” The Office of Poofness “
POOF SAID
Greetings and Salutations,
We are awaiting further word from a number of reliable types to provide anything further to assist you in making clear the matters at hand.
We are on top of this but not privy to the chatter behind closed doors.
Get the show on the road some say; others say forget it they’ll give up soon; others wish to get their funds out and just forget about it all together. . Of course all want it over and done with!!!!
Just sit back and watch the show that is on going; be willing to be patient a while longer and to make the best of it.. Those who control the strings know what they are doing and it is best to just leave that part completely to them.
We don’t think we are that far off the mark on any of this. We keep a running tally on who is where and what they might be up to but of course no one is willing to talk out of turn. We don’t have the argument any longer whether it will or won’t happen…. It Will… But Timing Is Now Everything…….
Love and Kisses,
Poof
An Inspirational Story of Love by Catherine Moore
‘Watch out! You nearly broadsided that car!’ My father yelled at me.
‘Can’t you do anything right?’
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly
man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my
throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another batt’I saw the car, Dad. Please don’t yell at me when I’m driving.’
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces on nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested this prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn’t lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it.
He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn’t do something he had done as a younger maFour days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into operating room. He was lucky; he survived . But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor’s orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory.
He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out a pastor to set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, ‘I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.’ I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog. I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons: too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.
Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. High hip bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly I pointed to the dog. ‘Can you tell me about him?’ The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. ‘He’s a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we’ve heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.’ He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. ‘You mean you’re going to kill him? ‘Ma’am,’ he said gently, ‘that’s our policy. We don’t have room for every unclaimed dog.’ I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. ‘I’ll take him,’ I said. I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me.
When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!’ I said excitedly. Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. ‘If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don’t want it’ Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house. Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. ‘You’d better get used to him, Dad. He’s staying!’ Dad ignored me. ‘Did you hear me, Dad?’ I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. Dad’s lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal. It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne.
Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend . Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad’s bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends.
Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father’s room . Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad’s bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favourite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad’s peace of mind.
The morning of Dad’s funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church.
The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.’I’ve often thanked God for sending that angel,’ he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article. Cheyenne’s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. . .his calm
acceptance and complete devotion to my father and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers
after all. Life is too short for drama and petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every
opportunity.
Author Unknown
“PP” Prosperity Programs:
The information hasn’t changed since last week…Stay Alert…
Namaste’
Susan
DID YOU KNOW
Did you know there is an index that measures a country’s corruption? It’s called the Corruption Perception Index or CPI. The index scores 180 countries and territories around the world based on perceptions of public sector corruption, using data from 13 external sources. The results are given on a scale of 0 to 100, where 0 is highly corrupt and 100 is very clean.
The U.S. currently stands at a CPI of 67 (a twelve year low) and is ranked 24th out 180 countries and territories. To give you a global picture, Denmark’s CPI is 90 ranking number 1 out of 180. Finland and New Zealand’s CPI number is 87 ranked number 2. Norway CPI is 84 ranked number 3, followed by Sweden and Switzerland. On the low end is South Sudan (CPI 13), Venezuela CPI is 14 ranked 177 out 180.
Now take a look at the countries whose currencies are in the mainstream conversation of the GCR. Zimbabwe (zim) and Iraq’s ( dinar) CPI is 23, a tied ranking of 157 out 180. Indonesia (rupiah) CPI is 34, ranked 110 out 180. Vietnam (dong) CPI is 42 ranked 77 out 180.
This index is a weighted factor used by banking and financial institutions in determining if a given country will honor their liabilities and adhere to globally accepted banking standards ( Basel Accords). Or will these country’s corrupt leaders just steal the funds and not apply them to economic growth , which is the whole goal of a GCR/RV?
This is another of the vast variables determining the implementation of the GCR that is not considered or spoken of in the gambit of Intel narratives. There is a direct correlation between a country’s CPI and their currency’s value. When a country can manipulate another country’s currency value through their foreign currency reserves, political and financial strategies have to be in place to control and oversight these manipulations from outside a corrupt country’s borders. Look at what financial damage just a few bad players can cause . Hugo Chavez and Maduro in Venezuela or Robert Mugunbi in Zimbabwe.
Major corporations will not invest into a country whose CPI is low, thereby inhibiting the economic growth of that country. The result of being excluded from foreign investment, forces that excluded nations to seek other means of enticing investment into their economies. By doing so they attract other investors that are less than scrupulous through deregulation, bribery, specific treaties and a host of other nefarious measures, furthering the degradation of that country’s CPI. The term “thick as thieves” comes to mind.
Other than controlling how a beneficiary of a corrupt country spends their funds, generated from GCR related activity, by means of oversight mechanisms from outside their borders, I see no plausible way that every country will be a beneficiary of the GCR. What’s sad is that the countries that need the most humanitarian aid, are the countries that are the most corrupt. I have no logical answer how this obstacle can be overcome. Power doesn’t corrupt, fear corrupts. Maybe the fear of “loss of power” will control them.
“look at the orators in our publics; as long as they are poor, both state and people can only praise their uprightness; but once fattened on the public funds, they conceive a hatred for justice, plan intrigues against the people and attack democracy” Plutus Aristophanes
DJ
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