I know, i've posted it way to early.. but i will be away from 18th to the 25th, so i'd thought i'd say it now.

Don't forget...

Thanks

Happy Thanksgiving to YA'LL!!! Benita

email today
>
> A Truckers Story

> 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 Downs 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 "truck stop germ" the pairs of white-shirted business men on
> expense accounts who think every truck stop 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 truck stop 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 persuading 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 dishes and glasses onto
> his 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 truck
> stop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so
> often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight,
> and what I paid him was 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
> fi rst 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 have heart problems at an early age so this
> wasn't unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through
> the surgery in good shape 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, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance
> in the aisle when she heard the good news.
>
> Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the
> sight of this 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 ab out?" 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 and 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 Tipper
> 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 bills 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 its 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 Thanks giving, 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. I then
> 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 procession.
> 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.
>
> Plant a seed and watch it grow.
>
> At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or forward it
> fulfilling the need!
>
> If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate
> person.
>
> Well.. Don't just sit there! Send this story on! Keep it going,
> this is a good one!

yes it does shed a tear...time to move for Jesus