Stories
and Inspirational Messages:
"How did you do it, Dad? How have you managed
to not take a drink for almost 20 years?" It took me almost 20 years to have the
courage to even ask my father this very personal question. When Dad first quit drinking,
the whole family was on pins and needles every time he got into a situation that, in the
past, would have started him drinking again. For a few years we were afraid to bring it up
for fear the drinking would begin again.
"I had this little poem that I would recite to
myself at least four to five times a day," was Dad's reply to my 18-year-old unasked
question. "The words were an instant relief and constant reminder to me that things
were never so tough that I could not handle them," Dad said. And then he shared the
poem with me. The poem's simple, yet profound words immediately became part of my daily
routine as well.
About a month after this talk with my father, I
received a gift in the mail from a friend of mine. It was a book of daily affirmations
with one affirmation listed for each day of the year.
It has been my experience that when you get
something with days of the year on it, you automatically turn to the page that lists your
own birthday.
I hurriedly opened the book to November 10 to see
what words of wisdom this book had in store for me. I did a double-take and tears of
disbelief and appreciation rolled down my face. There, on my birthday, was the exact same
poem that had helped my father for all these years! It is called the Serenity Prayer:
- God, grant me the Serenity to accept
the things I cannot change; the Courage to change the things I can; and the Wisdom to know the difference.
By Barry Spilchuk from A Cup of Chicken Soup for
the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
(TOP)
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BUTT PRINTS IN
THE SAND: (A parody of Footprints in the Sand)
From: "Robert B. Sanders"
One night I had a wondrous dream, One set of
footprints there was seen, The footprints of my precious Lord, But mine were not along the
shore.
But then some stranger prints appeared, And I asked
the Lord, "What have we here?"
Those prints are large and round and neat,
"But Lord, they are too big for feet."
"My child," He said in somber tones,
"For miles I carried you alone. I challenged you to walk in faith, But you refused
and made me wait." "You disobeyed, you would not grow, The walk of faith, you
would not know, So I got tired, I got fed up, And there I dropped you on your butt."
"Because in life, there comes a time, When one must fight, and one must climb, When
one must rise and take a stand, Or leave their butt prints in the sand."
(TOP)
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Is the Packaging important to You?
From: Elizabeth Warner
A young man was getting ready to
graduate from college. For many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a
dealer's showroom, and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all
he wanted.
As Graduation Day approached, the
young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car. Finally, on the
morning of his graduation, his father called him into his private study. His father
told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved him.
He handed his son a beautiful wrapped
gift box. Curious, but somewhat disappointed, the young man opened the box and found
a lovely, leather-bound Bible, with the young man's name embossed in gold.
Angrily, he raised his voice to
his father and said, "With all your money you give me a Bible?" and stormed out
of the house, leaving the Bible.
Many years passed and the young man
was very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and wonderful family, but
realized his father was very old, and thought perhaps he should go to him. He had
not seen him since that graduation day. Before he could make arrangements, he
received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his
possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately and take care of things.
When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart.
He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the still new
Bible, just as he had left it years ago.
With tears, he opened the Bible and
began to turn the pages. His father had carefully underlined a verse, Matt 7:11,
"And if ye, being evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more
shall your Heavenly father which is in heaven, give to those who ask Him?"
As he read those words, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had
a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had desired. On
the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words ...PAID IN FULL.
How many times do we miss God's
blessings because they are not packaged as we expected? I trust you enjoyed this.
Pass it on to others. (TOP)
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Words
to live by...:
Submitted by Jay Berkshire
Here's hoping that all of us living
good and truthful lives will be so fortunate!
His name was Fleming, and he was a
poor Scottish farmer. One day, while trying to make a living for his family,
he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby boy.
He dropped his tools and ran to the
boy. There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming and
struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow
and terrifying death.
The next day, a fancy carriage pulled
up to the Scotsman's sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out
and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved. "I
want to repay you," said the nobleman. "You saved my son's life."
"No, I can't accept payment for what I did," the Scottish farmer replied,
waving off the offer.
At that moment, the farmer's own son
came to the door of the family hovel. "Is that your son?" the nobleman asked.
"Yes," the farmer replied proudly. "I'll make you a deal. Let me
take him and give him a good education. If the lad is anything like his father, he'll grow
to a man you can be proud of."
And that he did. In time, Farmer
Fleming's son graduated from St. Mary's Hospital Medical School in London, and went
on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander
Fleming, the
discoverer of Penicillin.
Years afterward, the nobleman's son
was stricken with pneumonia. What saved him? Penicillin. The name of the
nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill. His son's name? Sir Winston Churchill.
Someone once said: What goes around
comes around.
Work like you don't need the money.
Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like nobody's watching.
Pass this on, and brighten someone's
day. Nothing will happen if you do not decide to pass it along. The only thing that
will happen, if you DO pass it on, is that someone might smile because of you? (TOP)
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My dad says I am ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS. I wonder if I
really am.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Sarah says you need to
have beautiful long, curly hair like she has.
- I don’t.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Justin says you must
have perfectly straight white teeth like he has.
- I don’t.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Jessica says you
can’t have any of those little brown dots on your face called freckles.
- I do.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Mark says you have to
be the smartest kid in the seventh-grade class.
- I’m not.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Stephen says you have
to be able to tell the funniest jokes in the school.
- I don’t.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Lauren says you need to
live in the nicest neighborhood in town and in the prettiest house.
- I don’t.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Matthew says you can
only wear the coolest clothes and the most popular shoes.
- I don’t.
- To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS... Samantha says you need
to come from a perfect family.
- I don’t.
But every night at bedtime my dad gives me a big
hug and says, "You are ENORMOUSLY
GORGEOUS, and I love you."
My dad must know something my friends don’t.
- by Carla O’Brien from Chicken Soup for the
Kid’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Hansen and
Irene Dunlap
-
(TOP)
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Handwriting
On The Wall:
Submitted by Jay Berkshire
A weary mother returned from the
store,
Lugging groceries through the kitchen door.
Awaiting her arrival was her 8 year old son,
Anxious to relate what his younger brother had done.
"While I was out playing and Dad
was on a call,
T.J. took his crayons and wrote on the wall!
It's on the new paper you just hung in the den.
I told him you'd be mad at having to do it again."
She let out a moan and furrowed her
brow,
"Where is your little brother right now?"
She emptied her arms and with a purposeful stride,
She marched to his closet where he had gone to hide.
She called his full name as she
entered his room.
He trembled with fear-he knew that meant doom!
For the next ten minutes, she ranted and raved
About the expensive wallpaper and how she had saved.
Lamenting all the work it would take
to repair,
She condemned his actions and total lack of care.
The more she scolded, the madder she got,
Then stomped from his room, totally distraught!
She headed for the den to confirm her
fears.
When she saw the wall, her eyes flooded with tears.
The message she read pierced her soul with a dart.
It said, "I love Mommy," surrounded by a heart.
Well, the wallpaper remained, just as
she found it,
With an empty picture frame hung to surround it.
A reminder to her, and indeed to all,
Take time to read the handwriting, on the wall.
(TOP)
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Hugging is healthy. It helps the immune system,
cures depression, reduces stress and induces sleep. It's invigorating, rejuvenating and
has no unpleasant side effects. Hugging is nothing less than a miracle drug.
Hugging is all natural. It is organic, naturally
sweet, no artificial ingredients, non-polluting, environmentally friendly and 100 percent
wholesome.
Hugging is the ideal gift. Great for any occasion,
fun to give and receive, shows you care, comes with its own wrapping and, of course, fully
returnable.
Hugging is practically perfect. No batteries to
wear out, inflation-proof, non-fattening, no monthly payments, theft-proof and nontaxable.
Hugging is an underutilized resource with magical
powers. When we open our hearts and arms we encourage others to do the same.
Think of the people in your life. Are there any
words you'd like to say? Are there any hugs you want to share? Are you waiting and hoping
someone else will ask first? Please don't wait! Initiate!
- By Charles Faraone from Condensed Chicken Soup
for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
- What is success?
- To laugh often and much;
- To win the respect of intelligent people
- and the affection of children;
- To earn the appreciation of honest critics
- and endure the betrayal of false friends;
- To appreciate beauty;
- To find the best in others;
- To leave the world a bit better, whether by
- a healthy child, a garden patch
- or a redeemed social condition;
- To know even one life has breathed
- easier because you have lived;
- This is to have succeeded.
- by Ralph Waldo Emerson from Chicken Soup for the
Teenage Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Kimberly
Kirberger (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
"That one's for you, Daddy!" yelled
Matthew Ryan Emrich, not yet nine, looking to the sky, as he circled the bases with his
fist held high. Matthew had just hit his first home run as a member of his Little League
team - a grand slam on his "Field of Dreams!"
His father, Mark, had always wanted to be a
professional baseball player. He tried out and survived several "cuts," but
never lived his dream - a dream instilled and supported by his father, Chet.
Mark continued to play on sandlot teams and taught
neighborhood children how to play. When Matthew was born on July 30, 1985, Mark promised
himself he would share his dream with his son. By the time Matthew was four, he was
hitting a baseball over the neighbor's roof.
Matthew's uniform number -7- was the same as his
father's. He was so pleased that his daddy loved him, as he enjoyed the family tradition.
After all, the movie "Field of Dreams," is not just about baseball - it's about
fathers and sons and it's about faith!
Sadly, yet with great faith, Mark bravely faced,
but lost, a hard-fought battle with cancer. He was 33. The Sunday that Mark died, he had
entered the hospital for "observation only." The doctors had promised that he
could be released to see Matthew's first game on Monday afternoon.
Family and friends knew that Matthew would play the
next day, just as his father would have wished. Little did Matthew know that the promise
he had made to his mother, Sherry, that "My first ball will be hit for my
daddy," would be heard by a much higher, ever-present power.
The comment that Matthew's achievement,
"probably knocked his father off the cloud from which he was watching," sums up
the victories of this life for all of us, doesn't it?
- By Ronald D. Eberhard from A Cup of Chicken Soup
for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
(TOP)
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|
Most of what I really need to know about how to
live and what to do and how to be, I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of
the graduate mountain, but there in the sandbox at nursery school.
These are the things I learned: Share everything.
Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess.
Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your
hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced
life. Learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work
every day some.
Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into
the world, watch for traffic, hold hands and stick together. Be aware of wonder. Remember
the little seed in the plastic cup. The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody
really knows how or why, but we are all like that.
Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the
little seed in the plastic cup - they all die. So do we.
And then remember the book about Dick and Jane and
the first word you learned, the biggest word of all: Look. Everything you need to know is
in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation. Ecology and politics
and sane living.
Think of what a better world it would be if we all
- the whole world - had cookies and milk about 3 o'clock every afternoon and then lay down
with our blankets for a nap. Or if we had a basic policy in our nations to always put
things back where found them and cleaned up our own messes. And it is still true, no
matter how old you are, when you go out into the world, it is better to hold hands and
stick together.
- By Robert Fulghum from Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
|
- (TOP)
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Teacher Debbie Moon's first graders were discussing
a picture of a family. One little boy in the picture had different color hair than the
other family members.
One child suggested that he was adopted and a
little girl named Jocelynn Jay said, "I know all about adoptions because I'm
adopted."
"What does it mean to be adopted?" asked
another child.
"It means," said Jocelynn, "that you
grew in your mother's heart instead of her tummy."
- By George Dolan from Condensed Chicken Soup for
the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen (TOP)
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A Story
To Live By:
by Ann Wells (Los Angeles Times) Submitted by Chuck Sidelinger
My brother-in-law opened the bottom
drawer of my sister's bureau and lifted out a tissue-wrapped package.
"This," he said, "is
not a slip. This is lingerie." He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It was
exquisite; silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The pricetag with an
astronomical figure on it was still attached. "Jan bought this the first time we went
to New York, at least 8 or 9 years ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a
special occasion. Well, I guess this is the occasion." He took the slip from me and
put it on the be with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician. His hands
lingered on the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the drawer shut and turned to
me. "Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're alive is a
special occasion."
I remembered those words through the
funeral and the days that followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad
chores that follow an unexpected death. I though about them on the plane returning to
California from the Midwestern town where my sister's family lives. I thought about all
the things that she hadn't seen or heard or done. I thought about the things that she had
done without realizing that they were special.
I'm still thinking about his words,
and they've changed my life. I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on the deck
and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending
more time with my family and friends and less time in committee meetings.
Whenever possible, life should be a
pattern of experience to savor, not endure. I'm trying to recognize these moments now and
cherish them. I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal
for every special event-such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first
camellia blossom. I wear my good blazer to the market if I like it.
My theory is if I look prosperous, can
shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without wincing. I'm not saving my
good perfume for special parties; clerks in hardware stores and tellers in banks have
noses that function as well as my party-going friends.
"Someday" and "one of
these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing
or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now.
I'm not sure what my sister would've
done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted. I
think she would have called family members and a few close friends. She might have called
a few former friends to apologize and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think she
would have gone out for a Chinese dinner, her favorite food. I'm
guessing -- I'll never know.
It's those little things left undone
that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were limited. Angry because I put off
seeing good friends whom I was going to get in touch with -- someday. Angry because I
hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write one of these days. Angry and sorry
that I didn't tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly love them.
I'm trying very hard not to put off,
hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives. And every
morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special.
Every day, every minute, every breath
truly is... a gift from God.
If you've received this it is because
someone cares for you. If you're too busy to take the few minutes that it would take right
now to forward this to people, would it be the first time you didn't do that little thing
that would make a difference in your relationships? I can tell you it certainly
won't be the last. Take a few minutes to send this to a few people you care about,
just to let them know that you're thinking of them.
May love litter your life with
blessings! (TOP)
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I used to watch her from my kitchen window and
laugh. She seemed so small as she muscled her way through the crowd of boys on the
playground. The school was across the street from our home and I would often stand at my
window, hands buried in dish water or cookie dough, watching the kids as they played
during recess. A sea of children, and yet to me, she stood out from them all.
I remember the first day I saw her playing
basketball. I watched in wonder as she ran circles around the other kids. She managed to
shoot jump shots just over their heads and into the net. The boys always tried to stop her
but no one could.
I began to notice her at other times, on that same
blacktop, basketball in hand, playing alone. She would practice dribbling and shooting
over and over again, sometimes until dark. One day I asked her why she practiced so much.
As she turned her head, her dark ponytail whipped quickly around and she looked directly
in my eyes. Without a moment of hesitation she said, "I want to go to college. My Dad
wasn't able to go to college and he has talked to me about going for as long as I can
remember. The only way I can go is if I get a scholarship. I like basketball. I decided
that if I were good enough, I would get a scholarship. I am going to play college
basketball. I want to be the best. My Daddy told me if the dream is big enough, the facts
don't count." Then she smiled and ran towards the court to recap the routine I had
seen over and over again.
Well, I had to give it to her - she was determined.
I watched her through those Junior High years and into High School. Every week, she led
her varsity team to victory. It was always a thrill to watch her play.
One day in her senior year, I saw her sitting in
the grass, head cradled in her arms. I walked across the street and sat down in the cool
grass beside her. Quietly I asked what was wrong. "Oh, nothing", came a soft
reply. "I am just too short." The coach told her that at 5'5" she would
probably never get to play for a top ranked team - much less offered a scholarship - so
she should stop dreaming about college.
She was heartbroken and I felt my own throat
tighten as I sensed her disappointment. I asked her if she had talked to her dad about it
yet.
She lifted her head from her hands and told me that
her father said those coaches were wrong. They just did not understand the power of a
dream. He told her that if she really wanted to play for a good college, if she truly
wanted a scholarship, that nothing could stop her except one thing - her own attitude. He
told her again, "If the dream is big enough, the facts don't count."
The next year, as she and her team went to the
Northern California Championship game, she was seen by a college recruiter who was there
looking at the opposing team. She was indeed offered a scholarship, a full ride, to a
Division I, NCAA women's basketball team. She accepted. She was going to get the college
education that she had dreamed of and worked toward for all those years. And that little
girl had more playing time as a freshman and sophomore than any other woman did in the
history of that university.
Late one night, during her junior year of college
her father called. "I'm sick, Honey. I have cancer. No, don't quit school and come
home. Everything will be okay. I love you."
He died six weeks later - her hero, her Dad. She
did leave school those last few days to support her mother and care for her father. Late
one night, during those final hours before his death, he called for her in the darkness.
As she came to his side, he reached for her hand
and struggled to speak. "Rachel, keep dreaming. Don't let your dream die with me.
Promise me," he pleaded. "Promise me."
In those last few precious moments together she
replied, "I promise Daddy."
Those years to follow were hard on her. She was
torn between school and her family, knowing her mother was left alone with a new baby and
three other children to raise. The grief she felt over the loss of her father was always
there, hidden in that place she kept inside, waiting to raise its head at some
unsuspecting moment and drop her again to her knees.
Everything seemed harder. She struggled daily with
fear, doubt and frustration. A severe learning disability had forced her to go to school
year-round for three years just to keep up with requirements. The testing facility on
campus couldn't believe she had made it through even one semester. Every time she wanted
to quit, she remembered her father's words, "Rachel, keep dreaming. Don't let your
dream die. If the dream is big enough, you can do anything! I believe in you." And of
course, she would remember the promise she made to him.
My daughter kept her promise and completed her
degree. It took her six years, but she did not give up. She can still be found sometimes
as the sun is setting, bouncing a basketball. And often I hear her tell others, "If
the dream is big enough, the facts don't count."
Cynthia Stewart-Copier by Jack
Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Kimberly Kirberger and Dan Clark. Copyright 1999 Canfield
and Hansen. (TOP)
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Intense feelings of embarrassment and absurdity
filled my entire body. This would not help the fact that I was slathered in baby oil, clad
in a T-shirt and lying in my basement, in fifty pounds of plaster. I stared down at the
warm plaster that embraced my midsection and slowly crept up towards my chest and tried to
remember why I had chosen to make a plaster cast of my entire body. For a moment, I simply
concluded that I was an utter fool, but I soon remembered my motives, and while the
plaster dried, I certainly had the time to think about it.
The insecurities of my freshman year in college
combined with my poor body image made me feel like an oaf. Here I was surrounded by all
these lithe, long girls who wore the latest fashions really well. Was there some mold that
was churning out these girls? And, where in the world did I come from?
That was the beginning of the question that lead me
to my plaster ensconcement. It all began 506 years ago, when my forebears were thrown out
of Spain. They migrated to Eastern Europe and developed the stocky, bosomy shape consigned
to overstuffed chairs. Though my tall, slender parents seemed to have defeated this
pernicious (certainly in my eyes) shape, it continued lurking in the depths of the family
gene pool, and flung itself into existence again with the arrival of their first-born
child - me. It gifted me with wide hips, a nonexistent waistline, powerful shoulders, and
ample breasts. Very reminiscent of a long line of intimidating German matriarchs.
Built to survive harsh winters and to breed
children, I certainly wasn't near anything I say in fashion magazines - or like any of my
new college peers. I loathed my shape and cursed my past. Though I was always an
independent person who disregarded the edicts of popularity and fashion, I could not
ignore our culture's concepts of beauty. The rancor I had for my body made my freshman
year of college really hard. Clothing seemed to be made for those generic stick figures I
sat next to in class. That was when Dorothy, my slightly eccentric art teacher, and
mentor, originated the idea of body casting.
Consequently, on a lovely May morning, I found
myself sitting in a dank basement encased in plaster. I lost all sensation in my legs at
approximately the same time that the plaster hardened. After an additional uncomfortable
twenty minutes, I slipped out of my plaster shell. At first, I was rather depressed by the
sight of the powder-white and headless torso lying on an old towel. It looked more like a
sea creature stranded by the tide than a human shape. My eyes squinted, trying not to take
in the entire picture of my shape, which was even more exaggerated by the plaster. I
thought about how I would never be graceful or delicate, how two-piece swimsuits were
absolutely out of the question, and how I would never be conventionally beautiful, or
fashionably thin.
As I stared at the empty outer shell of myself, a
great realization hit me - I realized that I had been completely wrong about my body
image. For the past nineteen years I had believed that my linebacker-like shape would
discourage others from noticing my additional attributes. How would they ever see my love
of science and books, my creativity, or my offbeat sense of humor? All this time I wanted
to be fashionably svelte, but that would not make me a better person. I recognized that
confidence was much more important to others than a dainty appearance, and that if I had
confidence, they would notice my talents. More important, I realized that I did not
actually want to be thin and bikini-clad. I was quite content using my powerful build to
lug around sixty-pound scenery pieces, and I liked my one-piece practical bathing suits.
My physical appearance had shaped my personality in a largely positive way. It contributed
to my dislike of conformity. It gave me my somewhat self-deprecating sense of humor. And
it gave me that strong will that I cherish so much. The misconception I was holding all
these years, along with the exaggerated body cast that lay there on my basement floor was
suddenly so hilarious to me. I laughed for five straight minutes.
The body cast currently resides in Dorothy's attic,
under a large blanket. I never actually used it in any art piece; I felt like it served
its purpose. The process of body casting had been far more important than the product.
Since that day three years ago, I have not resented
my ancestral build. I have also discovered that being comfortable in my body has given me
increased confidence and assertiveness, something many girls, and women lack. Perhaps they
should all be given the opportunity to make their own body casts? When the shell of the
body is separate from the person it is obvious that it is severely lacking. Without the
wisdom, sense of humor and heart it really has no shape at all.
Miriam Goldstein by Jack Canfield,
Mark Victor Hansen, Kimberly Kirberger and Dan Clark. Copyright 1999 Canfield and Hansen.
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
In the summer recess between freshman and sophomore
years in college, I was invited to be an instructor at a high school leadership camp
hosted by a college in Michigan. I was already highly involved in most campus activities,
and I jumped at the opportunity.
About an hour into the first day of camp, amid the
frenzy of icebreakers and forced interactions, I first noticed the boy under the tree. He
was small and skinny, and his obvious discomfort and shyness made him appear frail and
fragile. Only 50 feet away, 200 eager campers were bumping bodies, playing, joking and
meeting each other, but the boy under the tree seemed to want to be anywhere other than
where he was. The desperate loneliness he radiated almost stopped me from approaching him,
but I remembered the instructions from the senior staff to stay alert for campers who
might feel left out.
As I walked toward him I said, "Hi, my name is
Kevin and I'm one of the counselors. It's nice to meet you. How are you?" In a shaky,
sheepish voice he reluctantly answered, "Okay, I guess." I calmly asked him if
he wanted to join the activities and meet some new people. He quietly replied, "No,
this is not really my thing."
I could sense that he was in a new world, that this
whole experience was foreign to him. But I somehow knew it wouldn't be right to push him,
either. He didn't need a pep talk, he needed a friend. After several silent moments, my
first interaction with the boy under the tree was over.
At lunch the next day, I found myself leading camp
songs at the top of my lungs for 200 of my new friends. The campers were eagerly
participated. My gaze wandered over the mass of noise and movement and was caught by the
image of the boy from under the tree, sitting alone, staring out the window. I nearly
forgot the words to the song I was supposed to be leading. At my first opportunity, I
tried again, with the same questions as before: "How are you doing? Are you
okay?" To which he again replied, "Yeah, I'm alright. I just don't really get
into this stuff". As I left the cafeteria, I too realized this was going to take more
time and effort than I had thought - if it was even possible to get through to him at all.
That evening at our nightly staff meeting, I made
my concerns about him known. I explained to my fellow staff members my impression of him
and asked them to pay special attention and spend time with him when they could.
The days I spend at camp each year fly by faster
than any others I have known. Thus, before I knew it, mid-week had dissolved into the
final night of camp and I was chaperoning the "last dance". The students were
doing all they could to savor every last moment with their new "best friends" -
friends they would probably never see again.
As I watched the campers share their parting
moments, I suddenly saw what would be one of the most vivid memories of my life. The boy
from under the tree, who stared blankly out the kitchen window, was now a shirtless
dancing wonder. He owned the dance floor as he and two girls proceeded to cut up a rug. I
watched as he shared meaningful, intimate time with people at whom he couldn't even look
just days earlier. I couldn't believe it was him.
In October of my sophomore year, a late-night phone
call pulled me away from my chemistry book. A soft-spoken, unfamiliar voice asked
politely, "Is Kevin there?"
"You're talking to him. Who's this?"
"This is Tom Johnson's mom. Do you remember
Tommy from leadership camp?
The boy under the tree. How could I not remember?
"Yes, I do", I said. "He's a very
nice young man. How is he?"
An abnormally long pause followed, then Mrs.
Johnson said, "My Tommy was walking home from school this week when he was hit by a
car and killed." Shocked, I offered my condolences.
"I just wanted to call you", she said,
"because Tommy mentioned you so many times. I wanted you to know that he went back to
school this fall with confidence. He made new friends. His grades went up. And he even
went out on a few dates. I just wanted to thank you for making a difference for Tom. The
last few months were the best few months of his life."
In that instant, I realized how easy it is to give
a bit of yourself every day. You may never know how much each gesture may mean to someone
else. I tell this story as often as I can, and when I do, I urge others to look out for
their own "boy under the tree."
David Coleman and Kevin Randall from Chicken
Soup for the College Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Kimberly Kirberger and
Dan Clark. Copyright 1999 Canfield and Hansen. All rights reserved. (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The pharmacist handed me my prescription,
apologized for the wait, and explained that his register had already closed. He asked if I
would mind using the register at the front of the store.
I told him not to worry and walked up front, where
one person was in line ahead of me, a little girl no more than seven, with a bottle of
Children's Motrin on the counter. She clenched a little green and white striped coin purse
closely to her chest.
The purse reminded me of the days when, as a child,
I played dress-up in my grandma's closet. I'd march around the house in oversized clothes,
drenched in costume jewelry and hats and scarves, talking "grownup talk" to
anyone who would listen. I remembered the thrill one day when I gave a pretend dollar to
someone, and he handed back some real coins for me to put into my special purse.
"Keep the change!" he told me with a wink.
Now the clerk rang up the little girl's medicine,
while she shakily pulled out a coupon, a dollar bill and some coins. I watched her blush
as she tried to count her money, and I could see right away that she was about a dollar
short. With a quick wink to the checker, I flipped a dollar bill onto the counter and
signaled the clerk to ring up the sale. The child scooped her uncounted change into her
coin purse, grabbed her package and scurried out the door.
As I headed to my car, I felt a tug on my shirt.
There was the girl, looking up at me with her big brown eyes. She gave me a grin, wrapped
her arms around my legs for a long moment then stretched out her little hand. It was full
of coins. "Thank you," she whispered.
"That's okay," I answered. I flashed her
a smile and winked, "Keep the change!"
- By Nancy Mitchell from A 4th Course of Chicken
Soup for the Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Hanoch McCarty
& Meladee McCarty (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
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