A man dressed in fine clothing was surrounded by a group of people on Christmas eve. He had made his way out to the streets, like he did every year, to weave a tale for those muddling about, those getting their last minute gifts and what have you before the big day to follow. He was once an orphan and heard a story that evoked in him the passion for story telling, for weaving a tale thats purpose was to instil those present with a deeper meaning.

He began by recounting the story he first heard as a younger orphan, called Milk and Honey. It had a profound effect on his life and it made him the success he was today. As what he gave out he surely got returned in spades, and he always shared a little milk and honey, a little kindness, with everyone who came his way.

After finishing the story that he always opened with, he then went on to tell one of his own. The spirit of Christmas was alive and held captive families and others passing by for a brief moment in time...

"Somewhere on a street corner a bum sat, a hobo, one of the less fortunate and very much oppressed. This bum had a little cardboard sign hung around the nape of the neck that asked... 'Please help the needy and spare some change'.

Before now, this lost soul had a promising life. He was being groomed to live a life in the same manner his father did, and his father's father. His father John was a banker who felt his contribution to society was to be of service, in the big wide world, where he could also earn a little money to begin a family. John lived a life he believed to be just, to be true, to be of benefit to the world at large. He was sincere, kind, and generous.

John met the love of his life at his place of work. They fell madly in love and planned to get married and knock out some little ones to love and care for, and hopefully carry the family name and build a legacy. They began swiftly and passionately, having a first born son they were very fond of and proud to call their own. John loved his son as he loved himself, and could see, as he cradled his son each and every night, singing him lullabies with his wife's loving embrace around them both, he had fulfilled something deep within him.

One night on Christmas eve whilst leaving his place of work John saw a bum, sitting outside the bank he had been toiling at for many years. He was now manager, a nice role in society he thought and happy to be carrying out the family legacy. As the bank manager, he wanted to help people who came into his little corner of the world. He felt his service was to those that carried a dollar, a little bit of moolah, something he specifically knew a little about.

Seeing this hobo outside his work, this unfortunate soul, his own conscious wanted to help this man too. John wanted to do something to help ease this man's pain. So instead of just passing by he stopped, pulled out his wallet and bent down. He took a knee in front of the hobo, and gave the man a little bit of what he had in his possession. He felt that he could part with some money to help this unfortunate one on such a holy holiday.

John wasn't by any means religious, yet he had a kind heart and felt compassion to help someone in need. Maybe it was also the collective spirit of the holiday season that seemed to also bring out the selfless best in others.

As John knelt there, his heart filled with compassion like he'd never known before. It was full to the brim, overflowing, and he could feel it as if it were a pain, as if he could feel the other soul's suffering as his own. What he felt next, was a knife digging deep into his back, as an accomplice to the bum had been waiting around the side of the bank for such a moment as to strike this man when he was least expecting it. The bank manager fell to the ground as the two scuffled off, taking his wallet, and his life.

Years later, somewhere on a street corner a bum sat, a hobo, one of the less fortunate and very much oppressed. This bum had a little cardboard sign hung around the nape of the neck that asked... 'Please help the needy and spare some change'. 

This hobo was the son of a bank manager who was stabbed in the back one night after leaving work. The bum had a band of young hoodlums waiting in a dark alley close by, awaiting their opportune moment to strike, hoping a compassionate soul would stop and give a damn and spare some change.

The bum never got to know his father other than the story he was told, yet the story of a kind generous soul was overshadowed by his mother's insistent obsessive focus on her husband being wretched from her life, and her family being torn apart, by a pair of hoodlums."

^{Starve the negative; Feed the positive. What you feed is what will grow. Invest your attention wisely.}