REQUEST FOR THE WORLD

This is a picture of my beloved youngest grandson, Matthew Travis. It was taken Christmas morning, 2010. Ten days ago, Travis became ill with what the doctor supposed was a wicked stomach virus going around in Austin. His elementary school had 170 children out sick with the virus. Five days later, he was still running a high fever and had been unable to hold any food or drink on his stomach. He complained that his stomach hurt. His mother Amy called the pediatrician again, made an appointment for the next morning, but as his illness progressed that day, the doctor told her to take Travis to the emergency room at Dell Children's Medical Center as he more than likely was dehydrated. His dad, Matthew, stayed at home with his little sister Kelly.

Thanks to modern technology, and the iPod, Amy was able to keep us informed via emails and text messages of the happenings at the emergency room. Travis is not a rowdy child. In fact, for the most part he is very quiet and sweet natured. He was not screaming or crying out in pain (he softly moans), so when another "emergency" came in, it took priority over Travis. It was after 11 at night before they finally did blood work and an ultrasound. By this time, his appendix had ruptured. He went into surgery at nearly one in the morning. That was last Thursday, January 20th.

Today is the fifth day of Travis's hospitalization. This morning they will do a CT scan, as he is not doing as well as expected. Travis is still in a lot of pain, and is running fever. His abdomen is so extended it prevents his lungs from operating properly and he must be on oxygen. They put a P.I.C.C. Line in so that he may have the massive amount of antibiotics they are dosing him with and not cause his veins to collapse. He has not had food or drink in over a week, being fed through an IV line. Every day, they get this little pain ridden eight year old out of bed, IV in tow, and have him walk the halls, hoping to get his system started "moving" again.

The doctors fear he may have an abscess, which will require more surgery to drain it. The drain

line may have to remain in for some time. I'm sure he will take this in stride, as his mother says he has not complained once at all the procedures he's suffered. He takes it all bravely and is so stoic, one has to believe he is an "old soul", who has been through this or worse before.

We are hoping Travis will be able to go home later this week. When he does, he will have Home Health Care come in to attend to his medical needs. And this Grandmommy will be there to help love him back to health. Maybe by then some chocolate chip cookies will tempt his missing appetite.

I'm sending this out at this time to ask all of you who haven't already been praying for this young boy, to please add your prayers for his healing. Envision with me a healthy, whole, and happy child -- back in school, and at home with his loving family.

I will update you on his progress.

Peace, love, and healing,

Marilyn

CHRISTMAS STILL HERE

In keeping with my wish to honor my talented friends, here is a beautiful little story written by my good friend, Pam. This is possibly an upcoming children's book, but it is such a wonderful reminder to all of us grown up kids to look for the Christmas spirit alive in everything and every activity year 'round. This is what we in Unity call the Christ spirit. And Pam was reminded of it by a dear grandchild. "Out of the mouths of babes.."

CHRISTMAS STILL HERE
by Pam Livingston

"There once was a little boy, only two years old, who had a grandmother who loved him very, very much.

It was Christmas time at Grandmother’s house, and the little boy was excited to find lots of gifts for him under her tree. A warm fire filled the room, surrounding all the family in its glowing light. A wreath hung on the door with beautiful flowers and fresh holly decorating it. Christmas tree lights reflected on the packages beneath, and the wonderful aroma of Christmas dinner filled the room. The magic of Christmas was truly in the air.

The following week the little boy’s mama brought him to visit his grandmother. Grandmother’s Christmas tree was still up, so when the little boy came into the room he exclaimed, 'Christmas!'

'No, Sweet One,' Grandmother said, 'Christmas is over.' The little boy disappeared behind the tree where he found the plug and outlet. Suddenly the Christmas lights came on and twinkled as gaily as ever. 'Christmas still here,' said the little boy, and Grandmother smiled.

Time passed and soon it was spring. Beautiful dandelions blossomed profusely in Grandmother’s yard. The little boy saw the golden sprinkles one day and picked a handful to give to his grandmother. 'Christmas still here,' he said, as he handed her the beautifully lopsided bouquet of bright yellow, and a small tear rolled down her check as she accepted his gift.

Summertime arrived and the hot Texas sun begged folks to plunge into water everywhere. Since he had grown so much, the little boy’s mama took him shopping for a new bathing suit. She bought him a ball to take to the beach to play with as well. The little boy, embracing his new gifts, looked up at his mama with a smile and said, 'Christmas still here.'

Months went by and the leaves began to turn colors and fall from the trees. Fruits were ripening and fresh vegetables were ready to be picked, so the family decided to gather at Grandmother’s for a barbecue followed with fresh apple pie and homemade ice cream. The aromas filled the air as the family gathered, and the little boy looked around, remembering. Suddenly he exclaimed, 'Christmas still here!' and everyone burst into jovial laughter.

The cold air outside was an invitation to build a glowing fire in Grandmother’s fireplace. One evening all the grandchildren gathered to play and relax in the warmth that enveloped Grandmother’s living room. Again, the little boy was reminded of another time all his cousins were gathered at Grandmother’s house, and he shouted, 'Christmas still here!'

Grandmother’s eyes glistened and she smiled as she said, 'Yes, Sweet One, you’re right. Christmas is still here.' Then she gathered all the grandchildren together and said, 'Christmas is in the red and green traffic lights and brightly lit signs. It’s in the flowers that bloom in the spring and decorate our world. It’s in the presents we buy and give, like new shoes for a little boy. It’s in the food we share with loved ones every day. It’s in the warm hearts of those who give love to one another and the world, all year long.'

Then Grandmother looked directly at her youngest grandchild and said, 'Yes, my dear Grandson, you are right. Thank you for showing us that Christmas is with us all the time.' And Grandmother gathered all her grandchildren up in her arms and gave them a big hug. And they hugged her back with so much love it filled her heart like the warm glow of Christmas."

**************************

You all may remember Pam from another book of hers that I highlighted last year. This book -- again, for children of all ages -- is the first in her planned "Frendoval" series. The lovable character Frendoval travels around the world, noting how much we all are alike on the planet, and urging us to Love One Another. This book is available for purchase. Just let me know and I will put you in touch with Pam.

Pam would love to hear comments on her "Christmas Still Here" story. She has yet to work out her illustrations, but I hope you will all join me in encouraging her to publish this delightful little story in book form.

Until next time..

I behold the Christ in you. And yes, Christmas Still Here!

Peace and love,
Marilyn

FINAL WORDS ON TUCSON

It has been more than a week since the terrible shooting in Tucson. As I don't watch the cable news programs, I have not been exposed to as much of the media hype as some people. Each day I scan the online headlines and have kept abreast of the miraculous recovery of Congresswoman Gifford. Of course, I watched President Obama's speech at the memorial service held for the victims. The positive energy of the crowd attending this memorial helped to send the healing words of Obama to the nation and to the world. He urged us as a nation to withhold blame. He reaffirmed that we are a "good country", and asked that we come together as a united people, searching for and working towards ending the inflammatory discourse that has taken hold of our political arena. He showed great tenderness and emotion while honoring the lives of those who were lost that dreadful day.

Yesterday I watched a video online of a PBS news broadcast of syndicated columnist Mark Shields and New York Times columnist David Brooks giving their analysis of President Obama's speech. Both were very hopeful that this will bring about a new sense of civility in the political discourse. Mr. Brooks said, "Never underestimate the power of a great speech", which in many opinions, this definitely was the best speech of Obama's presidency. He continued to say that "after that speech there has been a psychological/emotional shift nationwide among Republicans and Democrats." The consensus was that something good may come of this national tragedy.

Maybe even put an end to the "herd mentality" in Washington... us against them? They could start by doing what I have heard suggested. Sitting mingled together -- not on opposite sides -- during the upcoming State of the Union Address.

I did note this morning that some of the organs of the youngest victim, Christina Green, have been donated to a girl in the Boston area. What a proud tribute to this child, who was born on 9/11.

I hope the media quickly puts the negative stories of this shooting behind us and concentrates on the recovery and good that comes of it. And I hope -- even if the shooter is severely mentally ill -- that the media shares some of the responsibility for putting so much emphasis on the beliefs and actions that separate us as a nation, therefore putting more thought into uniting us instead of making profit from the stories that inflame us. As we all know, "good stuff happens" everyday in our world.

*********************************

A few comments on the recent events in Tucson from my favorite raconteur, John (Jack) Nance Garner. Jack is a former deejay and charismatic preacher. He is also a portrait artist specializing in pastels, an actor, and a part-time assistant for special needs students in Denton, Texas. He is also a regular contributor to the Letters to the Editor section of the Denton Record-Chronicle. He wrote the following to them recently:

"I would like to tip my hat to the editor of the Denton Record-Chronicle for not running a picture of the Tucson terrorist, Jared Lee Loughner.

Everywhere the experts are venting their ideas on what is responsible for the mass murder in Tucson. What has not been, yet badly needs to be said, is the media -- all the media -- by pasting the likeness of any mass murderer on what they use to reach the public, is in effect issuing an invitation to every mentally unstable personality with murder and a desire to have the public spotlight focused on them, an invitation to become a celebrity.

You will see the young man from Tucson cussed and discussed in all kinds of media. He will share airtime, print space, and network publishing with the President, all the nation’s leaders and policymakers, sports giants, and entertainment stars. He will become for a three-week period a household name, all because this man was able to obtain a gun and ammunition and slaughter six people that up until that terrible moment in Tucson never knew he existed.

Most of the mass murderers of our day have been rejected loners with few friends and have obtained few accolades.

Somewhere right now is one of these people; they have seen the murderer’s picture; they are hearing the discussions on everything from his political views to his musical preferences; and the sad, angry loner is thinking, ‘All that attention; you know, I could have that.’"

************************

Google has made available to us "bloggers" statistics on who is reading our blogs. I am really amazed at the different countries checking in. Recently, a few folks from Tunisia have looked at the blog. Perhaps because they have been going through so much violence in their own country while changing governments, some are curious about the violence we have suffered here in America. I hope that some come back to read about the peaceful and loving articles I present. I'd also like to invite anyone from another country to send me their comments. The world is shrinking, and we truly are all ONE people on this planet.

Peace and love,
Marilyn

GUEST COLUMN NUMBER TWO -- DOWN ON THE FARM

My next guest column is also written by a former classmate from Ballinger High School, Glenn Smith. I presumed to title it for him:

SMOKEY AND THE FARM BOYS

"June Hash Curry and Marilyn Moragne have reminisced about how each of them had auto accidents in the 1950s that they miraculously survived. That got me thinking about an incident in 1955 when I should have died but did not. All this has to do with growing up around Ballinger in Runnels County, Texas.

It was a Saturday. My father took my fourteen-year-old nephew, John, and me to a field where he wanted to construct an electric fence so cows could graze on a part of the five foot high sorghum there. We helped him stretch a single strand of new barbed wire which was anchored around a tall, creosoted power line pole about two hundred yards into the field. The wire sloped gradually from where it was tied around the high-line pole about forty inches above ground until it lay flat on the ground about fifty yards from the pole. From there it went to the edge of the field and joined another fence. The next step was to support the wire by attaching it to an insulated pole every ten feet.

John was driving my father's light blue F100 pickup. I was riding a mare named Smokey, trailing a lariat from the saddle horn. My father was at a pile of metal posts about a hundred yards from where the taut wire rested nearly buried in the loose dirt. The plan was for me to drag a post behind the mare from the distant pile to its place along the wire. My nephew's task was to back the pickup into place so my father could stand in its bed and sledge hammer each long post about three feet into the earth.

What happened next makes no sense, but for some reason it happened anyway. I had delivered two posts and was nearly back to the supply pile for a third. John was supremely bored waiting. I was bored myself. Smokey must have been bored also. Suddenly John leaned out of the pickup window and yelled DRAG! He tromped on the accelerator and without rational thought I touched my heels to the mare's flanks. Smokey's ears went flat and she shot forward, all her attention on winning. She beat the truck handily. We were in afterburner mode. No horse ever ran as fast or liked doing it as much as she did at that moment.

Problem was we were headed toward the point where the tightly stretched barbed wire was still about three feet above the dirt. My eye caught a flash of the new wire. Time exploded and went to zero simultaneously. Smoky was upside down in a forward airborne roll. I consciously dropped the reins, pulled my feet from the stirrups. The lights went out.

I came to with my father kneeling over me. I had landed on my head, but Smokey hit the ground a little past where I hit. The wire had stretched impossibly but it did not break. Smokey had deep cuts on her upper shoulders. She stood still, bleeding.

My neck should have been broken. Instead I walked half a mile to the house. My father kept working. Frank Smith didn't leave work for anything.

By usual standards for treating horses, Smokey would have been put down that afternoon. But her owner, John's father, tenderly nursed her back to health. I never rode her again. I could have but didn't feel I had the right. I was ashamed of letting her get hurt for no good reason at all.

(Elm Creek at Ballinger, Texas)

Nearly four years later, Elm Creek (which ran through our farm) got up from strong rains. My dad and mother drove the Ford pickup to the bottom land to move cows to high ground. I was in Abilene at college. My father crossed a ravine that was where Elm Creek had once flowed before it changed course. He got trapped as a wall of water poured down in a torrent about ten feet deep. My mother had never learned to swim and my dad could only dog paddle. He was wearing work boots and overalls and was in the raging water while hanging onto a mesquite sapling. Mom drove as fast as she could and found my brother-in-law. He saddled Smokey, rode hard, plunged the mare into the fast flowing water upstream from where my dad was barely still hanging on. Dad said later that he had decided to turn loose knowing he would drown. As Smokey swam past him—the bank was too steep and too muddy for her to get out—my father grabbed on to the back of the saddle. Smokey swam with him and my brother-in-law downstream, then out to safety.

The spirited mare lived many years after that. She died in her mid-twenties.

I'm not sure what the moral is of these stories. We did things that kids today don’t usually do. But we weren't trying to be daredevils. If anything we were trying to live like the Cleavers, June and Ward and Wally and Beaver. Maybe our happenings got a little closer to the edge some times, but we didn't intend them to. As my father's mother always said of her Texas life, 'we done the best we could with what we had.' We did at that, didn't we?"

****************************************

A horse is a horse, a horse of course -- except when it is a means of transportation? Yesterday I laughed out loud when I read the following news item online. This was on Austin's KXAN.com news site, written by Pamela Cosel:

"Is it DWI if you're on a horse?"

"It wasn't necessarily a scene from a movie, but it might have been.

Two men, each dressed in cowboy hats and chaps -- one on a horse, the other riding a donkey -- were arrested for public intoxication on Friday just before 11 p.m. An Austin police officer saw Jose Federico, 33, on a brown mule with white spots, along with Samuel Olivo, Jr., 49, on a horse in Downtown Austin.

The two riders were stopped in the right lane of traffic, according to the arrest affidavit, and cars were having to drive around them. Police said the two men were calling pedestrians off of the sidewalk and into the street to take pictures and pet the animals. This endangered the pedestrians because the street was open to passing vehicles.

APD conducted a sobriety test on the men and determined they were drunk after seeing they had glassy, watery eyes; stumbling, staggering and swaying; couldn't turn properly; fell off the line and had an odor of alcohol about them. Rios said he'd taken antibiotics when asked about drugs, according to the report, and also said he drank two vodka-and-cranberry drinks. (Editor: THIS is a COWBOY'S drink?) The charge was first listed as driving while intoxicated (DWI), but changed to public intoxication, according to APD. Bail was set at $2,000.

It is not known how the animals responded to the hoopla."

I know how I responded .. gales of laughter at the imagery as I read this. I'll bet the animals were embarrassed.

Smile. It makes you feel better and look good!

Peace and love,

Marilyn

VIOLENCE HAS NO PLACE IN DEMOCRACY!

Those of you who have listened and watched with horror the most recent result of the vitriolic rhetoric spewed forth by so many conservative politicians and media pundits, the attempted killing of Arizona Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, surely must agree with these words of Keith Olbermann. We as Americans must do as he says and "shun them" from our society.

God bless America.

Peace and Love,
Marilyn

MY FIRST GUEST COLUMN

I was musing yesterday about the friends I have who are gifted in so many ways -- writing being one of the talents they possess. I decided to ask each of them to submit a little article from time to time for me to share with you. This is the first. June is a former high school classmate that I reconnected with during our 50th Class Reunion time. She and I had not seen each other or corresponded since the birth of my second child, Carajean, in 1960. I recalled that June kept my older son Craig to play with her son Tommy while I was at the hospital giving birth! Reading June's brief autobiography of the 50 years since our high school graduation while I was compiling a class handbook, I realized that June had many experiences and good qualities to share with us. I present her first guest submission. I know you will like it.

The Amazing Trust of a Parent

By June Hash Curry

"I was recently reminded of what remarkable parents I had during my 1950s high school years. For the most part I was totally trusted to do the right thing when in their presence and out of it. And that trust was not always warranted, but somehow I think they knew that and trusted me anyway. I find that so humbling, especially now in the ripe old age of 72. My teenage kids mostly scared me to death, and I was not always that trusting.

But this story is about my dad and his amazing trust. I happily received my driver’s license at the tender age of 14 with no restrictions and couldn’t wait to begin that wonderful activity of “making the drag” in Ballinger, Texas, population 4,800 (plus or minus a few). This wonderful activity consisted of gathering up your friends and making a complete loop through the downtown area and back to the other end of town which ended in a triangle of streets. Those of us with access to an automobile did this over and over and thought not at all about the cost of gasoline, which was 17-1/2 cents per gallon at that time; nor had pollution of the planet ever been brought to our conscious minds. We just cruised and giggled, and it was wonderful. Life was truly good.

My dad had never in all my memory purchased anything on credit. He simply worked hard in his welding shop, saved his money, and when he had enough, whatever was needed or desired was bought with cash. He purchased a new Buick in this fashion every few years, then traded the old one in on another new Buick. The summer of my sophomore year in high school, which was in 1955, Dad purchased another beautiful pale green Buick sedan with a gorgeous white top and with all the lovely chrome trim of that day. He took possession of it a few days before our planned vacation to San Diego, California, and allowed me to take it out for a drive, just as I wished.

I was dating my future husband during this sophomore year and on this day I was deeply concerned about his having just gone home from Ballinger Memorial Hospital after minor surgery. Grady lived several miles outside town on a farm with his mother and stepfather, and they had no telephone in their home. Since I couldn’t call and check on him by telephone, I decided to borrow my Dad’s brand new Buick sedan and go see about Grady in person. We had a lovely Sunday afternoon visit, and I started home happily singing to the radio and not paying a lot of attention to my driving. The country road on which I was traveling was not the best and had sand pockets along the edges of the pavement. On one of the curves of that road I suddenly hit a sand pocket traveling considerably too fast, and before I even realized what had happened, the car flipped completely over onto its beautiful white top. The only sound in that car after the accident was the radio playing some wonderful song and a quiet motor still running. I can’t begin to communicate my horror.

To this day, I don’t remember getting out of that car or anyone coming along to call my dad or a wrecker or any other individuals. But suddenly they were all there -- I hadn’t even turned off the ignition. I just remember being in tears at what I had done to my father’s brand new, fully paid for, shiny Buick sedan. I expected him to be furious with me, even though the times in which he was angry with me prior to that event were so few I could not even remember them. He simply walked up to me, put his arms around me and asked, “Are you hurt, Junie? Let’s go get an x-ray and make sure you haven’t broken something.” At that compassion, my tears started in earnest. What my amazing father was saying to me was that I was what mattered to him -- not his beautiful, shiny, paid for new Buick. I vowed to never drive any car again, but my dad was having none of it and insisted that I get back behind the wheel within the week to get over my fear.

I never forgot that day or what that response meant to me. His trust never wavered, and I don’t believe he ever worried about what I would become. My mother did, a lot. She knew Grady mattered deeply to me, and she had other plans for my future, including college and the foreign mission field, which is another story altogether. But my dad just trusted me to do what was right for me, and even today I find that so remarkable."

***********************************

Editor: Did you find -- like I did -- that this stirred memories of your own teenage escapades? I, too, remember "making the drag" in Ballinger. However, I was never allowed to drive the family car. Our bunch usually borrowed a boyfriend's car, or we all piled into one friend's little foreign made car that got many more miles per 25 cents worth of gas than the big V8 engines such as June's dad's car had.

I also flipped a car into a ditch on a country road when I was only fourteen. This was my girlfriend's family car. Terrified, we told her parents that she was driving, and their insurance bought them a new car for the one I totaled. When my conscience got the better of me and I confessed to my own dad, I didn't get the kind treatment that June did. I was promptly grounded for two whole months! Dad called her parents and helped to pay for what their car insurance didn't pay. What is amazing to me about both of these stories is that without seatbelts none of us was killed or even seriously injured.

An amusing side note, in lieu of the plethora of telephones each family has today, is the fact that Grady's family had no telephone. It was not unusual in 1955 for some folks who lived in the country to be without a telephone. Those who had one, like my friend Nancy's family, were usually on a "party line". Several families in the same vicinity would share a phone line, each having their own number of rings. You had to listen carefully and count the rings to see if a call was for you. You also had to be careful about what you said on that call, as some bored housewives were known to eavesdrop on party line conversations!

If this stirred up some memories you would like to share with us, just click on "comments" at the bottom of the article, and let us know about it. Or, send me an email with your memory.

Until next time...

May all your memories be happy ones.

Peace and love,

Marilyn

THE ENERGY OF THOUGHTS

(Photo credit: Bloomberg Business Week)

The first wave of the baby boomers turns 65 this year! Amazing! As I was checking out the news online this morning I read where an "elderly" woman of 66 years of age, was robbed in Austin. Elderly? At 66? I wonder how the boomers will react to being called elderly. Like many other aspects of our society about which they have managed to change our thinking, I'm sure this healthy, food- and exercise-conscious group of folks will make a mockery of that image as well. The boomers I know do not think of themselves as old! And I believe that our "thinking makes it so!"

*********************************

I remember being hospitalized in 1999 with the horrible flu that was making the rounds that year. I was very ill - I even had a "near death" experience. I remember being in a foggy haze when a young nurse came in and spoke to me. She said, "They told me there was an 'elderly' woman admitted who had beautiful hair, but I had to see for myself!" I don't know how beautiful my hair was, but it was long and thick, with absolutely no gray hairs. Anyway, the compliment aside, I was horrified when I realized the "elderly" woman she spoke of was me! I had just turned 60 the month before, and until that moment, I never felt "elderly"! My hair is still thick, and I still have very few gray hairs. My ophthalmologist was shocked when, as he was telling me that certain hair dyes could be harmful to my eyes, I stopped him to tell him I did not dye my hair. And I still don't feel "elderly"!

When I was admitted to the hospital, barely able to breathe until they put me on oxygen, one of the first things they did was x-ray my lungs, someone holding me up while they did that. My doctor soon came into my room and with a long face told me that there was a spot on one of my lungs. (No, that's not really my x-ray.) At that moment, I was too sick to care, and struggling just to breathe. My son Craig notified a friend of mine from my Unity church that I was ill. Later I was told that they immediately started a prayer chain for me. During the hours of that first fretful day, I remember feeling like someone or something had come into the room. I looked toward the door and felt it even stronger. There was a mist of some kind that seemed to be whirling into the room. When I saw it, I relaxed and knew everything was going to be okay. The prayers had been started for me I later learned. Upon my release from the hospital a couple of days later, my doctor did a followup x-ray that showed no sign of a "spot" on my lung. He couldn't explain it other than to say maybe it had just been a "shadow" to begin with. I believed it was the prayers that were being said for me that removed that "spot"! (By the way, I called the paramedics the night I got sick. I told God, "Let me live just one more hour and I'll never smoke another cigarette as long as I live!" And He/She did... and I haven't!)

Imagination? Or was what I saw and felt that day merely the prayer "energy" of my friends being released? This morning I read a beautiful little piece in my favorite devotional, A Cherokee Feast of Days by Joyce Sequichie Hifler, that I'd like to share with you:

"When we last saw Essie she had been ashen and without the strength we see in her now. Now she sits flat on the ground, legs straight out in front, and reeds tumble across her knees and lie around her. Nimble fingers seek the perfect one to start a basket. Essie is close to our hearts. She has our Grandmother's name. Her reticence does not inspire idle talk, so we ask what happened to change her. With a quick glance, she says, 'God heal.' 'Is it possible? So quickly and completely?' Hesitantly, she asks, 'You got fast oven?' I say I do. 'What make it work?' 'Why, microwaves -- energy. They change the molecules, the structure of the bread from cold to hot.' Seconds pass. She says, almost too softly, 'Prayer energy. Make me well.'

In an article in The Washington Post in 2006, Rob Stein wrote: Many studies indicate that "The quiet meditation and incantations of praying, or the comfort of being prayed for, appears to lower blood pressure, reduce stress hormones, slow the heart rate and have other potentially beneficial effects."

"When quantum physics was emerging, Einstein wrote about spooky interactions between particles at a distance," Mitchell W. Krucoff of Duke University said. "That's at least one very theoretical model that might support notions of distant prayer or distant healing."

We "believers" do not need scientific studies to prove the benefits of intercessory prayer. Nor do we need studies to show us that our thoughts and prayers have energy that often "creates" changes -- in our or others' health, the circumstances of our lives, or our world at large. This is why it is important for us to pray for things like peace on earth. Even the emails we are sent that ask us to "pray for a cure for cancer" cause us to take a moment and send a positive thought into the noosphere, where all human knowledge is supposedly contained. Knowledge that we all contribute to and draw from. Imagine the powerful energy of the billions of thoughts! Energy that can bring about change -- both positive and negative.

This New Year, let us all monitor our thinking. When you find yourself holding on to negative, painful, angry thoughts, think of all the people in the world who might be doing the same thing -- like the Taliban! You might be feeding powerful energy into their world and their dangerous ways of acting. Quickly change your thinking (and "change your world" as well) to peaceful, positive, loving thoughts. And SMILE! It's hard to be in a negative mood for long with a big smile on your face. There is scientific proof that the muscles used in smiling produce a flood of endorphins and serotonin in the brain that makes us feel good! And if enough of us keep flooding the noosphere with thoughts of love and peace and happiness, maybe in our lifetime we will witness a critical mass in consciousness and the positive energy our thoughts produce will bring about a miraculous change (what de Chardin called the Omega Point) in the evolution of the consciousness of our planet. And there will be PEACE ON EARTH at last!

Pray for someone.

Love,
Marilyn

P.S.
If you have an example of how praying or even thinking has brought about a significant change in your life or someone else's life, I would love to hear from you.