July 25, 2014

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Jim Langham


Is life better lived at a slower pace? PDF Print E-mail

By Jim Langham

“I never saw that sculpture before,” a close friend said one evening as we were sitting around the table talking.

She was referring to a small garden behind a neighbor’s yard that was decorated with various statues, flowers and plaques with meaningful sayings.

“Have they always had those beautiful flowers surrounding their bird bath?” she continued. “And this is the first time their little boy has ever come out to greet me. I didn’t know that he was that friendly.”

Her stroll through the neighborhood produced many things she had never seen when she had hurriedly driven down that street on her way to run another quick errand.

 
My reverse bucket list PDF Print E-mail

Several years ago, a close friend in Illinois was informed that he had a type of cancer. Through his battle with the disease, he would call periodically and we would occasionally have a visit. Prior to the dreaded news, we had enjoyed many years of an “encouraging friendship.”

He would be one of the few people I would vent my feelings to, talk over frustrations with or seek wisdom in certain situations, one of the few people I would categorize as a “David and Jonathan” type of friendship.

Several months after the treatments were completed, a Peoria newspaper had a call for articles in which people would write essays about individuals or events that had contributed to their lives in a special way.

 
'Home' is where the heart is PDF Print E-mail

By Jim Langham

When I was a child, my life was centered around elderly people. My grandmother lived in our home and it was as though she were a second mother to me. She would take me along to visit her elderly friends in the small community where I was raised.

As I grew older, I would run errands for them; I would mow their yards, shovel their snow and take goodies to them from our family. When I became a gardner, I would take them goodies from the garden. Giving to the elderly was a way of life for me.

I remember how upset our next door neighbor, Stella, was the day her house caught on fire. I remember the visits with another neighbor, Mary, after her husband, Jake, was killed in an old Model-T Ford. I will never forget the little visits and sugar cookies she shared when I would carry in her wood and water after school.

 
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