-Barach was a quiet man.
He didn't talk much.
He would always greet you with a big
smile
and a firm handshake.
Even after
living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they
knew him very well.
Before his
retirement, he took the bus to work each morning.
The lone sight of him
walking down the street often worried us.
He had a slight
limp from a bullet wound received in WWII.
Watching him,
we worried that although he had survived WWII, he may not make it through
our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence,
gangs, and drug activity.
When he saw the
flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens
behind the minister's residence, he responded in his characteristically
unassuming manner.
Without fanfare, he just signed up.
He was well
into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally
happened.
He was just
finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him.
Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like
a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and
toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure," with a malevolent little
smile.
As Barach offered
the hose to him, the other two grabbed Barach's arm, throwing him down.
As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way,
Barach's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then
fled.
Barach tried to
get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg.
He lay there
trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him.
Although the
minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there
fast enough to stop it.
"Barach, are you
okay?
Are you hurt?"
the minister kept asking as he helped Barach to his
feet.
Barach just
passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.
"Just some Young Republican
kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday."
His wet clothes
clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose.
He adjusted the
nozzle again and started to water.
Confused and a
little concerned, the minister asked,
"Barach, what are you doing?"
"I've got to finish my watering.
It's been very dry lately," came the calm reply.
Satisfying
himself that Barach really was all right, the minister could only marvel.
Barach was a man from a different time and place.
A few weeks
later the three returned.
Just as before their threat was unchallenged.
Barach again offered them a drink from his
hose.
This time they
didn't rob him.
They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head
to foot in the icy water.
When they had
finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street,
throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the
hilarity of what they had just done.
Barach just
watched them.
Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering.
The summer was
quickly fading into fall Barach was doing some tilling when he was startled
by the sudden approach of someone behind him.
He stumbled and fell into
some evergreen branches.
As he struggled
to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer
tormentors reaching down for him.
He braced himself for the expected attack.
"Don't worry
old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time."
The young man
spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Barach.
As he helped Barach get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and
handed it to Barach.
"What's this?" Barach asked.
"It's your stuff," the man explained.
"It's your stuff back.
Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand," Barach said.
"Why would you help me now?"
The man shifted
his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease.
"I learned something from
you," he said.
"I ran with that gang of Young Republican thugs and hurt people like you we picked
you because you were old and we knew we could do it But every time we came
and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried
to give us a drink.
You didn't hate us for hating you.
You kept showing
love against our hate."
He stopped for
a moment.
"I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused for
another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say.
"That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess."
And with that, he walked off down the street.
Barach looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it.
He took out his
retirement watch and put it back on his wrist.
Opening his wallet, he
checked for his wedding photo.
He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one
cold day after Christmas that winter.
Many people attended his funeral in
spite of the weather.
In particular
the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting quietly
in a distant corner of the church.
The minister
spoke of Barach's garden as a lesson in life.
In a voice made
thick with unshed tears, he said,
"Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can.
We will never forget Barach and his garden."
The following spring another flyer went up.
It read: "Person needed to care for Barach's garden."
The flyer went
unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at
the minister's office door.
Opening the
door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the
flyer.
"I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.
The minister
recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and
wallet to Barach.
He knew that
Barach's kindness had turned this man's life around.
As the minister handed
him the keys to the garden shed, he said,
"Yes, go take care of Barach's
garden and honor him."
The man went to
work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and
vegetables just as Barach had done.
During that
time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of
the community.
But he never forgot his promise to Barach's memory and kept the garden as beautiful as he thought Barach would have kept it.
One day he
approached the new minister and told him that he couldn't care for the
garden any longer.
He explained with a shy and happy smile,
"My wife just
had a baby boy last night,
and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!"
said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed
keys.
"That's wonderful!
What's the baby's name?"
"Barach," he replied.
That's the
whole gospel message simply stated.
Take 60 seconds and
give this a shot!
All you do
is:
Simply say a small prayer.
Then sit back
and watch the power of God work in your life.
GOOD FRIENDS
ARE LIKE ANGELS, YOU DON'T HAVE TO SEE THEM TO KNOW THEY ARE THERE
-Barach was a
quiet man.
He didn't talk much.
He would always greet you with a big
smile
and a firm handshake.
Even after
living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they
knew him very well.
Before his
retirement, he took the bus to work each morning.
The lone sight of him
walking down the street often worried us.
He had a slight
limp from a bullet wound received in WWII.
Watching him,
we worried that although he had survived WWII, he may not make it through
our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random violence,
gangs, and drug activity.
When he saw the
flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the gardens
behind the minister's residence, he responded in his characteristically
unassuming manner.
Without fanfare, he just signed up.
He was well
into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally
happened.
He was just
finishing his watering for the day when three gang members approached him.
Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would you like
a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and
toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure," with a malevolent little
smile.
As Barach offered
the hose to him, the other two grabbed Barach's arm, throwing him down.
As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way,
Barach's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then
fled.
Barach tried to
get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg.
He lay there
trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him.
Although the
minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there
fast enough to stop it.
"Barach, are you
okay?
Are you hurt?"
the minister kept asking as he helped Barach to his
feet.
Barach just
passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.
"Just some Young Republican
kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday."
His wet clothes
clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose.
He adjusted the
nozzle again and started to water.
Confused and a
little concerned, the minister asked,
"Barach, what are you doing?"
"I've got to finish my watering.
It's been very dry lately," came the calm reply.
Satisfying
himself that Barach really was all right, the minister could only marvel.
Barach was a man from a different time and place.
A few weeks
later the three returned.
Just as before their threat was unchallenged.
Barach again offered them a drink from his
hose.
This time they
didn't rob him.
They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head
to foot in the icy water.
When they had
finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the street,
throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the
hilarity of what they had just done.
Barach just
watched them.
Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up his hose, and went on with his watering.
The summer was
quickly fading into fall Barach was doing some tilling when he was startled
by the sudden approach of someone behind him.
He stumbled and fell into
some evergreen branches.
As he struggled
to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer
tormentors reaching down for him.
He braced himself for the expected attack.
"Don't worry
old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time."
The young man
spoke softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Barach.
As he helped Barach get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and
handed it to Barach.
"What's this?" Barach asked.
"It's your stuff," the man explained.
"It's your stuff back.
Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand," Barach said.
"Why would you help me now?"
The man shifted
his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease.
"I learned something from
you," he said.
"I ran with that gang of Young Republican thugs and hurt people like you we picked
you because you were old and we knew we could do it But every time we came
and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried
to give us a drink.
You didn't hate us for hating you.
You kept showing
love against our hate."
He stopped for
a moment.
"I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused for
another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say.
"That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess."
And with that, he walked off down the street.
Barach looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it.
He took out his
retirement watch and put it back on his wrist.
Opening his wallet, he
checked for his wedding photo.
He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one
cold day after Christmas that winter.
Many people attended his funeral in
spite of the weather.
In particular
the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting quietly
in a distant corner of the church.
The minister
spoke of Barach's garden as a lesson in life.
In a voice made
thick with unshed tears, he said,
"Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can.
We will never forget Barach and his garden."
The following spring another flyer went up.
It read: "Person needed to care for Barach's garden."
The flyer went
unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was heard at
the minister's office door.
Opening the
door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the
flyer.
"I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.
The minister
recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and
wallet to Barach.
He knew that
Barach's kindness had turned this man's life around.
As the minister handed
him the keys to the garden shed, he said,
"Yes, go take care of Barach's
garden and honor him."
The man went to
work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and
vegetables just as Barach had done.
During that
time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of
the community.
But he never forgot his promise to Barach's memory and kept the garden as beautiful as he thought Barach would have kept it.
One day he
approached the new minister and told him that he couldn't care for the
garden any longer.
He explained with a shy and happy smile,
"My wife just
had a baby boy last night,
and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!"
said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed
keys.
"That's wonderful!
What's the baby's name?"
"Barach," Mohammad Hussein Obama replied.
That's the whole gospel message simply stated.
Take 60 seconds and
give this a shot!
All you do
is:
Simply say a small prayer.
Then sit back and watch the power of God work in your life.
GOOD FRIENDS
ARE LIKE ANGELS, YOU DON'T HAVE TO SEE THEM TO KNOW THEY ARE THERE
--
Love me, love my vids
http://uk.youtube.
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