https://linktr.ee/mrcommonsense1

Mr Commonsense, Madinat Dubai Al Melaheya (2025)

13/11/2025

Agnes was 79 years old. Her name was Agnes. She walked to Oakwood Elementary every Tuesday and Thursday at 2:45 p.m. Not for her grandkids—she didn’t have any. She went for them. The kids waiting for parents who were late. Again.

It started three years ago. She saw Miguel sitting alone on the school’s concrete steps, tracing math problems in the dirt with a stick. His mom worked double shifts at the canning factory. His homework was smudged with tears.

She didn’t say much. She just pulled a folding chair from her tote bag (she carried it everywhere, bad knees) and sat beside him. "Show me where you’re stuck, mijo," she said. He flinched like she’d startled a bird. But he showed her.

She had been a teacher for 42 years. Fractions, state capitals, how to hold a pencil—she knew them like her own heartbeat. That day, they solved three problems in the dirt. When his mom finally rushed up, breathless and apologizing, Agnes just nodded. "He’s got a good mind," she told her. The mother’s eyes got wet. Not from sadness. From being seen.

The next week, Agnes brought her old teacher’s stool and a clipboard. She set up under the oak tree across from the school gates. No sign. No fanfare. Just her, her red pen, and a jar of butterscotch candies.

Kids started coming. Not all at once. First Miguel. Then Aisha, whose dad’s truck broke down again. Jamal, who whispered, "My grandma’s sick." Agnes never asked why parents were late. She just opened her clipboard.

Some days, she only helped one child. Other days, five crowded around her stool. She taught multiplication tables while braiding Maya’s hair. She showed Leo how to write his name in cursive on a foggy window. She never took money. Never called the school. This wasn’t their job. It was the community’s.

Then came Mrs. Chen. She stood at the edge of the sidewalk for weeks, watching her daughter Linh hover near Agnes’s bench but never approach. One rainy Thursday, Mrs. Chen finally walked over. Her hands shook. "I failed school," she admitted in broken English. "I can’t help her." Agnes slid her stool aside. "Sit," she said. "Today, you do the math. I’ll hold the umbrella."

Last month, the principal found Agnes packing up in the rain. "We’ve had complaints," he said gently. "About ‘unauthorized tutoring.’" She braced for the end. But then Linh ran over, dragging her mother. Aisha brought her little brother. Miguel stood tall beside his mom, the one who once cried on the steps. Twelve parents and kids formed a circle around Agnes’s soggy stool. "This bench stays," Miguel told the principal. "Or we all leave."

Today, the PTA provides the folding chairs. Retired nurses check kids’ ears for infections. A barber gives free trims. But the homework bench? That’s still Agnes’s.

Last Tuesday, Linh placed a college acceptance letter on Agnes’s clipboard. "You taught me numbers," she said. "But you taught Mama something bigger." She pointed to Mrs. Chen, now helping a boy sound out words. "You taught us we’re not broken."

Agnes packed up her red pen that night, her hands steady for the first time in years. Here’s what nobody tells you about growing old: The world doesn’t need your savings or your spare room. It needs your stubborn, ordinary love. Show up. Sit down. Make space. The rest will grow around you like wildflowers through concrete.

13/11/2025

Last night, my mom and I had a little argument. She told me that she and her old friends had planned a holiday trip. It's something they used to do, and they agreed to do it one last time while they still can.
But my mom is already a senior, gets arthritis sometimes, and takes daily medicine. I pointed out all the "what ifs" and worried about what could go wrong.
Today, I met a nice and happy old lady in a wheelchair, and we became friends. She gave me permission to post her picture only if I let everyone know that she is 93 years young.
I told her that she (and her pink hair) made my day. She replied, “Well, I refuse to be that little old white-haired lady!”
Later, on my way home, meeting her made me think hard about my mom. I wondered if I was making my mom miserable because I was worrying too much.
So now, I have made up my mind to help her enjoy and have a full life while she still can.

13/11/2025

Next time you think of a Pigeon in a negative way just think…..

Pigeons Are Misunderstood Geniuses.

Most people don't realize just how incredible Pigeons truly are.

These gentle birds aren’t just loyal partners—they're brilliant, complex beings. Tucked inside their beaks are tiny magnetic crystals that act like a natural GPS, helping them navigate thousands of miles with stunning precision. They can also hear frequencies too low for us to detect, read polarized light patterns in the sky, and even see in ultraviolet light, giving them a vibrant view of the world we can't imagine.

Pigeons are also remarkably intelligent. Studies show they can count, recognize their own reflections, understand abstract ideas, and even grasp probability, sometimes outperforming young children. When raising their young, they produce a special milk-like substance in their throats to nourish their chicks. They form lifelong bonds with their mates and use different coos and calls to communicate danger, love, and territory.

History has seen their courage, too. During wartime, a pigeon named Cher Ami delivered a message that saved 194 soldiers—even after losing a leg. Sadly, despite all this, many pigeons were abandoned when we no longer “needed” them, and they stayed close to humans because that's what they knew.

Pigeons are not pests. They are intelligent, emotional, deeply social beings that remember us. It's time we remember them. ❤️

13/11/2025

My name’s Laura Jennings. I’m 58 years old, I’m a senior manager, and my day is a wall of spreadsheets and meetings. Last Friday, a barista half my age taught me something I didn’t realize I’d forgotten—what it means to actually see people.
I stop by the same coffee shop every morning. Same order. Same routine.
I park, check my emails while I walk in, and mumble, “Medium latte, please.”
I swipe my card, say “Thanks,” and I'm back in my car, my mind already on my 9 AM call. I was "medium latte." She was "barista." We weren't people. We were a transaction.
It’s muscle memory.
Last Friday, though, everything was off. The line was long, the espresso machine hissed like it was angry, and the young woman behind the counter looked like she was holding on by a thread.
Her name tag said “Carly.” Her ponytail was messy, and her smile was so tight it looked painful. Her hands were moving fast, but they were trembling.
When it was finally my turn, I sighed, annoyed for me. "Rough morning, huh?" I said.
She looked up, and for just a second, the mask slipped. “Actually, yeah," she said softly. "My mom’s in the hospital. I almost didn’t come in today.”
She handed me my coffee, and then she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it, “But someone’s got to make rent.”
I froze.
I paid, walked out the door, and sat in my car. I looked at the coffee in my cup holder. And I felt this cold, heavy wave of shame wash over me.
My "rough morning" was a long line.
Her "rough morning" was a mother in a hospital bed and the fear of eviction.
I’d been in that line every day for a year, staring at my phone, and I had never once seen her. I'd looked at her, but I'd never seen her.
So I turned around.
I went back inside. I waited until the line cleared and asked to speak to the manager. He looked nervous, probably bracing for a complaint.
Instead, I handed him a small envelope.
Inside was a simple card that said:
“For Carly.
From someone who finally noticed.”
In it, I’d tucked $100 and a note:
“You make people’s mornings better, even on your hardest days. I hope this makes yours a little better, too.”
I left before she saw it.
The next morning, I walked in, and she spotted me from across the room. No messy ponytail this time. Just a real, warm smile.
“Good morning, Ms. Laura,” she said. “Your latte’s on the house today.”
I blinked, completely stunned. “How do you know my name?”
She grinned. “You signed the note.”
Then she leaned in, her eyes shining. “My mom’s doing better,” she whispered. “And you made her smile when I told her what you did.”
We both laughed—a little awkward, a little teary—and I walked out feeling lighter than I had in years.
Now, every morning, I talk—really talk—to the people who make the world turn quietly in the background. The grocery clerk. The janitor. The delivery driver.
Because behind every name tag is someone carrying a story you’ll never know unless you slow down long enough to ask.
The Lesson
Kindness doesn’t need to be grand to change a day. Sometimes it’s just saying, “How are you, really?”—and meaning it.
We all have invisible battles.
So smile at the cashier. Thank the janitor.
Ask the barista how her mom’s doing.
Because one small act of humanity can echo louder than you’ll ever realize.
Sometimes, it’s not the coffee that wakes people up.
It’s compassion.

Let This story reach more hearts ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

13/11/2025

Meet Popcorn, a tiny opossum rescued just two nights ago. He was cold, weak, and barely hanging on. But even in his fragile state, he showed the gentle nature that makes these creatures so special.
Many people think opossums are mean or dangerous, but the truth is the complete opposite. They’re calm, peaceful, and surprisingly sweet. Wildlife rehabbers often say they’re some of the easiest wild animals to handle because they rarely bite or scratch.
Let’s help clear up the myths and show some love for these misunderstood little survivors. Here are a few amazing things you might not know about opossums:
🌿 They’re not aggressive. Even when threatened, they don’t fight back. They “play dead” instead, hoping danger passes.
🦠 They almost never carry rabies. Their body temperature is too low for the virus to survive.
🪳 They eat thousands of ticks every week. That’s right—one opossum can eliminate up to 4,000 ticks in seven days. They help protect us from Lyme disease just by being themselves.
🌻 They don’t destroy property. If one wanders into your garage or yard, just give it an exit and remove food—it’ll leave quietly.
🕰️ They’ve been around for over 70 million years. True survivors from prehistoric times.
🚮 They clean up roadkill and waste. Nature’s own cleanup crew.
🐨 They’re the only native marsupials in North America. A little touch of the outback right here at home.
🐞 They protect gardens. They’ll eat slugs and beetles but leave your flowers and veggies untouched.
🐍 They’re immune to snake venom. Scientists are studying their blood to develop new antivenoms for humans.
🧠 They’re smart. Studies show they can outthink many domestic animals when it comes to finding and remembering food.
So next time you see one wandering quietly at night, remember opossums aren’t pests. They’re protectors. They’re survivors.
Let’s spread the truth and give these gentle creatures the respect they deserve. 💚
📸 Credit: Becky Zielinski

12/11/2025

The vet said she was too weak to stand and might not survive the night. But the deputy refused to let her give up alone...

Deputy Erin Gibbs is the county's sole animal cruelty investigator. She'd been building a case against this remote property for months, fueled by anonymous tips about "sick horses."
But the owner was hostile, and the property was set too far back from the road to get the evidence she needed for a warrant.

This morning, a call came in from a frantic neighbor. "One is down!" the woman cried. "It's been down in the mud all night. It's trying to get up, but it can't."
That was all Erin needed. She got the emergency warrant and was there in 20 minutes.

The stench hit her before she even saw her. In a back pen, half-submerged in freezing mud and filth, was this mare.
She was a skeleton, her ribs stark against her hide, her face covered in raw, infected sores. She was alive, but just barely.
Her breathing was a shallow, weak rasp.

Erin's training kicked in. She immediately called the county's large-animal vet. She described the mare's condition—the emaciation, the unresponsiveness, the labored breathing.
The vet's voice was grim. "Erin," he said, "from what you're describing, she's in critical condition. Hypothermic and in shock. I'm on my way with the sling and fluids, but you need to keep her fighting. We have to get her stable *now*."

Erin hung up, her heart pounding. This beautiful animal had been failed by everyone, but she wouldn't be the last. She wasn't going to let this mare give up.
She didn't care about her uniform. She waded through the filth and slid to the ground, gently lifting the mare's heavy head into her lap.
The horse let out a long, slow sigh, her body finally relaxing against the deputy.
Erin stroked her face, her own tears tracing paths in the dirt on her cheeks.

"Hey, girl," she whispered, her voice thick. "It's all right. You're okay. I know, I know. Just lean on me. I've got you. We're going to get you out of here, I promise. You're not alone anymore, all right? Just keep breathing for me."
She just sat there, shielding her head from the filth, making sure that as this mare fought for her life, she knew she wasn't alone. She was safe, and for the first time in a long, long time, she was loved.
As the minutes stretched into what felt like hours, Erin kept whispering encouragements, her hands never stopping their gentle strokes along the mare's neck. The cold mud seeped through her clothes, but she barely noticed. All that mattered was the faint, rhythmic rise and fall of the horse's chest against her legs—a fragile sign of life clinging on.

Finally, the crunch of tires on the gravel road announced the vet's arrival. Dr. Harlan jumped out of his truck, sling and medical kit in hand, his face set in determined lines. He took one look at the scene and nodded approvingly at Erin. "Good work keeping her calm. Let's get her up."

Together, they worked swiftly but carefully. Dr. Harlan administered fluids and a warming blanket while Erin helped position the sling under the mare's emaciated frame. With the help of a couple of deputies who had arrived as backup, they hoisted her gently to her feet. She wobbled, her legs like brittle twigs, but she stood—unsteady, yet defiant. Erin held her head steady, murmuring praises as the vet checked her vitals.

"She's a fighter," Dr. Harlan said, a hint of awe in his voice. "Heart rate's stabilizing. No major organ failure yet. If we get her to the equine rescue center now, she's got a real shot."

They loaded her into the trailer with painstaking care, Erin riding alongside to keep her company. The drive to the center felt endless, but the mare's eyes, once dull and vacant, began to flicker with a spark of awareness. By the time they arrived, a team of volunteers was waiting—blankets, fresh hay, and a warm stall ready.

Over the next few weeks, Erin visited every day after her shifts. She watched as the mare, whom they named Hope, slowly transformed. Antibiotics cleared the infections, nutritious feed filled out her skeletal frame, and physical therapy strengthened her legs. The raw sores healed into faint scars, badges of her survival. Hope's coat, once matted and dull, grew glossy under the care of her new guardians. She even started nickering softly when Erin approached, leaning into her touch with trust.

The owner faced charges—animal cruelty, neglect—and the other horses on the property were seized and rehomed. But for Erin, the real victory was seeing Hope trot freely in the pasture one sunny afternoon, her head held high, surrounded by a herd of gentle companions. The mare had found not just survival, but a life full of peace and affection.

On her last visit before Hope's adoption to a loving family farm, Erin wrapped her arms around the horse's neck one final time. "You did it, girl," she whispered. "You fought, and you won. And you'll never be alone again." Hope nuzzled her shoulder, as if to say the same. In that moment, amid the rolling fields and the soft whinnies of contentment, Erin knew she'd saved more than a life—she'd restored a soul. And in return, Hope had healed a piece of her own.

12/11/2025

Two kids knocked on my door and offered to rake my whole yard for $10. What I did next changed how they'll see hard work forever.
I heard the doorbell on a Saturday afternoon. Two boys, maybe 11 or 12 years old, were on my porch holding rakes that looked too big for them.
The taller one nervously asked, "Excuse me, sir. Would you like us to rake your yard? We'll do the whole thing for ten dollars."
I looked at my lawn. It was covered in leaves. It was a big job, at least two or three hours of work.
"Ten dollars each?" I asked.
They looked at each other. The shorter one shook his head. "No sir. Ten dollars total. We'll split it."
Five dollars each. For hours of hard work.
I could have said yes and gotten my yard raked for almost nothing. But the way they stood there—hopeful, polite, and ready to work—reminded me of myself at that age, just trying to get a chance.
"Alright," I said. "You've got a deal. Get started."
For the next two and a half hours, I watched them. They worked hard and didn't cut corners. They didn't complain. They raked every part of the yard, bagged the leaves, and even swept my driveway without me asking.
When they finally knocked to say they were done, they were sweating, tired, and smiling.
I walked out with my wallet. "You boys did incredible work," I said, and I handed them four twenty-dollar bills ($80). "Here's your payment."
The taller one's eyes got wide. "Sir, we said ten—"
"I know what you said," I told him. "But I also know what hours of good work are worth. You earned every dollar of this."
They stared at the money like they couldn't believe it was real. Then the shorter one looked up at me and said quietly, "Thank you. Really. Thank you."
As they walked away, I heard them talking excitedly about what they would buy. I realized something: We talk a lot about teaching kids the value of hard work, but we don't always show them that hard work is actually valued.
Those boys didn't ask for a handout. They offered to work. They showed up. They did a great job. I wanted them to walk away knowing that good work doesn't go unnoticed.
If you work hard and do your best, even when no one is watching, good people will see it. And they will reward you for it.
That's not just a lesson for kids. That's a lesson for all of us.

12/11/2025

The biker broke down crying when the five-year-old walked into the fire station and called him "Grandpa" for the first time in his life.

I was working the breakfast shift that morning, flipping pancakes for the crew, when I heard the Harley pull up outside. Deep rumble. Unmistakable sound. Then I heard something I'd never heard in my twenty-three years as a firefighter.

I heard Chief Dan Murphy sobbing.

Chief Dan is sixty-four years old. Six-foot-three. Built like a tank. Covered in tattoos. Full beard going gray. Rode with the Iron Warriors MC for thirty years before he retired from the club to focus on the firehouse.
I rushed out from the kitchen, spatula still in hand, my heart pounding. The rest of the crew froze mid-bite, forks hovering over plates of eggs and bacon. We all knew Chief Dan's roar of a laugh, his thunderous commands during drills, but sobbing? That was like hearing a lion whimper.

There he was, just inside the bay doors, his massive frame hunched over his Harley like it was the only thing keeping him upright. Tears streamed down his weathered face, cutting paths through the road dust on his cheeks. And clinging to his leg, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes, was a little boy—no more than five years old. Curly brown hair, freckles across his nose, wearing a tiny leather jacket that looked like it had been custom-made for a pint-sized biker.

"Grandpa," the kid said again, his voice small but clear, like a bell ringing in the silence. He tugged at Dan's pant leg. "Mommy said you ride big bikes. Can I see?"

Dan dropped to one knee, the thud echoing in the station. He wrapped his arms around the boy, pulling him close, his broad shoulders shaking. "Yeah, kiddo," he managed through the sobs, his voice cracking like old leather. "Yeah, you can see. You can ride with me someday."

I exchanged glances with the crew—Jake, our youngest probie, looked like he might tear up himself. Sarah, our paramedic, mouthed, "What the hell?" But we all stayed back, giving them space. This was something sacred unfolding.

It turned out, Chief Dan had a daughter he hadn't seen in over a decade. Back in his MC days, things got rough. Fights, rival clubs, the kind of life that chews you up and spits you out. His girl, Lisa, got scared off—ran away at eighteen, cut ties, vanished into the wind. Dan searched for years, hired P*s, rode cross-country on leads that went cold. He'd given up hope, poured everything into the firehouse instead. We were his family now, or so we thought.

But last week, out of the blue, Lisa called. Cancer, stage three. She didn't have long, and she wanted to make things right. Wanted her son—Dan's grandson—to know the man she'd painted as a monster in her mind, but who she now realized was just a flawed dad trying his best. She drove him down from Seattle that morning, too weak to come inside herself, waiting in the car with a oxygen tank humming softly.

Dan lifted the boy—Tommy, his name was—onto the Harley's seat, showing him the chrome pipes, the faded Iron Warriors patch on the saddlebag. "This was your great-uncle's bike once," Dan said, his voice steadying. "He was tough, like you." Tommy giggled, revving an imaginary throttle, and for the first time, I saw Chief Dan smile through the tears—a real, deep smile that lit up his eyes.

Lisa passed two months later, peacefully, with Dan at her bedside, holding her hand like he should have all those years ago. But Tommy? He became a fixture at the station. Dan retired officially, but he never really left—brought the kid by every weekend, teaching him to polish helmets, siren etiquette, even how to flip pancakes without burning them.

And on Tommy's sixth birthday, we all gathered in the bay, Harleys lined up like sentinels. Dan hoisted him onto his lap, kick-started the engine, and they rumbled off for a slow ride around the block—Tommy's laughter drowning out the roar. Chief Dan wasn't just a biker or a fire chief anymore. He was Grandpa. And in that, he found the family he'd lost, rebuilt stronger than before. We all did.

12/11/2025

While shopping at Walmart one afternoon, I noticed a woman quietly following me and my dog, Juno. He’s a ten-year-old GS wearing his service vest—just a regular grocery trip for us. But she kept her distance, watching us from aisle to aisle. It didn’t feel threatening, just deeply sad.
When we reached the parking lot, she finally came over.
Her voice trembled as she asked, “I’m sorry to bother you… but is his name Juno?”
Instantly, my guard went up. “How do you know that?” I asked.
And then, right there by the shopping carts, she started crying.
“I was his puppy raiser,” she said through tears. “I took care of him from eight weeks old until eighteen months, then sent him off for guide dog training. That was nine years ago. I’ve thought about him every single day.”
She showed me photos on her phone—baby Juno with the same curious eyes, and a final picture of her holding him, both of them crying the day she had to let him go.
“They told me he didn’t finish guide dog training,” she continued, smiling softly through tears. “Said he was too friendly. I always wondered where he ended up.” Her gaze fell on his vest. “What does he do now?”
“Diabetic alert,” I told her. “He’s saved my life sixteen times.”
I hadn’t planned to say the number, but it came out naturally.
She covered her mouth, sobbing again. “That makes sense,” she said. “Even as a puppy, he knew when something was wrong. He’d bring me my phone if my medication alarm went off. No one taught him—he just knew.”
We talked for twenty minutes. She told me stories only someone who truly loved him could remember—how he used to steal socks, run from the vacuum, and sleep upside down with his paws in the air.
Before leaving, she knelt down. Juno walked right over, wagging his tail, and rested his head on her shoulder as if no time had passed at all.
“Thank you for keeping him safe,” she whispered to him. Then she looked at me. “And thank you for letting me see that he’s exactly where he was meant to be.”
Now, I send her a photo of Juno every week.
And yes, he still sleeps on his back with his legs in the air.
For everyone who’s ever fostered, raised, or loved a dog they couldn’t keep—know this: they never forget you. You live in their hearts forever. ❤️

12/11/2025

I dare you not to cry. My son Andrew will never get married, have his own children, drive a car, so many things, BUT he is happy & healthy.
That is all that matters to me. When a stranger waves back at him it makes my day. When pretty girls smile back at him you can see the joy in not only his face, but his whole body.
It does't take much to be a good human 💜

Now the Story:
At a party organized at a school for children with special needs, the father of a student delivered an emotional speech that will never be forgotten by those who heard it.
After congratulating the school and all those who worked there, this father made the following reasoning: "When there are no external agents interfering with nature, the natural order of things reaches perfection."
"But my son, Herbert, cannot learn like other children do. He cannot understand things like other children. Where is the natural order of things in my son?"
The audience was stunned by the question. The father of the child continued: "I believe that when a child like Herbert, physically and mentally disabled, comes into the world, an opportunity to see human nature arises, and it manifests in the way other people treat that child."
He then told a story about one day when he was walking with his son Herbert near a park where some children were playing baseball.
Herbert asked his father: -"Dad, do you think they'll let me play?"
His father knew that most of the children wouldn't like it if someone like Herbert played on their team, but the father also understood that if they allowed his son to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and the confidence of being accepted by others despite his special abilities.
The father approached one of the children playing and asked (without expecting much) if Herbert could play.
The child looked around for someone to advise him and said: "We’re losing by six runs, and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can join our team and we’ll try to put him at bat in the ninth inning."
Herbert slowly made his way to the bench with a big smile, put on the team’s jersey, and his father watched him with tears in his eyes from the emotion.
While Herbert sat among the players waiting for his turn, his father kept watching. The other kids noticed something very evident: the happiness of the father when his son was accepted.
At the end of the eighth inning, Herbert’s team managed to score a few runs, but they were still trailing by three runs.
At the start of the ninth inning, Herbert put on a glove and played in right field. Although no ball came to Herbert, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, smiling from ear to ear while his father cheered from the stands.
At the end of the ninth inning, Herbert’s team scored again.
Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the chance to win the game was a possibility, and Herbert was the next to bat.
With this opportunity, would they let Herbert bat and give up the chance to win the game? Surprisingly, Herbert was allowed to bat.
Everyone knew that a single hit was impossible because Herbert didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, much less hit the ball.
However, as Herbert stood at the plate, the pitcher realized that the other team was willing to lose to give Herbert a great moment in his life. He stepped forward and threw the ball very softly so Herbert could at least make contact with it.
The first pitch came, and Herbert swung awkwardly and missed.
The pitcher stepped forward again, throwing the ball softly toward the batter. This time, Herbert swung and hit the ball so gently that it fell right in front of the pitcher.
The game could have ended there. The pitcher could have picked up the ball and thrown it to first base.
Herbert would have been out, and that would have been the end of the game. But, the pitcher threw the ball high over the head of the first baseman, out of reach of the rest of his teammates.
Everyone in the stands and both teams began shouting, "Herbert, run to first base, run to first!" Never in his life had Herbert run that distance, but he made it to first base. He ran right along the line, his eyes wide open, startled. Everyone shouted, "Run to second, run to second!"
Herbert, catching his breath, ran with difficulty to second base. By the time he reached second, the right fielder had the ball.
He was the smallest boy on the team and knew he had the chance to be the hero of the day. He only had to throw the ball to second base, but he understood the pitcher’s intentions and threw it too high, over the head of the third baseman.
Herbert ran to third base, while the runners ahead of him circled home.
When Herbert reached third base, the children from both teams and the spectators were all standing, shouting, "Run to home, run to home!" Herbert ran to home plate, stood on the base with his arms up in triumph, smiling widely, looking at his father... while, strangely, the players from both teams cheered and hugged him like the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.
"That day," the father said, with tears running down his face, "the children from both teams conspired, giving this world a display of true love and humanity."
Herbert didn’t survive another summer. He passed away that winter, never forgetting that he had been the hero and made his father very happy, having gone home to see his mother crying with joy, hugging her hero of the day!
A LITTLE NOTE FOR THIS MESSAGE:
We all send hundreds of jokes via email without a second thought, but when a message about the wonderful lessons life teaches us arrives, people hesitate.
If you’re thinking about forwarding this message, maybe you’re considering which people in your contact list are the 'right' ones for this kind of message. Well, the person who sent this to you believes that together we can make a difference, and therefore everyone is eligible to receive it.
We have thousands of opportunities each day to help bring about "the natural order of things," this is just one of them.
A wise person once said, "Every society will be judged by how it treats the least fortunate."

Mr Commonsense

13/11/2025

13/11/2025

13/11/2025

13/11/2025

13/11/2025

12/11/2025

12/11/2025

12/11/2025

12/11/2025

12/11/2025

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category