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I remember as a kid watching Mr. Spock and Captain Kirk talking to the computers. And I remember other movies where computers were mysterious or monstrous contraptions. And of course I remember HAL and the problems he caused.

After I enlisted in the Air Force, I had my first experience with computers. The computer we used was a main-frame, which used huge reel-to-reel tapes to store and retrieve data. Personal Computers were still in the future. I remember seeing one of the Cray Super Computers that took up a whole bottom floor of a building.

Of course the PC's did arrive, and they deep improving all the time. I can't imagine going through a day without using my computer. I use it for writing, photography, artwork, and surfing the web. There is no denying that our lives are dependent on computers.

Wouldn't it be great if our lives had a keyboard or mouse button that would make it easy?

What if we could use a BACKSPACE key and go back in time a few seconds? We could erase what we said and thereby remove the sneaker from between our teeth.

We could use the TAB key to jump forward a bit and skip over boring details in our life.

We could use a CAPS LOCK when we really wanted to be heard or understood. We could POINT and CLICK instead of being misunderstood.

We could COPY and PASTE only the best parts and CUT the bad parts out.

And perhaps best of all, at the end of the day we could be given the option to SAVE or EXIT WITHOUT SAVING.

Quick, Get the Gun, it’s An Adverb!

“Hi, I’m from maintenance!” the man stated fixedly. “Are you Ruth Smith?” he said inquiringly.

“No, she’s at the store.” The young girl answered ruthlessly.  Stepping aside, she replied openly “Come on in please.”

“Please excuse the crutches.” He said lamely.

“What happened to your foot?” was her sole question.

“I dropped a tool box on my toe.” He answered heavily. “It’s getting better, but it still hurts sometimes.” He added sorely.

“It says on my report that you have a problem with the lights.” He said darkly.

“That one over there in the corner.” She said pointedly, indicating a dark lamp by the window.

“This shouldn’t take long at all.” He stated quickly.

He stepped over to the light fixture. Reaching under the shade, he examined the light, and made an adjustment. He turned to the young woman, “The bulb wasn’t all the way in the socket.” He said loosely. “But I was able to screw it in a little more.” He told her firmly.

“Let’s see if it works.” He instructed tryingly.

“It does!” she exclaimed brightly. “Thank you so much.” she gushed gratefully.

“No problem at all.” He said effortlessly as he walked out the door.

This idea came while reading Stephen King’s book on the Art of Writing. He makes it plain that he doesn’t like adverbs.

Those who gave it all

I visited the American Cemetery in Luxembourg, where General Patton and his troops are buried. Mixed in with the white crosses are Jewish stars. Most of the markers had a name, but some had "known but to God". Each marker was the final Earthly resting place for a man that gave his life for a nation that he would never set foot on again. As a 20 year veteran, I think I can say that it is not so much giving your life for a "stranger" as it is for freedom. These men and women who rest beneath the markers in cemeteries here and abroad picked up the tab for the freedom we all enjoy. From Lexington to Bagdhad, Khe Sahn to Kettle Hill, and places on maps that don't even have a name, the boots on the ground, wings in the air, and those on the high seas paid for your freedom. Politicians use words like objectives, mission and strategy; for the soldier, sailor, and airman in harm's way there are only two words that are foremost on their minds; family, and home. God Bless and keep those who have, those who are, and those who will serve to keep the bill paid.

Happy Birthday Mom

Dear Mom,

     I held my guitar again today; the one with the repaired neck that you always loved to play when you came to visit. As my fingers slid along the neck they found the old familiar places and I started to play a song you taught me so many years ago. It’s an old gospel song that you and your mother played for us. And for a minute I thought I heard your voice singing in harmony with grandma. The name of the song, “If I Could Hear My Mother Pray Again”, will always remind me of you.

     You taught me a lot about music, art, and life in general. Like a sponge I soaked up as much as I could. Some of your lessons did not sink in until I got a bit older. I like to tell people that I was amazed at how wise you became between the time I was 16 and the time I was 30.

     You never asked dad for much as I recall. I think of that each time I hear Dolly Parton sing her song “To Daddy.” Your sister told me once that she never saw dad give you any flowers, or special gift. Maybe that is why your eyes sparkled when I gave you roses for Mother’s Day when you came to visit a few years back.

   Your wardrobe was never fancy; you liked it that way, and you kept your plain gold band on your finger, long after you and dad split up. I remember you saying that it wasn’t you that broke the vows and you had no reason to take it off. The only other jewelry that I saw you wear was a cheap watch and a necklace with all of the kids’ birthstones on it. You wouldn’t wear the necklace either until I lied to you and told you it only cost me eighteen dollars.

     Remember when you taught us how to make shadow animals with our hands that time we were out of power for a few hours? We were laughing so much we forgot about the storm outside. You always did try to take our minds off of things that were troubling or scary. Like the time my dog got hit by a car, and you sat on the edge of my bed for hours, talking to me, until I finally went to sleep.

     You taught me how to imagine shapes in clouds and how to recognize the good in people. You taught me to pay attention to what was above and below me and to remember that I need to be careful where I step in life, so I don’t trample what is below me, or step on somebody’s feelings.

     The best lessons that you taught were about religion. You never forced us to go to church because you believed that for our faith to be true, we had to find our testimonies on our own. There were no hellfire and brimstone sermons, and you never told me that I was going straight to hell in a hand basket, although there were some in the family that said that I was. And you told me that I should look at the beam in my eye before I told somebody about the splinter in their eye. Your lessons have stuck with me over the years and they are simple rules to live by.

I am not better than anybody else and nobody is better than me.

If I am not sure about something, then I need to pray about it.

If I have to ask if I am doing something wrong, then I probably am.

I should love God and treat everybody like I want to be treated.

And always remember that I am not responsible for another person’s actions, but I am 100% responsible for my reaction to their actions.

And perhaps the most important lesson was that I should learn whatever I can about something that interests me.

     It’s your birthday today, but you already know that. You left us in the spring last year, in early April. Poor health kept me from making the trip to Oklahoma to see you off, but we had already said goodbye the last time we were together. It’s been almost a year now and the ache is still there. I suppose it will never leave. There’s a line from a song that sums it up for me. “I sure miss you but heaven’s sweeter with you there.”

I love you mom!

Johnny

ENGLISH?

      I heard once that English is the hardest language to learn. It was difficult for me to understand why people would have a tough time with a language that I was taught from the cradle. But English, or at least our American version, can be confusing, even for those who only speak English.

     American English can be as confusing, strange, and vast as the nation itself, with the different regions, accents (only y’all.. I don’t have an accent), foods, and cultures. At one time America was considered the melting pot of the world, where the “tired, huddled, masses” came and we were all supposed to blend together like a giant smoothie. It didn’t happen quite the way it was envisioned.

   We are more like a giant salad bar, where we take a little here and a little there.  Immigrants brought their words as well as their skills from the old country. Food, drink, dress, music, and even romance were influenced and in many cases improved by the addition of a foreign word. Sometimes the people and language were already here, in the case of the Mexicans and Native Americans. The American salad bar of language is very impressive.

     It would seem that it should be simple; with only 26 letters, how can it get messed up? On the basic level you have a subject (noun) and a verb (action). Dogs bark, I sing, and politicians lie. It should be simple, straightforward and easy to understand, right?  If only we could keep it on the basic level.

    But we have to add to it, spice it up and add more details. So now, dogs bark loudly, I sing badly, and politicians lie constantly. That’s not too bad, except we can always take it to another level and add more.  That means small dogs bark loudly, I sing very badly, and all politicians lie constantly. I can still live with that, but we moved away from simple and got the political correctness crowd involved as well as the wordsmiths, who put a new spin on words. Remember a former president that answered a question with, “That depends on what the meaning of “is” is.”

    In the PC world, canines express themselves verbally, I am still tone challenged, and politicians misspeak (often).

   I think I have a fair command of the English language and can express myself verbally or in writing. For that I owe a debt of thanks to my mother and to the teachers I had in school. They gave me the basic understanding of how to put together a sentence in a way that other people could understand me.

   And to my high-school English and Journalism teacher, a special thanks for teaching me to look at all language as a source of humor. He taught me that there are rules of composition and rules of grammar, but those rules get broken all the time. And that gives the rest of us something to laugh at.

Thank You For Your Time

     In 1985, the Country Music group Alabama, released a song titled, “40 hour week”, in which they pay tribute to the unsung workers of our nation. The song mentions truckers, policemen, steelworkers, farmers, and others, who work to keep our nation going. The workers mentioned are not white collar workers earning six-figure salaries. They are the workers who depend on an hourly wage to pay the bills and keep a family fed, safe, and secure.

     As I have researched my family tree and helped others with their genealogy, I have ran across job titles that make me do some extra research just to find out what kind of job the ancestor had.

     Of course I found a lot of farmers, laborers, and other jobs that have not changed a lot over the years, but what was a “Cooper”? Well, it turns out that a Cooper makes or repairs wooden barrels. That is a job that was replaced by automation.

     Some of the occupations came over from the old countries and were passed down from generation to generation until they too faded into memory, replaced by a machine. Some occupations had their names changed even though the basic work stayed the same.

     Does a Barker still work with animal hides? Is a metal worker still called a Brightsmith, or will the union allow that?

    There was a time when a Drummer was a traveling salesman and not a wild-man who pounds away on a percussion instrument with a pair of sticks. Or a Duffer was a door to door salesman and not a poor golfer.

    Kedgers sold fish, Chandlers sold candles, Cinder Winches sold gas work cinders, a Packman sold goods out of his pack, and a Pever sold pepper.

     Boilermakers worked with metal in industrial settings and Clod Hoppers worked with plows, while a Collier worked in the coal mines.

    A Charwoman would clean your house and if you needed your shoes fixed you would seek out a Cobbler. You would buy new pots from a Crocker and to replace the broken garden hoe, you would visit the local Hacker to get a new one.

     If you were a Felter, you worked in the hat industry, where you might work with a Stripper, who did not get paid to remove their clothing, but to remove assorted rubbish from the carders used in the wool trade. If both of you worked the early shift, your employer might hire a Knocker-up to wake you up early in the morning in time for work.

     As you left for work early in the morning, you might see the KnockKnobber making his rounds, picking up stray dogs. Or you might say good morning to the Coney Catcher as he heads out in the fields to catch rabbits. The bleating of goats might be carried by the morning mist as the Gatward moves his herd out to the pasture for the day.

     The local Feller would be making his way to the forest to cut some trees which he would later take to the Sawyer, who would turn the lumber onto boards that the House Wright will use to build a home for the town Phrenologist, who earned the money to pay for the home by telling fortunes based on the lumps found on a person's head.

Near the center of town, the Vulcan was opening his shop. This Vulcan was not a long eared alien, but made his living as a blacksmith.

     And you might see some young Ankle-Beaters gathering near the stock-yards, waiting to help herd some livestock to market.

     The names may have changed. Some jobs may have disappeared, victims of progress, but the majority of Americans still get up day after day and go off to work to “Get er done!” I believe there is still a lot of pride in what we do, whether we swing a hammer, check a pulse, flip a burger, patrol a highway, or keep a house going.

     To all the workers, past, present, and future, as it says in the song, “Thank you for your time!”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LUCY

     In 1922, the Lead-Deadwood area of South Dakota was still a little on the wild side, although it had been years since its more famous citizens such as Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok had passed from the scene. Lawrence County had something for everybody. There was gold mining, logging, railroads, and ranching. Deadwood had a visit that year from a sports hero, when Babe Ruth played an exhibition game there as part of a nationwide barnstorming promotion.

     Also arriving in the Lead-Deadwood area in 1922 was a girl-child, born to William Pearl and Nellie Gorton. Lucy Ellen Gorton, with her flaming locks of auburn hair came into this world on March 11, 1922, ninety years ago today, one of seven sisters and one brother. Lucy would often tell the story of how the whole family traveled from South Dakota to the Tacoma area by way of a covered wagon.

     It was there that Lucy met a young man of German descent and she married Herman Earl Diedrich on February 28, 1940. The marriage proved very interesting as Lucy’s fiery Irish/English temper often ran up against Bud’s German stubbornness. Together they raised four daughters and enjoyed a marriage lasting over 60 years.

     Lucy was never shy about lending a hand or an opinion, and her daughters were all taught to fight for what they needed or wanted. Family was important to her, her immediate family as well as her extended family.  

     She was an excellent cook and it is safe to say that if you left Lucy’s home feeling hungry, it was your own fault.  If your pockets did not contain a foil-wrapped loaf of her famous banana bread it was because you refused it. She had a way of making me feel guilty if I did not eat something as soon as I came in the door. But it was always worth it.

     Lucy was a wife, mom, sister, cousin, and friend to all. She was always on the go, often taking cookies or her banana bread to missionaries, even though they belonged to a different church than she did. In her later years, as Bud slipped deeper into the grips of Alzheimer’s, she kept up the pace, but it was eventually too much for her, and she suffered a massive stroke.

     Lucy left us on May 7, 1998, just 74 years old. She spoke on many occasions of how much she missed her own mother, and we know that she was reunited at last.  At her funeral, there were over 500 friends and family who came to say goodbye.

     There is no doubt in my mind that she is busy on the other side of the veil, delivering cookies, banana bread, organizing birthday parties, showers, and doing what she can to make somebody’s day a little brighter.

     Happy Birthday, Lucy. We miss you down here and we love you.

On Behalf of a Grateful Nation

     Today, March 10, 2012, was a cold and rainy day in Olympia, Washington, not at all unusual for late winter in the Northwest. Rain and low clouds, at least to me, have always seemed to muffle sounds and today was no exception. The heavy traffic on Ruddell Avenue a short distance away was barely noticeable, but other sounds came through very well.

     No matter how many times I have heard it in the past, and even though I knew it was coming, the first volley of gunfire caused me to flinch. Two more volleys followed, for a total of 21 shots. Then came the sound that always gets to me, the sound of TAPS. The notes from the bugle reflected off the low clouds and the nearby trees, making it seem at times far away, as if the notes were searching for something or somebody.

     TAPS came about as an adaptation of the bugle call for Extinguish Lights, a long time military tradition that signaled the official end of the day and a time for rest. One general thought that the original bugle call was too formal and is credited with changing it to a more peaceful sounding tune. It came to be used in military funerals during the Civil War when a captain ordered it played for the funeral of one of his men who had been killed during a skirmish. He was afraid that since the confederate troops were so close, that the traditional three volleys of cannon fire might cause the fighting to start up again.

     The military honors witnessed today were in honor of a veteran and a signal that it was time for him to rest.

     Gordon G. Perry was born on May 30, 1936, and spent 21 years in the Army, retiring as a Master Sergeant. He wore the Big Red 1 of the First Infantry Division based out of Ft. Lewis, Washington. He served one tour of duty in Korea, two tours in Vietnam, and the Berlin Crisis. He was awarded this nation's fourth-highest combat medal, the Bronze Star, three times, and received the Purple Heart four times for wounds received in combat. It was said that Gordon never questioned his orders and went where he was sent, but he demanded and ensured that the men under his authority always had the best chance to come back alive.

     After his military service, he turned his focus to his family and community, where he started several businesses, including auto parts, towing, wood cutting, and truck driving. He always included his family in the business as well as fun times.

     A Cherokee Prayer, read during his eulogy, stated, 

“ As I walk the trail of life, 
In the fear of the wind and the rain, 
Grant O Great Spirit, 
That I may always, 
Walk as a man."

     I did not know Gordon very well; I met him one time when my wife, who is his wife's cousin, asked me to take her to visit shortly before his death. After talking to him that day, and from learning what I did today, I am confident that Gordon was granted that request from God, and he did indeed “walk as a man.”

     The 21-gun salute and TAPS were two of the military honors given to Gordon today, the third and last was given to his wife Lucy. Two soldiers quietly folded a large flag into the triangle shape that resembles that shape of the hat worn by the colonial soldiers during the fight for independence. Each fold has a story or meaning. The following explanation is courtesy of the United States Air Force Academy.

          "The first fold is a symbol of our life.

          The second fold is a symbol of our belief in eternal life.

           The third fold is made in honor and remembrance of the veteran departing our ranks who gave a portion of life for the defense of our country to attain a peace throughout the world.

          The fourth fold represents our weaker nature, for as American citizens trusting in God, it is to Him we turn in times of peace as well as in times of war for His divine guidance.

           The fifth fold is a tribute to our country, for in the words of Stephen Decatur, "Our country, in dealing with other countries, may she always be right; but it is still our country, right or wrong."

           The sixth fold is for where our hearts lie. It is with our heart that we pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

           The seventh fold is a tribute to our Armed Forces, for it is through the Armed Forces that we protect our country and our flag against all her enemies, whether they be found within or without the boundaries of our republic.

           The eighth fold is a tribute to the one who entered in to the valley of the shadow of death, that we might see the light of day, and to honor mother, for whom it flies on mother's day.

           The ninth fold is a tribute to womanhood; for it has been through their faith, love, loyalty and devotion that the character of the men and women who have made this country great have been molded.

           The tenth fold is a tribute to father, for he, too, has given his sons and daughters for the defense of our country since they were first born.

           The eleventh fold, in the eyes of a Hebrew citizen, represents the lower portion of the seal of King David and King Solomon, and glorifies, in their eyes, the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

           The twelfth fold, in the eyes of a Christian citizen, represents an emblem of eternity and glorifies, in their eyes, God the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost.

           When the flag is completely folded, the stars are uppermost, reminding us of our national motto, "In God we Trust."

   The folded flag was presented to Lucy “On behalf of a grateful nation!” May we all be grateful to Gordon and all the veterans who served this nation.

EXIT AHEAD

     A couple of months ago, my wife and I were driving on I-5 in Portland during rush hour, which means we were not rushing at all. For a stretch of about five miles, we alternated between standing still and reaching blazing speeds of up to ten miles per hour.

     To pass the time, we started looking at what was on the sides of the road. I was driving in the far left lane, so my side had the breakdown lane and concrete barriers. At times like that, my mind as always, begins to wander. Not too far, because I was driving, but I began thinking about what I saw and wondering about the story behind some of the items laying there on the pavement.

     By far, there were more cigarette butts than any other single item that we saw that day. Portland banned smoking in public buildings, but people still smoke in their vehicles. Judging from the number of butts on the ground, I gather that not too many cars come with ash trays anymore. The story behind the butts is easy to figure out, it was easier to flick the cigarette out of a window than reach over and dirty up an ashtray.

     Next in number were the empty drink containers. Cups that once held a large soda or a caramel double shot extra vanilla bean soy French latte were now crushed or blowing around in the drafts produced by the passing cars and trucks. The cups, like the cigarettes were tossed to the side after they had served their purpose, not unlike some of the less fortunate people in our society, like the seniors and veterans.

As a side note to the above paragraph, the next time you walk into a coffee shop, ask for a “small black coffee” and watch the panic stricken reaction on the young cashier’s face. Chances are they will have to ask for help ringing it up.

     Back to the road. Scattered among the butts and cups were assorted car parts, including a large muffler. There were wheel covers, a mirror, one bumper, and a wheel and tire. I wonder why ODOT or other DOT agencies do not gather up these items and sell them on Craigslist or E-bay. And I thought about the poor guy driving down the Interstate. Suddenly he hits a bump and it sounds like he is driving a Sherman tank after his muffler falls off.

     I’m sure there is a story behind the line of clothes, but I don’t think I want to know what it is. First there were the sneakers, about fifty yards apart, followed by the pants. About a hundred yards farther up was a pair of women’s underwear. My mind came up with a few scenarios about the clothes and I imagined a party or somebody frustrated and not able to wait.

     I thought of another frustrated person who probably got to his office or a meeting and could not find the important reports that he needed for the business. That is because they were scattered along I-5 near the Rose Garden.

     Then there was the wallet. It was lying open, up against one of the concrete barriers. I noticed the driver’s license, credit cards and bills, all intact and I thought about how the driver probably came out of the coffee shop, balancing his large latte, keys, and wallet, and set the wallet on top of his Beemer while he unlocked the door and got in. The wallet probably rode there until he pulled out to pass another car on the freeway.

     I thought of many stories that day as we rolled along, As I saw the above items, along with the gum wrappers, pull tabs, aluminum cans, fast food wrappers and other assorted cast-offs, I was reminded of how the freeway was very much like a river.

     The fast current running down the middle of a river carries or pushes objects towards the banks where they sometimes settle in tidal pools. The freeway has fast moving traffic that creates a current of air, forcing objects to the side of the road, where they remain until somebody picks them up or moves them.

     Sometimes society is like the river or freeway. We have the fast-moving middle current, full of the mainstream busy lifestyles. This middle stream of people sometimes shoves the slower moving people to the side. The veterans, elderly, physically handicapped, mentally challenged, or special needs people end up on the side of the road or river, where they remain until another person takes an interest or a government official gets too embarrassed and decides to “clean up”.

     What’s my point?  Easy! Slow down, look at the side of the road you are traveling. Are you leaving somebody you love in your wake? Can you toss a lifeline or helping hand to another person? Maybe the lifeline you can toss is a simple smile or wave to acknowledge a person.

     

And the Award Goes To......

     Hollywood recently had its biggest awards show of the year. Oscars were handed out for Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Soundtrack, and many other categories. There were a few surprises, some not so surprising wins, and a lot of disappointments. The post awards celebrations lasted through the night and it seemed that any actor who had an opinion about the awards had no problem finding an open microphone to share that opinion.
     What if, at the end of our lives, we had our own awards show, based on the movie of our life? Would we be nominated for the most powerful performance over our life? What would our movie say about our lives?
     Would we walk down the red carpet loaded down and dressed up to draw attention to ourselves, or would we enter quietly knowing we already have a light shining inside us.
     Would we win an award for Best Supporting Role in another person's movie, especially a child's life, or would we just be listed as an extra, somebody that just passed through without adding something meaningful in their life story?
     Would our Soundtrack nomination be full of praises, kind words, and encouragements? Or would it have an abundance of ridicule, hate, and put-downs.
      What would the reviewer see when they looked at our nomination for cinematography? Would they see that our eyes saw the beauty around us, not just in nature, but in people as well? Or would they see that we looked at it all through eyes that saw only faults and flaws. Did you look deeply into the shadows and notice the lost edges of society, or did you slap on the special effects filter and block them out?
      Would we be nominated for Best Make-up, or would we be content with just being ourselves?
      Would we be nominated for a Lifetime Achievement award?  
     And who would be nominated for Best Director of your movie? Who is it that you are taking direction from in your life? Will you be able to list Jesus Christ as your final credits are rolling? 
      I believe that we are all born with the right to choose and the free agency to worship as we believe. As for me, I hope that when my "movie" is reviewed, I will be able to hand whoever is at the door a ticket that says "Admit One."


     
     

BLESSED ARE THE POOR

     Anges Gonxha Bojaxhu was born on Aug 26, 1910 in what was then the Ottoman Empire, and is now part of Macedonia. Her father died when she was only eight years old and her mother raised her as a member of the Roman Catholic religion. She was fascinated by stories of missionaries and by the time she was 12 year old, that is what she decided she wanted to do with her life.

     She left home when she was 18 and journeyed to Ireland where she was to learn the English language in order to teach school as part of her mission. In 1929, she traveled to India to teach. She learned the Bengali language and eventually rose to the position of headmistress at the school where she taught.

     Even though she loved teaching, Agnes was troubled deeply by the extreme poverty surrounding her in Calcutta. While on a train bound for an annual retreat, she said she was called to help the poor by living among them. She left the convent, and went out among the poor and homeless. She chose to wear a simple white sari with a blue border instead of the traditional habit of the nuns. She became an Indian citizen, received basic medical training from the Holy Family hospital, and moved out into the slums. It was there that she started a school, and then began tending to the needs of the destitute and needy.

     She was joined by a small group of nuns in 1949, and faced great hardships in their first year, resorting to begging for food and supplies. She was tempted to return to the convent and the comfort that it could provide, but was convinced that to do so was to admit failure.

     At that point, she wrote the following in her diary, “Our Lord wants me to be a free nun covered with the poverty of the cross. Today I learned a good lesson. The poverty of the poor must be so hard for them. While looking for a home I walked and walked till my arms and legs ached. I thought how much they must ache in body and soul, looking for a home, food and health. Then the comfort of Loreto [her former order] came to tempt me. 'You have only to say the word and all that will be yours again,' the Tempter kept on saying ... Of free choice, my God, and out of love for you, I desire to remain and do whatever be your Holy will in my regard. I did not let a single tear come.”

     She received permission from the Vatican to start what was to become the Missionaries of Charity, whose mission according to her words was to care for "the hungry, the naked, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the lepers, all those people who feel unwanted, unloved, uncared for throughout society, people that have become a burden to the society and are shunned by everyone."  She was looking for the “lost edges” of society by living among them and living like them.

     She started the Missionaries of Charity in Calcutta with 13 nuns in 1950, and by 2007, the mission had over 450 brothers and 5,000 nuns worldwide. They operate 600 missions, schools and shelters in 120 countries.

     In 1952, she opened the first home that provided dignity for people who were dying. Her Kalighat, the Home of the Pure Heart, was a free hospice for the poor. People brought there were given the opportunity to die with dignity according to their own faith. The Quran was read to those that were Muslims, water from the Ganges was brought to Hindus, and Catholics were given the Last Rites. She said, “"A beautiful death is for people who lived like animals to die like angels—loved and wanted."

     This wonderful woman, who only wanted to ease the burden of the lost edges of the world and bring them the love and caring that they deserved, died on September 5, 1997. She was born Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhu, but the world knew her as Mother Teresa.