They call me the frog lady.

An expert on amphibians I’m not. But it’s a nickname I’m proud of. Let me tell you why.

Four years ago I was living in Florida when Hurricane Wilma tore through. The damage the storm caused to my church was so severe that we had to hold service and Sunday school classes in the fellowship hall.

One muggy afternoon 80 of us crowded into the small hot room for class, and sat side by side on folding chairs. It wasn’t very comfortable…or inspiring.

“How many of you know what the letters F.R.O.G. stand for?” the Sunday school teacher asked.

People shouted out lots of different answers. Where on earth is she going with this? I wondered.

Then our teacher pointed heavenward. Perched atop her index finger was a bright green rubber frog with big googly eyes and spindly legs. It was about the cutest thing I’d ever seen!

“F.R.O.G. stands for Fully Rely on God, and that’s what we need to do, especially now,” she said. Everyone clapped. The message was just what we needed.

All at once, it hit me. Maybe other folks would be inspired by these frogs too.

With some help from the teacher, I ordered several dozen frogs. I wrote, “F.R.O.G., Fully Rely on God,” on small slips of paper, attached each one to a frog then tucked some into my purse. I figured I would hand them out to people who might need a lift.

But what if they thought I was crazy? What if they thought I was some kind of frog lady?

I tested the idea out first on my son, Joseph, a dentist, by mailing him a frog. He was concerned about relocating his business.

He loved the frog! “I wear it in my lab-coat pocket every day,” he told me. “That silly little face and knowing what it stands for always encourages me.”

That gave me encouragement too. Pulling into the gas station one afternoon, I couldn’t help but notice the woman standing at the pump next to mine. She just seemed so sad about something.

I reached into my bag. “I have something for you,” I said, handing over a frog. “I know it doesn’t say much, but I think it says it all. It will bring you a blessing today.”

She didn’t say a word, just stared at the little green frog.

Uh-oh, she thinks I’m crazy, I thought. I turned to walk away.

The woman touched my arm. “You just made my day,” she said. She hopped into her car and drove off with a smile. Right then I knew I had to pass frogs on to more people.

So when I moved from Florida to Virginia, one of the first places I visited was the Veterans’ Care Center. I handed out more than 200 frogs there, thanking those brave men and women for faithfully serving our country.

A little while later I was packing up to leave when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Lester, a veteran I had chatted with earlier.

“I just wanted to tell you again how much I needed this,” he told me. “It’s hard for me to get out to church anymore, and this little green frog makes me feel closer to God.”

The folks in my retirement community get a kick out of the frogs too. And if you should find yourself at one of Roanoke’s drugstores, you might just spy one sitting atop the pharmacist’s pen.

I’ve handed out more than 4,000 frogs, to everyone from teachers to bus drivers to grocers, even the governor of Virginia and President Obama and his family.

Yes, they call me the frog lady, and I don’t mind a bit. But I’m not the one who deserves credit for the big impact these little frogs have. That goes to the One the F.R.O.G. message is all about. The One I fully rely on.

You can order a frog from Oriental Trading:

Vinyl Frog Finger Puppet, Item 39/121

Call: 1-800-228-2269 or visit their website.

Brightly colored oil sticks lay ready on my desk next to a big blank sheet of paper. I hadn’t painted since I was a child.

I never expected to be doing it in graduate school–until I signed up for a class called Art Therapy and Dreams. I was studying at Lesley University to become an expressive therapist for kids who had a hard time talking about their feelings, usually kids who had been emotionally or physically abused.

The different art forms–drawing and painting, dance and drama–gave them ways to communicate and process their experiences. In order to really understand how this therapy worked, I had to try it myself. I stared at the blank paper. Drawing didn’t come naturally to me.

“Don’t judge yourself,” the instructor said. “Just start scribbling!”

I picked up a green oil stick and streaked it across the paper. I made loops and circles with green and red. I grabbed a new sheet and started again. Bright green and purple covered the page, and I added a little blue house up in the corner.

I stopped drawing. Where had I seen a blue house like that before?

In a dream! The memory came back in a rush. I was five. My mother had just been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. She told me not to worry, but I did. Was Mom going to die?

Then one night I had a dream. I was walking down our driveway. An angel waited for me at the end. He scooped me up in his enormous wings. He was glorious!

He cradled me in his strong arms as we flew into the sky. Up, up, past the moon and the clouds until we came to a little blue house amid the stars.

Suddenly I was inside it! And I was no longer afraid. The walls protected me just like the strong arms of the angel. Inside my star house I felt loved and cared for, completely and forever. I felt strong.

That dream became my refuge. No matter how I worried during the day, at night I found comfort in my star house. Finally, I could see that Mom was going to be okay; her disease was under control.

I forgot all about my star house–until that day in my art therapy class when it popped out in my painting. I felt a rush of comfort and strength, just like in my dreams as a child.

“Now you can see the power of art and dreams,” the instructor said when I explained my picture.

The star house became an important part of my master’s thesis. Now that it was back in my life, I didn’t want to let go of the feeling it gave me–even after all these years. I hoped it would help me teach other children how to find such strength within themselves.

After graduating I had a chance to put my skills to work with children on psychiatric wards. We celebrated when a child healed enough to leave the hospital.

We also knew the harsh reality. For too many the struggle was far from over. It was a big step going from a safe, structured environment into an unpredictable world.

“It’s so frustrating,” I said to another therapist one day. “These kids need a place where they can transition at their own pace.” The words had barely left my mouth when a thought came to me: Why don’t you make a place for them?

That night I lay in bed thinking about my star house. Every child deserved what it had given me: a feeling of being loved and protected. But I had had an angel to carry me there on his wings. I didn’t have wings. Could I help other children anyway?

God, I thought, I felt your loving protection in my dream. I want these children to know that feeling too. Help me find a way.

The next day I called a friend who was the director of a group home in Beverly, Massachusetts, which was not far from where I lived. “That’s quite an undertaking,” he said when I told him the idea.

“But if you do it here in Beverly, I could introduce you to locals who could help.”

My friend made good on his promise. We formed a dedicated board of directors, wrote a mission statement with program policies, and developed a business plan. Star House became a nonprofit corporation.

Then the Office of Community Development gave us a grant to buy ourselves a house. I began hunting with a real estate agent. Months went by. I saw house after house with no luck. The few times we did bid, we lost. “It’s hopeless,” I told the agent after another afternoon of searching.

“We’ll find your house,” the agent said. “Don’t worry.” I remembered trying not to worry when my mom first got sick. When I was only five and didn’t know how to keep my worries at bay, God had given me my dream.

But now I was all grown up. I would be strong and put all my worries about finding a house in his hands. Perhaps he would give me this dream too.

“Okay,” I told the agent. “We’ll just keep on looking.”

A few days later we were driving up a narrow driveway. I looked out the car window at a cheerful blue colonial house, much like the one I had drawn with my oil stick. I opened the car door and got out slowly. Could this be the house for us? I stepped onto the sidewalk.

An inviting path led from the front door right to my feet–and what was that on the ground where I stood? A bright blue star drawn in colored chalk.

The homeowner came out and introduced himself. “My daughter drew that star today,” he explained. “She’s been practicing, and that’s the very first star she got just right!”

Not only just right. More like just perfect. Could there be any doubt we had found our house? After a quick tour inside, we sealed the deal.

Today Star House has six children in residence, ages 5 to 12. They go to school, play games, have picnics, make friends and get the intensive therapy they need. When they’re strong enough they will move on to live with families of their own.

But even after they move on, I hope they carry Star House with them, just as I have for so many years. Star House isn’t four walls and a roof, or the furniture or toys donated by the community. The real Star House is a safe place where everyone feels God’s love and protection.

I thought my angel had built it just for me, but God made the house. All children are welcome there.

Download your free ebook, Angel Sightings: 7 Inspirational Stories About Heavenly Angels and Everyday Angels on Earth.

Christmas begins early for me.

In the fall I take my red suits out of storage and get them cleaned. Then I start lifting weights and doing crunches. I need to get strong so I can lift kids up on my lap.

By November I bleach the roots in my beard and hair. My hair is a natural gray–what’s left of it, anyway–but to really get it that straight-from-the-North-Pole snowy white, I need a little help.

I get out the little leather-bound book I use for writing down children’s names. But the book, the beard, the fur-trimmed suits, they’re not what make me a real Santa. That comes from something I discovered years ago.

I grew up right here in High Point. I was a shy, overweight kid, the third-string tackle on the football team and third-chair violinist in the orchestra. The kind of guy who was content to stay in the background.

My social life consisted of pizza parties and bowling nights with the church youth group, where I never said much. The one person I really talked to was my father.

Dad was a kind, gentle man who ran the print shop in town. He’d never learned to drive, so he walked everywhere, and some mornings he even walked me to school.

Those mornings were magical. We talked about everything–sports, school, his business, the family. I didn’t need to be Mr. Popular, surrounded by friends, when I had the best friend I could ever dream of–my dad.

Then one Labor Day weekend he rode with my uncle to Camp Lejeune to pick up my cousins who were being discharged from the service. They were hit by an oncoming car. Dad was killed instantly.

I was 15 and determined to be brave and strong for my mother and younger brother. You’ve got to take care of them now, I told myself.

At the funeral service, I held back my tears. It was tough. Afterward, I went back to my routine–football practice, orchestra rehearsal, pizza parties with the Methodist Youth Fellowship.

But I knew life would never be the same. How could it be, without my best friend? Those walks to school were so lonely now, every step a reminder that Dad was no longer at my side.

That December everyone in my youth group was excited about the Christmas party we were putting on for the children at the local mission. The other kids in the group set to making construction paper chains and wrapping presents, but I just sat at the table, not feeling like celebrating.

Our youth leader cornered me. “Cliff, we’ve got a special job for you at the party.” What would I have to do? Lead a game of musical chairs? Play my violin? I didn’t want to be the center of attention when I was barely keeping it together. “We want you to be our Santa this year,” he said.

I couldn’t muster the energy to argue, so I said okay. Maybe our youth leader figured I’d be honored. But I was sure he picked me because I was the fattest kid in the group. Very little padding necessary.

The day of the party I put on the rented red suit and hat, the wig and the fake cotton beard. I pulled the black belt tight around my waist and took a look in the mirror. I could hardly believe what I saw. The awkward 15-year-old was gone.

In his place stood a jolly, smiling, kindly man. A man who reminded me of my father. I tried a quiet, “Ho, ho, ho,” then hoisted the bag of toys onto my shoulder. I was Santa.

It was so easy at the party. I didn’t have to go up to anyone and start a conversation. I sat in front of the Christmas tree, and the kids came to me. My shyness melted away. I felt confident and friendly, like I’d always wished I could be.

After a child told me about what he wanted for Christmas, I said a prayer for him. And with each prayer, each smile I got from a child, my grief receded a little more and Christmas felt more real. Thank you, Lord, for having our youth leader choose me.

Almost every year after that I made sure to be Santa: college parties, my mother-in-law’s Christmas get-together. I went into the printing business, just like Dad, and played Santa at our holiday party. Still, I wondered if there was something more I could do. I wanted to be a great Santa.

Some other Santas told me about the Charles W. Howard Santa Claus School in Midland, Michigan. A Santa school? Who would have thought?

The school was rigorous–only accepting 10 students per year. Classes on proper costumes and makeup and the history of Santa, starting with the real-life Saint Nicholas, who was known for his generosity. Seminars on how to answer children’s questions.

There was even a sleigh with a full team of reindeer so that Santas could practice waving to a crowd at a parade. “I want to go to this school,” I told my wife, Janie.

“Go,” Janie said. “It’s important to you.”

At first I was intimidated. The other student Santas were so convincing with their beards, jolly voices, twinkling eyes. They were naturals. “I’m not sure I’m cut out to do this,” I said to Tom Valent, the dean of the school.

“Cliff,” he said, “here’s the secret. When you get back to your hometown, you are Santa. Just be the best Santa you can be.” Soon enough I’d earned my degree.

Now that I’d learned so much about the figure of Santa, I was able to take my portrayal to the next level. Santa first appears in Clement Clarke Moore’s 1823 poem The Night Before Christmas, but there he’s a “right jolly old elf” in brown and covered in soot.

The big man with the white beard and red suit showed up later, in Civil War-era cartoons by the artist Thomas Nast. I found a Nast sketch of Santa in red-and-white striped pants handing out presents to the Union troops.

I took that picture to a seamstress and had her design a costume just like it. I even got wool fabric from a Gettysburg weaver who made uniforms for Civil War re-enactors.

I designed other costumes too. One in burgundy velvet with reindeer buttons, another with brass buttons with the letters “S.C.” For cold weather I had a couple of capes made, a green one with trim and another made from an old quilt of my grandmother’s (I call it the cape of many colors).

I grew out my beard and discovered that if I bleached it every once in a while, it really did look convincing.

One evening Janie and I were having dinner out when I noticed a little girl staring at me. Finally she came over to our table. “Excuse me, sir, but are you Santa’s brother?” she asked.

“Why, Jessica?” I said. “Do you think I look like Santa?”

Her eyes grew wide. “See,” she said to her parents. “He is Santa! He knows my name.” What neither her parents nor I reminded her was that her name was printed on her hairband.

Every year I play Santa 50 times in a two-month period. I’ve been in parades, shopping malls, photographers’ studios. I listen to hundreds of children tell me what they want for Christmas, their hopes and dreams.

Sometimes they’re shy. “Would you like to be in my book of Good Boys and Girls?” I ask.

I dig in my pocket–I had my seamstress sew it special–and pull out my little leather-bound book. The children come closer and peer at its pages. If their name isn’t there, I write it down in perfect Santa script.

The book isn’t just for them. It’s also for me, because I pray for every child who visits me. That’s the one thing I can give them.

I remember what it’s like to be a kid–how you sometimes feel awkward and lonely. Once I noticed a boy who looked to be about eight, waiting in the back of a crowd until the others had finished. Then he walked up and whispered, “Santa, all I want is for everyone to quit calling me names on the bus.”

I looked at him and could see the boy I’d once been. “I know exactly what you’re going through,” I told him. “What I’m going to do is write your name in my book and when I get home tonight, I’m going to say a prayer for you and ask God to help those children be as nice as you are.”

Sometimes people will tell me, “You know, Jesus is the real reason for the season.” I totally agree. We celebrate the miraculous birth of our savior.

But Santa represents the spirit of giving, and that’s important too, even miraculous sometimes. Because, as I discovered at that youth group Christmas party so many years ago, bringing joy to others brings out the best in you.

Such as I have give I thee… —ACTS 3:6

When I was a girl, I earned extra money by helping my neighbor Alice with her household chores. All year long there was a table in her living room that was never to be disturbed; it held her gifts in progress.

What impressed me most was the way Alice tailored her gifts to the recipients. For a friend who was a sewing teacher, Alice wrapped a book on making doll clothes in gingham fabric. She used a yellow measuring tape in lieu of ribbon and a fat tomato pincushion for the bow.

Years later, when Alice moved to a nursing home a hundred miles away, what troubled me most was the thought that her wonderful gifts would stop. Her home had been sold to pay for her medical expenses, so she had no money of her own. But to my astonishment, when I arrived in Alice’s tiny room on Christmas Eve, gaily wrapped packages were piled high on her bedside table and at the foot of her bed.

Alice couldn’t wait for me to open my gift. She’d cushioned a rose-patterned cup and saucer with a square of clean gauze and packed it in a box that had once held latex gloves. The piece de resistance was a bow she’d crafted from the twill tape the nurses used to secure her tracheotomy tube.

“Where did you ever find this exquisite china?” I asked. I turned it over, looking for clues to its origin. “Oh my goodness, it’s antique Limoges!”

Alice’s face lit up. “Won it at bingo,” she said. “I’ve hooked up with one of the evening nurses, honey. She never fails to pick a winning card.”

As it turned out, all the Christmas gifts Alice had won were donated by local people. Alice had recycled them and put her personal stamp on each one. And she taught me something I would forever carry with me: A generous heart will find a way to give . . . always.

Dear Lord, teach me to give wherever life takes me.

On a frigid February night in 1943, the U.S. troop ship Dorchester surged through rough North Atlantic seas about 150 miles off the coast of Greenland.

Down in the old converted cruise ship’s stifling hold, four U.S. Army chaplains circulated among the frightened young men, some lying wide-eyed in their bunks, others nervously playing cards or shooting dice.

Chatting with the troops, the chaplains eased tensions, calmed fears and passed out soda crackers to alleviate seasickness.

The troops anxiously looked forward to reaching Greenland the next day. They knew that U-boats prowled their ship’s course.

They did not know that by morning nearly three fourths of them would be dead, and that the rest would have their lives changed forever. Nor did they know the magnificent way in which these four chaplains would minister to them.

Father John Washington was from a big Irish Catholic immigrant family in New Jersey. At age 12, near death from a throat infection, he was given last rites. Miraculously he recovered. He told his sister: “God must have something special for me to do.”

Alexander Goode came from a long line of rabbis. He remembered standing in Arlington National Cemetery at age 10 watching through tear-filled eyes the Unknown Soldier being laid to rest. After Pearl Harbor he left his temple in York, Pennsylvania, requesting overseas duty.

Clark Poling, a minister in the Dutch Reformed Church, had turned down a law career to carry on his family’s seven-generation heritage of religious service. “Don’t pray for my safe return,” he told his father before embarking on the Dorchester. “Pray that I do my duty.”

“Old man” of the four was George Fox, who had received the Silver Star, Purple Heart and France’s Croix de Guerre in World War I. On returning home, he entered seminary. Ordained a Methodist minister, he served a circuit of small Vermont churches until December 7, 1941.

“I must go,” he told his wife. “I know what these boys are facing.”

Empathy with the troops came naturally to the four chaplains. They became highly popular, mixing easily with all faiths, counseling, organizing entertainment and praying.

On February 3 the chaplains were still up at 12:55 a.m. when the torpedo struck. The tremendous explosion threw soldiers from bunks; the lights went out and the stricken ship listed to starboard, sinking fast.

Those not trapped below rushed topside. Amid the shriek of escaping steam and frantic blasts of the ship’s whistle, dazed men stumbled about the dark, crowded decks. Some gripped the rails, too horror-struck to head toward the lifeboats.

The four chaplains quickly moved among the bewildered men, calming them, directing them to life rafts, urging them to escape the doomed ship.

Many had forgotten their life jackets. The chaplains located a supply in a deck locker and passed them out. When the bin was empty, they pulled off their own and made others put them on.

Only two of the 14 lifeboats were successfully used in abandoning ship. Soldiers leaped into the icy sea. They clutched the gunwales of the two overloaded lifeboats, clung to doughnut-like rafts or floated alone.

The four chaplains remained on the ship’s slanted aft deck, standing together, arms linked, heads bowed in prayer, as the Dorchester slipped beneath the waves.

Of the 902 men aboard, 230 were rescued by two Coast Guard cutters. A British report had stated that survival would be impossible after one-half hour in such cold waters, but some men, insulated by the ship’s thick fuel-oil which coated them, had floated in life jackets for eight hours.

The heroic Four Chaplains have become legend. Memorials to their “Three Faiths, One God” sprang up around the nation to promote brotherhood, fight bigotry and encourage interfaith and interracial unity. So many years later, we at Guideposts wondered about the survivors. What has happened to them?

Thanks to Colonel Archie Roberts, chaplain of the Chapel of Four Chaplains in Valley Forge, Pennsylvania, I was put in touch with a number of survivors.

No one has been able to find any of the four men to whom the chaplains gave their own life jackets. In the mass confusion, those receiving them might not have realized theirs came off a chaplain’s back.

We do know that when John Mahoney started to rush below for his gloves, Rabbi Goode stopped him and gave him his own. Those gloves helped save Mahoney’s life, enabling him to cling to a lifeboat through the night.

It was exciting to talk with the survivors. All say they’ll never forget the Four Chaplains. Some saw them going down with the ship. Others learned of their heroic acts after being rescued.

Most are now in their 70s, retired from active careers. Practically all suffer from numbed limbs and walking difficulties as a result of exposure. They keep in touch with one another through reunions and newsletters.

With high expectations, I asked each survivor: “Has the memory of the Four Chaplains had any effect on your life?”

“Not really,” was the usual answer. But as we continued talking, I began to see that this initial response was one of modesty. For as we discussed their lives, evidence emerged that the men had been affected significantly: In one way or another they had been giving of themselves to help others.

Henry Arnett, of Newport, Arkansas, visits local hospital patients every day. Despite bad legs, he often drives the 180-mile round-trip to Little Rock to cheer patients there.

Thanks to Charles Macli, who now lives in Peekskill, New York, a lot of youngsters in the Bronx, New York, have learned to box in a wholesome gym atmosphere, with some advancing to the Golden Gloves.

In helping keep the Four Chaplains’ memory alive, Walter Miller of Bristol, Connecticut, has written widely distributed poems that honor all those lost in our country’s wars.

And Anthony Naydyhor of Hellertown, Pennsylvania, has devoted the past 12 years to caring for his wife, who is on kidney dialysis. When I suggested that he was showing real selflessness, he shrugged it off. “No,” he said, “it’s a privilege.”

Compassion for others seems to be a guiding factor in these men’s lives.

Edward Dionne of Lake Placid, Florida, volunteers to help blind and needy children. And there’s Daniel O’Keeffe of Sebring, Florida, who helped found a local YMCA; he is a March of Dimes chairman, works with disenfranchised youngsters, and speaks on Judeo-Christian ethics.

The survivors’ spirituality was deepened in different ways. James Ward of Cincinnati says he had little interest in religion before the sinking, but the memory of the chaplains drew him to the church in which he’s active today.

The same goes for Robert Blakely of Alpine, California, who is a lecturer for his Catholic church and, as a Eucharistic minister, serves Communion to housebound parishioners.

But probably what all of the survivors remember most is the example of brotherhood demonstrated by the Four Chaplains. Because of this, Benjamin Epstein of Delray Beach, Florida, lectures on building bridges of understanding between people of all faiths. James McAtamney of Newport News, Virginia, backs him up.

“I was raised in a neighborhood where Jews didn’t speak to Catholics and neither Catholics nor Jews spoke to Baptists. I was amazed to see that these chaplains had so much in common. To see them enjoying one another’s company was a lesson to me in ecumenism long before that word became popular.”

Today “Mac” gives his time to Civitan International, a worldwide community-service club aimed at helping the mentally retarded. Civitan also sponsors Clergy Appreciation Week, celebrated in February to honor ministers of all faiths.

And several—like Walter Boeck-Holt of Algona, Iowa, Charles Ciccia of Manalapan, New Jersey, Dr. Roland Phillips of Abington, Massachusetts, and Michael Warish of Taunton, Massachussets—have written accounts of the sinking, which help keep the memory of the Four Chaplains alive.

Other survivors speak publicly about that terrible night. For many, this is difficult. But the men of the Dorchester feel it is a privilege to honor their comrades and the Four Chaplains so that others will be inspired by their selfless gift.