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Be Still With God By Nancy B. Gibbs
All day long I had been very busy; picking up trash, cleaningbathrooms and scrubbing floors. My grown children were coming homefor the weekend. I went grocery shopping and prepared for abarbecue supper, complete with ribs and chicken. I wantedeverything to be perfect.
Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was dog-tired. I simply couldn'twork as long as I could when I was younger. "I've got to rest for aminute," I told my husband, Roy, as I collapsed into my favoriterocking chair. Music was playing, my dog and cat were chasing eachother and the telephone rang.
A scripture from Psalm 46 popped into my mind. "Be still, and knowthat I am God." I realized that I hadn't spent much time in prayerthat day. Was I too busy to even utter a simple word of thanks toGod? Suddenly, the thought of my beautiful patio came to mind. Ican be quiet out there, I thought. I longed for a few minutes alonewith God.
Roy and I had invested a great deal of time and work in the patiothat spring. The flowers and hanging baskets were breathtaking. Itwas definitely a heavenly place of rest and tranquility. If I can'tbe still with God in that environment, I can't be still with Himanywhere, I thought. While Roy was talking on the telephone, Islipped out the backdoor and sat down on my favorite patio chair. Iclosed my eyes and began to pray, counting my many blessings.
A bird flew by me, chirping and singing. It interrupted mythoughts. It landed on the bird feeder and began eating dinner as Iwatched. After a few minutes it flew away, singing anothersong.
I closed my eyes again. A gust of wind blew, which caused my windchimes to dance. They made a joyful sound, but again I lost myconcentration on God. I squirmed and wiggled in my chair. I lookedup toward the blue sky and saw the clouds moving slowly toward thehorizon. The wind died down. My wind chimes finally becamequiet.
Again, I bowed in prayer. "Honk, honk," I heard. I almost jumpedout of my skin. A neighbor was driving down the street. He waved atme and smiled. I waved back, happy that he cared. I quickly triedonce again to settle down, repeating the familiar verse in my mind.Be still and know that I am God.
"I'm trying God. I really am," I whispered. "But you've got to helpme here."
The backdoor opened. My husband walked outside. "I love you," hesaid. "I was wondering where you were." I chuckled, as he came overand kissed me, then turned around and went back inside.
"Where's the quiet time?" I asked God. My heart fluttered. Therewas no pain, only a beat that interrupted me yet again. This isimpossible, I thought. There's no time to be still and to know thatGod is with me. There's too much going on in the world and entirelytoo much activity all around me.
Then it suddenly dawned on me. God was speaking to me the entiretime I was attempting to be still. I remembered the music playingas I'd begun my quiet time. He sent a sparrow to lighten my lifewith song. He sent a gentle breeze. He sent a neighbor to let meknow that I had a friend. He sent my sweetheart to offer sinceresentiments of love. He caused my heart to flutter to remind me oflife. While I was trying to count my blessings, God was busymultiplying them.
I laughed to realize that the "interruptions" of my quiet time withGod were special blessings He'd sent to show me He was with me theentire time.
Plant a Row for the Hungry By Jeff Lowenfels
It was a cold night in Washington, D.C., and I was heading back tothe hotel when a man approached me. He asked if I would give himsome money so he could get something to eat. I'd read the signs:"Don't give money to panhandlers." So I shook my head and keptwalking.
I wasn't prepared for a reply, but with resignation, he said, "Ireally am homeless and I really am hungry! You can come with me andwatch me eat!" But I kept on walking.
The incident bothered me for the rest of the week. I had money inmy pocket and it wouldn't have killed me to hand over a buck or twoeven if he had been lying. On a frigid, cold night, no less, Iassumed the worst of a fellow human being.
Flying back to Anchorage, I couldn't help thinking of him. I triedto rationalize my failure to help by assuming government agencies,churches and charities were there to feed him. Besides, you're notsupposed to give money to panhandlers.
Somewhere over Seattle, I started to write my weekly garden columnfor The Anchorage Daily News. Out of the blue, I came up with anidea. Bean's Cafe, the soup kitchen in Anchorage, feeds hundreds ofhungry Alaskans every day. Why not try to get all my readers toplant one row in their gardens dedicated to Bean's? Dedicate a rowand take it down to Bean's. Clean and simple.
We didn't keep records back then, but the idea began to take off.Folks would fax me or call when they took something in. Those whoonly grew flowers donated them. Food for the spirit. And salve formy conscience.
In 1995, the Garden Writers Association of America held theirannual convention in Anchorage and after learning of Anchorage'sprogram, Plant a Row for Bean's became Plant a Row For The Hungry.The original idea was to have every member of the Garden WritersAssociation of America write or talk about planting a row for thehungry sometime during the month of April.
As more and more people started working with the Plant a Rowconcept, new variations cropped up, if you will pardon the pun.Many companies gave free seed to customers and displayed the logo,which also appeared in national gardening publications.
Row markers with the Plant a Row logo were distributed to gardenersto set apart their "Row for the Hungry."
Garden editor Joan Jackson, backed by The San Jose Mercury News andCalifornia's nearly year-round growing season, raised more than30,000 pounds of fruits and vegetables her first year, and showedGWAA how the program could really work. Texas fruit farms donatedfood to their local food bank after being inspired by Plant a Row.Today the program continues to thrive and grow.
I am stunned that millions of Americans are threatened by hunger.If every gardener in America - and we're seventy million strong -plants one row for the hungry, we can make quite a dent in thenumber of neighbors who don't have enough to eat. Maybe then I willstop feeling guilty about abandoning a hungry man I could havehelped.
Beyond Expectations By Milt Garrett It seems a car dealership in myhometown of Albuquerque was selling, on average, six to eight newcars a day, six days a week. I was also told that 72 percent ofthis dealership's first-time visitors returned for a second visit.(At that time, the average for all dealerships in Albuquerque forsecond-time visitors was 8 percent.) I was curious and intrigued.How does a car dealership get 72 percent of its first-time visitorsto return? And how can they sell six to eight cars a day in aslumping car market? When I walked into Saturn of Albuquerque thatFriday four years ago, the staff there didn't know me from Adam;yet they shared with me their pricing policy, the profit margin onevery model, and staff income. They even opened their trainingmanuals for my review and invited me back on Saturday if I wantedmore information (an invitation I heartily accepted). I learnedthat this dealership (like all Saturn dealerships) has a "no-dickersticker" policy; that is, the price on the window is the price youpay for the car. Period. You can't even negotiate for a free set offloor mats. Saturn abides by its premise of selling high-qualityautomobiles for a reasonable price. Furthermore, Saturn salesconsultants (their term for customer-contact people) aren't paid acommission - they're salaried. This means when you walk onto theshowroom floor you're not bombarded with what I refer to as "beyondeager"
sales people. I expanded my research to other dealerships inAlbuquerque. It turned out that Ford Escorts, LTDs andThunderbirds, as well as the Mercury Marquis, were also sold as"no-dicker sticker" cars. As Bruce Sutherland at Richardson Fordsaid, "We were losing our market to Saturn because of their pricingand salary policies." He also said, "If we all did what Saturn wasdoing, we'd not only make a decent living, but we'd also enjoy abetter reputation." On Sunday, the day after my second visit to theSaturn store (their term, not mine), my wife, Jane, and I werewalking as we frequently do. On this particular June morning, Janegently slipped her hand in mine and said tenderly, "I don't know ifyou remember, but today's my fifth anniversary of beingcancer-free." She was diagnosed with breast cancer five years agoand had undergone surgery. I was stunned, partially because I wasembarrassed that I had forgotten, and, partially, because...well,it seems we spend all of our time earning a living and never stopto live our earnings. I mean, isn't this what it's really allabout? I didn't know what to do with Jane's information. I spoke toher tenderly. All day. I took her to lunch. I bought the lunch. Itwas a nice, intimate day. The next day, Monday, Jane went off towork teaching school. Still beside myself not knowing what to do tomark this special occasion, I did the most impetuous thing I'veever done in my life: I bought a new Saturn. I bought everyaccessory they produce in Springhill, Tennessee, to hang on thatcar. There wasn't an accessory made that I didn't buy. I didn'tpick the color and I didn't pick the model, but I paid cash andtold them I'd bring Jane in on Wednesday at 4:30 to make those twodecisions. I told them why I was buying the car, and that it was mysecret and they were not to reveal anything to her. Tuesdaymorning, it dawned on me that Jane always wanted a white car. Icalled our sales consultant at Saturn, and I asked him if he hadanything white in the store. He said he had one left but hecouldn't guarantee it'd still be available Wednesday at 4:30because they were selling so fast. I said I'd take my chances andasked him to put it in the showroom. Wednesday came and went.Unexpectedly, someone in our family was admitted to the hospital.So, it wasn't until 9:30 Saturday morning when, after telling Janethe biggest lie to get her out of the house, we finally made ourway to the Saturn store. I quickly turned into the parking lot andJane angrily asked, "What are you doing? You promised me we'd gethome right away." I said, "I'm sorry, I forgot I have to pick upsomething here for my Kiwanis speech next week." Jane had neverbeen in a Saturn store. When we went through the front door, theLord took control of her feet and her mouth. She saw that littlewhite Saturn coupe all the way across the showroom floor. Shequickly passed a multi-colored sea of automobiles, sat in thelittle white Saturn and said, "Oh, what a pretty little car. Can Ihave a new car?" I said, "No. Not until Charlie graduates fromcollege." Our son, Charlie, was attending the University of NewSouth Wales in Sydney, Australia (we call that "out of state"tuition). She said, "I'm sick and tired of driving that old Dodge,I want a new car." I said, "I promise, just three more semestersand he'll be out." Next, Jane walked around to the front of thecar. As she looked it over, she let out the most blood-curdling,shrill scream I'd ever heard in 29 years of marriage. Now, before Itell you why Jane screamed, let me tell you what our salesconsultant had done. He had ordered a large, professionallyengraved sign (white letters on blue) and affixed the Saturncompany logo on it. The sign stood alone on the hood of the littlewhite Saturn coupe. It said "Congratulations, Jane. This car isyours. Five years cancer-free. Let's celebrate life. From Milt,Billy and Team Saturn" Every employee at Saturn of Albuquerque hadendorsed the back of that sign. Jane saw it, screamed, collapsed inmy arms and bawled her eyes out. I didn't
know what to do. I was in tears. I took out my invoice from theprevious Monday, unfolded it and, pointing to the white coupe,said, "No, honey, this car isn't yours. I bought you this one." Itapped the invoice with my index finger. Jane said, "No, I wantthis one right here." Charlie, who was home from college and withus, said, "No, Mom. Dad bought you anything you want in Springhill,Tennessee or anything on the lot here." Jane said, "You don'tunderstand, I want this one." While this conversation was going on,I looked around and discovered that there was no one in the store.Our sales consultant had arranged it so that we could share themoment alone. The mechanics, the clerical staff, the front-deskreceptionist, management and all sales consultants had left thestore for the sanctity of our event. Even so, it's impossible tohave a lot of privacy when so many people are standing outside theshowroom windows looking in. When Jane screamed and collapsed in myarms, I saw everybody outside applaud and begin to cry. Every newcustomer that came to the store in those minutes was not allowed toenter; instead, the staff took them aside and explained what washappening. Jane never drove the car until she took it through theshowroom door that day to drive it home. Over the years, I've toldthis story in the United States, Australia and Indonesia as anexample of legendary service. A woman in my audience in SanFrancisco from Anchorage, Alaska, heard the story; she calledSaturn of Albuquerque long distance and bought a new car. It's likeKen Blanchard says, "It's only the stories told about us thatdifferentiate us in the market place."
Just One Wish By Margaret E. Mack
Fox River gave life to the country town of Colby Point, for theroad and the river ran alongside one another. Colby Point wasreally the name of a road that crept between the hills and valleysof McHenry, Illinois. Homes were scattered here and there - mostlysummer homes and retirement homes. At the very end of the roadthree houses all faced one another. Three sisters - all single, allseniors - lived in one of the homes. Across the way their widowedfirst cousin lived in a yellow house. Next to her lived theirbrother, Bill, and his wife Cleo.
Cleo had multiple sclerosis, so the pair had moved to Colby Pointseeking a quiet, relaxed life. Little did they know when theyrelocated to this serene area that they would end up rearing theirgranddaughter, Margie. Before long, the once quiet neighborhoodbecame active with the sounds of a child.
Margie always looked forward to the arrival of Christmas, and thisyear was no different as winter began to settle like a warm blanketaround Colby Point. Everyone was in a flurry, for at the churchMargie and her family attended, the congregation was preparing toshare their Christmas wishes with each other. Since Cleo couldn'tmake it to church, and Bill didn't like to leave her alone for toolong, he was in the habit of dropping Margie off at church early onSunday mornings; the aunts would bring her home.
As Margie sat in church that morning, she rehearsed in her mindover and over what she would say. She wasn't afraid, for she knewwhat an important wish this was. The service seemed to drag on andon. Finally the pastor uttered the words Margie had beenanticipating all morning, "This is a special time of year wheneveryone around the world celebrates peace and goodwill toward ourfellow man. This year, here at St. John's, we want to hear yourChristmas wishes. We cannot fill everyone's wish, but we would liketo try and fill a few. As I call your name, please come forward andtell us about your Christmas wish."
One after another, the church members shared their wishes, largeand small. Margie was the last and the youngest to speak. As shelooked out at the congregation, she spoke confidently, "I wouldlike for my grandma to have church. She cannot walk, and she and mygrandpa have to stay at home. They miss coming so much. So that iswhat I wish for. And please don't tell them, for it needs to be asurprise."
Riding home with her aunts, Margie could tell they were speaking inlow tones about her wish. She hoped that they would keep hersecret. As the next Sunday came around, Margie was getting readyfor church when Grandma asked, "Why are you so fidgety? You haven'tsat still all morning."
"I just know that something wonderful is going to happentoday!"
"Of course it will," said her grandma with a chuckle. "It's almostChristmas, you know."
Grandpa was getting on his coat when he happened to look out thefront window. He saw some cars coming down the dirt road one afteranother. Now at this time of year there wasn't too much traffic, sothis was really amazing. Margie pushed her grandma to the window sothat she could see all the cars. Pretty soon the cars were parkedall up and down the road as far as a person could see.
Grandpa looked at Grandma, and they both looked at Margie. Grandpaasked, "Just what did you wish for, Margie?"
"I wished that you and Grandma could have church. And I just knewthat it would come true. Look! There's the pastor, and everyonefrom church is coming up the walk."
The congregation arrived with coffee and cookies and cups andgifts. They sang Christmas carols and listened to the pastor speakon giving to others the gifts that God gives. Later that night,Margie slipped out the back door and walked outside to look up atthe stars. "Thank you," she whispered, "thank you for giving me mywish."
That was just one of the many wishes granted for Margie as she grewup. Her childhood overflowed with the love of her grandparents,four great aunts, and many wise, caring neighbors. Margie was trulya blessed little girl.
I should know - I was that little girl.
Working Christmas Day By Victoria Schlintz
It was an unusually quiet day in the emergency room on Decembertwenty-fifth. Quiet, that is, except for the nurses who werestanding around the nurses' station grumbling about having to workChristmas Day.
I was triage nurse that day and had just been out to the waitingroom to clean up. Since there were no patients waiting to be seenat the time, I came back to the nurses' station for a cup of hotcider from the crockpot someone had brought in for Christmas. Justthen an admitting clerk came back and told me I had five patientswaiting to be evaluated.
I whined, "Five, how did I get five; I was just out there and noone was in the waiting room."
"Well, there are five signed in." So I went straight out and calledthe first name. Five bodies showed up at my triage desk, a palepetite woman and four small children in somewhat rumpledclothing.
"Are you all sick?" I asked suspiciously.
"Yes," she said weakly, and lowered her head.
"Okay," I replied, unconvinced, "who's first?" One by one they satdown, and I asked the usual preliminary questions. When it came todescriptions of their presenting problems, things got a littlevague. Two of the children had headaches, but the headaches weren'taccompanied by the normal body language of holding the head ortrying to keep it still or squinting or grimacing. Two children hadearaches, but only one could tell me which ear was affected. Themother complained of a cough, but seemed to work to produceit.
Something was wrong with the picture. Our hospital policy, however,was not to turn away any patient, so we would see them. When Iexplained to the mother that it might be a little while before adoctor saw her because, even though the waiting room was empty,ambulances had brought in several, more critical patients, in theback, she responded, "Take your time, it's warm in here." Sheturned and, with a smile, guided her brood into the waitingroom.
On a hunch (call it nursing judgment), I checked the chart afterthe admitting clerk had finished registering the family. No address- they were homeless. The waiting room was warm.
I looked out at the family huddled by the Christmas tree. Thelittlest one was pointing at the television and exclaimingsomething to her mother. The oldest one was looking at herreflection in an ornament on the Christmas tree.
I went back to the nurses station and mentioned we had a homelessfamily in the waiting room - a mother and four children betweenfour and ten years of age. The nurses, grumbling about workingChristmas, turned to compassion for a family just trying to getwarm on Christmas. The team went into action, much as we do whenthere's a medical emergency. But this one was a Christmasemergency.
We were all offered a free meal in the hospital cafeteria onChristmas Day, so we claimed that meal and prepared a banquet forour Christmas guests.
We needed presents. We put together oranges and apples in a basketone of our vendors had brought the department for Christmas. Wemade little goodie bags of stickers we borrowed from the X-raydepartment, candy that one of the doctors had brought the nurses,crayons the hospital had from a recent coloring contest, nurse bearbuttons the hospital had given the nurses at annual training dayand little fuzzy bears that nurses clipped onto their stethoscopes.We also found a mug, a package of powdered cocoa, and a few otherodds and ends. We pulled ribbon and wrapping paper and bells offthe department's decorations that we had all contributed to. Asseriously as we met physical needs of the patients that came to usthat day, our team worked to meet the needs, and exceed theexpectations, of a family who just wanted to be warm on ChristmasDay.
We took turns joining the Christmas party in the waiting room. Eachnurse took his or her lunch break with the family, choosing tospend their "off duty" time with these people whose laughter anddelightful chatter became quite contagious.
When it was my turn, I sat with them at the little banquet table wehad created in the waiting room. We talked for a while aboutdreams. The four children were telling me about what they wouldlike to be when they grow up. The six-year-old started theconversation. "I want to be a nurse and help people," shedeclared.
After the four children had shared their dreams, I looked at theMom. She smiled and said, "I just want my family to be safe, warmand content - just like they are right now."
The "party" lasted most of the shift, before we were able to locatea shelter that would take the family in on Christmas Day. Themother had asked that their charts be pulled, so these patientswere not seen that day in the emergency department. But they weretreated.
As they walked to the door to leave, the four-year-old came runningback, gave me a hug and whispered, "Thanks for being our angelstoday." As she ran back to join her family, they all waved one moretime before the door closed. I turned around slowly to get back towork, a little embarrassed for the tears in my eyes. There stood agroup of my coworkers, one with a box of tissues, which she passedaround to each nurse who worked a Christmas Day she will neverforget.
Light in the Window By Eileen Goltz
It was the first night of Chanukah and the night before Ellie'slast final. As a freshman she was more than ready to go home forthe first time since August. She'd packed every thing she needed totake home except the books she was cramming with and her menorah,the 8 branch candelabra that's lit every night of Chanukah. Elliehad been so tempted to pack the menorah earlier that night.However, just as she was getting ready to justify to herself why itwas OK to "skip" the first night's lighting - (A) she'd have towait for the candles to burn out before she could leave for thelibrary and (B) she had no clue as to where her candles were hiding- her conscience (and common sense) kicked in. The voice comingfrom that special place in her body where "mother guilt" residessaid, "You have the menorah out, so light it already." Never one toignore her mother's advice, Ellie dug up the candles, lit them,said the blessings, placed the menorah on her window sill and spentthe rest of the evening in her room studying.
Ellie's first winter break was uneventful, and when she returned toher dorm on the day before classes started she was surprised tofind a small note taped to her door.
"Thank you," the note said. It was signed "Susan." It was dated theday that Ellie had left after finals. Ellie was totally perplexed.She didn't know a Susan. Convinced that the letter had beendelivered to her by mistake, Ellie put the note on her desk andforgot about it.
About a half an hour before she was getting ready to head out fordinner, there was a knock at Ellie's door. There, standing in thehall was a woman Ellie didn't recognize. "I'm Susan," she said. "Iwanted to thank you in person but you'd already left before Ifinished my finals."
"Are you sure it's me you're looking for?" asked Ellie. Susan askedif she could come in and explain.
It seemed that Susan had been facing the same dilemma that Elliehad been that first night of Chanukah. She really didn't want tolight her menorah either. Not because she was packing, or washeading home, couldn't find the candles or because she busystudying but because her older sister Hannah had been killed by adrunk driver ten months earlier, and this was the first year thatshe'd have to light the menorah candles alone. The sisters hadalways taken turns lighting the first candle and this wasn'tSusan's year. She just couldn't bring herself to take her sister'splace. Susan said that whenever it was Hannah's turn to light thefirst candle, she'd always tease Susan that the candles she litwould burn longer and brighter than when Susan lit them. One yearshe even went so far as to get a timer out. It had always annoyedSusan that Hannah would say something so stupid but still, it waspart of the family tradition. Susan said that it was just toopainful to even think about Chanukah without Hannah and she haddecided on skipping the entire holiday.
Susan said that she had just finished studying and was closing herdrapes when she happened to glance across the courtyard of the quadand saw the candles shining in Ellie's window. "I saw that menorahin your window and I started to cry. It was if Hannah had taken herturn and put the menorah in your window for me to see." Susan saidthat when she stopped crying she said the blessings, turned off thelights in her room and watched the candles across the quad untilthey burned out.
Susan told Ellie that it was as she was lying in bed that nightthinking about how close she felt to Hannah when she saw themenorah, that it dawned on her that
Hannah had been right. Hannah's last turn always would have candlesthat would burn longer and brighter than any of Susan's because forSusan, Hannah's lights would never go out. They would always bethere, in her heart for Susan to see when she needed to reconnectwith Hannah.
All Susan had to do was close her eyes and remember the candles inthe window, the one's that Hannah had lit the last time it was herturn.
Silent Angel By Duane Shaw
Christmas Day, 1967. I'm a patient at the Ninety-Third MedicalEvacuation Hospital near Saigon, Vietnam. Today I'm semi-alert, butunable to sleep and agonizingly scared. The constant aching pain inmy arms and a pounding headache make me tense. I feel helpless. Myspirit feels empty, and my body feels broken. I want to be backhome.
It's impossible to get in a comfortable resting position. I'mforced to try and sleep on my back. Needles, IV tubing and surgicaltape are partially covered by bloodstained bandages on myarms.
Two days earlier, my squad's mission was to secure the perimeter ofSaigon for a Christmas Day celebration featuring Bob Hope andHollywood's Raquel Welch. While on a search-and-destroy patrol,near the village Di An, we were ambushed on a jungle trail by asmall band of Vietcong guerillas. My right thumb was ripped from mybody by AK-47 assault-rifle fire and fragments from a claymore minegrazed my face and neck.
This medical ward has twenty-one sick and injured GIs, and onerecently captured, young-looking Cambodian. Restrained, he laysseverely wounded in the bed next to mine. I'm filled with anger andhostility. As an infantry combat veteran, I've been brainwashed todespise the Communists and everything they represent.
The first hours are emotionally difficult. I don't want to be nextto him. I want to have an American GI to talk with. As time passesmy attitude changes; my hatred vanishes. We never utter a word toeach other, but we glance into one another's eyes and smile. We'recommunicating. I feel compassion for him, knowing both of us havelost control of our destiny. We are equals.
The survival of the twenty-two soldiers in the ward is dependent onthe attentiveness and medical care from our nurses. Apparently,they never leave our ward or take time off. The nationality,country or cause we were fighting for never interferes with theloving care and nourishment necessary to sustain us. They are ourlife-keepers, our guardians, our safety net, our hope of returninghome. It's nice to just hear a woman's voice. Their presence is ourmotivation to get well so we can go home to our wives, children,moms, dads, brothers, sisters and friends.
Christmas is a special day, even in a hospital bed thousands ofmiles from home. Today the nurses are especially loving andgracious. Red Cross volunteers help us write letters to ourfamilies. All of us still need special attention plus our routineshots, IVs, blood work and I swallow twenty-two pills three times aday. Even on Christmas, life goes on in our little community, likeclockwork, thanks to the dedication of our nurses. They never missa beat, always friendly and caring.
There's a rumor that General Westmorland and Raquel Welch willvisit our ward today and award Purple Hearts to the combat wounded.I'm especially hopeful it's true because I would receive thecommendation. The thought of meeting Raquel Welch and GeneralWestmoreland gives me an adrenaline boost that lasts throughout theday.
By early evening we realize they aren't coming. Everyone is verydisappointed, especially me. The day's activities cease quicklyafter a yummy Christmas dinner and most of my ward mates slip offto sleep by seven or eight o'clock.
It's impossible to sleep. The IVs in my arms continue collapsing myveins one by one. I'm pricked and probed by what feels like knives,not needles. My arms are black and blue after many failed attemptsto locate a vein for IV fluids. I occasionally doze off, only to beawakened by the agonizing pain of another collapsed vein andinfiltrating fluids. My arms are swollen to twice their normalsize. This pain is worse than my gunshot wound.
It's 11 o'clock Christmas night. The ward is silent. My comradesand the Cambodian warrior sleep. I'm tense and suffering.
To avoid waking anyone, I silently signal a nurse. She comes to myside and gazes into my tearing eyes. Quietly, she sits on the sideof my bed, embraces my arm, removes the IV, then lightly massagesmy swollen, painful arms.
Gently, she leans over and whispers in my ear, "Merry Christmas,"and gives me a long, tender hug. As she withdraws, our eyes connectmomentarily. She has tears running down her cheeks. She felt mypain. She turns and moves away, ever so slowly back to herworkstation.
The next morning I wake slowly. I have slept throughout the nightand feel rested. I see while I slept a new IV was inserted in myarm. The swelling is gone. Suddenly, I remember the nurse coming tomy side in the night and my Christmas present. I'm thankful andthink of her kindness. I look towards the nurses' workstation tosee if I can see my angel nurse but she's gone.
I never see her again, but I will forever honor her compassiontoward me on that lonely Christmas night.
Big Red By Linda Gabris
The first time we set eyes on "Big Red," father, mother and I weretrudging through the freshly fallen snow on our way to Hubble'sHardware store on Main Street in Huntsville, Ontario. We planned toenter our name in the annual Christmas drawing for a chance to wina hamper filled with fancy tinned cookies, tea, fruit and candy. Aswe passed the Eaton's Department store's window, we stopped asusual to gaze, and do our bit of dreaming.
The gaily decorated window display held the best toys ever. I tookan instant hankering for a huge green wagon. It was big enough tohaul three armloads of firewood, two buckets of swill or a wholesummer's worth of pop bottles picked from along the highway. Therewere skates that would make Millar's Pond well worth shoveling anddolls much too pretty to play with. And they were all nestledsnugly beneath the breathtakingly flounced skirt of Big Red.
Mother's eyes were glued to the massive flare of red shimmeringsatin, dotted with twinkling sequin-centered black velvet stars."My goodness," she managed to say in trancelike wonder. "Would youjust look at that dress!" Then, totally out of character, mothertwirled one spin of a waltz on the slippery sidewalk. Beneath theheavy, wooden-buttoned, grey wool coat she had worn every winterfor as long as I could remember, mother lost her balance andtumbled. Father quickly caught her.
Her cheeks redder than usual, mother swatted dad for laughing. "Oh,stop that!" she ordered, shooing his fluttering hands as he sweptthe snow from her coat. "What a silly dress to be perched up therein the window of Eaton's!" she shook her head in disgust. "Who onearth would want such a splashy dress?"
As we continued down the street, mother turned back for one morelook. "My goodness! You'd think they'd display something a personcould use!"
Christmas was nearing and the red dress was soon forgotten. Mother,of all people, was not one to wish for, or spend money on, itemsthat were not practical. "There are things we need more than this,"she'd always say, or, "There are things we need more thanthat."
Father, on the other hand, liked to indulge whenever the budgetallowed. Of course, he'd get a scolding for his occasionalsplurging, but it was all done with the best intention.
Like the time he brought home the electric range. In our oldMuskoka farmhouse on Oxtongue Lake, Mother was still cookingyear-round on a wood stove. In the summer, the kitchen would be sohot even the houseflies wouldn't come inside. Yet there would beMother - roasting - right along with the pork and turnips.
One day, Dad surprised her with a fancy new electric range. Sheprotested, of course, saying that the wood stove cooked just dandy,that the electric stove was too dear and that it would cost toomuch hydro to run it. All the while, however, she was polishing itsalready shiny chrome knobs. In spite of her objections, Dad and Iknew that she cherished that new stove.
There were many other modern things that old farm needed, likeindoor plumbing and a clothes dryer, but Mom insisted that thosethings would have to wait until we could afford them. Mom wasforever doing chores - washing laundry by hand, tending the pigs,or working in our huge garden - so she always wore mended,cotton-print housedresses and an apron to protect the front. Shedid have one or two "special" dresses saved for Church on Sundays.And amongst everything else
she did, she still managed to make almost all of our clothes. Theyweren't fancy, but they did wear well.
That Christmas I bought Dad a handful of fishing lures from theFive to a Dollar store, wrapped them individually in matchboxes sohe'd have plenty of gifts to open from me. Choosing something forMother was much harder. When Dad and I asked, she thought carefullythen hinted modestly for some tea towels, face clothes or a newdishpan.
On our last trip to town before Christmas, we were driving up MainStreet when mother suddenly exclaimed in surprise: "Would you justlook at that!" She pointed excitedly as Dad drove pastEaton's.
"That big red dress is gone," she said in disbelief. "It's actuallygone."
"Well...I'll be!" Dad chuckled. "By golly, it is!"
"Who'd be fool enough to buy such a frivolous dress?" Motherquestioned, shaking her head. I quickly stole a glance at Dad. Hisblue eyes were twinkling as he nudged me with his elbow. Mothercraned her neck for another glimpse out the rear window as we rodeon up the street. "It's gone..." she whispered. I was almostcertain that I detected a trace of yearning in her voice.
I'll never forget that Christmas morning. I watched as Motherpeeled the tissue paper off a large box that read, "Eaton's FinestEnamel Dishpan" on its lid.
"Oh Frank," she praised, "just what I wanted!" Dad was sitting inhis rocker, a huge grin on his face.
"Only a fool wouldn't give a priceless wife like mine exactly whatshe wants for Christmas," he laughed. "Go ahead, open it up andmake sure there are no chips." Dad winked at me, confirming hissecret, and my heart filled with more love for my father than Ithought it could hold!
Mother opened the box to find a big white enamel dishpan -overflowing with crimson satin that spilled out across her lap.With trembling hands she touched the elegant material of BigRed.
"Oh my goodness!" she managed to utter, her eyes filled with tears."Oh Frank..." Her face was as bright as the star that twinkled onour tree in the corner of the small room. "You shouldn't have..."came her faint attempt at scolding.
"Oh now, never mind that!" Dad said. "Let's see if it fits," helaughed, helping her slip the marvelous dress over her shoulders.As the shimmering red satin fell around her, it gracefully hid thepatched and faded floral housedress underneath.
I watched, my mouth agape, captivated by a radiance in my parents Ihad never noticed before. As they waltzed around the room, Big Redswirled its magic deep into my heart.
"You look beautiful," my dad whispered to my mom - and she surelydid!
River Baptism By Garth Gilchrist
The summer I turned thirteen, my family's summer vacation was avisit to our relatives in the mountains of North Carolina. Mycousin Jim, who was my age, took me down to his favorite swimminghole along the river. It was a deep pool under a high canopy ofleaves. From the top of a twenty-five-foot cliff we looked downinto the shimmering water and across to a sandy beach.
Standing beside us on the edge of that cliff grew a big white oaktree, with its roots sunk deep down into the rock. And hanging froma limb that stretched out at just the right height and angle, was arope swing.
"Look here," said Jim. "This is the way you do it. You got to get arunning start. Then you grab the rope and swing out and up as highas you can, and then you let go and fall to the water. Here, I'llshow you."
Jim made it look easy, and when his head surfaced in the bubblingwater he hollered up, "Now it's your turn!"
I was certain I was going to die, but at thirteen dying is betterthan looking bad. When I came up sputtering, Jim smiled approvinglyand we swam a few strokes to the beach, lay on the hot sand forawhile, and then swam back across the pool to do it again.
Jim and all of his friends always wore the proper North Carolinaswimming attire, for skinny-dipping was a time honored traditionamong boys throughout the mountain states. Sometimes I felt like Iwas a wild boy, or a beaver sliding through the water. Jim said hefelt like an otter, since he loved to turn and twist in the deeppools and could swim under water a long ways.
Jim's family was Baptists. On Sunday, Jim's mom made us dress up instraight-jacket white shirts and strangle-hold ties, marched usdown the street and filed us into church.
"You must be baptized, by water and by the Spirit" the preacherthundered. That water baptism sounded mighty good. I sat theredreaming of the river and waiting for the wonderful moment when thesermon would be over and Jim and I could go running down the pathto the river.
On the tails of the closing prayer, Jim and I flew out into thesunny day and home for a quick sandwich. Then we plunged down thetrail into the woods alive with the hum of cicadas hanging thick inthe branches of the burr oaks and hickories.
When we got within a hundred yards of the rope swing, Jim said,"I'll race you!"
"You got it!" I replied.
We dropped our clothes right there and tore down the trail to seewho could get to the rope swing first. I was a fast runner, but Jimwas faster. He pulled ahead of me and dove for the rope. With ashriek of victory, Jim swung out over the water and up, to the verytop of the arc. In perfect form, Jim let go of the rope and lookeddown to see where he was going to land.
But there - not twenty yards away on the beach - stood the preacherand two dozen of the faithful, performing a baptism. I could seethey were looking straight up at Jim with their mouths wideopen.
As fervently as Jim prayed to fly, he quickly descended from theheavens. Jim abandoned his plans for a graceful swan dive andinstinctively assumed the cannonball position - known for itsmagnificent splash.
The whole congregation got baptized that day. But Jim never saw it.He broke his record for underwater swimming and was around the bendand out of sight while the congregation stood stunned andspeechless on the shore.
"Don't worry, Jim," I consoled him later. "I'm sure everybodythought you were an angel, and besides, it turned out fine. You gotthe river dunking you wanted, and those folks will never forgetthat baptism."
Thinking about it now, I don't think there's much difference,anyway, between wild boys and angels, or between heaven and a ropeswing on the river.
The Greatest of These By Nanette Thorsen-Snipes
My day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my six-year-oldwrestling with a limb of my azalea bush. By the time I got outside,he'd broken it. "Can I take this to school today?" he asked.
With a wave of my hand, I sent him off. I turned my back so hewouldn't see the tears gathering in my eyes. I loved that azaleabush. I touched the broken limb as if to say silently, "I'msorry."
I wished I could have said that to my husband earlier, but I'd beenangry. The washing machine had leaked on my brand-new linoleum. Ifhe'd just taken the time to fix it the night before when I askedhim instead of playing checkers with Jonathan. What are hispriorities anyway? I wondered. I was still mopping up the mess whenJonathan walked into the kitchen. "What's for breakfast,Mom?"
I opened the empty refrigerator. "Not cereal," I said, watching thesides of his mouth drop. "How about toast and jelly?" I smeared thetoast with jelly and set it in front of him. Why was I so angry? Itossed my husband's dishes into the sudsy water.
It was days like this that made me want to quit. I just wanted todrive up to the mountains, hide in a cave, and never comeout.
Somehow I managed to lug the wet clothes to the laundromat. I spentmost of the day washing and drying clothes and thinking how lovehad disappeared from my life. Staring at the graffiti on the walls,I felt as wrung-out as the clothes left in the washers.
As I finished hanging up the last of my husband's shirts, I lookedat the clock. 2:30. I was late. Jonathan's class let out at 2:15. Idumped the clothes in the back seat and hurriedly drove to theschool.
I was out of breath by the time I knocked on the teacher's door andpeered through the glass. With one finger, she motioned for me towait. She said something to Jonathan and handed him and two otherchildren crayons and a sheet of paper.
What now? I thought, as she rustled through the door and took measide. "I want to talk to you about Jonathan," she said.
I prepared myself for the worst. Nothing would have surprisedme.
"Did you know Jonathan brought flowers to school today?" sheasked.
I nodded, thinking about my favorite bush and trying to hide thehurt in my eyes. I glanced at my son busily coloring a picture. Hiswavy hair was too long and flopped just beneath his brow. Hebrushed it away with the back of his hand. His eyes burst with blueas he admired his handiwork.
"Let me tell you about yesterday," the teacher insisted. "See thatlittle girl?"
I watched the bright-eyed child laugh and point to a colorfulpicture taped to the wall. I nodded.
"Well, yesterday she was almost hysterical. Her mother and fatherare going through a nasty divorce. She told me she didn't want tolive, she wished she could die. I watched that little girl bury herface in her hands and say loud enough for the class to hear,'Nobody loves me.' I did all I could to console her, but it onlyseemed to make matters worse."
"I thought you wanted to talk to me about Jonathan," I said.
"I do," she said, touching the sleeve of my blouse. "Today your sonwalked straight over to that child. I watched him hand her somepretty pink flowers and whisper, 'I love you.'"
I felt my heart swell with pride for what my son had done. I smiledat the teacher. "Thank you," I said, reaching for Jonathan's hand,"you've made my day."
Later that evening, I began pulling weeds from around my lopsidedazalea bush. As my mind wandered back to the love Jonathan showedthe little girl, a biblical verse came to me: "...these threeremain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."While my son had put love into practice, I had only feltanger.
I heard the familiar squeak of my husband's brakes as he pulledinto the drive. I snapped a small limb bristling with hot pinkazaleas off the bush. I felt the seed of love that God planted inmy family beginning to bloom once again in me. My husband's eyeswidened in surprise as I handed him the flowers. "I love you," Isaid.
The Marks of Life By Diana Golden
My teammates on the United States Disabled Ski Team used to teaseme about the size of my chest, joking that my greatest handicapwasn't my missing leg but my missing cleavage. Little did they knowhow true that would become. This past year, I found out that forthe second time in my life I had cancer, this time in both breasts.I had bilateral mastectomies.
When I heard I'd need the surgery, I didn't think it would be a bigdeal. I even told my friends playfully, "I'll keep you abreast ofthe situation." After all, I had lost my leg to my first go-roundwith cancer at age 12, then gone on to become a world-champion skiracer. All of us on the Disabled Ski Team were missing one set ofbody parts or another. I saw that a man in a wheelchair can beutterly sexy. That a woman who has no hands can appear not to bemissing anything. That wholeness has nothing to do with missingparts and everything to do with spirit. Yet although I knew this, Iwas surprised to discover how difficult it was to adjust to my newscars.
When they brought me back to consciousness after the surgery, Istarted to sob and hyperventilate. Suddenly I found that I didn'twant to face the loss of more of my body. I didn't wantchemotherapy again. I didn't want to be brave and tough and put ona perpetual smiling face. I didn't ever want to wake up again. Mybreathing grew so shaky that the anesthesiologist gave me oxygenand then, thankfully, put me back to sleep.
When I was doing hill sprints to prepare for my ski racing - myheart and lungs and leg muscles all on fire - I'd often be hit bythe sensation that there were no resources left inside me withwhich to keep going. Then I'd think about the races ahead - mydream of pushing my potential as far as it could go, thesatisfaction of breaking through my own barriers - and that wouldget me through the sprints. The same tenacity that served me sowell in ski racing helped me survive my second bout withcancer.
After the mastectomies, I knew that one way to get myself goingwould be to start exercising again, so I headed for the local pool.In the communal shower, I found myself noticing other women'sbreasts for the first time in my life. Size-D breasts and size-Abreasts, sagging breasts and perky breasts. Suddenly and for thefirst time, after all these years of missing a leg, I felt acutelyself-conscious. I couldn't bring myself to undress.
I decided it was time to confront myself. That night at home, Itook off all my clothes and had a long look at the woman in themirror. She was androgynous. Take my face - without makeup, it wasa cute young boy's face. My shoulder muscles, arms and hands werepowerful and muscular from the crutches. I had no breasts; instead,there were two prominent scars on my chest. I had a sexy flatstomach, a bubble butt and a well-developed thigh from years of skiracing. My right leg ended in another long scar just above theknee.
I discovered that I liked my androgynous body. It fit mypersonality - my aggressive male side that loves getting dressed ina helmet, arm guards and shin protectors to do battle with theslalom gates, and my gentle female side that longs to have childrenone day and wants to dress up in a beautiful silk dress, go out todinner with a lover and then lie back and be slowly undressed byhim.
I found that the scars on my chest and my leg were a big deal. Theywere my marks of life. All of us are scarred by life; it's justthat some of those scars show more clearly than others. Our scarsdo matter. They tell us that we have lived, that we haven't hiddenfrom life. When we see our scars plainly, we can find in them, as Idid that day, our own unique beauty.
The next time I went to the pool I showered naked.
Burroville By John Soennichsen
Back in 1974, when I was in my early twenties, I befriended a groupof hikers who were mapping a desert trail from the Mexican to theCanadian border. Offering to try a few routes for them throughDeath Valley, I made the drive to a base camp near Ulida Flat,where I camped for the night.
At first light, I started my trek up an alluvial fan into anunnamed canyon in the Cottonwood Mountains. After about an hour ofhiking through the rock-strewn wash, I made my way deeper into theshadows and the bray of a burro told me I wasn't alone. With slow,careful steps, I rounded a bend and found myself in Burroville -Population: 100. I looked around and saw that the majority stood inlittle groups along the slopes while several others were perchedatop the perpendicular cliff walls.
I continued walking and was soon met by an imposing welcomingcommittee-a dozen big Jacks with massive heads, standing shoulderto shoulder and daring me to approach. Though they stood a goodthirty feet away, their resolute stance and effective blockade ofthe canyon ahead made me pause a while to consider my next move.I'd never heard of anyone being killed by a burro, but it was clearthey had no plans to let me pass.
Several moments went by until one of the big Jacks pawed at theground with his hooves and another looked behind him, as if tocheck the rear for a surprise attack. That's when I saw what theburro was actually looking at - a Jenny and
nursing foal standing close beside the canyon wall about twentyfeet back. Our eyes met and the female's flanks shuddered as shewatched me with a wariness that only a true wild thing candisplay.
When I lifted my gaze to scan the slopes behind her, I wassurprised to see other females and their young, planted in groupsof two and three all around me. Suddenly I realized it was the timeof year for foals to drop, and the big males were merely protectingtheir mates and babies. I must have let out a big sigh, because oneof them pricked up his ears and raised his head as if waiting forme to speak.
"Don't worry, guys, I'm just passing through," I calledgently.
No response, just a flutter of flanks and a few ear twitches.Clearly, the subtle approach wasn't working, so I picked up a rockand lobbed it near the biggest Jack. It fell at his feet and helowered his head to sniff it.
Clearly the burro had no intention of moving, so I reluctantlyturned and began to make my way back down the wash in defeat. Thatwas when a loud bray made me about-face once more.
To my surprise, the big jacks were lumbering out of the wash andmaking their way toward the northern walls of the canyon. Now, onlythe biggest of them remained at the edge of the bank, staring atme. Suddenly, the way was clear; I'd won the standoff. I started upthe canyon but was stopped by the look in the burro's great browneyes. As we stood there staring at each other, a shudder passedthrough me.
In that instant the message he sent me became clear: he was askingme to leave the canyon. Politely, and with some measure ofsupplication, but plain as day. And I knew then I couldn't go on,couldn't violate his trust. So I turned and headed back down thecanyon.
As I retreated, I considered my role in creating a desert trailthat hundreds of hikers would traverse each year. Today's unknownroute through a rugged canyon might well become a dotted red lineon some future map. Was it so important that people knew about thisplace? I began to think it wasn't.
Maybe what this earth really needed was a few more unnamed canyons.Maybe there's some intrinsic value in knowing that some mountainswill never be climbed, that a handful of jungles will remainunexplored. Must we really clamber up every alluvial fan, map everydesert canyon, and slap a name on every dry lake and rockyoutcropping?
Perhaps, in the end, it's enough just knowing they're out there -somewhere.
The Diary By Martine Klaassen
Armed with two over-packed suitcases, we arrived at the airportjust in time for my flight. "Well, here we are, the airport," mysister said with a sigh. As I watched her unload my luggage, Icould see the sadness in her eyes. This was not easy on her either.We had both been dreading this moment for the past week. One lasthug and a final good-bye and I would be on my way to a new lifeabroad, leaving my beloved sister behind.
All my life I had loved airports. To me they were some kind ofmagic gateway to the world, a place from which to start greatholidays and adventures. But today it seemed like a cold andheartless place.
As we made our way to the gate we passed through a busload offrustrated holiday goers and their screaming children. I looked atmy sister and even though her eyes were filled with tears, she wastrying to keep a brave face. "You better go or you'll miss yourflight," she said.
"I am just going to walk away and not look back," I said, "thatwould just be too hard."
As I held her one last time she whispered, "Don't worry about me,I'll be just fine."
"I'll miss you," I replied, and with those last words I was off. Aspromised, I did not look back, but by the time I reached thecustom's office I was sobbing. "Cheer up, love," the tall customsofficer said with a smile. "It's not the end of the world, youknow." But to me it was the end of the world, as I had knownit.
While boarding the plane I was still crying. I did not have theenergy to put my bag in the overhead locker, so I stuffed it on theempty seat next to mine. As I settled into my chair, a feeling ofsadness overwhelmed me. I felt like my best friend had just beentaken away from me.
Growing up, my sister and I would do everything together. Bornbarely fifteen months apart we not only looked alike, we werealike. We both had that same mix of curiosity and fear of allthings unknown to us. One sunny summer day I was playing outside onthe grass when she came up to me and said, "Want to come to theattic?" We both knew that the answer to that question was always'Yes.' We were frightened of the attic but also fascinated by itssmells and sounds. Whenever one of us needed something, the otherone would come along. Together we would fight the life-size spidersand battle through the numerous boxes until we found what weneeded.
Over time the visits to the attic became less scary. Eventuallythere came a time when we would go by ourselves, but my sister andI stayed as close as ever. When the time came for us to go tocollege, what better way than for us to go together. My parentswere pleased because that way we could 'keep an eye on each other'and of course report back on what the other one was up to. But nowthat our college days were over and I was off to a foreign country,all I had left were my memories.
The plane shook heavily and the bag that I had shoved onto the seatnext to me fell on the floor. My aspirin, hairbrush and a copy ofthe book I planned to read
were spread on the floor. I bent over to gather them up when I sawan unfamiliar little book in the middle of my belongings. It wasnot until I picked it up that I realized that it was a diary. Thekey had been carefully placed in the lock so I opened it.
Immediately I recognized my sister's handwriting. "Hi Sis, What aday it has been today. First you let me know that you are movingabroad and then my boss..." Only then did I realize that my sisterhad been keeping a diary for the past month and that she was nowpassing it on to me. She had been scheming to start the diary forthe past year but now the time seemed right. I was to write in itfor the next couple of months and then send it back to her.
I spent the rest of the flight reading about my sister's comingsand goings. And even though a large ocean separated us, at somepoint it felt like she was actually there. It was only when Ithought that I had lost my best friend that I realized that she wasgoing to be around forever.
Ramona's Touch By Betty Aboussie Ellis
It was only a few weeks after my surgery, and I went to Dr. Belt'soffice for a checkup. It was just after my first chemotherapytreatment.
My scar was still very tender. My arm was numb underneath. Thiswhole set of unique and weird sensations was like having a newroommate to share the two-bedroom apartment formerly known as mybreasts - now lovingly known as "the breast and the chest."
As usual, I was taken to an examination room to have my blooddrawn, again - a terrifying process for me, since I'm so frightenedof needles.
I lay down on the examining table. I'd worn a big plaid flannelshirt and a camisole underneath. It was a carefully thought outcostume that I hoped others would regard as a casual wardrobechoice. The plaid camouflaged my new chest, the camisole protectedit and the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical access.
Ramona entered the room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, andstood out in contrast to my fears. I'd first seen her in the officea few weeks earlier. She wasn't my nurse on that day, but Iremember her because she was laughing. She laughed in deep, roundand rich tones. I remember wondering what could be so funny behindthat medical door. What could she possibly find to laugh about at atime like this? So I decided she wasn't serious enough about thewhole thing and that I would try to find a nurse who was. But I waswrong.
This day was different. Ramona had taken my blood before. She knewabout my fear of needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernaliaunder a magazine with a bright blue picture of a kitchen beingremodeled. As we opened the blouse and
dropped the camisole, the catheter on my breast was exposed and thefresh scar on my chest could be seen.
She said, "How is your scar healing?"
I said, "I think pretty well. I wash around it gently each day."The memory of the shower water hitting my numb chest flashed acrossmy face.
She gently reached over and ran her hand across the scar, examiningthe smoothness of the healing skin and looking for anyirregularities. I began to cry gently and quietly. She brought herwarm eyes to mine and said, "You haven't touched it yet, have you?"And I said, "No."
So this wonderful, warm woman laid the palm of her golden brownhand on my pale chest and she gently held it there. For a longtime. I continued to cry quietly. In soft tones she said, "This ispart of your body. This is you. It's okay to touch it." But Icouldn't. So she touched it for me. The scar. The healing wound.And beneath it, she touched my heart.
Then Ramona said, "I'll hold your hand while you touch it." So sheplaced her hand next to mine, and we both were quiet. That was thegift that Ramona gave me.
That night as I lay down to sleep, I gently placed my hand on mychest and I left it there until I dozed off. I knew I wasn't alone.We were all in bed together, metaphorically speaking, my breast, mychest, Ramona's gift and me.
As a Man Soweth By Mike Buetelle
When I was in junior high, the eighth-grade bully punched me in thestomach. Not only did it hurt and make me angry, but theembarrassment and humiliation were almost intolerable. I wanteddesperately to even the score! I planned to meet him by the bikeracks the next day and let him have it.
For some reason, I told my plan to Nana, my grandmother - bigmistake. She gave me one of her hour-long lectures (that womancould really talk). The lecture was a total drag, but among otherthings, I vaguely remember her telling me that I didn't need toworry about him. She said, "Good deeds beget good results, and evildeeds beget bad results." I told her, in a nice way, of course,that I thought she was full of it. I told her that I did goodthings all the time, and all I got in return was "baloney!" (Ididn't use that word.) She stuck to her guns, though. She said,"Every good deed will come back to you someday, and every bad thingyou do will come back to you."
It took me 30 years to understand the wisdom of her words. Nana wasliving in a board-and-care home in Laguna Hills, California. EachTuesday, I came by and took her out to dinner. I would always findher neatly dressed sitting in a chair
right by the front door. I vividly remember our very last dinnertogether before she went into the convalescent hospital. We droveto a nearby simple little family-owned restaurant. I ordered potroast for Nana and a hamburger for myself. The food arrived and asI dug in, I noticed that Nana wasn't eating. She was just staringat the food on her plate. Moving my plate aside, I took Nana'splate, placed it in front of me, and cut her meat into smallpieces. I then placed the plate back in front of her. As she veryweakly, and with great difficulty, forked the meat into her mouth,I was struck with a memory that brought instant tears to my eyes.Forty years previously, as a little boy sitting at the table, Nanahad always taken the meat on my plate and cut it into small piecesso I could eat it.
It had taken 40 years, but the good deed had been repaid. Nana wasright. We reap exactly what we sow. "Every good deed you do willsomeday come back to you."
What about the eighth-grade bully?
He ran into the ninth-grade bully.
Disaster on a Mountain By Patricia Lorenz
When Ruth Hagan was seventy-eight years old, she visited herdaughter Judy and teenage granddaughter Marcy in California. Theyheaded for their cabin, zigzagging forty miles up and down themountains in their Bronco, from pavement to gravel to a narrowone-lane road of brittle shale and powdery dirt that woundterrifyingly close to cliffs.
After dinner Marcy announced the water tank was low and that shewould take the Bronco down to the pump and get water. Ruth wasnervous about her young granddaughter driving down the narrow dirtroad by herself, but Judy reminded her that Marcy had been drivingvehicles up there on the ranch roads since she was twelve.
"Just be careful, Marcy," her mother warned. "They've had a dryspell up here and the cliff side is pretty shaky. Be sure to hugthe mountain side."
Ruth said a quick prayer as she and Judy watched Marcy from the bigwindow where they could see the road winding down the mountainside.Fifteen minutes later Judy was still watching when suddenly shescreamed, "Oh no! God help us! She went over the cliff, Momma! TheBronco and Marcy - they went over! We have to help her! Comeon!"
The cabin door slammed and Judy took off running. Ruth ran behindher, but Judy was quickly out of sight after the first turn in theroad. Ruth raced down the steep hill, breathing hard. She ran onand on, down the hill, up the next, trying to catch up with herdaughter. It was getting harder and harder to see anything at dusk.Ruth stopped cold and looked around.
She screamed into the darkness "Judy, where are you?" Off to herimmediate right and down the cliff she heard, "Down here, Mother!Don't come near the edge! I slipped on loose rocks and fell over.I'm down about twenty feet."
"Oh dear God, Judy, what can I do?"
"Just stay back, Momma! The road is giving out all over! I think Ican crawl back up. I saw the white roof of the Bronco when I wasfalling, Momma, and I heard Marcy calling for help. She's alive!But she's way down there in the ravine. You have to go back to thecabin and phone for help. Tell them to send a helicopter. We haveto get Marcy out!"
Ruth resisted looking over the edge to make sure Judy was reallyokay. She turned around and started running back up the hill she'djust stumbled down. Up one hill, down the next. She had one hillleft to climb when she stumbled on loose dirt and rocks and fell onher face. Chest pains took her breath away. She started to sob."Dear God," she prayed, "please help me get back to the cabin so Ican call for help!"
At that moment something went through Ruth. It was like a powerfulenergy and she knew for certain that somebody was there to helpher. She heard the words, "I am here." She stood up, completelyrelaxed and rested. A surge of pain-free energy propelled herforward.
Ruth ran on confidently, faster than she had before, and up thatlast big hill. She turned into the cabin driveway, pushed throughthe front door and dialed 911. She sputtered out the details of thedisaster but unfortunately, she had no idea where she was. Thedispatcher was totally confused. Ruth had to get Judy up to thephone so she could give directions. Ruth stepped out of the cabininto total darkness. She grabbed a three-foot-long walking stickpropped against the cabin door and started running back down theswitchback road.
She continued to run with energy and determination through thedarkness. Up the hill, down the hill, up the second hill. Suddenlyshe stopped, not knowing where she was. "Marcy! Judy!" sheshouted.
A faint voice cried from directly below. "I'm here, Grandma."
Another voice. "Momma!" It was Judy.
Ruth dropped to her knees, then lay flat on her belly as shescooted herself closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. Sheheld the walking stick over the edge and asked Judy if she couldsee it.
"I see it, Momma, I'm almost there."
Ruth heard gravel rolling around where Judy was climbing. Withinminutes, Judy grabbed the other end of the stick and Ruth pulledher 140-pound daughter up and over that cliff. Judy crawled intoher mother's lap, shaking and sweating and immediately passedout.
Ruth held her close and stroked her wet forehead. "Judy, Judy, wakeup. We have to get help for Marcy!" Ruth kept talking and rubbingher daughter's head. Finally, Judy came to. Ruth pulled her to herfeet, and the two women started
walking. Dazed and bleeding, Judy fell three times as they workedtheir way back to the cabin in the darkness.
When they reached the cabin they heard the phone ringing. It wasthe volunteer emergency crew on the other end. Judy sputtered outdirections to where Marcy was. As soon as she hung up, she and hermother started down the mountain again to meet and guide therescuers. They trudged up the hill, down the hill. Still full ofenergy, calm and confident, Ruth held on to Judy, for Judy's sake,not hers.
An hour later, the fire trucks, ambulance, paramedics and, finally,the Flight for Life helicopter arrived. It took three-and-a-halfhours to cut Marcy free from the wreckage at the bottom of thecliff. At last the sheriff pulled her out of the back end of theBronco and carried her to the waiting ambulance. She was rushed tothe hospital for treatment of a crushed ankle and severely brokenleg, foot and finger.
The next day, when the sheriff came to visit Marcy in the hospital,he shook his head and said, "That mountain didn't beat you."
Ruth Hagan knew the mountain didn't beat them because God was therethat night, protecting her, guiding her, breathing strength intoher frail body. Ruth, Judy and Marcy all have their lives to proveit.
Manatee Meeting By Linda Ballou
Walking alone on a remote beach in southwest Florida, I wasstartled to hear splashes and a deep sigh coming from the waterjust offshore.
As I squinted in the direction of the sounds, the rounded gray backof a sea creature rose amid a red froth, rolled turbulently at thesurface, then sank back into the Gulf. Moments later a broad noseemerged and exhaled in a great snuffling breath. It was a manatee,and by the looks of the reddish-colored water and the way it wasthrashing, it was in trouble.
I had often watched manatees in these warm coastal waters, but I'dnever seen one act like this before. Usually just their bignostrils appeared for a gulp of air as they foraged on sea grassesor swam slowly to greener underwater pastures. But I also knew howcommon it was for these lumbering giants to be gashed by boatpropellers or entangled in crab traps.
I wanted to help, but what could I do? There was no one else on thebeach, and the nearest phone to call the Marine Patrol was milesaway.
Tossing my beach bag onto the sand, I began wading toward theanimal, who continued to writhe as if in distress. I was still onlywaist deep when I came close enough to make out the bristlywhiskers on the manatee's muzzle as it thrust up
out of the sea. Then, to my surprise, a second muzzle, muchsmaller, poked up beside it.
I pushed on through the shoal water, but now the manatees were alsomoving toward me. Before I knew what was happening, I was inchest-deep water encircled by not one or two, but at least threeblimplike bodies. I felt elated and slightly dizzy like the kid whois 'it' in a schoolyard game.
A bulbous snout emerged next to me. In the translucent water, Icould clearly see the rest of the huge mammal, and there, nestledclose behind her, a smaller version of her massive body.
Then, with incredible gentleness for such an enormous creature, thelarger manatee nudged the little one with her paddle-shaped flipperand pushed it to the surface beside me. I wanted to reach out andtouch the pudgy sea baby, but I hesitated, not knowing the rules ofthis inter-species encounter.
As the two slipped back underwater, two other manatees moved infrom behind and slid by, one on either side, rubbing gently againstmy body as they swam past. They circled and repeated the action,this time followed by the mother and her calf. Emboldened by theirovertures, I let my hand graze the side of the small manatee, nowclinging to the mother's back, as they made their pass. Its skinfelt rubbery and firm like an old fashioned hot water bottle.
The group completed several more circuits. Since they obviouslyenjoyed touching me, I began stroking each of them as they sidledby. When one of them rolled over for a scratch, I knew I had madethe right move.
Eventually my new friends made their way off towards deeper water.I stood anchored to the spot, not wishing to break the spell, untilfinally the rising tide forced me back to shore.
I suppose I will never know exactly what took place that morning. Ilike to think that the manatees included me in their celebration ofa birth; that I was welcomed to meet the newest member of theirtribe. But over time I have come to cherish the experience withoutquestions.
During that unexpected rendezvous, I felt more in tune with therhythms of life on this vast planet than I ever have. The memoryhas become a song I sing to myself when I have the blues, a dance Ido to celebrate joy.
And each year, during the last week of May, I pack a lunch and headfor that isolated stretch of beach for a quiet little birthdaypicnic on the shore. After all, you never know who might show upfor the party.
Remember, We're Raising Children, Not Flowers! By JackCanfield
I recently heard a story from Stephen Glenn about a famous researchscientist who had made several very important medicalbreakthroughs. He was being interviewed by a newspaper reporter whoasked him why he thought he was able to be so much more creativethan the average person. What set him so far apart fromothers?
He responded that, in his opinion, it all came from an experiencewith his mother that occurred when he was about two years old. Hehad been trying to remove a bottle of milk from the refrigeratorwhen he lost his grip on the slippery bottle and it fell, spillingits contents all over the kitchen floor - a veritable sea ofmilk!
When his mother came into the kitchen, instead of yelling at him,giving him a lecture or punishing him, she said, "Robert, what agreat and wonderful mess you have made! I have rarely seen such ahuge puddle of milk. Well, the damage has already been done. Wouldyou like to get down and play in the milk for a few minutes beforewe clean it up?"
Indeed, he did. After a few minutes, his mother said, "You know,Robert, whenever you make a mess like this, eventually you have toclean it up and restore everything to its proper order. So, howwould you like to do that? We could use a sponge, a towel or a mop.Which do you prefer?" He chose the sponge and together they cleanedup the spilled milk.
His mother then said, "You know, what we have here is a failedexperiment in how to effectively carry a big milk bottle with twotiny hands. Let's go out in the back yard and fill the bottle withwater and see if you can discover a way to carry it withoutdropping it." The little boy learned that if he grasped the bottleat the top near the lip with both hands, he could carry it withoutdropping it. What a wonderful lesson!
This renowned scientist then remarked that it was at that momentthat he knew he didn't need to be afraid to make mistakes. Instead,he learned that mistakes were just opportunities for learningsomething new, which is, after all, what scientific experiments areall about. Even if the experiment "doesn't work," we usually learnsomething valuable from it.
Wouldn't it be great if all parents would respond the way Robert'smother responded to him?
Magic Snowball Time By Colleen Madonna Flood Williams
Every fall, when the frost first played freeze tag with the grass,Papa would come to our house. He would shuffle in, his soft, shinyleather shoes dancing across Momma's sunflower-yellow-tiled kitchenfloor. All six of us kids knew why he was there. First frost meantmagic snowball time.
Papa only came to our house once a year. He and Granny lived in anapartment upstairs from an old neighborhood corner store in the bigcity. Papa said they lived there to be close to the old-fashionedpenny candy counter in the store.
We went to see Papa, Granny and that penny candy counter everySaturday. Unless, of course, the first frost fell on a Saturday.The first frost always meant that Papa was coming to see us.
Papa would bring an old battered coal shovel and an old-fashionedice chest with him. He'd hustle all six of us kids out to thebackyard. Then, he'd start digging and talking. He always worked ashe talked.
Papa would tell us how he'd lived with the gypsies before he'd metGranny. He'd tell us about life on the road with the carnival. He'dshow us magic tricks and tell us strange but true tales of gypsypowers. Then, Papa would start talking about the importance of themagic snowbank.
We'd gather around him and listen like we were supposed to, butnever did, in church. He would tell us how some folks believed thatif you wanted a good snowy winter, you always had to save a littlesnow from the winter before and put it into the magic snowbank.Then, he'd let us each have a turn digging.
The dirt would fly, as we steadily took turns digging down into theearth. We could smell the last barbequed breezes of summer, and thenewly fallen leaves of autumn. Sometimes, we'd all swear that we'dsmelled the peppermint, candy cane, gingerbread house andpoinsettia fragrances of Christmas wafting out of that hole.
Papa would tell us how some folks believed that you have to give tothe earth if you want it to give to you. He'd talk about how anygood farmer knows that you can't expect to reap a harvest withoutplanting seeds. Our snow seeds were in his old ice chest.
Soon enough, Papa would open that old ice chest. We'd crowd aroundit with the same amount of wonder every year. Inside, Papa wouldhave seven perfect magic snowballs. There was always one for him,and one for each of us kids.
We'd wait politely, but impatiently as he passed them out. We couldnever hold them for long, as Papa said it wouldn't work if we wereselfish. We didn't want to melt the snow and have nothing to offerthe earth.
We would solemnly place our snowballs into the hole, quickly, ifstill a bit reluctantly. There's not a child I've ever known thatdidn't want to throw a snowball once it was placed into his or herhands. We weren't any different. We just knew that we had to giveour snowballs to the earth. Our snowballs were magic. Our snowballswere the seeds for the magic snowbank.
Papa would cover our magic snowbank with the dirt that we'dshoveled out of the hole. We'd all hold hands and sing Christmascarols, as Papa buried our magic snowballs.
Then, Papa would wipe his hands on his pants and smile.
"Well, we've planted our magic snowballs on the day of the firstfrost, kids. It's up to the magic snowbank now," he'd say.
When the first snow came, as it did every winter, all six of uswould run out into the yard and catch snowflakes on our tongues andin our mittens. We'd taste the tickly, shivery delight of fallingice stars. We'd examine the crystal beauty of bright white, frostyflakes on dark, warm mittens.
It was all Papa's magic, and we were a part of it. We would danceand hug and giggle and grin and sing, all six of us together. Wenever quarreled or argued on the day the first snow fell. We weretoo pleased with ourselves.
We knew we were magic. The first snow reminded us of Papa, thefirst frost and our magic snowbank deep within the earth. We knewwe had a secret all our own. We had helped the snow to fall onceagain. We were snow farmers, and to us, first frost meant magicsnowball time.
I'm all grown up now. Still, I'll tell you a secret. My familycarries on Papa's magic. We have a magic snowbank in our backyard.Think of us when the first snow flies...as I think of my Papa andhope that someday my grandchildren will think of me.
The Power of a Blue Box By Hanna Bandes Geshelin
When I worked in a Jewish nursing home, I learned the true meaningof the Jewish national Fund Blue Box. A Blue Box is not just apushke into which coins are put. It is the repository of dreams,prayers and efforts of generations of Jews. I learned this one dayat a storytelling activity at my nursing home. One day, tostimulate memories among the participants in my group, I brought atray of objects. I set out a small pair of small candlesticks, acouple of seashells,
a lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief, a Blue Box, and other oddsand ends on the tray and passed it around. The residents wouldfinger the objects, then pass the tray on. When their turn came,they'd share a personal anecdote that one of the objects hadbrought to mind.
That day, an aide had brought Clara to the group. Clara hadsuffered a stroke that left her paralyzed on one side and somewhataphasic: She understood language but had trouble finding thecorrect words when she wanted to speak.
Clara did not take her disabilities with grace. She was angry,hostile and disruptive. Storytelling was the most inappropriateactivity of all, for it focused attention on her languagedisability. But there she was, and I was too busy with the rest ofthe group to wheel Clara back into the hall. I just hoped thatClara wouldn't raise too much of a ruckus.
When the tray went around the room, Clara grabbed the Blue Box inher good hand and clasped it to her chest, refusing to relinquishit. Although no one else took an object off the tray, there weregrumbles from the other participants. "Anyone can tell a storyabout any object - these or any others," I said. The grumbles dieddown. Then the stories began. One woman told how the seashellsreminded her of going to the beach every summer Sunday as a child.Another described the lacy handkerchief she carried when she elopedwith a soldier on the eve of World War II. The next person wasClara, but the person beyond her, knowing Clara never participatedin a group, cleared her throat. Clara waved the Blue Box and said,"Mine, mine." Another old woman, a former social worker, said,"Clara wants to speak!" Clara nodded, and the room becamesilent.
Slowly, haltingly, Clara began her story. Often she said somethingthat made no sense, and I would suggest words that fit better.Clara would shake her head until I hit the right word, then she'dnod. I then repeated the story up to that point, and Clara wouldcontinue. Other old ladies had told their memories in two or threesentences, but in spite of her laborious method of storytelling,Clara told her story in detail.
Her son was six, she said, when World War II was over and the newsof concentration camps became public. Clara, a young Bostonhousewife, was devastated, although all her family was already inAmerica. Her heart ached for the survivors, crammed into DisplacedPersons camps, and she wanted to help. After much thought, she madea plan. Every afternoon, when her son came home from school, shewould take him by one hand with her Blue Box in the other hand, andshe would collect money for Israel. Clara went door to door throughthe Jewish neighborhoods, and everyone gave. But she couldn't juststop, so she started going through other neighborhoods. "Everyonegave," she told the group. "The Irish and the Italians and theGreeks, everyone gave.
"They said, 'I feel so bad for your people. Thank you for giving mea chance to help.'" Clara told the group that for two years, untilthe birth of her second child was imminent, she and her son wentout almost every day to collect money for Israel, money to bringthe survivors home to their new land.
When Clara finished, the room was silent. Her painfully told,detailed account had brought those days back clearly in everyone'smind. They had also peeled back the curtain of time to show thiswoman when she had been vitally alive. Suddenly one old woman beganto clap, and then applause filled the room. Clara nodded at thegroup, and the side of her mouth that could move curved into asmile. Slowly the room returned to normal, and the next person toldher story.
That night, Clara had another stroke, one that left her completelyunable to speak. But in my eyes and those of the other people whohad been in that room that day, Clara never again looked like themere wreck of a woman. Instead, we saw past the wreckage of age tothe vibrant soul of a woman who cared.
The Day I Became a Mom By Linda Jones
The day I became a mom was not the day my daughter was born, butseven years later. Up until that day, I had been too busy trying tosurvive my abusive marriage. I had spent all my energy trying torun a "perfect" home that would pass inspection each evening, and Ididn't see that my baby girl had become a toddler. I'd triedendlessly to please someone who could never be pleased and suddenlyrealized that the years had slipped by and could never berecaptured.
Oh, I had done the normal "motherly" things, like making sure mydaughter got to ballet and tap and gym lessons. I went to all ofher recitals and school concerts, parent-teacher conferences andopen houses - alone. I ran interference during my husband's rageswhen something was spilled at the dinner table, telling her, "Itwill be okay, Honey. Daddy's not really mad at you." I did all Icould to protect her from hearing the awful shouting andaccusations after he returned from a night of drinking. Finally Idid the best thing I could do for my daughter and myself: I removedus from the home that wasn't really a home at all.
That day I became a mom was the day my daughter and I were sittingin our new home having a calm, quiet dinner just as I had alwayswanted for her. We were talking about what she had done in schooland suddenly her little hand knocked over the full glass ofchocolate milk by her plate. As I watched the white tablecloth andfreshly painted white wall become dark brown, I looked at her smallface. It was filled with fear, knowing what the outcome of theevent would have meant only a week before in her father's presence.When I saw that look on her face and looked at the chocolate milkrunning down the wall, I simply started laughing. I am sure shethought I was crazy, but then she must have realized that I wasthinking, "It's a good thing your father isn't here!" She startedlaughing with me, and we laughed until we cried. They were tears ofjoy and peace and were the first of many tears that we criedtogether. That was the day we knew that we were going to beokay.
Whenever either of us spills something, even now, seventeen yearslater, she says, "Remember the day I spilled the chocolate milk? Iknew that day that you had done the right thing for us, and I willnever forget it."
That was the day I really became a mom. I discovered that being amom isn't only going to ballet, and tap and gym recitals, andattending every school concert and open house. It isn't keeping aspotless house and preparing perfect meals. It certainly isn'tpretending things are normal when they are not. For me, being a momstarted when I could laugh over spilled milk.
The Gift of Music By Brandon Lagana
I had been inside the prison called Gander Hill several timesalready by the time I met Ray in the spring of 1993. My fatherworked there with a group teaching inmates to improve theircommunication and speaking skills. I was a senior in college,majoring in speech communications, and eventually I started my ownvolunteer student group at Gander Hill.
Teaching communication means getting people to tell their stories,but Ray could tell you how much he missed playing his guitarwithout speaking. Sometimes he moved his hands across the air as ifhe were playing his favorite blues scale. He always gave me aslight nod when he saw me come into the chapel for the meeting. Heloved sharing his guitar stories. Although he had been an inmate atGander Hill for over a decade, he always had a song in his head, inparticular one that he said he had been writing in his mind sincehis arrival. He looked forward to playing again the way a childcounts the days until summer vacation.
When my group formally established itself at Gander Hill, the menwere allowed a night of celebration to which they could invite oneor two family members. The night of the celebration was just likeChristmas for them. They huddled with their loved ones, whom theyhad not seen or touched in several months or longer. Since hisfamily lived in Texas, no one came to the celebration as Ray'sguest, but he waited patiently for me to arrive. As he rehearsedhis song in his head, I walked into the prison with a guitar.
Ray tuned that guitar as if he were putting his life back intoharmony. I have never heard a guitar tuned like that before orsince. He looked at me over his shoulder and nodded a thank-youbefore bringing his song to life on the guitar. I watched Ray'sfingers dance across the strings as if they were himself, runningfree. And for those moments, he was.
A Change of Heart By George Mapson
It was the tail end of the depression, and things were tough. Mumhad a hard time raising us kids on her own in our small communityof New Westminster, BC. My Dad had drowned in Pitt Lake, five yearsearlier - I still remember it like it was yesterday. Because Dadhad no pension, or benefits, there was not much money so we went onrelief, now called social assistance. We relied on theSalvation
Army to keep us clothed, and although our clothes were second hand,we thought they were beautiful.
Looking back, I realize what Mum went through sending us kids toschool. Every morning she would tuck a new piece of cardboard inour shoes, because our soles were worn out. When we got home, Mumwould have "French Toast" ready for us. This was bread deep-friedin lard. Constant moving was typical for my family in these times.Rent was twenty-five dollars a month, but Mum couldn't pay it, andwe knew we would be evicted right after Christmas on the first ofJanuary. These were hard and sad years, but we nevercomplained.
Christmas was approaching, and we were entitled to a twenty-fivedollar Christmas fund for social services. The Inspector came toour house, and searched it from top to bottom to be sure we didn'thave any food hidden away. When he didn't find any, he issued thecheque for Mum. It was four days before Christmas, and Mum saidthat instead of buying food, she would use the money to pay backrent, assuring us all of a roof over our heads for a little whilelonger. She told us then there would be nothing forChristmas.
Unknown to Mum, I had been selling Christmas trees, shoveling snow,and doing odd jobs to earn enough money to buy a new pair of boots.Boots that weren't patched, boots with no cardboard in the soles. Iknew exactly which boots I wanted. They were ten-inch Top GenuinePierre Paris and they had a price of twenty-three dollars.
Well, the big day came on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I wasvery excited, as I hurried up the road to catch the bus. It wasonly half a mile walk, but on the way I noticed a house withChristmas lights and decorations. It was then I realized that atour house, we had no lights, no decorations, nor any money forChristmas goodies.
I knew then that we would have no turkey or ham for Christmas, andI felt sad. But I knew for certain that we would have Frenchtoast.
As I continued walking I began to feel bewildered. I was elevenyears old, and I was feeling a strange sense of guilt. Here I wasgoing to buy a new pair of boots while Mum was home in tears. Shewould be trying to explain to us why there were no presents. As Iarrived at the bus stop, the driver opened his big manual hingeddoor. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, until eventuallythe driver asked, "Son, are you getting on this bus or not?" Ifinally blurted out, "No thanks Sir, I've changed my mind."
The bus drove off without me, and I stood alone in a daze, butfeeling as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My mindwas made up and I realized what I had to do.
Across the street from the bus stop was a big grocery store calledthe Piggly Wiggley. Into the store I went, brimming with happinessand excitement. I realized that the twenty-five dollars I hadworked so hard for went a long way for groceries. I bought aturkey, ham, oranges and all the Christmas treats. I spent everydime of my hard-earned money. The owner of the grocery store said,"Son, you can't pack all those groceries and carry them homeyourself." So I asked two boys with carriers on their bicycles torun them the half-mile down to our house. As I walked behind thedelivery boys, I whispered for them to quietly unload the grocerieson the porch and pile them against the door. Once they had donethis, with great excitement and tears in my eyes, I knocked on thedoor. I could hardly
wait to see my mother's face! When Mum opened the door, some of thegroceries fell inside onto the floor, and she just stood theredumbfounded. Holding back the tears, I hollered, "Merry ChristmasMother!! There really is a Santa Claus!"
I had a lot of explaining to do as we unpacked all the food and putit away. That day I got enough hugs and kisses from Mum to last twolifetimes. To see my Mother's prayers answered more than made upfor the boots I never got. It was a Merry Christmas for us afterall!
Speaking By Cynthia Laughlin
I was no different from any other mother.
When my little boy, Skyler, was born, I longed for the day he wouldtalk to me. My husband and I dreamed about the first sweet "Mama"or "Dada." Every cry or coo was a small glimpse into my son'smind.
My baby's noises were even more precious to me because Skyler hadbeen born with several health problems. At first, the problems haddelayed his development, but once they were safely behind us, Ilooked forward to my son's first words. They didn't come.
At age three, Skyler was diagnosed autistic, a developmentaldisability destined to affect his social and emotional well-beinghis entire life. Skyler couldn't talk - wouldn't talk. I wouldprobably never hear any words from him at all. In a store, I wouldhear a child calling "Mommy," and I would wonder if that were whatmy little boy might sound like. I wondered how it would feel tohear my child call out for me.
But I could have learned to live with his silence if it weren't foranother hallmark characteristic of autism: Skyler formed noattachments. He didn't want to be held, much preferring to lie inhis bed or sit in his car seat. He wouldn't look at me; sometimes,he even looked through me.
Once, when I took him to the doctor, we talked to a specialist whowas my size, age and who had the same hair color. When it was timeto go, Skyler went to her instead of me - he couldn't tell usapart. When Skyler was three, he spent three days at CampCourageous for disabled children in Iowa, and when he returned hedidn't even recognize me.
The pain was almost unbearable. My own son didn't even know I washis mother.
I hid the pain, and we did the best we could for Skyler. Weenrolled him in our local area educational agency preschool, wherethe teachers and speech pathologist worked hard to help Skylerconnect with the world around him. They used pictures and computervoice-machines that spoke for him, and sign
language. These devices gave me little glimpses of who Skyler was,even if he didn't understand who I was. "He will talk," the speechpathologist insisted, but inside, I had given up hope.
The one dream I couldn't let go was to have Skyler understand thatI was his mom. Even if I never heard him say, "Mom," I wanted tosee the recognition in his eyes.
The summer of Skyler's fourth year was when it started. Asmoldering ember of understanding in him sparked, and fanned by ourefforts, steadily flamed. His first words were hardly recognizable,often out of context, never spontaneous. Then, slowly, he couldpoint to an item and say a word. Then two words together as arequest. Then spontaneous words. Each day, he added more and morerecognizable words, using them to identify pictures and askquestions. We could see his understanding increase, till his eyeswould seek out mine, wanting to comprehend.
"You Mom?" he said one day.
"Yes, Skyler, I'm Mom."
He asked his teachers and caregivers: "You Mom?"
"No, Skyler, not Mom."
"You my Mom?" he said back to me.
"Yes, Skyler, I'm your Mom."
And finally, a rush of understanding in his eyes: "You myMom."
"Yes, Skyler, I'm your Mom."
If those had been Skyler's only words ever, they would have beenenough for me: My son knew I was his mother.
But Skyler wasn't done.
One evening I leaned against the headboard on Skyler's bed, my armswrapped around him. He was cozily tucked between my legs, ourbodies warm and snug as I read to him from one of his favoritebooks - a typical affectionate scene between mother and son, butbecause of Skyler's autism, one that I could never take forgranted.
I stopped reading. Skyler had interrupted me, leaning back his headso he could look me in the eye.
"Yes, Skyler?"
And then the voice of an angel, the voice of my son: "I love you,Mom."
Flying A Kite By Vicki L. Kitchner
Her skin was the color of rich, hot chocolate and her brown eyestwinkled with intelligence and humor. Her name was Michelle and shespent her days in a purple wheelchair because she had been bornwith Cerebral Palsy. She rolled into my classroom - and my heart -when she was just three years old. Her courage was an inspirationto me and her spirit touched my heart.
Michelle and her mother once gave me a figurine of a beautifulblack child sitting in a wheelchair. I displayed the cherished gifton a shelf in my den at home. It always reminded me of the littlegirl I loved so much.
When Michelle was seven, she was to undergo open-heart surgery forthe third time. The night before surgery, I sat in the chair besideher bed and held her hand.
"I'm tired, Bicki," she said weakly.
"Why don't you close your eyes and try to get some sleep?"
"No, not sleepy. Tired."
I thought of the tiny, imperfect heart that had to work so hard,the grand mal seizures, terrible headaches and tight, spasticmuscles that made her every move difficult and painful. I washeart-broken at the wisdom of the little soul who understood thedifference between sleepy and tired at such a young age.
"Will I go to Heaven soon?"
I placed my hand on her forehead, "I don't know, that's up toGod."
She glanced at the stars through the window of her room. "How willI get all the way up there? An airplane?"
"No, God will send a special angel to show you the way. You won'thave to take your wheelchair or your leg braces or any of yourmedicine because you won't need any of that in Heaven. You'll beable to run and play just like your brother."
Her eyes filled with hope. "Do you think I could fly a kite?"
I swallowed a tear and smiled, "I'm sure if you ask God for a kite,he would find one for you."
"Oh, I hope so Bicki!"
It was very early in the morning while I was doing my prayer timewhen the figurine of Michelle, for no apparent reason, fell from mybookshelf to the floor. The impact of the fall separated the figureof the girl from the wheelchair. I was devastated and vowed to haveit repaired. Later that same day, Michelle's mother called to tellme that her daughter's heart had simply stopped beating and she hadpeacefully slipped away in the early hours before dawn.
I have since thrown the ceramic wheelchair away and the little girlsits on the edge of the shelf with her legs dangling over the side.She's smiling toward the sky. I always think of Michelle on warm,windy days. I imagine her running through the clouds with a kitedancing above her!
Grandfather's Clock by Kathy Fasiq In the dining room of mygrandfather's house stood a massive grandfather clock. Meals inthat dining room were a time for four generations to become one.The table was always spread with food from wonderful family recipesall containing love as the main ingredient. And always thatgrandfather clock stood like a trusted old family friend, watchingover the laughter and story swapping and gentle kidding that were apart of our lives.
As a child, the old clock fascinated me. I watched and listened toit during meals. I marveled at how at different times of the day,that clock would chime three times, six times or more, with awonderful resonant sound that echoed throughout the house. I foundthe clock comforting. Familiar. Year after year, the clock chimed,a part of my memories, a part of my heart.
Even more wonderful to me was my grandfather's ritual. Hemeticulously wound that clock with a special key each day. That keywas magic to me. It kept our family's magnificent clock ticking andchiming, a part of every holiday and every tradition, as solid asthe wood from which it was made. I remember watching as mygrand-father took the key from his pocket and opened the hiddendoor in the massive old clock. He inserted the key and wound-nottoo much, never overwind, he'd tell me solemnly. Nor too little. Henever let that clock wind down and stop. When we grandkids got alittle older, he showed us how to open the door to the grandfatherclock and let us each take a turn winding the key. I remember thefirst time I did, I trembled with anticipation. To be part of thisfamily ritual was sacred.
After my beloved grandfather died, it was several days after thefuneral before I remembered the clock!
"Mama! The clock! We've let it wind down."
The tears flowed freely when I entered the dining room. The clockstood forlornly quiet. As quiet as the funeral parlor had been.Hushed. The clock even seemed
smaller. Not quite as magnificent without my grandfather's specialtouch. I couldn't bear to look at it.
Sometime later, years later, my grandmother gave me the clock andthe key. The old house was quiet. No bowls clanging, no laughterover the dinner table, no ticking or chiming of the clock-all wasstill. The hands on the clock were frozen, a reminder of timeslipping away, stopped at the precise moment when my grandfatherhad ceased winding it. I took the key in my shaking hand and openedthe clock door. All of a sudden, I was a child again, watching mygrandfather with his silver-white hair and twinkling blue eyes. Hewas there, winking at me, at the secret of the clock's magic, atthe key that held so much power. I stood, lost in the moment for along time. Then slowly, reverently, I inserted the key and woundthe clock. It sprang to life. Tick-tock, tick-tock, life and chimeswere breathed into the dining room, into the house and into myheart. In the movement of the hands of the clock, my grandfatherlived again.
The First Day of Middle School By Patty Hansen
My stomach tied in knots, and I could feel the sweat soakingthrough my T-shirt. My hands were clammy as I spun the face of mycombination lock. I tried and tried to remember the numbers, andevery time I thought I had it, the lock wouldn't open. Around andaround went the numbers, left, right, right, left...which way wasit supposed to go? I couldn't make it work. I gave up and startedto run down the hallway. As I ran, the hall seemed to get longerand longer...the door I trying to reach was farther away than whenI had started. I began to sweat even worse, then I could feel thetears forming. I was late, late, late for my first class on myfirst day of middle school. As I ran, people were watching me andthey were laughing...laughing...laughing...then the bell rang! Inmy dream, it was the school bell. But as I sat up in bed, Irealized that it was my alarm clock jarring me awake.
I was having the dream again. I started having the dream around theend of the sixth grade, and as the start of seventh grade grewcloser, the more I had the dream. This time the dream was even morereal, because today was the first day of seventh grade.
In my heart, I knew I never would make it. Everything was toodifferent. School, friends - even my own body.
I was used to walking to school, and now I had to walk six blocksto the bus stop so that I could take the bus to and from school. Ihated buses. They made me carsick from the jiggling and the smellof the fuel.
I had to get up for school earlier than in the past, partly becauseof having to be bussed to school and partly because I had to takebetter care of myself now that I was in my preteen years. My momtold me I would have to shower every morning since my hormones werekicking in - that's why I perspired so easily.
I was totally uncomfortable with my body. My feet didn't want torespond to my own directions, and I tripped a lot. I constantly hada sprained ankle, wet armpits and things stuck in my braces. I feltawkward, smelly, insecure and like I had bad breath on a full-timebasis.
In middle school, I would have to learn the rules and personalitiesof six different teachers instead of just one. There would bedifferent kids in all my classes, kids I didn't even know. I hadnever made friends very easily, and now I would have to start allover again.
I would have to run to my locker between classes, remembering mycombination, open it, put in the books from the last class and takeout different books...and make it to the next class all within fiveminutes!
I was also scared because of some stories I had heard about thefirst day of middle school, like being canned by theeighth-graders. That's when a bunch of eighth-graders pick you upand put you in a trash can. I had also heard that when eighth-gradegirls catch a new seventh-grader in the girls' bathroom alone, theysmear her with lipstick. Neither one of these first-day activitiessounded like something I wanted to take part in.
No one had ever told me that growing up was going to be so hard, soscary, so unwelcome, so...unexpected. I was the oldest kid in myfamily - in fact, in my entire neighborhood - and no one had beenthere before me, to help lead me through the challenges of middleschool.
I was on my own.
The first day of school was almost everything I feared. I didn'tremember my combination. I wrote the combination on my hand, but myhand was so sweaty it came off. I was late to every class. I didn'thave enough time to finish my lunch; I had just sat down to eatwhen the bell rang to go back to class. I almost choked on mypeanut butter and jelly sandwich as I ran down the dreaded hallway.The classrooms and the teachers were a blur. I wasn't sure whatteacher went with which subject and they had all assignedhomework...on the very first day of school! I couldn't believeit.
But the first day wasn't like my dream in another way. In my dream,all the other kids had it together and I was the only one who wasthe nerd. In real life, I wasn't the only one who was late forclasses. Everyone else was late, too. No one could remember theircombination either, except Ted Milliken, the kid who carried abriefcase to school. After most of the kids realized that everyoneelse was going through the same thing they were going through, weall started cracking up. We were bumping into each other in ourrush to get to the next class, and books were flying everywhere. Noone got canned or smeared - at least no one I knew. I still didn'tgo into the girls' bathroom alone, just in case. Yeah, there waslaughter in the hallway, but most of it was the laughter of kidssharing a common experience: complete hysteria!
As the weeks went by, it became easier and easier. Pretty soon Icould twirl my combination without even looking at it. I hungposters in my locker, and finally felt like I was at home. Ilearned all my teacher's names and decided who I liked the best.Friendships from elementary school were renewed and made stronger,and new friends were made. I learned how to change into a gym suitin front of other girls. It never felt comfortable, but I did it -just like everyone else did. I don't think any of us felt verycomfortable.
I still didn't like the bus; it did make me carsick. I even threwup on the bus once. (At least it was on the way home, not on theway to school.) I went to dances and parties, and I started towonder what it would feel like to be kissed by a boy. The schoolhad track tryouts, and I made the team and learned how to jump thelow hurdles. I got pretty good at it, too.
First semester turned into second, and then third. Before I knewit, eighth grade was just around the corner. I had made itthrough.
Next year, on the first day of school, I would be watching the newseventh-graders sweating it out just like I did - just likeeveryone does. I decided that I would feel sorry for them...butonly for the FIRST day of seventh grade. After that, it's abreeze.
Something Special By Pam Bumpus
"I would do something special for her. Not take out the trashwithout being reminded. Something special, something I wouldn'tordinarily do." With tears streaming down his face, the gentlemanhad just answered the reporter's question, "What would you dodifferently if you had known you might not see your wifeagain?"
Now, I personally think this is a pretty crappy question to askanyone, much less the husband of a victim of a terrorist attack.The reporter seemed to have no compassion for this man whose wife'splane had been flown into the World Trade Center.
"I'm just glad I kissed her good-bye and told her I loved her thismorning," he managed to choke out.
Of course, we would all act differently if we knew time togetherwith our spouse was running out. My anger at the insensitivereporter simmered along with the disbelief and fear that had becomepart of my life since watching the results of the attack onAmerica. "Stupid guy," I muttered to myself, switching off thetelevision. Maybe I needed a break. I have that luxury. I can turnoff the pictures of the devastated buildings, despondent relativesand harried rescue workers.
But could I turn off my feelings? My husband Alan and I farm. Hewas cutting a field of soybeans that afternoon. I decided to gotake pictures of the American flag he had mounted on the back ofour combine. With terrorists trying to cripple our nation, wewanted to show our support: The American farmer was still hard atwork.
Back at the house, starting a load of laundry, I found myselfthinking about that interview. 'I would do something special,'played over and over in my mind. That gentleman would never havethat opportunity now, but I did. I hope Alan and I
have another forty years together. But there are no guarantees.Tomorrows are not guaranteed.
'Something I wouldn't ordinarily do.' Well, his pickup could sureuse a good cleaning. So I got to it. After about thirty minutes ofvacuuming and scrubbing the interior, I was ready to wash theoutside. I had one little problem: Starting the power washer was abit tricky. You had to choke the motor just enough, and the idlehad to be set just so. The possibility of getting jerked on therecoil was significant. 'Something special...'Grabbing the ropepull I tackled it head on. Suddenly it was very important to me toaccomplish this surprise for Alan. Several attempts later, with nosuccess and an aching arm, I thought I might not succeed. 'Lord,' Iprayed silently, 'I could sure use your help. I want to get thisstarted so I can finish this for Alan. I really want to do this forhim.'
The guilt hit immediately. How could I bother our Lord at a timelike this? Thousands were praying for their loved ones. Much moreimportant prayers needed his attention right now. "I'm sorry,Lord," I whispered. How could I be so selfish? I had spent a lot oftime in prayer over the past three days, asking for comfort for thevictims' families, strength for our nation's leaders and healingfor all of us. My request for help now was automatic. I always askfor help when facing a difficult task. But it just didn't seemright to do so today.
Defeat didn't seem an option either, so I pulled the rope one moretime. The motor sputtered to life.
Yes, Alan was surprised and grateful when he saw his pickup. And Iwas surprised and grateful for the important lessons I learned thatday. First of all, despite his tactless approach, the reporterbrought home a very important point. Through his pain, the man wholost his spouse taught me to cherish mine. I will look for those"special" things to do for Alan.
Secondly, and maybe more importantly, God does care about us, allof us. He hears the prayers of those whose suffering seemsunbearable. He cares. And he hears those of us who need a littleboost when we have set out to do something special for someone welove.
Hungry for Your Love by Herman and Roma Rosenblat As told toBarbara DeAngelis, Ph.D.
It is cold, so bitter cold, on this dark, winter day in 1942. Butit is no different from any other day in this Nazi concentrationcamp. I stand shivering in my thin rags, still in disbelief thatthis nightmare is happening. I am just a young boy. I should beplaying with friends; I should be going to school; I should belooking forward to a future, to growing up and marrying, and havinga family of my own. But those dreams are for the living, and I amno longer one of them. Instead, I am almost dead, surviving fromday to day, from hour to hour, ever since I was
taken from my home and brought here with tens of thousands otherJews. Will I still be alive tomorrow? Will I be taken to the gaschamber tonight?
Back and forth I walk next to the barbed wire fence, trying to keepmy emaciated body warm. I am hungry, but I have been hungry forlonger than I want to remember. I am always hungry. Edible foodseems like a dream. Each day as more of us disappear, the happypast seems like a mere dream, and I sink deeper and deeper intodespair. Suddenly, I notice a young girl walking past on the otherside of the barbed wire. She stops and looks at me with sad eyes,eyes that seem to say that she understands, that she, too, cannotfathom why I am here. I want to look away, oddly ashamed for thisstranger to see me like this, but I cannot tear my eyes fromhers.
Then she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a red apple. Abeautiful, shiny red apple. Oh, how long has it been since I haveseen one! She looks cautiously to the left and to the right, andthen with a smile of triumph, quickly throws the apple over thefence. I run to pick it up, holding it in my trembling, frozenfingers. In my world of death, this apple is an expression of life,of love. I glance up in time to see the girl disappearing into thedistance.
The next day, I cannot help myself-I am drawn at the same time tothat spot near the fence. Am I crazy for hoping she will comeagain? Of course. But in here, I cling to any tiny scrap of hope.She has given me hope and I must hold tightly to it.
And again, she comes. And again, she brings me an apple, flingingit over the fence with that same sweet smile.
This time I catch it, and hold it up for her to see. Her eyestwinkle. Does she pity me? Perhaps. I do not care, though. I amjust so happy to gaze at her. And for the first time in so long, Ifeel my heart move with emotion.
For seven months, we meet like this. Sometimes we exchange a fewwords. Sometimes, just an apple. But she is feeding more than mybelly, this angel from heaven. She is feeding my soul. And somehow,I know I am feeding hers as well.
One day, I hear frightening news: we are being shipped to anothercamp. This could mean the end for me. And it definitely means theend for me and my friend.
The next day when I greet her, my heart is breaking, and I canbarely speak as I say what must be said: "Do not bring me an appletomorrow," I tell her. "I am being sent to another camp. We willnever see each other again." Turning before I lose all control, Irun away from the fence. I cannot bear to look back. If I did, Iknow she would see me standing there, with tears streaming down myface.
Months pass and the nightmare continues. But the memory of thisgirl sustains me through the terror, the pain, the hopelessness.Over and over in my mind, I see her face, her kind eyes, I hear hergentle words, I taste those apples.
And then one day, just like that, the nightmare is over. The warhas ended. Those of us who are still alive are freed. I have losteverything that was precious to me, including my family. But Istill have the memory of this girl, a memory I carry in my heartand gives me the will to go on as I move to America to start a newlife.
Years pass. It is 1957. I am living in New York City. A friendconvinces me to go on a blind date with a lady friend of his.Reluctantly, I agree. But she is nice, this woman named Roma. Andlike me, she is an immigrant, so we have at least that incommon.
"Where were you during the war?" Roma asks me gently, in thatdelicate way immigrants ask one another questions about thoseyears.
"I was in a concentration camp in Germany," I reply.
Roma gets a far away look in her eyes, as if she is rememberingsomething painful yet sweet.
"What is it?" I ask.
"I am just thinking about something from my past, Herman," Romaexplains in a voice suddenly very soft. "You see, when I was ayoung girl, I lived near a concentration camp. There was a boythere, a prisoner, and for a long while, I
used to visit him every day. I remember I used to bring him apples.I would throw the apple over the fence, and he would be sohappy."
Roma sighs heavily and continues. "It is hard to describe how wefelt about each other-after all, we were young, and we onlyexchanged a few words when we could-but I can tell you, there wasmuch love there. I assume he was killed like so many others. But Icannot bear to think that, and so I try to remember him as he wasfor those months we were given together."
With my heart pounding so loudly I think it wil1 explode, I lookdirectly at Roma and ask, "And did that boy say to you one day, 'Donot bring me an apple tomorrow. I am being sent to anothercamp'?"
"Why, yes," Roma responds, her voice trembling.
"But, Herman, how on earth could you possibly know that?"
I take her hands in mine and answer, "Because I was that young boy,Roma."
For many moments, there is only silence. We cannot take our eyesfrom each other, and as the veils of time lift, we recognize thesoul behind the eyes, the dear friend we once loved so much, whomwe have never stopped loving, whom we have never stoppedremembering.
Finally, I speak: "Look, Roma, I was separated from you once, and Idon't ever want to be separated from you again. Now, I am free, andI want to be together with you forever. Dear, will you marryme?"
I see that same twinkle in her eye that I used to see as Roma says,"Yes, I will marry you," and we embrace, the embrace we longed toshare for so many months, but barbed wire came between us. Now,nothing ever will again.
Almost forty years have passed since that day when I found my Romaagain. Destiny brought us together the first time during the war toshow me a promise of hope and now it had reunited us to fulfillthat promise.
Valentine's Day, 1996. I bring Roma to the Oprah Winfrey Show tohonor her on national television. I want to tell her in front ofmillions of people what I feel in my heart every day:
"Darling, you fed me in the concentration camp when I was hungry.And I am still hungry, for something I will never get enough of: Iam only hungry for your love."
