Just a nice thought
A friend sent this to me in email this morning. I thought it was a nice story to share.
Leosha
Some years ago on a hot summer day in south Florida a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house.
In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went.
He flew into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.
His mother in the house was looking out the window saw the two as they got closer and closer together.
In utter fear, she ran toward the water, yelling to her son as loudly as she could.
Hearing her voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a u-turn to swim to his mother.
It was too late.
Just as he reached her, the alligator reached him.
From the dock, the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs.
That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two.
The alligator was much stronger than the mother, but the mother was much too passionate to let go.
A farmer happened to drive by, heard her screams, raced from his truck, took aim and shot the alligator.
Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived.
His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the alligator.
And, on his arms, were deep scratches where his mother's fingernails dug into his flesh in her effort to hang on to the son she loved.
The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked if he would show him his scars.
The boy lifted his pantlegs.
And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "But look at my arms.
I have great scars on my arms, too.
I have them because my Mom wouldn't let go."
You and I can identify with that little boy.
We have scars, too.
No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past.
Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret.
But, some wounds, my friend, are because we refused to let go.
Leosha
Some years ago on a hot summer day in south Florida a little boy decided to go for a swim in the old swimming hole behind his house.
In a hurry to dive into the cool water, he ran out the back door, leaving behind shoes, socks, and shirt as he went.
He flew into the water, not realizing that as he swam toward the middle of the lake, an alligator was swimming toward the shore.
His mother in the house was looking out the window saw the two as they got closer and closer together.
In utter fear, she ran toward the water, yelling to her son as loudly as she could.
Hearing her voice, the little boy became alarmed and made a u-turn to swim to his mother.
It was too late.
Just as he reached her, the alligator reached him.
From the dock, the mother grabbed her little boy by the arms just as the alligator snatched his legs.
That began an incredible tug-of-war between the two.
The alligator was much stronger than the mother, but the mother was much too passionate to let go.
A farmer happened to drive by, heard her screams, raced from his truck, took aim and shot the alligator.
Remarkably, after weeks and weeks in the hospital, the little boy survived.
His legs were extremely scarred by the vicious attack of the alligator.
And, on his arms, were deep scratches where his mother's fingernails dug into his flesh in her effort to hang on to the son she loved.
The newspaper reporter who interviewed the boy after the trauma, asked if he would show him his scars.
The boy lifted his pantlegs.
And then, with obvious pride, he said to the reporter, "But look at my arms.
I have great scars on my arms, too.
I have them because my Mom wouldn't let go."
You and I can identify with that little boy.
We have scars, too.
No, not from an alligator, but the scars of a painful past.
Some of those scars are unsightly and have caused us deep regret.
But, some wounds, my friend, are because we refused to let go.
