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          My son Gilbert was eight years old and had been in Cub Scouts only a short time.  During one of his meetings he was handed a sheet of paper, a block of wood and four tires and told to return home and give it all to "dad."
          That was not an easy task for Gilbert to do.  Dad was not receptive to doing things with his son.  But Gilbert tried. Dad read the paper and scoffed at the idea of making a pine wood derby car with his young, eager son. The block of wood remained untouched as the weeks passed.
          Finally, mom stepped in to see if I could figure this all out.  The project began.  Having no carpentry skills, I decided it would be best if I simply read the directions and let Gilbert do the work.  And he did. I read aloud the measurements, the rules of what we could do and what we couldn't do.  Within days his block of wood was turning into a pinewood derby car.
          A little lopsided, but looking great (at least through the eyes of mom). Gilbert had not seen any of the other kids' cars and was feeling pretty proud of his "Blue Lightning," the pride that comes with knowing you did something on your own.
          Then the big night came.  With his blue pinewood derby in his hand and pride in his heart we headed to the big race.  Once there my little one's pride turned to humility.  Gilbert's car was obviously the only car made entirely on his own.  All the other cars were a father-son   partnership, with cool paint jobs and sleek body styles made for speed.  A few of the boys giggled as they looked at Gilbert's, lopsided, wobbly, unattractive vehicle.
          To add to the humility Gilbert was the only boy without a man at his side.  A couple of the boys who were from single parent homes at least had an uncle or grandfather by their side, Gilbert had "mom."
          As the race began it was done in elimination fashion. You kept racing as long as you were the winner.  One by one the cars raced down the finely sanded ramp. Finally it was between Gilbert and the sleekest, fastest looking car there.
          As the last race was about to begin, my wide eyed, shy eight year old asked if they could stop the race for a minute, because he wanted to pray.  The race stopped.  Gilbert hit his knees clutching his funny looking block of wood between his hands.  With a wrinkled brow he sat to converse with his Father. He prayed in earnest for very long minute and a half.  Then he stood, smile on his face
and announced, 'Okay, I am ready.' As the crowd cheered, a boy named Tommy stood with his
father as their car sped down the ramp.  Gilbert stood with his Father within his heart and watched his block of wood wobble down the ramp with surprisingly great speed and rushed over the finish line a fraction of a second before Tommy's car.
          Gilbert leaped into the air with a loud "Thank you" as the crowd roared in approval.  The Scout Master came up to Gilbert with microphone in hand and asked the obvious question, 'So you prayed to win, huh, Gilbert?'  To which my young son answered, 'Oh, no sir. That wouldn't be fair to ask God to help you beat someone else.  I just asked Him to make it so I don't cry when I  lose.'
          Children seem to have a wisdom far beyond us.  Gilbert didn't ask God to win the race, he didn't ask God to fix the outcome. Gilbert asked God to give him strength in the outcome. When Gilbert first saw the other cars he (did not) cry out to God, "No fair, they had a father's help."
          No,he went to his Father for strength.  Perhaps we spend too much of our prayer time asking
God to rig the race, to make us number one, or too much time asking God to remove us from the struggle, when we should be seeking God's strength to get through the struggle.

Gilbert's simple prayer spoke volumes to those present that night.  He never doubted that God would indeed answer his request. He didn't pray to win, thus hurt someone else, he prayed that God supply the grace to lose with dignity.  By his stopping the race to speak to his Father he also showed the crowd that he wasn't there without a "dad," but his Father was most definitely there with him. Yes, Gilbert walked away a winner that night, with his Father at his side."
-Unknown
(Inspirational submitted by: Anonymous)

 Only a very expensive surgery could help him now . . . and that was out  of the financial question.  She heard Daddy say it with a  whispered desperation, "Only a miracle can save him now."

 Sally went to her bedroom and pulled her piggybank from its  hiding place in the closet.  She shook all the change out on the floor  and counted it carefully.  Three times.  The total had to be exactly perfect.  No chance here for mistakes.  Tying the coins up in a
cold-weather-kerchief, she slipped out of the apartment and made her way to the corner drug store.

She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her attention... but he was too busy talking to another man to be bothered by an eight-year-old.  Sally twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. She cleared her throat.  No good.  Finally she took a quarter from its hiding place and banged it on the glass counter.  That did it! "And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice.

"I'm talking to my brother."  "Well, I want to talk to you about  my brother," Sally answered back in the same annoyed tone.  "He's sick . . .  and I want to buy a miracle."

"I beg your pardon," said the pharmacist. "My Daddy says only a miracle can save him now . . . so how much does a miracle cost?"

"We don't sell miracles here, little girl.  I can't help you."

"Listen, I have the money to pay for it.  Just tell me how much  it costs."

The well-dressed man stooped down and asked, "What kind of a  miracle does your brother need?"

 "I don't know," Sally answered.  A tear started down her cheek.  "I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an  operation.  But my folks can't pay for it . . . so I have my  money.

 "How much do you have?" asked the well-dressed man.

 "A dollar and eleven cents," Sally answered proudly.  "And it's  all the money I have in the world."

 "Well, what a coincidence," smiled the well-dressed man.  A  dollar and eleven cents . . . the exact price of a miracle to save a  little  brother.

He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped  her mitten and said "Take me to where you live.  I want to see  your brother and meet your parents."

That well-dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, renowned  surgeon . . . specializing in solving Georgi's malady.  The operation  was completed . . . without charge and it wasn't long until  Georgi was home again and doing well.  Mommy and Daddy were happily
 talking about the chain of events that had led them to this  place.  "That surgery," Mommy whispered.  "It's like a miracle.  I  wonder how much it would have cost?
 Sally smiled to herself.  She knew exactly how much a miracle  cost... one dollar and eleven cents... plus the faith of a little  child.