more energy and was happier than the entire six months since they found out she had cancer. Her one Christmas wish had come true—a personal visit from Santa.

It was an open-casket funeral, and I took a last look at Ashley. She was wearing a beautiful white dress, and they had put a long blond wig on her. She looked like the angel she was, and then, as I looked closer, I noticed that in her hand was my sleigh bell.

If you believe in angels, the most special angels are the Christmas angels, and I believe that Ashley is one of them. God bless you, Ashley, wherever you are, you’ve touched me in a way that no one else ever has.

In His Love,

Barry

"My Father’s Eyes”

Dear Delilah,

Here’s a story I’d like to share with you about a loving father—really two loving fathers. During the Vietnam War, Uncle Sam called me to duty, and I was sent to a dangerous area, heavily infiltrated by the Vietcong. One eventful night, we were told to dig in. It seems that a couple battalions of VC were just over the hill. Well, there were only about 150 of us, including the clerks and cooks and the captain’s hooch-maid. The VC could come right through us without so much as a second thought.

The night was long, but the next morning all was calm. It seems that Charlie just went around us! A short time later, I got a letter from my sister, one sentence of which I remember vividly to this day—“Dad prayed for you!”

Now I knew that my dad loved me and wanted me safe from all harm, but I never heard him pray in my whole life. I’m convinced he sensed my danger and said the prayer when he instinctively felt it was needed.

That was almost forty years ago, but it seems like only forty minutes. My dad has long gone to his eternal reward, no doubt thanking his Father in Heaven for answering his prayer. I pray for my son daily, as I’m sure most fathers do. Let’s keep praying for our children. God is a great protector, and now you know why I said this is really a story about two loving fathers—mine and the Father of us all.

God Bless,

Al

“Blue Eyes”

Hey, Delilah,

I’ve got a story about our family and the way God has loved and blessed us.

I have been married to my wife, Dawn, since May 29, 1993, and it’s been a great journey so far. She always dreamed of having a little girl to dress up in pink and pass down her massive Barbie collection to, and began to dream of this daughter as soon as the first stick turned pink.

In April of 1995 we were blessed with a little boy whom we called Ben. Despite her Barbie dreams, my wife was as thrilled as I was with our healthy little boy— it was just the first baby, after all.

Well, Delilah, 2.5 years later we were pregnant again, and we were sure this time God was going to give us a little girl—one of each, right? Wrong! On February 14, 1998, we got our second son, Luke, who came at thirty-three weeks and spent three weeks in neonatal care.

Okay, now it’s again 2.5 years later—September 2000—and after much fear we made it through the full nine months. . .and, yes, another son, Owen, was born. Of course we feel so happy having three healthy, blond-haired, blue-eyed boys, but there was just a brief “Not again” moment. Now we have two male dogs and a house full of males. Dawn has been a good sport about this and loves us to bits, as we do her. I used to make jokes, telling her I just never found the instructions on how to make a girl.

We believe there is a reason for everything, and Dawn and I decided to stop at three boys. We felt blessed to have such really good kids. Every time we passed all those adorable little girl clothes in the stores she would smile wistfully, but she never complained. She has two older brothers and no sisters, so she felt perhaps it was her destiny to care for boys and never have a daughter.

Well, five years passed, and one day my wife said, “You’re forty and I’m thirty-four, and it looks like if I’m ever going to get a girl, the stork will have to drop one on my doorstep.” A week later she got on an elevator at the clinic where she works and ran in to a lady she used to supervise in her previous position. When Dawn asked her former employee how she was doing, the lady said, “Not so good.” She had found out over the weekend that her nineteen year- old daughter was pregnant and unable to care for a baby. My wife responded sympathetically and then went on her way. But the next day this lady called Dawn at work and told her that the daughter was having a girl and was going to give the baby up for adoption. She knew we had only sons—and maybe that Dawn had hoped for a little girl—and wanted to know if we would be interested in adopting this baby. Dawn told her she’d have to talk to me before committing herself, and was smiling nervously when I picked her up that day. Well, I put her fears to rest by saying of course we would be interested. That was in October 2006.

We met the birth mother at a restaurant and sensed that something was bothering her. We tried to make her comfortable, and she told us the father of the baby was African American and asked if that made a difference to us. My wife and I in perfect unison said, “So what?” My wife has brown eyes, whereas the boys and I all have blue eyes, and when we got in the car after our visit my wife said, “Well, I know I will finally get my brown-eyed girl!”

We then began a close relationship with the birth mother and her mom. We had agreed to an open adoption, so they came to visit our home on several occasions. On March 17th we were called to the hospital, and Mallorie was born to us as our St. Patty’s little girl. We brought her home on the nineteenth, and we are approaching her first birthday now. The thing that gets me laughing is that our beautiful little daughter has blue eyes after all! So Dawn got only half her wish—but hey, she’s not complaining.

This little girl has truly blessed our family and is loved by all who meet her. Her brothers have adjusted just fi ne, and she is attached to them as well. In the evening, I often work out in my garage, and I always listen to your stories on the radio there, so I thought maybe you would read our story. If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that we cannot control the plans God has made for us. Timing is all His, and He’s full of surprises.

Please pick something to play that will tell my wife and kids I love them more than anything in this world, and no matter what, I will be here as long as the good Lord allows to make sure they know they are loved. Thanks for listening. Sincerely,

Rick

“Angel”

Hi, Delilah,

You know how you always say, “Who’s on your heart tonight”? Well, someone special is on my heart tonight, and I want to share the story with you.

I was born August 22, 1975, and on February 11, 1979, my mother was pronounced dead, due to medical malpractice. My baby sister was only nine days old. Of course, my whole family was devastated, especially my father. Faced with the terrifying prospect of raising four young children—ages nine, three, two and a week and a half—alone, my father had made the decision to split us up. We were each going to be raised by one of his siblings.

Except for the baby, we kids knew about the plan and were brokenhearted that we couldn’t all stay together. But just when we thought all hope was gone, God sent us an angel. The day after my fi fth birthday, my father married my mom’s younger sister, and God gave us the best mother we could ever have had, outside of the one who gave birth to us.

Now that we’re all adults, we’ve learned that our parents didn’t marry for love of each other but for the love of us kids. There was no greater joy for us than to be able to stay with the family we knew and loved, without worrying about evil stepmothers or families where we would never feel like we truly belonged. And not only did we get a great mother out of the deal but an awesome sister as well!

This year my parents will be celebrating their twenty-seventh wedding anniversary and are more in love than they probably ever imagined they could be. My mother was only twenty-four when she took on the responsibility of raising five young children, and she sacrificed a lot. My dad worked full-time and was a pastor at our church. My mom gave up her job to be a stay-at home mom. Not that she stayed at home much—it was nonstop running between afterschool activities, sports and Scouts with us five kids. I’m sure there were many days back then that Mom felt unappreciated, but that sure isn’t the case now. There are no words for just how much we all love and appreciate her.

And she is so selfless, so giving, so empathetic. For example, this past Mother’s Day we got together to celebrate her, and instead she showed up with permanent markers and Mylar balloons so we could write a message on the balloons to our late biological mother. Together we wrote the messages and released the balloons. It was a very special moment—a gift from a very special mom.

Delilah, I just wanted to take the time to share my story of the love that I have for the woman I call Mom, whose love and support are constantly with me as I raise my own daughters.

All best,

Tracie

“I’ll Be Home for Christmas”

Greetings from the Mideast, Delilah—

I’ve never written to you before, but I’ve listened to your show quite a bit back home. Currently I am stationed in Iraq and visit your Web site. I saw your appeal for holiday stories, and immediately began to reminisce about holidays past and what they meant to me. I share this not for recognition, but to reflect, as I write, about those times with family and friends that I hold dear to my heart.

We always had our Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings at my grandparents’ home back in Louisiana. And what a gathering it was! Every family member would arrive with a traditional holiday dish and/or gift, and it was always interesting to see what new friend they brought with them to share our celebration.

My brothers and I would immediately head to the backyard to play football while the older folks sipped coffee or eggnog or stayed busy in the kitchen preparing a feast. Even outside, we boys could smell the wonderful bouquet of roasted turkey, cornbread dressing, sweet potato casserole and, of course, Grandma’s homemade pies. Apple, pecan, pumpkin, cherry, chocolate and lemon. . .I think everyone had a different favorite, and she never left one out. My favorite was the apple pie.

Grandma always relished watching everyone enjoy her pies. But mostly she took joy in seeing the whole family assembled under one roof, at one table. Holidays were the only time that busy schedules could be put aside and gathering as a family made the priority, as Grandma thought it should be.

Unfortunately, over the past few years, our grandparents and parents have all passed away, and with them the family gatherings. My brothers have married and scattered, and I, too, moved away and am now engaged. I miss my family terribly, and those few precious times we spent with each other every year.

I’ve been fortunate, however, to fi nd a soul mate whose family is much like mine was, a family that has adopted me as one of their own. They have those gatherings during the holidays and treasure them, just as my family used to treasure ours. The dishes may be different and the family memories ones I don’t share; nevertheless, every year as I gather with my new family, I can still smell Grandma’s pies baking in the oven. And then I know that all is well and that the family endures.

Thank you, Delilah, for allowing me to share my holiday story. I’m starting my third (and thankfully last) year here in Iraq, and I needed something to bring a smile to my face. I’m looking forward to three weeks’ leave in December, so I can share Christmas and my twenty-seventh birthday with my fiancée and other loved ones. And also to remember those before them, who taught me so much about what the holidays mean and how truly special they can be.

Take care and may God bless!

David

“Light a Single Candle”

Dear Delilah,

Children learn what love is from their families, and I’d like to share with you and your listeners the lessons I learned from mine.

As a small child in the 1950s, I stayed for a while with my great uncle and great aunt. Uncle Avery and Aunt Lucy loved children but never had any of their own, and they made it their personal mission to make sure that all the children in our extended family received at least one gift.

These surrogate parents also taught me the true meaning of Christmas. A few days before Christmas, Uncle Avery would bring in bags of fruit, nuts and candy. Aunt Lucy and I would collect paper bags and boxes, colorful ribbon and other trimmings. They showed me how to fi ll the bags, and then Uncle Avery or Aunt Lucy would say, “This family is having a bad year, Brenda, put a little extra in those bags.”

On Christmas Eve, we drove around four counties, leaving boxes and bags for the children, and sometimes money or bolts of cloth. I learned about sharing, compassion, duty and how even a small child can help do God’s work on His Son’s day.

Delilah, in memory of my “parents,” thank you for your wonderful program, and please play a song in memory of Uncle Avery and Aunt Lucy. Thank you, Delilah.

God bless,

Brenda

“The Rose”

Dear Delilah,

I have an amazing story about my grandmother, Ruby, who died of colon cancer when I was four years old. Whenever I look at a rose, particularly a yellow one, I think of her. Here’s why. . . .

A few years before she left us, Grandma went with my grandpa to a local nursery to pick out rose bushes. Grandpa picked out two bushes. Grandma picked one—yellow roses, which were her favorites. When they got home, they planted the three rose bushes in a row, with Grandma’s in the middle. As time went by, not one of the rose bushes bloomed. Grandma got very sick with cancer, and there were still no roses.

Then, on the day Grandma passed away, Grandpa was in the garden when he noticed something unusual. Grandma’s bush had a single bloom on it. Grandpa took a picture of that yellow rose, because there was never a bloom or bud on that bush before (and there hasn’t been since).

My mom considers that beautiful yellow rose a goodbye kiss from Grandma. I’m thirteen years old now, and I still feel Grandma Ruby by my side every day, wherever I go. My mom says she feels Grandma’s presence as well. In her final hours, Grandma Ruby fought to keep living until all of her children were there in her room. As soon as my aunt closed the door, Grandma stopped breathing. Our whole family loved my grandma Ruby, and I will never forget her.

Love,

Audrey

“Give It Away”

Dear Delilah,

We would like to start by thanking you for providing such a wonderful program to listen to. In this world of violence, sensationalism, scandal and negativity, a program that is encouraging, uplifting and inspirational is a welcome oasis.

Our story is about a love of family—all of God’s family. Seven years ago, a group of us were riding together in a van in Mexico. The topic of conversation was “What would you do if you won the lottery?”

The usual answers were given—“buy a big house, take a cruise around the world, retire,” etc. But when the question came around to my wife, Kim, she replied that she had always wanted to do something for the world’s poor, like providing food or safe drinking water. A gentleman in the van replied that Kim didn’t need to win the lottery to do those things, and it just so happened that he was on the board of directors of an organization that provides safe drinking water to communities and villages in underprivileged countries.

After returning to our busy and (all thanks to God) successful careers, Kim and I felt the call to give back some of what we have been blessed with. Five months later we found ourselves on our way to Ecuador to fund the installation of a safe drinking-water system in a rural village. We visited two communities to which water systems had already been donated and two candidate villages, of which we were to choose one to receive a water system. Our experience was so moving that we decided to fund both systems. For the cost of a private well for a single-family home here in the States, we were able to provide safe water for a village of five hundred people.

This experience was so gratifying, we realized that we had found a new purpose in life. Upon returning home we recruited friends and family to join us in our newfound mission. We also started partnering with other organizations in Nicaragua and Guatemala, leading teams of volunteers on short-term mission trips multiple times per year. We’ve been involved with disaster relief efforts, installation of numerous water systems and latrines, the building of homes and schools, numerous medical clinics and clothing distributions. The best part, however, wasn’t the fact we were able to provide for these physical needs—it was our ability to work as servants of God to provide hope, faith and love by answering the prayers of those in need. To let them know that they are truly loved and not forgotten.

In August of 2005 we were informed of severe child malnutrition and starvation due to drought, famine and poverty in southeastern Guatemala. The horrible plight in this area is virtually unrecognized by the rest of the world. In some villages the child mortality rate is as high as 33 percent. We decided to shift our focus to this part of Guatemala. We created our own nonprofit organization, called Outreach for World Hope. Our goal is to help save the lives of thousands of starving children and their families. We have created a “Virtual Village” child sponsorship program that identifies children most at risk. Even before a child sponsor is found, these “code red” children are enrolled in our program, provided with thirty days of in-patient nutritional rehabilitation, a monthly supply of food for their families, medical treatment, social services and—most important—hope, faith and love. We also offer the sponsors the ability to join us on a short-term trip where they can meet their sponsored child and the child’s family.

As you can imagine, this task is overwhelming, and we need all the help and sponsors we can get. So, we would like to make two requests: (1) Please check out and pass on the address of our Web site— www.outreachforworldhope.org. Be sure to look at the before/after page to see the difference people are making. And (2) I’d appreciate it if you could play a song as a thanks to the hundreds of people who have helped us so far, to those that are inspired to help, to my awesome wife who has dedicated her life to this work, and most important to God, who has taught me that it is definitely “better to give than receive.” Thank you, Delilah, for taking the time to read this. I pray for all of God’s blessings on you and on your ministry.

With all of God’s love,

Randy (and Kim)

“God Bless the Child”

Hi, Delilah,

Things happen for a reason, but we don’t always realize it at the time. I’m thinking of how our own experiences growing up prepare us for being parents, and one childhood experience of my own in particular.

In my class in junior high there was a special needs student who longed to be one of the “cool” kids. The popular crowd knew of this boy’s desire, and one day I heard them saying, “Let’s mess with the retard.” That cruel term was used by all the kids back then, including, I’m ashamed to say, me. Anyway, next thing I saw was a group of these kids going over to the boy and acting like they were his friends, and then one of the prettiest girls told him she wanted to be his girlfriend. The boy had no idea they were mocking him, and his whole face lit up with joy.

This incident made quite an impression on me. I found myself imagining the special needs kid going home all thrilled and telling his parents that he had “cool” friends and a pretty girlfriend. His parents would guess the truth but feel they had to pretend to believe the story lest they break his heart by letting him know the other kids were making fun of him. Of course, the kid’s illusions didn’t last long, because the next day in school, his new “friends” wanted nothing to do with him. I imagined him going home in tears this time and his parents being even more brokenhearted now that their worst fears had been realized. I felt sick. From then on, I believe I became a kinder person, more sensitive to other people’s feelings, especially if they were in some way “different.”

Now I’m thirty-five, married, and have four beautiful kids of my own. My life is their life. Everything I do is for them. But our twelve-year-old has Asperger’s syndrome, a form of autism. Though he has the biggest, kindest heart in the world and is extremely intelligent, he has the social skills of a five-year-old. Now my wife and I are the parents whose child sometimes comes home from school crying because other kids are picking on him, or making fun of him because he is different. He has no idea why they do this, and asks us, “What did I do to them?” or “Why are they so mean?” My wife and I do our best to comfort him and let him know he will always find love at home.

I’m glad I witnessed those kids being mean back when I was in school; it raised my consciousness and made me better-equipped to be the parent of a child with Asperger’s. I’m sure there are other parents like us, struggling with their children’s pain, and I hope you can find a song that will encourage people to be kinder, for the sake of both the kids and their parents.

Thank you,

Max

“Grandma’s Hands”

Dear Delilah,

This morning, Friday, March 16, 2007, at 5:30 a.m., my grandma passed away. She was such a kindhearted, caring lady—her motto was “Share with God’s people who are in need” (Romans 12:13)—that I want to tell you and your listeners about her.

When my brother and I were little, Grandma often took care of us. She’d come over early in the morning—my dad worked the night shift, and Mom would leave for work when my grandma arrived. I still remember how much fun it was making clay cookies with her. Grandma would roll out the soft and pliable clay while my brother and I removed the boxes of cookie cutters from the cabinet. Grandma had her cookie cutters divided into individual boxes, with the metal, plastic, ceramic, animal-shaped, holiday cutters, and many more, all separated. Grandma invited my brother and me to each take the cookie cutter of our choice. My favorite one was a six-sided metal cube with a different animal on each side. But Grandma’s favorite cookie cutter was a red, heart-shaped one that printed the words “I Love You” on a heart-shaped cookie. This cookie cutter’s handle was taped together. It was cracked on the top but still always created a perfect clay cookie that was made with love. Since Grandma had so many cookie cutters, I gave her the nickname “Grandma Cookie Cutter.”

Grandma Cookie Cutter didn’t just make clay cookies, of course. One of her specialties was her sugar cookies. She made them for every holiday. However, her major cookie holiday was Christmas. These cookies were rolled out then cut into shapes that included two different angels, two Santa Clauses, three different-sized trees, a snowman and a star. Grandma would bake the cookies until they were golden brown, then top them with homemade colored frosting. I always went over to help Grandma Cookie Cutter decorate these tasty, delicious cookies, and help her fill many containers with cookies to give to family and friends. Everyone who received a container of cookies would say they were the best sugar cookies ever. When Grandma baked her cookies at Christmas time, she also sent sixty-two containers to the people in Hospice, The Learning Centre and various nursing homes in the area. Grandma’s generosity made other people’s lives a little brighter around the busy holiday.

Donating cookies was just one of my grandma’s good works. As part of World Relief, she and the members of her church collected donations of soap, clothing and school supplies. Grandma boxed up the soap and clothing like she did her Christmas books. The soap and clothing were sent all over the world to people who needed them. My grandma also made school kits out of supplies that were donated to her by members of the church. These kits included pencils, markers, crayons, notebooks, paper, erasers and plastic scissors. Grandma put the contents into a little white canvas bag and sent these kits all around the world. One time Grandma received a letter from a little girl in China who had the privilege to get a school kit. Grandma valued education, and would do anything to help children get a good one. I can still remember how she would read stories to my brother and me as we snuggled up against her on the big brown, comfy couch.

As you can see, Delilah, my Grandma Cookie Cutter was a thoughtful, talented and loving woman who created many wonderful memories for me and for everyone who knew her. She was one of the most important, as well as most interesting, people in my life. My Grandma Cookie Cutter will be greatly missed. Could you please play a song in her memory? Listening to you over the past couple of weeks has kept my spirit up.

Thanks,

Laura

“You Raise Me Up”

Dear Delilah,

I love the sharing of stories on your show and would like to share one about my family.

My mother had six children and sixteen grandchildren. We were the proverbial big, happy family until about a year and a half ago, when my two-year old nephew fell into my mother’s decorative pond and drowned. This was the worst loss we ever had to face.

My family all live in Missouri except me. I live in Iowa, and they called at two in the morning to tell me about the accident. At that point there was still hope, but the outlook was grim. I set off for the long, weary drive to my mother’s house. On the way, I heard Josh Groban, singing “To Where You Are.” I thought that this song, with its promise that our loved ones are in heaven, would be a comfort to my family. It was the first time I had ever heard Josh Groban’s wonderful voice.

When I finally reached my mom’s house, we received the call that my nephew was not going to make it. We all went to the hospital, where my sister had gone with her son in the ambulance. Her clothes were still wet from when she’d taken my nephew out of the pool, and her face was beet-red from crying so much. It took every bit of strength that I had to hold back my own tears.

Suddenly I felt an enormous anger at God. I wanted to scream at Him for taking one of our children.

Just then we got a call at the hospital that my brother’s wife, who was almost eight months pregnant, had gone into labor. There were complications and she had to be airlifted to Des Moines. At the hospital there, she gave birth to a very small baby boy. As we were all assembled waiting for news, the doctor came in and said that the new baby was very sick and might not make it through the night.

Now more than ever, I was furious with God. How dare He take the most precious treasures in our lives! There we were at the hospital where our baby was fighting for his life, when we suddenly heard Josh Groban singing “You Raise Me Up.” My whole family had been sobbing uncontrollably and praying, and this amazing voice was like the voice of God responding to our prayer.

We weren’t supposed to touch the baby, but my mom, having faith that a hug and a kiss cures all, picked him up and held him close.

The nurse came in and reminded my mother that we were told not to pick the baby up because it could cause more complications.

My mother kindly said, “Sweetie, I believe that if God wants to take this child home with Him, He will do it whether we hold this baby or not. We would just like to let him feel the love while he is still here.” Then my mother prayed out loud:

“Dear Heavenly Father, Our life has been blessed with the greatest love, respect and joy. You have brought us through so many hard times and walked with us through so many great times. Father, I know that You have a plan, and no matter what, we will do Your will. This baby is a great asset to our family. We do not want to lose this precious life that You have brought to us. I ask, Father, that You give us a chance to teach him to be good, just as You have taught us to be. In Jesus’ Holy and Precious Name. Amen.”

A few hours later, through the tears and prayers, just as fast as tragedy had struck, so did joy. The doctor came into the room, performed some tests and said, “The baby is going to be fi ne and can go home tomorrow.”

As we thanked God for the life He gave back to us, I begged for forgiveness for being so bitter. Then I remembered Josh Groban. Just as God has lifted us up so that we can stand on mountains, that is what we would have to do for this family. . .and especially for my sister who lost her son and for the new baby.

I’m glad you play Josh Groban often on your show, Delilah.

Thank you and God bless,

Chrystal

“He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother”

Dear Delilah,

There are so many stories to come out of wars that people do not share. I want to share this one. It’s a story about an enemy who performed the greatest act of friendship imaginable for me, thirty-four years ago on Christmas Day.

I was a soldier in the Vietnam War. On December 24, 1972, Christmas Eve, I was given orders to take my squad out and do a recon-and-ambush patrol, taking out any targets of opportunity. The squad was made up of eight men, including myself. About seven miles out of base camp we came across signs of enemy presence. We guessed their numbers were about the same as ours. But as we were setting up to ambush them, they ambushed us.

One by one my entire squad was killed before my eyes. I was the only one untouched. The enemy started to come in closer, knowing that only one of us was still left to fight. Surrounded, I continued to fire my weapon. Until it suddenly jammed. The next thing I knew was darkness.

When I came to, all I could see was bayoneted rifles. I heard someone scream something unintelligible, and saw the enemy back off. I lay there trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I was the sole survivor of my squad.

The NVR removed all my gear with great force, just tearing away equipment. One punched me in the face. Then I heard the voice again, the one I’d heard screaming earlier, and everyone came to attention. It was the North Vietnamese lieutenant. He came over and gave orders to tie me up. I then realized how badly we’d been outnumbered—I counted thirty-five North Vietnamese soldiers in all. We moved out, leaving the bodies of my squad members behind.

It was hours until we took a break. The lieutenant said something in Vietnamese, and all but six men stayed. The rest went off into the jungle. We then left again, heading north. I was thinking how much I did not want to spend Christmas, let alone the remaining six months of my tour of duty, in a POW camp. We kept going north for several more hours, well into the night.

It was now Christmas Day. We finally stopped. I was bound to a tree with a guard posted to ensure I wouldn’t escape. They were fixing a meal. The North Vietnamese lieutenant came over to the tree carrying two bowls, and ordered the guard to leave. He made a gesture indicating one bowl was for me. “Merry Christmas,” he said in excellent English, and untied my hands so I could eat. The bowl contained rice with some meat in it, and my captor gave me water to drink as well. Then he started to talk to me. He said that he understood the importance of this day in American culture, and it would be an honor for him to celebrate Christmas with me. He told me his name was Nugent, and he had no family—the French had killed them all earlier in the war. Nugent had been educated in Canada, but when he returned to North Vietnam, he was drafted into the army. I was reluctant even to talk with him, afraid he would try to get intel from me about troops and units’ strengths. But he continued to speak only of nonmilitary things. Here was my enemy, talking as if we’d been friends for years. I had been holding back, but now I entered the conversation as well—he seemed to have no interest in interrogating me, and it wasn’t as if I had anything better to do with the time.

Eventually he suggested we could sing Christmas carols, but not too loud, so we wouldn’t wake his men. He said his favorite carol was “Silent Night,” and started to sing it. I was impressed with Nugent’s voice, which was similar to Aaron Neville’s—if he’d been a civilian, he could have been a professional singer. His voice was that great. I felt a calm come over me. I started to sing with him. But I was no Nugent—my singing was more like croaking. When we finished the song, he told me, laughing, that I was a terrible singer. I wasn’t offended—I knew it was true.

Nevertheless, we sang a few more carols together and then called it a night. The guard came back over, and Nugent retied my hands.

At daylight we started to move again, but now in a southwesterly direction. We walked for hours, until we came onto an open field. Then we stopped and the North Vietnamese looked around, scouting for danger. As we moved across the field, a shot rang out and one man went down. The rest hit the ground and returned fire. Bullets were flying all around.

Several of the men were killed in the first couple minutes of the firefight. My American comrades were winning this go-round. There were only two NVR’s left, Nugent and the guard who had been watching me. The guard turned and raised his rifle to kill me. Nugent jumped up and got in front of me just as the guard pulled the trigger. Nugent took several rounds in the chest, and my rescuers shot the guard.

I crawled over to Nugent and held him in my arms. He spoke, thanking me for the Christmas songfest. I started to sing “Silent Night” to him, knowing it was his favorite carol and not knowing what else I could do for this man who’d done the unthinkable for me.

And then the strangest thing happened. What I heard come out of my mouth was not my own voice, but one of remarkable beauty. The sound was so exquisite that as Nugent put his bloody hand to my lips, he said, “Voice of angel, I go in peace. Thank you.” At that moment I did not see an enemy, but a friend and a brother.

Nugent was still in my arms when the marines came into my area. They’d gone out of their patrol to gather intel when they’d spotted my captors. When one of the marines grabbed Nugent to pull him off me, I pushed him away. I told them what Nugent had done, and I requested permission to bury him. That was the least I could do for him.

Here was a man who started as an enemy, showed compassion, became a friend, died as a brother. Was it my youth, the fact that I still had family while there was no one to mourn him, that made Nugent want to give his life for mine? Did he even think it through, or was it just some inexplicable protective impulse? I’ll never know. At the time, I didn’t really understand— although I was grateful for his sacrifice, in my heart of hearts I thought he’d been a fool. But over the years, my thinking has changed. I understand that Nugent’s sacrifice was like that of Jesus, dying on the cross for us so that we might live. Delilah, please dedicate a song to my brother Nugent.

God bless,

Hipshot

“The Gift”

Dear Delilah,

I am a forty-nine-year-old mother and grandmother who started to listen to you May 4, 2000. I’ve been inspired by the stories you’ve shared from your own life and your listeners’, and now I have a Christmas story to share with you.

On October 25, 1970, when I was a seventh grader, my father passed away. My mother went on furlough from Hill Air Force Base in Roy, Utah, to raise her eight children by herself. She sent us back to school after Halloween, and the vice principal called me into his office for a chat. Mr. Cook said he knew it must be a hard thing to lose a father, and that sometimes the best way to work through grief is to reach out to others. He invited me to join the “Sub for Santa” drive at school, which was collecting food, toys and other goods to give to those in need over the holidays.

In mid-December I was asked to be part of the delivery team. Mr. Cook and six of us kids went to play Santa, making stops and unloading presents and food from the van. When about half of the goods had been delivered, we started dropping kids off at their houses when we made a delivery near where they lived. Finally, I was the only student in the van, and Mr. Cook asked if I would help him with the last few deliveries. But after he told me a stop at a nursing home was our last delivery, I was puzzled, because it seemed to me there was still a lot of stuff left in the back of the van.

We came to my house, and I wished Mr. Cook a Merry Christmas and ran inside. A few minutes later there was a knock, and it was Mr. Cook with food, toys and other presents from the van: I sat on the stairs and cried, because it was all going to my house. The whole school had been collecting for us! The first day after the New Year, I went to Mr. Cook’s office with a thank-you card from my mother, but now I want you to dedicate a song to thank all the students—seventh, eighth and ninth graders—who attended Sunset Junior High during the winter of 1970, for showing my family the true meaning of Christmas. I will never forget that experience with Sub for Santa. I told it to my children as an illustration of the JOY story: Christmas is to remember First Jesus, Second Others, and Last Yourself. Thanks for listening to me, Delilah.

All best,

Kay Lynn

“That’s What Friends Are For”

Dear Delilah,

You are always promoting friendship and community among women, like your Friday nite girls, so I want to share with you a story about a group of girls who met by planning our weddings together online. We got together (virtually) on a Web site called The Knot on our local Pittsburgh board. We supported and advised each other during our engagements and up through the weddings, and by that time we wanted to continue the support group even though we were all married.

The Knot became The Nest. Instead of planning weddings, we started buying houses, starting families and doing all the other things that happen after “the big day.” But it became more than that. Most of us have never met in real life, but we’ve been through a lot together. A great number of joyful events: new homes, births, adoptions, promotions, anniversaries and birthdays. And lately, a lot of sorrowful occasions. This year we’ve lost three husbands to death (one from suicide and two from cancer) and a couple more to divorce; mourned several deceased family members; survived illness, bed rest and miscarriages; and coped with fertility issues. In good times and bad, we have supported each other unconditionally. Whatever one “Nestie” needs, another is there to provide by lending a hand or a shoulder.

This is an amazing group of women, and I am proud to belong to it. I have been married for four years, and I still log on daily. I want to thank these wonderful women for the love, support and encouragement they share, so if you could find us a theme song, that would be amazing.

Gratefully yours,

Proud Pittsburgh Nestie Kristine

“Lean On Me”

Hi, Delilah,

I’d like to share a story about my best friend, Lynne. Any woman would be blessed to have Lynne as a friend—let me tell you why.

Lynne and I met nineteen years ago at the hospital where her now deceased husband and my daughter were patients. My daughter had been severely injured in an auto accident and to this day she requires twenty-four- hour care. I am so thankful to God I still have her, and I have assumed a lot of her care myself. For the first five years after she came home from the hospital, I never took a vacation, and finally, good friend that she is, Lynne told me I needed a break and that she was going to plan a two-day trip for us. I was able to find a relative to take care of my daughter while we were away.

Lynne had planned two wonderful days, with shopping and other treats, but even better for me was the night before we left. Lynne insisted I stay at her home, brought out a bottle of good wine, and we sat around talking and laughing until two a.m., just like a couple of high school girls at a slumber party. She then fixed us a cup of tea, had me lie on her sofa in front of the fireplace and turned on some relaxing music until I fell asleep.

Delilah, this was by far the best night I’d spent since my daughter’s accident, and I will never forget it. Whenever I get depressed or worn-out, I go back there in my mind. I am so grateful for that night and for the best friend who made it happen for me. Lynne is still always here for me and my daughter whenever I need her. I would like to let her know how much she means to me and to thank her again for being the person she is!

Could you please play a song with a theme about friendship? Thank you so much. I love your show and listen every night, you always seem to have just the right words I need to hear at the right time. You are a blessing to so many.

God bless you!!!

Mary

“Father Figure”

Dear Delilah,

Every night during the Christmas season I listen to your beautiful radio program. You are always telling your listeners to “Love someone tonight,” and I want to share with you the story of a unique act of love. I also want to thank, through your radio program, Father John Heropoulos, the Greek Orthodox priest who saved my son Michael’s life by donating a kidney to him. Thanks to this angel, my son Michael, now twenty-one, just celebrated his fifth Christmas free of dialysis. We owe everything to Father John, and I would like to tell you the full story.

Michael’s health problems began when he was two, and by the time he was fifteen, both of his kidneys were failing. Although my wife, Maria, and I would gladly have donated a kidney, we were not a match, and neither were Michael’s siblings. We were told it would be anywhere from one to five years before a kidney would likely become available for Michael, and that might be too late. Already Michael was undergoing dialysis three times a week. He was unable to go to school or hang out with friends. The treatment was very painful, and our son was also suffering depression and hopelessness. His siblings, Vasilios and Anna Maria, were grieving for their brother as well.

By October 2002 Maria and I were feeling quite desperate. All I could think to do was to appeal to the Archbishop of our Greek Orthodox Church, and see if he could help us fi nd a donor.

His Eminence Archbishop Demetrios forwarded my e-mail to the Social Services Department of the National Philoptochos Society. “Philoptochos” means “Friend of the Poor” and is the philanthropic arm of the Archdiocese of the Greek Orthodox Church in the United States. They sent a letter to all the Greek Orthodox parishes, and Father John, knowing he shared my son’s O negative blood type, contacted the Philoptochos and asked if he could be tested as a compatible donor. When it was determined that he was a match, he asked the doctors at the Hackensack University Hospital in New Jersey to respect his wish to remain anonymous until the operation was successfully completed.

So, we learned that a donor had been found, but we did not yet know who it was. The surgeries were scheduled for May 12, 2003. There were some anxious moments as unanticipated complications occurred with both surgeries, but by God’s grace the transplant took place and the new kidney began to function successfully in my sixteen-year-old son’s body.

Three days later, we learned Father John’s identity when he came into my son’s room to meet us for the fi rst time. He told us he had received several signs that he was meant to be my son’s donor. “By giving Michael my kidney,” he explained, “I was also thanking God for all the gifts I’ve been given in my life.”

When he was sufficiently recovered, Michael wrote to the National Philoptochos offi ce. In his letter, he said, “I don’t think there is a word in the dictionary to express my thanks and gratitude to the beloved Rev. Fr. John Heropoulos for saving my life.”

People like Father John should be remembered and honored during every holiday season. Delilah, can you please help us to commemorate this holy priest’s gift to Michael and to our family by dedicating a song to him?

Thank you,

Demetrios