Stories and Inspirational Messages:
His Name is Bill
submitted by Carl Graham
His name is Bill. He has wild
hair, wears a T-shirt with holes in it, jeans and no shoes. This
was literally his wardrobe for his entire four years of college.
He is brilliant. Kinda esoteric and very, very bright. He became
a Christian while attending college. Across the street from the campus
is a well-dressed, very conservative church. They want to develop
a ministry to the students, but are not sure how to go about it.
One day Bill decides to go there. He walks in with no shoes, jeans,
his T-shirt, and wild hair. The service has already started
and so Bill starts down the aisle looking for a seat. The church
is completely packed and he can't find a seat. By now people are
looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one says anything. Bill gets
closer and closer and closer to the pulpit and when he realizes there are
no seats, he just squats down right on the carpet. (Although perfectly
acceptable behavior at a college fellowship, trust me, this had never happened
in this church before!) By now the people are really uptight, and the tension
in the air is thick. About this time, the minister realizes that
from way at the back of the church, a deacon is slowly making his way toward
Bill. Now the deacon is in his eighties, has silver-gray hair, a
three-piece suit, and a pocket watch. A godly man, very elegant,
very dignified, very courtly. He walks with a cane and as he starts
walking toward this boy, everyone is saying to themselves, You can't blame
him for what he's going to do. How can you expect a man of his age
and of his background to understand some college kid on the floor? It takes
a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church is utterly silent
except for the clicking of the man's cane. All eyes are focused on
him. You can't even hear anyone breathing. The people are thinking,
the minister can't even preach the sermon until the deacon does what he
has to do. And now they see this elderly man drop his cane on the
floor. With great difficulty he lowers himself and sits down next to Bill
and worships with him so he won't be alone. Everyone chokes up with
emotion. When the minister gains control he says, "What I'm about to preach,
you will never remember. What you have just seen, you will never
forget."
Author unknown (TOP)
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One
at a Time
A friend of ours was walking down
a deserted Mexican beach at sunset. As he walked along, he began to see
another man in the distance. As he drew nearer, he noticed that the local
native kept leaning down, picking something up and throwing it out into
the water. Time and again he kept hurling things out into the ocean.
As our friend approached even closer,
he noticed that the man was picking up starfish that had been washed up
on the beach and, one at a time, he was throwing them back into the water.
Our friend was puzzled. He approached
the man and said, "Good evening, friend. I was wondering what you are doing."
"I'm throwing these starfish back
into the ocean. You see, it's low tide right now and all of these starfish
have been washed up onto the shore. If I don't throw them back into the
sea, they'll die up here from lack of oxygen."
"I understand," my friend replied,
"but there must be thousands of starfish on this beach. You can't possibly
get to all of them. There are simply too many. And don't you realize this
is probably happening on hundreds of beaches all up and down this coast?
Can't you see that you can't possibly make a difference?"
The local native smiled, bent down
and picked up yet another starfish, and as he threw it back into the sea,
he replied, "Made a difference to that one!"
By Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack
Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen
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"Puppies For Sale"
submitted by Kim Broach
A store owner was tacking a sign
above his door that read "Puppies For Sale." Signs like that have a way
of attracting small children and sure enough, a little boy appeared under
the store owner's sign.
"How much are you going to sell
the puppies for?" he asked. The store owner replied, "Anywhere from $30
to $50."
The little boy reached in his pocket
and pulled out some change. "I have $2.37," he said. "Can I please look
at them?"
The store owner smiled and whistled
and out of the kennel came Lady, who ran down the aisle of his store followed
by five teeny, tiny balls of fur. One puppy was lagging considerably behind.
Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging, limping puppy and said,
"What's wrong with that little dog?" The store owner explained that the
veterinarian had examined the little puppy and had discovered it didn't
have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always be lame.
The little boy became excited. "That
is the little puppy that I want to buy."
The store owner replied, "No, you
don't want to buy that little dog. If you really want him, I'll just give
him to you."
The little boy got quite upset.
He looked straight into the store owner's eyes, pointing his finger, and
said, "I don't want you to give him to me. That little dog is worth every
bit as much as all the other dogs and I'll pay full price. In fact, I'll
give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents a month until I have him paid for."
The store owner countered, "You
really don't want to buy this little dog. He is never going to be able
to run and jump and play with you like the other puppies. "To this, the
little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted,
crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at the store
owner and softly replied, "Well, I don't run so well myself, and the little
puppy will need someone who understands!"
Author unknown (TOP)
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Cookies, Forgotten and Forgiven:
As I sat perched in the second-floor
window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon, my heart began to sink
further with each passing car. This was a day I'd looked forward to for
weeks: Miss Pace's fourth-grade, end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept
a running countdown on the blackboard all that week, and our class of nine-year-olds
had bordered on insurrection by the time the much-anticipated "party Friday"
had arrived.
I had happily volunteered my mother
when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom's chocolate chips reigned
supreme on our block, and I knew they'd be a hit with my classmates. But
two o'clock passed, and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers
had already come and gone, dropping off their offerings of punch and crackers,
chips, cupcakes and brownies. My mother was missing in action.
"Don't worry, Robbie, she'll be
along soon, " Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly down at the street. I
looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift
to half-past.
Around me, the noisy party raged
on, but I wouldn't budge from my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best
to coax me away, but I stayed put, holding out hope that the familiar family
car would round the corner, carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with
a tin of her famous cookies tucked under her arm.
The three o'clock bell soon jolted
me from my thoughts and I dejectedly grabbed my book bag from my desk and
shuffled out the door for home.
On the four-block walk to our house,
I plotted my revenge. I would slam the front door upon entering, refuse
to return her hug when she rushed over to me, and vow never to speak to
her again.
The house was empty when I arrived
and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother's
absence, but found none. My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak
and rage. For the first time in my life, my mother had let me down.
I was lying face-down on my bed
upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.
"Robbie," she called out a bit urgently.
"Where are you?"
I could then hear her darting frantically
from room to room, wondering where I could be. I remained silent. In a
moment, she mounted the steps - the sounds of her footsteps quickening
as she ascended the staircase.
When she entered my room and sat
beside me on my bed, I didn't move but instead stared blankly into my pillow
refusing to acknowledge her presence.
"I'm so sorry, honey," she said.
"I just forgot. I got busy and forgot - plain and simple."
I still didn't move. "Don't forgive
her," I told myself. "She humiliated you. She forgot you. Make her pay."
Then my mother did something completely
unexpected. She began to laugh. I could feel her shudder as the laughter
shook her. It began quietly at first and then increased in its velocity
and volume.
I was incredulous. How could she
laugh at a time like this? I rolled over and faced her, ready to let her
see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.
But my mother wasn't laughing at
all. She was crying. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed softly. "I let you down.
I let my little boy down."
She sank down on the bed and began
to weep like a little girl. I was dumbstruck. I had never seen my mother
cry. To my understanding, mothers weren't supposed to. I wondered if this
was how I looked to her when I cried.
I desperately tried to recall her
own soothing words from times past when I'd skinned knees or stubbed toes,
times when she knew just the right thing to say. But in that moment of
tearful plight, words of profundity abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.
"It's okay, Mom," I stammered as
I reached out and gently stroked her hair. "We didn't even need those cookies.
There was plenty of stuff to eat. Don't cry. It's all right. Really."
My words, as inadequate as they
sounded to me, prompted my mother to sit up. She wiped her eyes, and a
slight smile began to crease her tear-stained cheeks. I smiled back awkwardly,
and she pulled me to her.
We didn't say another word. We just
held each other in a long, silent embrace. When we came to the point where
I would usually pull away, I decided that, this time, I could hold on,
perhaps, just a little bit longer.
By Robert Tate Miller from A 4th
Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark
Victor Hansen, Hanoch McCarty & Meladee McCarty
(TOP) (Back
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Remember,
We're Raising Children, Not Flowers!
David, my next-door neighbor, has
two young kids ages five and seven. One day he was teaching
his seven-year-old son Kelly how to push the gas powered lawn mower around
the yard. As he was teaching him how to turn the mower around at the end
of the lawn, his wife, Jan, called to him to ask a question. As David turned
to answer the question, Kelly pushed the lawn mower right through the flower
bed at the edge of the lawn - leaving a two-foot wide path leveled to the
ground!
When David turned back around and
saw what had happened, he began to lose control. David had put a lot of
time and effort into making those flower beds the envy of the neighborhood.
As he began to raise his voice to his son, Jan walked quickly over to him,
put her hand on his shoulder and said, "David, please remember...we're
raising children, not flowers!"
Jan reminded me how important it
is as a parent to remember our priorities. Kids and their self-esteem are
more important than any physical object they might break or destroy. The
window pane shattered by a baseball, a lamp knocked over by a careless
child, or a plate dropped in the kitchen are already broken. The flowers
are already dead. I must remember not to add to the destruction by breaking
a child's spirit and deadening his sense of liveliness.
By Jack Canfield from A 2nd Helping
of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1995 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP)
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Not a One!
Little Chad was a shy, quiet young
man. One day he came home and told his mother that he'd like to make a
valentine for everyone in his class. Her heart sank. She thought, "I wish
he wouldn't do that!" because she had watched the children when they walked
home from school. Her Chad was always behind them. They laughed and hung
on to each other and talked to each other. But Chad was never included.
Nevertheless, she decided she would go along with her son. So she purchased
the paper and glue and crayons. For three weeks, night after night, Chad
painstakingly made 35 valentines.
Valentine's Day dawned, and Chad
was beside himself with excitement. He carefully stacked them up, put them
in a bag, and bolted out the door. His mother decided to bake him his favorite
cookies and serve them nice and warm with a cool glass of milk when he
came home from school. She just knew he would be disappointed and maybe
that would ease the pain a little. It hurt her to think that he wouldn't
get many valentines - maybe none at all.
That afternoon she had the cookies
and milk on the table. When she heard the children outside, she looked
out the window. Sure enough, there they came, laughing and having the best
time. And, as always, there was Chad in the rear. He walked a little faster
than usual. She fully expected him to burst into tears as soon as he got
inside. His arms were empty, she noticed, and when the door opened she
choked back the tears.
"Mommy has some cookies and milk
for you," she said.
But he hardly heard her words. He
just marched right on by, his face aglow, and all he could say was: "Not
a one. Not a one." Her heart sank.
And then he added, "I didn't forget
a one, not a single one!"
By Dale Galloway from A 3rd Serving
of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP)
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Stuff To Ponder:
Tell a man that there are 400 billion
stars, and he'll believe you. Tell him a bench has wet paint, and he has
to touch it.
How come SUPERMAN could stop bullets
with his chest, but always ducked when someone threw a gun at him?
If it was only a 3 hour cruise,
why did MRS. HOWELL have so many clothes?
Why is it called a HAMBURGER, when
it's made out of BEEF?
Why does SOUR CREAM have an Expiration
date?
What would a chair look like, if
your knees bent the other way?
IF "Con" is the Opposite of "Pro"....then
what is the opposite of PROGRESS?
Why is LEMON JUICE mostly artificial
ingredients.... but DISH WASHING LIQUID contains real lemons?
How much deeper would the ocean
be, if SPONGES didn't grow in it?
Why buy a product that it takes
2000 flushes to get rid of?
Why do we wait until a PIG is dead,
to "CURE" it?
Why do we wash BATH TOWELS-aren't
we clean when we use them?
Why do we put SUITS in a Garment
Bag, and put Garments in a Suitcase?
Why doesn't GLUE stick to the inside
of the bottle?
Do Roman paramedics refer to IV's
as "4's"?
Whose cruel idea was it for the
word "Lisp" to have an "S" in it?
What do little birdies see, when
they get knocked unconscious?
If a mute swears, does his mother
wash his hands with soap?
If someone with multiple personalities
threatens to kill himself, is it considered a hostage situation?
Instead of talking to your plants,
if you yelled at them would they still grow, only to be troubled and insecure?
What's another word for synonym?
Isn't it a bit unnerving that doctors
call what they do "practice"?
When sign makers go on strike,
is anything written on their signs?
When you open a bag of cotton balls,
is the top one meant to be thrown away?
Where do forest rangers go to "get
away from it all"?
Why isn't there mouse-flavored
cat food?
Why do they report power outages
on TV?
What should you do when you see
an endangered animal that is eating an endangered plant?
Is it possible to be totally partial?
If a parsley farmer is sued, can
they garnish his wages?
Would a fly that loses its wings
be called a walk?
Why do they lock gas station bathrooms?
Are they afraid someone will clean them?
If the funeral procession is at
night, do folks drive with their headlights off?
If a stealth bomber crashes in
a forest, will it make a sound?
If a man speaks in the forest and
there is no woman to hear him, is he still wrong?
If a turtle loses his shell, is
it naked or homeless?
Why don't sheep shrink when it
rains?
Should vegetarians eat animal crackers?
If the cops arrest a mime, do they
tell him he has the right to remain silent?
Why do people who know the least
know it the loudest?
If vegetarians eat vegetables,
what do humanitarians eat? (TOP)
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I Love You, Son:
Thoughts while driving my son to
school: Morning, Kid. You look pretty sharp in your Cub Scout gear, not
as fat as your old man when he was a Cub. I don't think my hair was ever
as long until I went away to college, but I think I'd recognize you any
way by what you are: a little shaggy around the ears, scuffed around the
toes, wrinkles in the knees...We get used to one another...
Now that you're eight I notice I
don't see a whole lot of you anymore. On Columbus Day you left a nine in
the morning. I saw you for 42 seconds at lunch and you reappeared for supper
at five. I miss you, but I know you've got serious business to take care
of. Certainly as serious as, if not more important than, the things the
other commuters on the road are doing.
You've got to grow up and out and
that's more important than clipping coupons, arranging stock options or
selling people short. You've got to learn what you are able to do and what
you aren't - and you've got to learn how to deal with that. You've got
to learn about people and how they behave when they don't feel good about
themselves - like the bullies who hang out at the bike rack and hassle
the smaller kids. Yeah, you'll even have to learn how to pretend that name-calling
doesn't hurt. It'll always hurt, but you'll have to put up a front or they'll
call you worse names next time. I only hope you remember how it feels -
in case you ever decide to rank a kid who's smaller than you.
When was the last time I told you
I was proud of you? I guess if I can't remember, I've got work to do. I
remember the last time I yelled at you - told you we'd be late if you didn't
hurry - but, on balance, as Nixon used to say, I haven't given you as many
pats as yells. For the record, in case you read this, I am proud of you.
I especially like your independence, the way you take care of yourself
even when it frightens me just a little bit. You've never been much of
a whiner and that makes you a superior kid in my book.
Why is it that fathers are so slow
to realize that eight-year-olds need as many hugs as four-year-olds? If
I don't watch out, pretty soon I'll be punching you on the arm and saying,
"Whaddaya say, kid?" instead of hugging you and telling you I love you.
Life is too short to hide affection. Why is it that eight-year-olds are
so slow to realize that 36-year-olds need as many hugs as four-year-olds?
Did I forget to tell you that I'm
proud you went back to a box lunch after one week's worth of that indigestible
hot lunch? I'm glad you value your body.
I wish the drive weren't so short...I
want to talk about last night...when your younger brother was asleep and
we let you stay up and watch the Yankees game. Those times are so special.
There's no way you can plan them. Every time we try to plan something together,
it's not as good or rich or warm. For a few all-too short minutes it was
as if you'd already grown up and we sat and talked without any words about
"How are you doing in school, son?" I'd already checked your math homework
the only way I could - with a calculator. You're better with numbers than
I'll ever be. So, we talked about the game and you knew more about the
players than I did and I learned from you. And we were both happy when
the Yankees won.
Well, there's the crossing guard.
He'll probably outlive all of us. I wish you didn't have to go to school
today. There are so many things I want to say.
Your exit from my car is so quick.
I want to savor the moment and you've already spotted a couple of your
friends.
I just wanted to say "I love you,
son..."
By Victor B. Miller from Chicken
Soup for the Soul Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield & Mark Victor Hansen
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The Ultimate Sacrifice:
Linda Birtish literally gave herself
away. Linda was an outstanding teacher who felt that if she had the time,
she would like to create great art and poetry. When she was 28, however,
she began to get severe headaches. Her doctors discovered that she had
an enormous brain tumor. They told her that her chances of surviving an
operation were about 2 percent. Therefore, rather than operate immediately,
they chose to wait for six months.
She knew she had great artistry
in her. So during those six months she wrote and drew feverishly. All of
her poetry, except one piece, was published in magazines. All of her art,
except one piece, was shown and sold at some of the leading galleries.
At the end of six months, she had
the operation. The night before the operation, she decided to literally
give herself away. In case of her death, she wrote a "will," in which she
donated all of her body parts to those who needed them more than she would.
Unfortunately, Linda's operation
was fatal. Subsequently, her eyes went to an eye bank in Bethesda, Maryland,
and from there to a recipient in South Carolina. A young man, age 28, went
from darkness to sight. That young man was so profoundly grateful that
he wrote to the eye bank thanking them for existing. It was only the second
"thank you" that the eye bank had received after giving out in excess of
30,000 eyes!
Furthermore, he said he wanted to
thank the parents of the donor. They must indeed be magnificent folks to
have a child who would give away her eyes. He was given the name of the
Birtish family and he decided to fly to see them on Staten Island. He arrived
unannounced and rang the doorbell. After hearing his introduction, Mrs.
Birtish reached out and embraced him. She said, "Young man, if you've got
nowhere to go, my husband and I would love for you to spend your weekend
with us."
He stayed, and as he was looking
around Linda's room, he saw that she'd read Plato. He'd read Plato in Braille.
She'd read Hegel. He'd read Hegel in Braille. The next morning Mrs.
Birtish was looking at him and said, "you know, I'm sure I've seen you
somewhere before, but I don't know where." All of a sudden she remembered.
She ran upstairs and pulled out the last picture Linda had ever drawn.
It was a portrait of her ideal man. The picture was virtually identical
to this young man who had received Linda's eyes. Then her mother
read the last poem Linda had written on her deathbed. It read:
Two hearts passing in the night
falling in love
never able to gain each other's
sight.
By Jack Canfield and Mark
Victor Hansen from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by
Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen (TOP)
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The Power Of Determination
The little country schoolhouse was
heated by an old-fashioned, pot-bellied stove. A little boy had the job
of coming to school early each day to start the fire and warm the room
before his teacher and his classmates arrived.
One morning they arrived to find
the schoolhouse engulfed in flames. They dragged the unconscious little
boy out of the flaming building more dead than alive. He had major burns
over the lower half of his body and was taken to the nearby county hospital.
From his bed the dreadfully burned,
semi-conscious little boy faintly heard the doctor talking to his mother.
The doctor told his mother that her son would surely die - which was for
the best, really - for the terrible fire had devastated the lower half
of his body.
But the brave boy didn't want to
die. He made up his mind that he would survive. Somehow, to the amazement
of the physician, he did survive. When the mortal danger was past, he again
heard the doctor and his mother speaking quietly. The mother was told that
since the fire had destroyed so much flesh in the lower part of his body,
it would almost be better if he had died, since he was doomed to be a lifetime
cripple with no use at all of his lower limbs.
Once more the brave boy made up
his mind. He would not be a cripple. He would walk. But unfortunately from
the waist down, he had no motor ability. His thin legs just dangled there,
all but lifeless.
Ultimately he was released from
the hospital. Every day his mother would massage his little legs, but there
was no feeling, no control, nothing. Yet his determination that he would
walk was as strong as ever.
When he wasn't in bed, he was confined
to a wheelchair. One sunny day his mother wheeled him out into the yard
to get some fresh air. This day, instead of sitting there, he threw himself
from the chair. He pulled himself across the grass, dragging his legs behind
him.
He worked his way to the white picket
fence bordering their lot. With great effort, he raised himself up on the
fence. Then, stake by stake, he began dragging himself along the fence,
resolved that he would walk. He started to do this every day until he wore
a smooth path all around the yard beside the fence. There was nothing he
wanted more than to develop life in those legs.
Ultimately through his daily massages,
his iron persistence and his resolute determination, he did develop the
ability to stand up, then to walk haltingly, then to walk by himself -
and then - to run.
He began to walk to school, then
to run to school, to run for the sheer joy of running. Later in college
he made the track team.
Still later in Madison Square Garden
this young man who was not expected to survive, who would surely never
walk, who could never hope to run - this determined young man, Dr. Glenn
Cunningham, ran the world's fastest mile!
By Burt Dubin from Chicken Soup
for the Soul Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
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The Coolest Dad in
the Universe:
He was 50 years old when I was born, and a "Mr. Mom" long before anyone
had a name for it. I didn't know why he was home instead of Mom, but I
was young and the only one of my friends who had their dad around. I considered
myself very lucky.
Dad did so many things for
me during my grade-school years. He convinced the school bus driver
to pick me up my house instead of the usual bus stop that was six blocks
away. He always had my lunch ready for me when I came home - usually a
peanut butter and jelly sandwich that was shaped for the season. My favorite
was at Christmas. The sandwiches would be sprinkled with green sugar and
cut in the shape of a tree.
As I got a little older and
tried to gain my independence, I wanted to move away from those "childish"
signs of his love. But he wasn't going to give up. In high school and no
longer able to go home for lunch, I began taking my own. Dad would get
up a little early and make it for me. I never knew what to expect. The
outside of the sack might be covered with his rendering of a mountain scene
(it became his trademark) or a heart inscribed with "Dad-n-Angie K.K."
in its center. Inside there would be a napkin with that same heart or an
"I love you." Many times he would write a joke or a riddle, such as "Why
don't they ever call it a momsicle instead of a popsicle?" He always had
some silly saying to make me smile and let me know that he loved me.
I used to hide my lunch so
no one would see the bag or read the napkin, but that didn't last long.
One of my friends saw the napkin one day, grabbed it, and passed it around
the lunch room. My face burned with embarrassment. To my astonishment,
the next day all my friends were waiting to see the napkin. From the way
they acted, I think they all wished they had someone who showed them that
kind of love. I was so proud to have him as my father. Throughout the rest
of my high school years, I received those napkins, and still have a majority
of them.
And still it didn't end. When
I left home for college (the last one to leave), I thought the messages
would stop. But my friends and I were glad that his gestures continued.
I missed seeing my dad every
day after school and so I called him a lot. My phone bills got to be pretty
high. It didn't matter what we said; I just wanted to hear his voice. We
started a ritual during that first year that stayed with us. After I said
good-bye he always said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?" I'd reply.
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
I began getting letters almost
every Friday. The front-desk staff always knew who the letter were from
- the return address said "The Hunk." Many times the envelopes were addressed
in crayon, and along with the enclosed letters were usually drawings of
our cat and dog, stick figures of him and Mom, and if I had been home the
weekend before, of me racing around town with friends and using the house
as a pit stop. He also had his mountain scene and the heart-encased inscription,
Dad-n-Angie K.K.
The mail was delivered every
day right before lunch, so I'd have his letters with me when I went to
the cafeteria. I realized it was useless to hide them because my roommate
was a high school friend who knew about his napkins. Soon it became a Friday
afternoon ritual. I would read the letters, and the drawing and envelope
would be passed around.
It was during this time that
Dad became stricken with cancer. When the letters didn't come on Friday,
I knew that he had been sick and wasn't able to write. He used to get up
at 4:00a.m. so he could sit in the quiet house and do his letters. If he
missed his Friday delivery, the letters would usually come a day or two
later. But they always came. My friends used to call him "Coolest Dad in
the Universe." And one day they sent him a card bestowing that title, signed
by all of them. I believe he taught all of us about a father's love. I
wouldn't be surprised if my friends started sending napkins to their children.
He left an impression that would stay with them and inspire them to give
their own children their expression of their love.
Throughout my four years of
college, the letters and phone calls came at regular intervals. But then
the time came when I decided to come home and be with him because he was
growing sicker, and I knew that our time together was limited. Those were
the hardest days to go through. To watch this man, who always acted so
young, age past his years. In the end he didn't recognize who I was and
would call me the name of a relative he hadn't seen in many years. Even
though I knew it was due to his illness, it still hurt that he couldn't
remember my name.
I was alone with him in his
hospital room a couple of days before he died. We held hands and watched
TV. As I was getting ready to leave, he said, "Angie?"
"Yes, Dad?"
"I love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
By Angie K. Ward-Kucer from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the
Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
A Day at the Lake:
"Me play," said the mentally challenged boy.
"Sure," I said
I threw him the ball.
"Yeah! Me catch!" he screamed.
"Okay, now throw it back,"
I said.
The boy threw it back. I caught
it and dove underwater.
"You don't have to do this,"
said the boy's mother.
"No, it's fun," I said.
"Yeah go under `gain!"
yelled the boy. So I dove underwater.
We continued playing
for half an hour. When the boy went away he had the biggest smile I've
ever seen on his face. This small experience made me feel normal. I thought
that's what anyone would do. A boy wanted to play, so I did. This made
the boy feel good so it made me feel good. But after that people stared
at me.
One boy even came up to me
and said, "Why were you playing with that retardo?" I said nothing and
walked away.
By Keith Toole 6th Grade from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Barney:
A four-year-old girl was at the pediatrician's office for a check-up.
As the doctor looked into her ears with an otoscope, he asked, "Do
you think I'll find Big Bird in here?" The little girl stayed silent.
Next the doctor took a tongue depressor and looked down her throat.
He asked, "Do you think I'll find the Cookie Monster down there?" Again
the little girl was silent.
Then the doctor put a stethoscope to her chest. As he listened to her heart
beat, he asked, "Do you think I'll hear Barney in here?"
"Oh, no!" the little girl replied. "Jesus is in my heart. Barney's on my
underpants."
By Author Unknown Submitted by Marilyn
Thompsen from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996
by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen (TOP)
(Back
to Stories Index)
The Station:
Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision. We are traveling
by train - out the windows, we drink in
the passing scenes of children waving at a crossing, cattle grazing
on a distant hillside, row upon row of corn and
wheat, flatlands and valleys, mountains and rolling hillsides and
city skylines.
But uppermost in our minds
is the final destination. On a certain day, we will pull into the station.
Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there, our dreams will
come true and the pieces of our lives will fit together like a completed
jigsaw puzzle. Restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes - waiting,
waiting, waiting for the station.
"When we reach the station,
that will be it!" we cry. "When I'm 18." "When I buy a new 450sl Mercedes
Benz!"
"When I put the last kid through college!" "When I have paid off
the mortgage!" " When I get a promotion!" "When
I reach retirement, I shall live happily ever after!"
Sooner or later, we realize
there is no station, no one place to arrive. The true joy of life is the
trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.
"Relish the moment" is a good
motto, especially when coupled with Psalm 118:24: "This is the day which
the Lord
hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens
of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over
yesterday and the fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are twin thieves
who rob us of today. So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles.
Instead, climb more mountains, eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often,
swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be
lived as we go along. The station will come soon enough.
By Robert J. Hastings from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright
1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Do It Now!:
In a class I teach for adults, I gave the assignment to "go to someone
you love, and tell them that you love them."
At the beginning of the next
class, one of the students began by saying, "I was angry with you last
week when you gave us this assignment. I didn't feel I had anyone to say
those words to. But as I began driving home my conscience started talking.
Then I knew exactly who I needed to say `I love you' to. Five years ago,
my father and I had a vicious disagreement and never really resolved it.
We avoided seeing each other unless we absolutely had to at family gatherings.
We hardly spoke. So by the time I got home, I had convinced myself I was
going to tell my father I loved him.
"Just making that decision
seemed to lift a heavy load off my chest.
"At 5:30, I was at my parents'
house ringing the doorbell, praying that Dad would answer the door. I was
afraid if Mom answered, I would chicken out and tell her instead. But as
luck would have it, Dad did answer the door.
"I didn't waste any time -
I took one step in the door and said, `Dad, I just came over to tell you
that I love you.'
"It was as if a transformation
came over my dad. Before my eyes his face softened, the wrinkles seemed
to disappear and he began to cry. He reached out and hugged me and said,
`I love you too, son, but I've never been able to say it.'
"But that's not even my point.
Two days after that visit, my dad had a heart attack and is in the hospital.
I don't even know if he'll make it.
"So my message to all of you
is this: Don't wait to do the things you know need to be done. What if
I had waited to tell my dad? Take the time to do what you need to do and
do it now!"
By Dennis E. Mannering from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright
1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Compassion Is in the Eyes:
It was a bitter, cold evening in northern Virginia many years ago. The
old man's beard was glazed by winter's frost while he waited for a ride
across the river. The wait seemed endless. His body became numb and stiff
from the frigid north wind.
He heard the faint, steady rhythm of approaching hooves galloping along
the frozen path. Anxiously, he watched as several horsemen rounded the
bend. He let the first one pass by without an effort to get his attention.
Then another passed by , and another. Finally, the last rider neared the
spot where the old man sat like a snow statue. As this one drew near, the
old man caught the rider's eye and said, "Sir, would you mind giving an
old man a ride to the other side? There doesn't appear to be a passageway
by foot."
Reining his horse, the rider replied, "Sure thing. Hop aboard." Seeing
the old man was unable to lift his half-frozen
body from the ground, the horseman
dismounted and helped the old man onto the horse. The horseman took the
old man not just across the river, but to his destination, which was just
a few miles away.
As they neared the tiny but cozy cottage, the horseman's curiosity caused
him to inquire, "Sir, I notice that you let
several other riders pass by without
making an effort to secure a ride. Then I came up and you immediately asked
me for a ride. I'm curious why, on such a bitter winter night, you would
wait and ask the last rider. What if I had refused and left you there?"
The old man lowered himself slowly down from the horse, looked the rider
straight in the eyes, and replied, "I've been around these here parts for
some time. I reckon I know people pretty good." The old-timer continued,
"I looked into the eyes of the other riders and immediately saw there was
no concern for my situation. It would have been useless even to ask them
for a ride. But when I looked into your eyes, kindness and compassion were
evident. I knew, then and there, that your gentle spirit would welcome
the opportunity to give me assistance in my time of need."
Those heartwarming comments touched the horseman deeply. "I'm most grateful
for what you have said," he told the old man. "May I never get too busy
in my own affairs that I fail to respond to the needs of others with kindness
and compassion."
With that, Thomas Jefferson turned his horse around and made his way back
to the White House.
By Anonymous From Brian Cavanaugh's
The Sower's Seeds from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996
by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Simply Said:
Fresh flowers are such a lovely thing of beauty. Once in a while I pick
a bouquet or a single perfect rose to give to a neighbor,
friend or relative.
Early one morning I gathered
a beautiful bouquet of sweet-smelling long-stemmed roses for myself. The
roses were
definitely a delight for my eyes. While I thought about how pleasing
they were for me to enjoy, a calm, gentle voice outside of myself simply
said, Give them to your friend.
I went straight into the house
and arranged the roses in a vase. Then I wrote this note as small as I
could . . . For my friend. I went across the street to my neighbor's, who
is also one of my closest friends, and I left the bouquet at the front
door.
Later that day my friend called
to thank me. She said the flowers were a true blessing. Late the night
before she had been arguing with one of children. Being cruel, as
teenagers can sometimes be, her child said to her, "You have no friends."
What a surprise when she went
to leave for work that morning and found not just the blessings of the
bouquet of flowers, but the tiny note which simply said "For my friend."
By Roberta Tremblay from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright
1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
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