Linda Forsythe (C-VINE)

"The first time someone left groceries on my porch, I thought it was a mistake. Bags from Costco. Milk, bread, peanut butter, cereal. No note. I'm Sandra, 68, live alone since Raymond died. Fixed income, careful with every dollar. I called the store. "Someone delivered to the wrong address." "No record of any delivery to your street, ma'am." I brought the bags to my neighbor thinking they were hers. She looked confused. "Not mine. But keep them, Sandra. Early Christmas gift from somewhere." It felt wrong. Like charity. I don't take charity. Two weeks later, more bags. This time with cleaning supplies, toilet paper, canned goods. I was angry now. Who was doing this? Why me? Did I look that pathetic? I stayed up one Saturday, watched through the window. At 6 a.m., a pickup truck slowed down. Young Hispanic man, maybe 30, work boots and a construction vest. He carried bags to my porch, quiet and quick, then drove off. Next Saturday, I was waiting on the porch when he arrived. Startled him good. "Why are you doing this?" I demanded. He froze, bags in hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend—" "I don't need pity." "It's not pity." He set the bags down slowly. "You don't remember me, do you?" I squinted at him. Nothing. "Ten years ago, you worked at Monroe Elementary. Cafeteria." I did. Lunch lady for 25 years before my knees gave out. "I was in fifth grade. My dad got deported that year. Mom worked three jobs, barely kept us fed. Every day for eight months, you gave me extra. More mashed potatoes, extra chicken, second milk carton. You'd say the kitchen made too much, it'd just get thrown out. I knew you were lying. Other kids got normal portions." My throat tightened. I remembered so many hungry kids. Couldn't remember faces anymore. "You never made me feel ashamed," he continued. "Never made me ask. Just filled my tray and smiled. I graduated, got through high school, learned construction. I'm doing okay now. When I drive through the old neighborhood, I saw you outside one day. Recognized you immediately." "So you decided to repay me?" "No," he said firmly. "You can't repay what you did. You kept a kid from starving. I'm not repaying. I'm continuing." I didn't know what to say. "My crew and I, we do this for five families. All people who helped us when we were kids. Teachers who bought us supplies. A coach who gave us rides. People who saw us. We pool money every month, rotate deliveries." He handed me a card. "If you ever know a kid who's hungry, who needs help, call this number. We've got a fund now. Small, but it's there." I took the card. Hands shaking. "What's your name?" I asked. "Carlos." "Carlos, I gave you extra mashed potatoes." "You gave me dignity, Mrs. Sandra. There's a difference." He left. I stood there on my porch, crying over Costco bags, finally understanding something. Kindness doesn't end when the moment ends. It grows roots. Becomes someone else's hands. Feeds forward. I've started volunteering at the food pantry now. My knees hurt, but I can still sort cans, pack boxes. And I keep Carlos's card in my wallet. Because I learned that morning what I'd been too proud to see, receiving grace is just as important as giving it. Let people help you. Then help someone else. That's how it works." . Let this story reach more hearts.... . Credit: Mary Nelson

"The first time someone left groceries on my porch, I thought it was a mistake. Bags from Costco. Milk, bread, peanut butter, cereal. No note. I'm Sandra, 68, live alone since Raymond died. Fixed income, careful with every dollar. I called the store. "Someone delivered to the wrong address." "No record of any delivery to your street, ma'am." I brought the bags to my neighbor thinking they were hers. She looked confused. "Not mine. But keep them, Sandra. Early Christmas gift from somewhere." It felt wrong. Like charity. I don't take charity. Two weeks later, more bags. This time with cleaning supplies, toilet paper, canned goods. I was angry now. Who was doing this? Why me? Did I look that pathetic? I stayed up one Saturday, watched through the window. At 6 a.m., a pickup truck slowed down. Young Hispanic man, maybe 30, work boots and a construction vest. He carried bags to my porch, quiet and quick, then drove off. Next Saturday, I was waiting on the porch when he arrived. Startled him good. "Why are you doing this?" I demanded. He froze, bags in hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend—" "I don't need pity." "It's not pity." He set the bags down slowly. "You don't remember me, do you?" I squinted at him. Nothing. "Ten years ago, you worked at Monroe Elementary. Cafeteria." I did. Lunch lady for 25 years before my knees gave out. "I was in fifth grade. My dad got deported that year. Mom worked three jobs, barely kept us fed. Every day for eight months, you gave me extra. More mashed potatoes, extra chicken, second milk carton. You'd say the kitchen made too much, it'd just get thrown out. I knew you were lying. Other kids got normal portions." My throat tightened. I remembered so many hungry kids. Couldn't remember faces anymore. "You never made me feel ashamed," he continued. "Never made me ask. Just filled my tray and smiled. I graduated, got through high school, learned construction. I'm doing okay now. When I drive through the old neighborhood, I saw you outside one day. Recognized you immediately." "So you decided to repay me?" "No," he said firmly. "You can't repay what you did. You kept a kid from starving. I'm not repaying. I'm continuing." I didn't know what to say. "My crew and I, we do this for five families. All people who helped us when we were kids. Teachers who bought us supplies. A coach who gave us rides. People who saw us. We pool money every month, rotate deliveries." He handed me a card. "If you ever know a kid who's hungry, who needs help, call this number. We've got a fund now. Small, but it's there." I took the card. Hands shaking. "What's your name?" I asked. "Carlos." "Carlos, I gave you extra mashed potatoes." "You gave me dignity, Mrs. Sandra. There's a difference." He left. I stood there on my porch, crying over Costco bags, finally understanding something. Kindness doesn't end when the moment ends. It grows roots. Becomes someone else's hands. Feeds forward. I've started volunteering at the food pantry now. My knees hurt, but I can still sort cans, pack boxes. And I keep Carlos's card in my wallet. Because I learned that morning what I'd been too proud to see, receiving grace is just as important as giving it. Let people help you. Then help someone else. That's how it works." . Let this story reach more hearts.... . Credit: Mary Nelson

If Trump didn’t win 2016, we would have just wrapped up 8 years of Hillary as POTUS, we would be a one-party Democrat State, free speech would not exist on social media, the border would be wide open, the US/NATO would have gone to direct war with Russia, and we would be in WW3. The courts would be packed with Dem judges, DC/Puerto Rico would be states, the nation would be flooded with tens of millions of more illegals, the Dems would have super majorities in both chambers, all elections would be rigged forever, the 2nd Amendment would be gone, and the American People as we know it would eventually cease to exist. This is why I get so frustrated when supposed Conservatives/Republicans bash Trump. You fools. If it wasn’t for Trump, none of us would be here and all of us would be screwed. Most of us would have already been permanently banned from social media years ago. Elon never would have taken control of Twitter/X. We would already be neck deep in WW3. The Conservative movement and Republican Party would not exist. If you knew just how close we were to complete destruction, you would not be criticizing Trump. Trump saved the world is what he did, and in this house, Trump is a hero, end of story.

I'm crying. I can just feel her (((relief))).🥰 Watch the short video... https://twitter.com/mattvanswol/status/2003171246804959447?t=FN8W498u_oidC1CaqgjL2g&s=19

I'm crying. I can just feel her (((relief))).🥰 Watch the short video... https://twitter.com/mattvanswol/status/2003171246804959447?t=FN8W498u_oidC1CaqgjL2g&s=19

https://t.me/bricsnews/9363 This one stroke of the pen will collapse the excuse for military build-up in W. Europe. Noticing the pattern? Trump did this to Israel by bombing Iran’s nuclear facilities. After decades of time and treasure building the Iran nuclear threat narrative Trump ended the excuse in an hour and a half. If everything the turd jockeys do is built on a narrative, taking away the excuses kills the plot.

German historic Christian church shows pole dancing to parishioners on Christmas Eve And yes, it's a Lutheran church. Europe has totally lost it… 🤮🤮🤮 https://t.me/LauraAbolichannel

Good morning! :)

BREAKING: President Trump is making a MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT Monday with SecWar Pete Hegseth and Navy Sec. John Phelan at 4:30PM from Palm Beach 🇺🇸Join👉 @SGTnewsNetwork 📎 X  (Twitter)▪️Truth Social

"And the Zoomies hit like a freight train". 🤣 https://twitter.com/Puppieslover/status/2002414534523277667?t=AkhrNhT9DBRZdsTMvogFlA&s=19

Dog #2 having his own fun. 😁

Dog #2 having his own fun. 😁

Dog having his own fun.. 😊

Dog having his own fun.. 😊

Amen 🙏 💖 Love this. And I believe I was stuck but I am a work in progress and God watches over me and waits for me to listen to Him. https://t.me/bvrvmh

Disney paid a German animator to go back and add "white stripes" on all of the old Disney movies. I just want to say this has been going on for at least 10-15 years, and it's not just being added to old Disney movies, it's being added to both old and new movies, cartoons and commercials to make the dystopian world seem normal. Movies by 20th Century Fox, Columbia, and many others have already been altered with "white stripes" added. It would be interesting if someone could find old movie tapes and create a comparison video with their newer DVD releases, and shoot us a message. Niko 📱Instagram🌐Twitter 🥳Patreon

Good Morning Family 🌄 “My name's Morris. I'm 73. I collect shopping carts in the Walmart parking lot. Worst job in the store. Heat, rain, snow, doesn't matter. I'm out there pushing carts uphill all day while my back screams. Thirty years I gave to this company. Manager once. Then they "restructured." Now I push carts with the teenagers who don't show up half the time. Bitter? Yeah, I'm bitter. But about six months ago, something stupid happened. I was bringing in carts, and this old man was struggling to get one from the corral. Shaky hands, oxygen tank. He couldn't pull the carts apart. I walked over. "Let me get that for you, sir." He looked at me, really looked. "You're too old to be doing this work." Hit me wrong. "Yeah, well, life don't care about fair." But I got him a cart. Walked it to his car. He thanked me three times. Next week, same old man, same struggle. I got him a cart again. Week after that, same thing. Started just watching for him. Thursday afternoons. Blue Buick. I'd have a cart waiting by his car before he even parked. One Thursday, his daughter was with him. She stopped me. "You've been helping my dad." "Just doing my job, ma'am." "No," she said. "Your job is carts. Not kindness. Dad has Parkinson's. Shopping is his only outing. He talks about you all week. Says you make him feel like he still matters." Something broke in me. "He does matter." She handed me a card. "Thank you for seeing him." After they left, I sat in my truck and cried. First time in years. Started noticing others. Woman with a toddler and infant, struggling with cart and kids. Started helping her to her car, watching the kids while she loaded groceries. Veteran with one arm, couldn't manage cart and bags. Started being there. Teenagers at work noticed. "Morris, you're doing too much." "I'm doing what's right." Manager called me in last month. Thought I was finally done. "Morris, customer satisfaction surveys mention you by name. Seventeen times this quarter. Corporate's asking questions." I shrugged. "I just help people." He pushed a paper across the desk. "They're creating a new position. 'Customer Assistance Associate.' Mostly helping elderly and disabled customers. Inside work. Air conditioning. Same pay. They want you." I stared at him. "Why?" "Because you already do it. Might as well make it official." I took the job. Now I'm inside, helping people who need it. But here's what gets me, that old man with Parkinson's, his name is Robert. He died two months ago. His daughter came to tell me. "Dad's last words were about you," she said, crying. "He said, 'Tell Morris he gave me my dignity back. Tell him old men matter because of him.'" I couldn't speak. She handed me something. An envelope. Inside, a letter Robert wrote, "Dear Morris, I see you. You're angry about where life left you. I was too. But you chose kindness anyway. That's not weakness. That's strength. You matter more than you know. Thank you for mattering to me. -Robert" I'm 73. I spent thirty years climbing, then watched it all collapse. Spent the last year pushing carts in parking lots feeling worthless. But I learned something, your circumstances don't define your impact. I had no power, no title, no respect. But I had hands that still worked. And a choice. So wherever you are, whatever knocked you down, whatever bitterness you're carrying, hear this: you can still matter. Right now. Right where you are. Help someone to their car. Hold a door. See the person everyone else ignores. Because the world doesn't need your former glory. It needs your present kindness. That's enough. That's everything.” . Credit: Juliana Hauck

Good Morning Family 🌄 “My name's Morris. I'm 73. I collect shopping carts in the Walmart parking lot. Worst job in the store. Heat, rain, snow, doesn't matter. I'm out there pushing carts uphill all day while my back screams. Thirty years I gave to this company. Manager once. Then they "restructured." Now I push carts with the teenagers who don't show up half the time. Bitter? Yeah, I'm bitter. But about six months ago, something stupid happened. I was bringing in carts, and this old man was struggling to get one from the corral. Shaky hands, oxygen tank. He couldn't pull the carts apart. I walked over. "Let me get that for you, sir." He looked at me, really looked. "You're too old to be doing this work." Hit me wrong. "Yeah, well, life don't care about fair." But I got him a cart. Walked it to his car. He thanked me three times. Next week, same old man, same struggle. I got him a cart again. Week after that, same thing. Started just watching for him. Thursday afternoons. Blue Buick. I'd have a cart waiting by his car before he even parked. One Thursday, his daughter was with him. She stopped me. "You've been helping my dad." "Just doing my job, ma'am." "No," she said. "Your job is carts. Not kindness. Dad has Parkinson's. Shopping is his only outing. He talks about you all week. Says you make him feel like he still matters." Something broke in me. "He does matter." She handed me a card. "Thank you for seeing him." After they left, I sat in my truck and cried. First time in years. Started noticing others. Woman with a toddler and infant, struggling with cart and kids. Started helping her to her car, watching the kids while she loaded groceries. Veteran with one arm, couldn't manage cart and bags. Started being there. Teenagers at work noticed. "Morris, you're doing too much." "I'm doing what's right." Manager called me in last month. Thought I was finally done. "Morris, customer satisfaction surveys mention you by name. Seventeen times this quarter. Corporate's asking questions." I shrugged. "I just help people." He pushed a paper across the desk. "They're creating a new position. 'Customer Assistance Associate.' Mostly helping elderly and disabled customers. Inside work. Air conditioning. Same pay. They want you." I stared at him. "Why?" "Because you already do it. Might as well make it official." I took the job. Now I'm inside, helping people who need it. But here's what gets me, that old man with Parkinson's, his name is Robert. He died two months ago. His daughter came to tell me. "Dad's last words were about you," she said, crying. "He said, 'Tell Morris he gave me my dignity back. Tell him old men matter because of him.'" I couldn't speak. She handed me something. An envelope. Inside, a letter Robert wrote, "Dear Morris, I see you. You're angry about where life left you. I was too. But you chose kindness anyway. That's not weakness. That's strength. You matter more than you know. Thank you for mattering to me. -Robert" I'm 73. I spent thirty years climbing, then watched it all collapse. Spent the last year pushing carts in parking lots feeling worthless. But I learned something, your circumstances don't define your impact. I had no power, no title, no respect. But I had hands that still worked. And a choice. So wherever you are, whatever knocked you down, whatever bitterness you're carrying, hear this: you can still matter. Right now. Right where you are. Help someone to their car. Hold a door. See the person everyone else ignores. Because the world doesn't need your former glory. It needs your present kindness. That's enough. That's everything.” . Credit: Juliana Hauck

Worth Reposting. 🥰 https://twitter.com/LeadersJunction/status/2002244927854690374?t=c2BB5CWbOMZStdH5ibCjjg&s=19

Worth Reposting. 🥰 https://twitter.com/LeadersJunction/status/2002244927854690374?t=c2BB5CWbOMZStdH5ibCjjg&s=19