He couldn't have been over six years old. Dirty face, barefooted, torn T-shirt, matted hair. He wasn't too different from the other hundred thousand or so street orphans that roam Rio de Janeiro.

I was walking to get a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe when he came up behind me. With my thoughts somewhere between the task I had just finished and the class I was about to teach, I scarcely felt the tap, tap, tap on my hand. I stopped and turned. Seeing no one, I continued on my way. I'd only taken a few steps, however, when I felt another insistent tap, tap, tap. This time I stopped and looked downward. There he stood. His eyes were whiter because of his grubby cheeks and coal-black hair.

"Pao, senhor?" (Bread, sir?)

Living in Brazil, one has daily opportunities to buy a candy bar or sandwich for these little outcasts. It's the least one can do. I told him to come with me and we entered the sidewalk cafe. "Coffee for me and something tasty for my little friend." The boy ran to the pastry counter and made his choice. Normally, these youngsters take the food and scamper back out into the street without a word. But this little fellow surprised me.

The cafe consisted of a long bar: one end for pastries and the other for coffee. As the boy was making his choice, I went to the other end of the bar and began drinking my coffee. Just as I was getting my derailed train of thought back on track, I saw him again. He was standing in the cafe entrance, on tiptoe, bread in hand, looking in at the people. "What's he doing?" I thought.

Then he saw me and scurried in my direction. He came and stood in front of me about eye-level with my belt buckle. The little Brazilian orphan looked up at the big American missionary, smiled a smile that would have stolen your heart and said, "Obrigado." (Thank you.) Then, nervously scratching the back of his ankle with his big toe, he added, "Muito obrigado." (Thank you very much.)

All of a sudden, I had a crazy craving to buy him the whole restaurant.

But before I could say anything, he turned and scampered out the door.

As I write this, I'm still standing at the coffee bar, my coffee is cold, and I'm late for my class. But I still feel the sensation that I felt half an hour ago. And I'm pondering this question: If I am so moved by a street orphan who says thank you for a piece of bread, how much more is God moved when I pause to thank him —- really thank him —- for saving my soul?

Standing in the noisy cafeteria of the old school, I was watching the students line up for lunch. Having wearied of trying to "cut" in line on each other, they were intently moving toward the food. As I continued to watch their progress, I began to remember scenes from my own grade school days. This old school building was somewhat similar to mine.

I could still remember coming into the warm building with the funny smells of furnace heat and cleaning liquids. I visualized the rooms, heated with old-fashioned steam pipe radiators and the hand-turn heat regulators. I could picture the Spartan desks in long straight rows, with scratched and scared surfaces, and the small cloak closets with wood doors folding in along the back of the room.

"Teacher," a small hand tugged my wrist, "I can't eat my lunch," complained a small Asian American boy, standing behind me. My thoughts abruptly returned to the present in the cafeteria of the old school where I was substitute teaching.

"What's wrong?" I replied as I watched the last of the lunch line disappear into the kitchen. "Why not?" I asked as I turned to face the cafeteria at large.

"Jamal and Anthony keep poking at my food. I don't want to eat it!"

Making my way to his lunch table, I took up Lee's cause. I admonished the children, "Keep your hands to yourselves and eat properly!"

My repeated warnings went unheeded, and I began to move the children to different spots at the table. To no avail–as soon as Lee sat down, the pestering began again. As the hearty children began finishing their food, I urged Lee to go back to the kitchen to get a second lunch, promising I would speak to the cooks for him. When I went out to playground duty, he was still sitting in front of his second tray, picking at the food. I tried not to worry about the thin child because I remembered that I had not always eaten my cafeteria lunches and I survived.

I substituted frequently at this school, and in a few weeks, I was back in Lee's small class. Both the teacher and the assistant were absent. The children in this room had some learning difficulties, and each child had different instructions and activities. I soon realized that Lee had a problem with staying on task and with anger. As I moved through the room, I stopped by each child to check on progress and to help with work. Lee was working with educational coloring sheets, and I let him work on his pictures in sequence rather than finishing one at a time. Doing a part of each until all were completed seemed to suit his temperament. He began to smile as if he and I shared a huge joke.

This time, I did not have lunch duty, so I lined the children up and led them to the cafeteria where another teacher took charge of their progress through the line. I went back to the room to check each child's work again and eat a quick sandwich. In fifteen minutes, Lee was back in the room, unable to eat lunch again, having left the cafeteria without permission. I gave him some money, the cost of an alternate lunch, and walked him down to the cafeteria. At the end of lunch, Lee was back in the room with the young man assigned to the room as psychological counselor. Evidently, a cafeteria supervisor sent him to be counseled about his difficulties with eating.

Slowly, with shyness and pride, he handed me my money back and told me what he and the counselor had rehearsed. "Thank you, Mrs. Grishan (his pronunciation), but my mom and dad will not let me accept money. They provide my food."

I smiled, accepted the money, and watched Lee go with the counselor for further discussion. When he returned, the counselor stayed with him to keep him sweet and on task.

Later in the year, I was back at the same school to substitute with a large fourth grade class for a week. The day I had lunch duty, I noticed as I glanced quickly around the cafeteria that Lee's table was at peace. They were eating quietly and were not teasing each other. Lee was eating too, and as he looked at me intensely, I glanced away because I did not want to interfere with his concentration on his food. I know, though, that I was smiling, and my heart was singing. I thought of the phrase, "all the little children of the world, brown and yellow, black and white," and these precious children were all getting along just fine. I knew that major work by persistent teachers, a dedicated counselor, fine administrators, and parents willing to partner with the school had wrought a change in the life of these troubled children.

I look to a day when people will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

I have had psychic experiences since I was small, the first being fear…anyway, in 2000 I had a massive emotional breakdown and a total of six months in a clinic. Before and after there were many times where I needed a guide and sure enough they came in some shape or form and even when people did hurt me. Something seemed to always get them back for their actions.

I don't know if I have a living guardian or a spiritual one or both…but I will say this now…I find it hard to believe in Churches but it never disturbs my belief in God, even when I'm angry with him, he has never walked away. He has never left me to really get seriously hurt.

He has held my hand without me even realizing until afterwards and he has rescued me in the final hour to make me continue living.

I have met people that just seem to know me and all the pain in my head and they are there just when I need them. I will always believe I have a guardian angel and I won't hate God no matter what goes wrong. Even when I yell at him, he still looks out for me.

One day I nearly jumped from the top floor of college in High Wycombe in the UK a just as I was really about to get up there and do it, this guy appeared from a class room and said very calmly, "you're not going to jump are you"? One night when I was walking alone at night because I couldn't sleep and couldn't cope with my emotions… this guy offered to walk with me up the hill by my home and then back again to make sure I got home safe. I have never seen him again.

One day in the underground in London (a lovely city) an Asian man walked up to me and asked me how I was feeling and was my head hurting? I sat down on the seat by the tunnel and I nodded. Without even thinking how he knew I felt so bad. He told me to sit and be calm and the headache would go away. He caught the next tube, while I sat and tried to calm down. When I got up to catch the next tube. I realized my head wasn't pounding anymore.

That's another reason why I believe that God is All…whatever name or religion, it is just the same person with a million different faces every day and a million different names.

I don't know who my guardian angel is apart from God or Gods friend but I'd just like to say, Thank You.

In some circles it is not "politically correct" to be considered a "bloody" Christian who believes in eternal salvation, but I am guilty of believing that once saved, always saved. I have been cleansed by and washed in the blood of Jesus. Knowing this, gives me a peace of God and peace with God to pillow my head every night knowing that whether I go or whether I stay, I'm a winner either way.

Because I don't deserve His salvation and did not do anything to earn it, sometimes, though, I wake up not feeling saved and wondering why God it would please God to bruise His Son for me. When I do, I am reminded of a young boy, an older man, and an out-of-sight kite.

The story goes of a young boy flying a kite in the park one windy afternoon. The kite was so small and so high that an elderly man sitting on a bench watching him could not see the kite high in the heavens. After watching him a few minutes, he walked over asking the young boy what he was doing.

"Flying my kite." he replied.

"Are you sure. I don't see anything in the sky? Perhaps, the string broke and the kite is gone."

"Nope." the boy said. "I still feel a tug."

That is the way it is with me. Those mornings when I wake up questioning my salvation, I feel a Heavenly tug in my heart assuring me God's Spirit has removed all condemnation and made me to sit in Heavenly places.

As long as I feel that Heavenly tug, He assures me I am His and He is mine.

My grandparents were married for over half a century, and played their own special game from the time they had met each other. The goal of their game was to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" around the house, and as soon as one of them discovered it, it was their turn to hide it once more.

They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. They smeared it in the dew on the windows over looking the patio where my grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding with blue food coloring. "Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror after a hot shower, where it would reappear bath after bath. At one point, my grandmother even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet.

There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled hurriedly were found on dashboards and car seats, or taped to steering wheels. The notes were stuffed inside shoes and left under pillows. "Shmily" was written in the dust upon the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as the furniture.

It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism has kept me from believing in true love – one that is pure and enduring. However, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. It was more than their flirtatious little games; it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on a devotion and passionate affection which not everyone is lucky enough to experience. Grandma and Grandpa held hands every chance they could. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle and word jumble. My grandma whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome and old he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em." Before every meal they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and each other.

But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, Grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so that she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go out side. Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane and my grandfather's steady hand, they went to church every morning. But my grandmother grew steadily weaker until, finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For a while, Grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma was gone.

"Shmily." It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandmother's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around Grandma one last time.

Grandpa stepped up to my grandmother's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief, the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby. Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty.

S-h-m-i-l-y: See How Much I Love You.

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for letting me see.

Kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love.

He sits by himself at a table for two.

The uniformed waiter returns to his side and asks,

One morning I went into my daughters room to wake her up to get ready for school. I laid my head on her chest and gave her a hug. She sighed, and her breath rolled down my face.

"Whew! You've got some serious morning breath!" I said. She laughed and we proceeded with the morning routine.

As we headed out the door to leave, a gust of wind came up and almost blew us off the porch. In the innocence of a second grade voice, my daughter said, "Wow mom! God's got great morning breath!"