Paul received an automobile from his brother as a Christmas present. On Christmas Eve
when Paul came out of his office, a street urchin was walking around the shiny new car,
admiring it.

"Is this your car, Mister?" he asked.

Paul nodded. "My brother gave it to me for Christmas." The boy was astounded. "You mean
your brother gave it to you and it didn't cost you nothing? Boy, I wish..." He hesitated. Of
course Paul knew what he was going to wish for. He was going to wish he had a brother like
that. But what the lad said jarred Paul all the way down to his heels.

"I wish," the boy went on, "that I could be a brother like that."

Paul looked at the boy in astonishment, then impulsively he added, "Would you like to take a
ride in my automobile?"

"Oh yes, I'd love that."

After a short ride, the boy turned and with his eyes aglow, said, "Mister, would you mind
driving in front of my house?" Paul smiled a little. He thought he knew what the lad wanted.
He wanted to show his neighbors that he could ride home in a big automobile. But Paul was
wrong again.

"Will you stop where those two steps are?" the boy asked. He ran up the steps. Then in a
little while Paul heard him coming back, but he was not coming fast. He was carrying his little
crippled brother. He sat him down on the bottom step, then sort of squeezed up against him
and pointed to the car. "There she is, Buddy, just like I told you upstairs. His brother gave it
to him for Christmas and it didn't cost him a cent. And some day I'm gonna give you one just
like it...then you can see for yourself all the pretty things in the Christmas windows that I've
been trying to tell you about."

Paul got out and lifted the lad to the front seat of his car. The shining-eyed older brother
climbed in beside him and the three of them began a memorable holiday ride.

That Christmas Eve, Paul learned what Jesus meant when he had said: "It is more blessed to
give..Than recive."

My Holiday Wish for the World Is That
We all Could Be Brothers Like That.

Another story I like very muchThis is where i got this one from please visit both sites

"Something For Stevie"
By Dan Anderson
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His
placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable
busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and
wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react
to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy, with the smooth facial features
and thick -tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried about
most of my trucker customers,because truckers don't generally care
who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the
pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the
mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly
polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some
dreaded "truckstop germ;" the pairs of white shirted business men on
expense accounts who think every truckstop waitress wants to be
flirted with.
I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie, so I
closely watched him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn't have worried. After the first week,
Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a
month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truckstop
mascot. After that I really didn't care what the rest of the customers
thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes,
eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his
duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a
bread
crumb or coffee spill was visible, when Stevie got done with the table.
Our only problem was
convincing him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were
finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from
one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty.
Then he would scurry to the
empty table and carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto cart and
meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag.
If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with
added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and
you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he
met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was
disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social
Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their
social worker, which stopped to check on him every so often, admitted
they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid
him was the probably the difference between them being able to live
together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August,
the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the
Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his
heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome often
had heart problems at a early age, so this wasn't
unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the
surgery in goodshape and be back at work in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when
word came that he was out of
surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a
war hoop and did a little dance down the aisle when she heard the
good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared
at the sight of the 50 year old
Grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie
blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.
He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.
"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay" "I
was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What
was the surgery about?" Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other
two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed.
"Yeah, I m glad he is going to be ok, " she said, "but, I don't know how
he and his mom are going to handle all the bills,from what I
hear, they're barely getting by as it is."
Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the
rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to
replace Stevie, and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were
busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a
couple of paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face. "What's
up?" I asked. "I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends
were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tippe
were
sitting there when I got back to clean it off," she said,"This was folded
and tucked under a coffee cup." She handed the napkin to me, and
three $20 fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big,
bold letters, was printed
"Something For Stevie"
"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him
about Stevie and his mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony
and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this."
She handed me another paper napkin that had "Something For Stevie"
scrawled on it's outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds.
Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said
simply "truckers." That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day
Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His
placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said
he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called
10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming,
fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I
arranged to have his
mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them
both to celebrate his day back.
Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed
through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and
busing cart were waiting.
"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast, "I said. I took him and his
mother by their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you
coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me." I led them
toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. I
could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched
through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after
booth of grinning truckers empty and join the possession.
We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with
coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on
dozens of folded paper napkins.
"First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said.
I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then
pulled out one of
the napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside.
As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the
money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware,
each with his name printed or scrawled on it.
I turned to his mother."There's more than$10, 000 in cash and checks
on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about
your problems. Happy Thanksgiving."
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and
shouting, and there were a few tears, as well. . But you know what's
funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each
other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the
cups and dishes from the table. . . Best worker I ever
hired. . .
The next you see a trucker. . . stop and think!
They are not all bad. . . They run a lot of miles and a lot of hours. . . To
make sure we have food in the grocery stores,clothes, everything we
use, they bring. . . They put up with a lot of BS out there. . . Away
from home days on end, let's start giving them the respect they deserve.
. .