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The Traveler's Gift: Seven Decisions that Determine Personal Success, by Andy Andrews
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“The Traveler’s Gift effectively combines self-help with fiction . . . sustaining momentum while simultaneously passing on instructions for positive thinking . . . an exemplary job at providing positive suggestions for overcoming life’s obstacles.” - Publishers Weekly
“Andy Andrews will challenge you to reach your fullest potential.” - John C. Maxwell, Founder, The INJOYTM Group
“The Traveler’s Gift touched me in a way no other book ever has.” - Barbara Johnson, Humorist and Best-Selling Author
Only a few months ago, he was a successful executive. Now he’s a desperate man. But a divine adventure is about to unfold. Join David Ponder on an incredible journey that will help you discover the Seven Decisions for Success.
In the tradition of best-selling books by Og Mandino, The Traveler’s Gift is destined to become a classic.
- Sales Rank: #4243598 in Books
- Brand: HarperCollins Christian Pub.
- Published on: 2005-05-02
- Number of items: 2
- Dimensions: .50 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 240 pages
Review
"The Traveler's Gift provides a powerful and compelling road map through the highways of life."
--John Schuerholz, General Manager, Atlanta Braves
"... Traveler's Gift is full of insight one can use throughout life. Told with a wonderful story...people of all ages will enjoy reading."
--Randy Travis, Entertainer
"I could not put The Traveler's Gift down. The story itself is gripping, but the wisdom is for the ages."
--Thurl "Big T" Bailey, Musician, Former NBA Star
"In the tradition of Og Mandino, Andy Andrews has spun an engaging morality tale. "
--John C. Maxwell, Founder, The INJOY Group
About the Author
Hailed by a New York Times reporter as “someone who has quietly become one of the most influential people in America,” Andy Andrews is a best-selling novelist, speaker, and consultant for the world’s largest corporations and organizations. He has spoken at the request of four different United States presidents and recently addressed members of Congress and their spouses. Andy is the author of three New York Times bestsellers. He and his wife, Polly, have two sons.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
"please get off the floor and sit in this chair."
Slowly, David opened his eyes and looked directly into the face of a man who seemed vaguely familiar. A small, older gentleman, his short almost-white hair was neatly combed, contrasting with the slightly disheveled appearance of his clothes. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up at the elbows, and his red-and-black-striped tie was loosened at the collar. Atop his sharp nose sat a pair of round spectacles that were thick enough to make his clear blue eyes seem huge.
"This is a very inconvenient time for me," the man said. "Just sit right there and be very quiet." Turning quickly, he walked toward a huge hand-carved desk. Settling himself behind it and picking up a stack of papers, he grumbled, "As if I don't have enough happening right now."
Confused, David glanced around. He was sitting on a large Persian rug, his back against the wall of an ornate, high-ceilinged room. Directly to his left was the hard-backed mahogany chair that had been indicated by the man who was now intently sorting papers across the room. To his right, a globe stood on a pedestal in front of an unlit fireplace.
Easing up and into the chair, David said, "I'm thirsty."
Without looking up, the man replied, "I'll get you something in a bit. For now, please be quiet."
"Where am I?" David asked.
"Look here now." The man cursed as he slammed the stack of papers down on the desk and pointed a finger at David. "I politely asked you to be quiet, and I'm expecting you to do it. You are in Potsdam, Germany, a suburb of Berlin in a free zone presently controlled by the Red army. It is Tuesday, July 24, 1945." Taking a deep breath and appearing to calm down, he reached for his work again.
Separating the papers, he said, "There now, sit and chew on that for a while."
David wrinkled his brow. I must be in a hospital, he thought. This is a creepy old place. And if this guy is my doctor, he has a horrible bedside manner. Sitting absolutely still, trying to collect himself, David watched the man at the desk. Why would he tell me I'm in Germany? he wondered. And the Red army thing? I must have a head injury. Is this some kind of psychiatric exam?
He tugged at the collar of his dark blue sweatshirt. Uncomfortably warm, David noticed a water pitcher and some glasses on a small table near a window directly across the room. He stood up and walked slowly to the water. From the corner of his eye, David saw the man behind the desk briefly glance up, frown, and go back to his work.
David quietly poured a glass of water and, drinking it, looked out the window. He was obviously in a second-floor room of this building or house or whatever it was. Below him, no more than fifty feet away, was the bank of a slow-moving river. There were no people boating, no children playing-in fact, he didn't see anyone at all. "Something isn't right here," David muttered as a breeze crossed his face and rustled the drapes beside him.
Reaching his arm through the open window, David was almost startled to find that the air was warm and humid. Then he realized what had been bothering him. It was the air itself. The air was warm. Every tree within sight was full of leaves, and the grass in the yard below him was green. In the dead of winter?
Putting his glass down on the table, David placed his hands on the windowsill and pushed his whole upper body through the opening. Yes, it was hot, he decided, and pulled himself back inside. What kind of place is this? David wondered. Why are the windows open in the first place? As hot as it is, the air conditioning should be running full blast.
As he moved back toward his seat, David looked around for a thermostat. There wasn't one that he could see. The only temperature-controlling device was an old heater that someone had put in the fireplace. Not that that heater would do anyone any good, he thought. It's so old, it looks like it could have been made in . . . , David stopped in midstride. In a soft voice, he said aloud, ". . . 1945."
Wheeling suddenly, David faced the man behind the desk. The white-haired gentleman looked up and slowly pushed his work to the side. A slight smile on his thin lips, he leaned back into his chair, crossed his arms, and peered curiously at David.
David's mind raced furiously. Potsdam . . . Potsdam . . . , he thought. Why is that name so familiar? Then, like a thunderbolt, it came to him. Potsdam, Germany, he remembered from a television documentary, was the site of the famous war conference after which the decision had been made to drop the atomic bomb on Japan during World War II.
A shudder passed through his body as David put his hands to his head. Think, think, he commanded himself. Who attended the war conference in Potsdam? It was Churchill, Stalin, and . . . All the breath seemed to go out of David at once as he groped for the chair behind him. Sitting down heavily, he stared at the man in front of him. "You're Harry Truman," he said in a shocked tone.
"Yes," the man said, "I am. Though at the moment I would give anything to be almost anyone else."
Swallowing audibly, David said, "They call you 'Give Em Hell Harry.'"
Truman grimaced. "I never give anybody hell," he snorted. "I just tell the truth, and they think it's hell."
Removing his glasses, he rubbed his eyes and said, "Obviously, I'll not be getting any peace from this point on, so we might as well go ahead and talk." Putting his glasses back on, he rose and came out from behind the desk. "By the way," he said, "why not you?"
"Excuse me?" David asked.
"Why . . . not . . . you?" Looking directly into David's eyes, he enunciated the words carefully, separating them as if he were speaking to a child. "I believe that is the answer to the last question you asked before you arrived."
David frowned. Trying to remember, he said, "I was in an accident, I think."
"Yes," Truman said, "that's sometimes how this happens. And the last question a person asks is often, 'Why me?' Of course, 'Why me?' is a question great men and women have been asking themselves since time began. I know the thought has occurred to me more than once during the past few days. It's hard for me to believe that twenty-five years ago, I was a clerk in a clothing store!" Truman extended his hand and pulled David to his feet. "What's your name, son?"
"David Ponder. Am I okay?"
"Well, David Ponder, if you mean 'Am I dead?' the answer is no. If you simply mean 'Am I okay?'" Truman shrugged, "I'm not sure. I've never been given any information on how these things turn out."
Suddenly, David relaxed. Smiling, he said, "I understand. I'm dreaming, right?"
"Maybe you are," the president said, "but, David, I'm not. And even if you are dreaming, that's not a problem. For centuries, dreams have been used to communicate instruction and direction to people of purpose-great men and women. God used dreams to prepare Joseph for his future as a leader of nations. He gave battle plans to Gideon in a dream. Joan of Arc, Jacob, George Washington, Marie Curie, and the apostle Paul were all guided by their dreams."
"But I'm an ordinary guy," David said. "I'm nothing like any of the people you've mentioned-great, I mean-and I'm certainly no apostle Paul. I'm not even sure I believe in God anymore."
Truman smiled as he put a hand on David's shoulder. "That's all right, son," he said. "He believes in you."
"How can you be certain of that?" David asked.
"Because," Truman responded, "you wouldn't be here if He didn't. Occasionally, someone is chosen to travel the ages, gathering wisdom for future generations. It's as if the Almighty literally reaches down and places His hand on a shoulder, and in this particular case," the president peered over his glasses, "it was your shoulder."
A sharp knock at the door drew their attention. Without waiting for a response, a large, stocky man strode into the room. It was Fred Canfil, Truman's special bodyguard. Formerly the U.S. marshal from Kansas City, Fred was temporarily attached to the Secret Service and had become a favorite of the president and his family. "I'm sorry to barge in like this, sir," he said as his eyes surveyed the room. "I thought I heard you talking to someone."
"No, Fred," Truman said as he looked directly at David, "no one here." Then motioning toward the door with his hand, he said, "If you'll see that I'm not disturbed?"
"Of course, Mr. President," Canfil said as he slowly backed out, a concerned look on his face. Still glancing about, he added, "I'll be escorting you to the conference room within the hour, but if you need me before then . . ."
"You'll be right outside," Truman said as he ushered his bewildered friend from the room, "and I won't hesitate to call for you. Thank you, Fred."
As the president closed the door, David asked, "He can't see me?"
"Apparently no one can," Truman replied. "No one, that is, except the person you came to visit. Of course, that makes me look a little crazy," he said with a grin, "in here, all alone, talking to myself." Quickly, he wiped the grin off his face and continued, "But I shouldn't think anyone would find it strange. I have ample reason to be talking to myself, what with everything that's going on here." Truman cocked his head and looked at David from the corner of his eye. "It is curious how you people always seem to show up during critical points in my life."
"So this has happened to you before?" David asked.
"Yes," Truman said, "three times no...
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