Stories
and Inspirational Messages:
It was 1933. I had been laid off from my part-time
job and could no longer make my contribution to the family larder. Our only income was
what Mother could make by doing dressmaking for others. Then Mother was sick for a few
weeks and unable to work. The electric company came out and cut off the power when we
couldn't pay the bill. Then the gas company cut off the gas. Then the water company. But
the Health Department made them turn the water back on for sanitation reasons. The
cupboard got very bare. We had a vegetable garden and were able to cook some of its
produce on a campfire in the back yard.
Then one day my younger sister came skipping home
from school saying, "We're supposed to bring something to school tomorrow to give to
the poor."
Mother started to blurt out, "I don't know of
anyone who is any poorer than we are," when her mother, who was living with us at the
time, shushed her with a hand on her arm and a frown.
"Eva," she said, "if you give that
child the idea that she is `poor folks’ at her age, she will be `poor folks’ for
the rest of her life. There is one jar of that home-made jelly left. She can take
that."
Grandmother found some tissue paper and a little
bit of pink ribbon with which she wrapped our last jar of jelly, and Sis tripped off to
school the next day proudly carrying her "gift to the poor." After that, if
there ever was a problem in the community, she just naturally assumed that she was
supposed to be part of the solution.
- By Edgar Bledsoe from A Cup of Chicken Soup for
the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
(TOP)
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I know the
Bible:
Submitted by Carl Piekarski
A father was approached by his small
son who said, "I know the Bible!"
The father replied, "What do you mean you know the Bible?"
The son replied, "I know what the Bible stands for!"
The father said, "So, what does the Bible stand for?"
The son replied, "It stands for B - I - B - L - E
B asic
I nformation
B efore
L eaving
E arth
(TOP)
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The cruise ship was crowded with people off for
three days of pleasure. Ahead of me in the passageway walked a tiny woman in brown slacks,
her shoulders hunched, her white hair cut in a bob.
From the ship's intercom came a familiar tune -
"Begin the Beguine." And suddenly a wonderful thing happened. The woman, unaware
anyone was behind her, did a quick and graceful dance step - back, shuffle, slide.
As she reached the door to the dining salon, she
re-assembled her dignity and stepped soberly through.
Younger people often think folks my age are beyond
romance, dancing or dreams. They see us as age has shaped us; camouflaged by wrinkles,
thick waists and gray hair.
They don't see the people who live inside - we are
the wise old codgers, the dignified matrons.
No one would ever know that I am still the skinny
girl who grew up in a leafy suburb of Boston. Inside, I still think of myself as the
youngest child in a vivacious family headed by a mother of great beauty and a father of
unfailing good cheer.
And I am still the romantic teenager who longed for
love, the young adult who aspired to social respectability - but whom shall I tell?
We are all like the woman in the ship's passageway,
in whom the music still echoes. We are the sum of all the lives we once lived. We show the
grown-up part, but inside we are still the laughing children, the shy teens, the
dream-filled youths. There still exists, most real, the matrix of all we were or ever
yearned to be.
In our hearts we still hear "Begin the
Beguine" - and when we are alone, we dance.
- By Beth Ashley from Condensed Chicken Soup for
the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen
(TOP)
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Meanest
Mother In The World:
by Bobbie Pingaro 1967
Original Version!
Submitted by Dave Singer
- I had the meanest mother in the whole
world. While other kids ate
candy for breakfast, I had to have cereal, eggs or toast. When others
had cokes and candy for lunch, I had to eat a sandwich. As you can
guess, my supper was different than the other kids' also. But at least, I
wasn't alone in my sufferings. My sister and two brothers had the same mean
mother as I did. My mother insisted upon knowing where we were at all times.
You'd think we were on a chain gang. She had to know who our friends were
and where we were going. She insisted if we said we'd be gone an hour, that
we be gone one hour or less--not one hour and one minute. I am nearly
ashamed to admit it, but she actually struck us. Not once, but each time we
had a mind of our own and did as we pleased. That poor belt was used more on
our seats than it was to hold up Daddy's pants. Can you imagine someone
actually hitting a child just because he disobeyed? Now you can begin to see
how mean she really was. We had to wear clean clothes and take a bath. The
other kids always wore their clothes for days. We reached the height of
insults because she made our clothes herself, just to save money. Why, oh
why, did we have to have a mother who made us feel different from our
friends? The worst is yet to come. We had to be in bed by nine each night
and up at eight the next morning. We couldn't sleep till noon like our
friends. So while they slept-my mother actually had the nerve to break the child-labor law. She made us work. We had to wash dishes, make beds, learn
to cook and all sorts of cruel things. I believe she laid awake at night
thinking up mean things to do to us. She always insisted upon us telling the
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even if it killed us- and
it nearly did. By the time we were teen-agers, she was much wiser, and our
life became even more unbearable. None of this tooting the horn of a car for
us to come running. She embarrassed us to no end by making our dates and friends come to the door to get us. If I spent the night with a girlfriend,
can you imagine she checked on me to see if I were really there. I never had
the chance to elope to Mexico. That is if I'd had a boyfriend to elope with.
I forgot to mention, while my friends were dating at the mature age of 12
and 13, my old fashioned mother refused to let me date until the age of 15
and 16. Fifteen, that is, if you
dated only to go to a school function. And that was maybe twice a year.
Through the years, things didn't improve a bit. We could not lie
in bed, "sick" like our friends did, and miss school. If our
friends
had a toe ache, a hang nail or serious ailment, they could stay home
from school. Our marks in school had to be up to par. Our friends'
report cards had beautiful colors on them, black for passing, red for
failing. My mother being as different as she was, would settle for
nothing less than ugly black marks. As the years rolled by, first one and
then the other of us was put to shame. We were graduated from high school.
With our mother behind us, talking, hitting and demanding respect, none of
us was allowed the pleasure of being a drop-out. My mother was a complete
failure as a mother. Out of four
children, a couple of us attained some higher education. None of us
have ever been arrested, divorced or beaten his mate. Each of my
brothers served his time in the service of this country. And whom do we have
to blame for the terrible way we turned out? You're right, our
mean mother. Look at the things we missed. We never got to march in a protest parade, nor to take part in a riot, burn draft cards, and a
million and one other things that our friends did. She forced us to grow up
into God-fearing, educated, honest adults. Using this as a background, I am
trying to raise my three children. I stand a little taller and I am filled
with pride when my children call me mean. Because, you see, I thank God, He
gave me the meanest mother in the whole world.
Written by Bobbie Pingaro at
lpin@cableone.net
(1967) (TOP)
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I won’t say, "I know how you feel" -
because I don’t. I’ve lost parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends, but
I’ve never lost a child. So how can I say I know how you feel?
I won’t say, "You’ll get over
it" - because you won’t. Life will have to go on. The washing, cooking,
cleaning, the common routine. These chores will take your mind off your loved one, but the
hurt will still be there.
I won’t say, "Your other children will be
a comfort to you" - because they may not be. Many mothers I’ve talked to say
that after they have lost a child, they easily lose their temper with their remaining
children. Some even feel resentful that they’re alive and healthy when the other
child is not.
I won’t say, "Never mind, you’re
young enough to have another baby" - because that won’t help. A new baby cannot
replace the one that you’ve lost. A new baby will fill your hours, keep you busy,
give you sleepless nights. But it will not replace the one you’ve lost.
You may hear all these platitudes from your friends
and relatives. They think they are helping. They don’t know what else to say. You
will find out who your true friends are at this time Many will avoid you because they
can’t face you. Others will talk about the weather, the holidays and the school
concert but never about how you’re coping.
So what will I say?
I will say, "I’m here. I care. Anytime.
Anywhere." I will talk about your loved one. We’ll laugh about the good
memories. I won’t mind how long you grieve. I won’t tell you to pull yourself
together.
No, I don’t know how you feel - but with
sharing, perhaps I will learn a little of what you are going through. And perhaps
you’ll feel comfortable with me and find your burden has eased. Try me.
- Written by a pediatric nurse Submitted to Ann
Landers from A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack
Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen (TOP)
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On December 24th, the evening of my father's
funeral, my siblings and I gathered together in our childhood home to decide where our
mother would live. My father left behind five children and my mother, the love of his life
for 54 years. She was barely able to walk or function and he had been her devoted helper.
She could not live alone.
We began to talk, and as Mother listened on, the
discussion quickly turned heated. With our thinking clouded by shock, our bonds loosened
by our recent loss, the talk turned more to the cost of caring for Mother than to the
quality of her care. As we began to argue, our pain deepened and our loss was compounded
by the thought of losing each other. Mother listened in shock, and we feared the family
would die with Dad.
At the height of the battle, we heard the sound of
caroling, followed by a knock on the door. My brother went to open it and, grateful for
the respite, we all got up to see. Outside, the lawn and porch were filled with young
carolers. And leading them was the priest who that day had buried Dad. He was as surprised
to see us as we were to see him. He did not know that this was my parents' house.
We stood chastened by the sounds of "Peace on
Earth," then closed the door. My oldest brother, stunned by the sound, whispered:
"Dad sent them. He's reminding us to behave ourselves and take care of our
mother."
With those words echoing in our minds, the
arguments ceased, and within hours, we had decided on a plan. Our mother would move in
with one of my brothers. The house of our youth was closed and bare, but the family was
furnished anew.
- By Marilyn L. Teplitz from A Cup of Chicken Soup
for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
A lesson in "heart" is my little
10-year-old daughter, Sarah, who was born with a muscle missing in her foot and wears a
brace all the time. She came home one beautiful spring day to tell me she had competed in
"field day" - that's where they have lots of races and other competitive events.
Because of her leg support, my mind raced as I
tried to think of encouragement for my Sarah, things I could say to her about not letting
this get her down - but before I could get a word out, she said, "Daddy, I won two of
the races!"
I couldn't believe it! And then Sarah said, "I
had an advantage."
Ahh. I knew it. I thought she must have been given
a head start . . . some kind of physical advantage. But again, before I could say
anything, she said, "Daddy, I didn't get a head start . . . my advantage was I had to
try harder!"
That's heart! That's my Sarah.
- By Stan Frager from Condensed Chicken Soup for
the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
- If only they knew how hard it is for me.
- I’m turning 16, the world I begin to see.
- My friends begin to change, right before my eyes,
- and now they seem to laugh, and tell all sorts of
lies.
- They hang around together in groups of three or
four;
- the language they use...it isn’t gentle
anymore.
- The kids that seem most lonely wind up in their
pack,
- and those that stand alone, they talk behind their
back.
- Somehow I feel rejected because I don’t
conform.
- Those that step to their own beat don’t seem to
be the norm.
- I’ve watched a few just fade away, with drugs
and alcohol;
- and many more have given up, too many to recall.
- Alcohol is an option for everyone in my school.
- I’ve lost a friend to booze again; I will not
be a fool.
- And sex, it seems so open, for everyone to explore.
- Three girls I know that came to school don’t
come here anymore.
- If only I could make a difference, what could I do
or say?
- I would go to school and try my best each and every
day.
- There is one thing I’d like to do before I
graduate.
- I’d like to touch them one by one before
it’s too late.
- By Tony Overman from Chicken Soup for the Teenage
Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Kimberly Kirberger
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
I have three children. Paul, the oldest and only
boy, is named for his dad. Theresa, the baby of the family, has her daddy's brown eyes and
curly hair.
Eileen is the middle child. She is named for me and
my mother whose name was Eileen Ann. When I was born, my mother turned it around and named
me Ann Eileen. So when my first girl was born, I did the same thing, naming her Eileen
Ann.
Eileen showed a streak of independence from the
early age of five months. She refused to let anyone feed her, determined to do things her
way.
All three kids were great fun to be around. They
worked hard, had senses of humor and did well in what they attempted. Like all homes,
however, there were times when we initiated a discussion of some behavior that their dad
and I wanted improved. With Paul and Theresa, the reactions ranged from quiet agreement to
vocal disagreements, but always with a mutual clearing of the air.
With Eileen there were never any discussions. She
immediately objected to our right to have an opinion, stomped up the stairs to her room,
slammed the door, turned the music up loud and announced she did not want to discuss it!
Several times in the early days I tried reasoning with her, but this only irritated her
further.
One day out of a need for Eileen to hear our side,
I wrote her a letter. In the letter I explained her dad's and my position and what we
wanted changed. I waited until she left for school the next day to put the letter on her
bed. She never mentioned the letter, and I never found any evidence of it. But her
behavior changed!
As the years passed, there were more letters left
while she was at school, at work or on a date - probably two or three letters a year for a
period of 14 years. She never acknowledged the letters or discussed what was in them, but
her behavior would change. Occasionally she stated as she went upstairs, "And don't
write me one of those letters." Of course, I wrote a letter.
Eileen's dad died in 1990. Three years later, she
got engaged, and I was determined not to be the overbearing mother of the bride.
Everything went well until about a month before the wedding. We had a disagreement. She
indignantly told me she was 24 years old and a special education teacher about to be
married. She also told me not to write her a letter! I wrote her a letter.
Three days before the wedding, Eileen was packing
things to move to her new home. She told me there was a box in her closet that was not to
be thrown away. "It contains all the letters you ever wrote me. Sometimes I reread
them and someday I will read them to my daughter. Thank you, Mom."
Thank you, Eileen.
- By Ann E. Weeks 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)
Stevie:
A Wonderful Story
I tried not to be biased in hiring a handicapped person, but his placement
counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never
had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I wanted one. I wasn't sure how
my customers would react to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth
facial features and thick tongued speech of Down syndrome. I wasn't worried
about most of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses
tables as long as the meat loaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. The four
wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me. The mouthy college kids traveling to
school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for
fear of some dreaded "truckstop germ;" the pairs of white shirted business men
on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I
knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the
first few weeks. I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had
my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck
regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.
After that, I really didn't
care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in
blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh, eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his
duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or
coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was
persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He
would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning
the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and
carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a
practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would
pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right,
and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he
lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer.
They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck
stop. Their social worker, which stopped to check on him every so often, admitted
they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was the
probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to
a group home.
That's why the restaurant was
a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that
Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or
something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome
often had heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and there was a good
chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few
months. A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word
came that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head
waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good
news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight
of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie
blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look. He
grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked. "We
just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay." "I was
wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him." "What was the
surgery about?" Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers
sitting at his booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed. "Yeah, I'm glad he is
going to be OK," she said, "but I don't know how he and his Mom are going to
handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it
is." Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on
the rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to
replace Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their
own tables that day until we decided what to do.
After the morning rush,
Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand a
funny look on her face. "What's up?" I asked. "I didn't get
that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left,
and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off,"
she said. "This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup." She handed the
napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in
big, bold letters, was printed "Something For Stevie." "Pony Pete
asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about Stevie
and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and
they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper napkin that
had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were
tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head
and said simply "truckers."
That was three months
ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to
work. His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor
said he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He
called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that
we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother
bring him to work, met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day
back.
Stevie was thinner and paler,
but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back
room where his apron and busing cart were waiting. "Hold up there, Stevie, not
so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. "Work can
wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother
is on me." I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the
room. I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we
marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth
of grinning truckers empty and join the possession. We stopped in front of the big table.
Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers, and dinner plates, all
sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. "First thing you
have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.
Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins.
It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he
picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table. Stevie stared at the money, then at
all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or
scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. "There's more than $10,000
in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard
about your problems. Happy Thanksgiving."
Well, it got real noisy about
that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as
well. But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands
and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing
all the cups and dishes from the table. Best worker I ever hired.
Author Unknown
Plant a seed and watch it grow. At this point, you can bury this inspirational
message or forward it fulfilling the need! (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
A Good Friend: (Through the Years)
Submitted by Chuck Sidelinger
In kindergarten your idea of a good
friend was the person who let you have the red crayon when all that was left was the ugly
black one.
In first grade your idea of a
good friend was the person who went to the bathroom with you and held your hand
as you walked through the scary halls.
In second grade your idea of a good
friend was the person who helped you stand up to the class bully.
In third grade your idea of a
good friend was the person who shared their lunch with you when you forgot
yours on the bus.
In fourth grade your idea of a
good friend was the person who was willing to switch square dancing
partners in gym so you wouldn't have to be stuck do-si-do-ing with Nasty Nicky or
Smelly Susan.
In fifth grade your idea of a
friend was the person who saved a seat on the back of the bus for you.
In sixth grade your idea of a friend
was the person who went up to Nicky or Susan, your new crush, and asked them to
dance with you, so that if they said no you wouldn't have to be embarrassed.
In seventh grade your idea of
a friend was the person who let you copy the social studies homework from
the night before that you had.
In eighth grade your idea of a good
friend was the person who helped you pack up your stuffed animals and old baseball but
didn't laugh at you when you finished and broke out into tears.
In ninth grade your idea of a good
friend was the person who would go to a party thrown by a senior so you wouldn't wind up
being the only freshman there.
In tenth grade your idea of a good
friend was the person who changed their schedule so you would have someone to sit with at
lunch.
In eleventh grade your idea of a good
friend was the person who gave you rides in their new car, convinced your parents that you
shouldn't be grounded, consoled you when you broke up with Nick [or Glenn] or Susan, and
found you a date to the prom.
In twelfth grade your idea of a good
friend was the person who helped you pick out a college/university, assured you that you
would get into that college/university, helped you deal with your parents who were having
a hard time adjusting to the idea of letting you go...
At graduation your idea of a good
friend was the person who was crying on the inside but managed the biggest smile one could
give as they congratulated you.
The summer after twelfth grade your
idea of a good friend was the person who helped you clean up the mess from that party,
helped you sneak out of the house when you just couldn't deal with your parents, assured
you that now that you and Nick or you and Susan were back together, you could make it
through anything, helped you pack up for university and just silently hugged you as you
looked through blurry eyes at 18 years of memories you were leaving behind, and finally on
those last days of childhood, went out of their way to give you reassurance that you would
make it in college as well as you had these past 18 years, and most importantly sent you
off to college knowing you were loved.
Now, your idea of a good friend is
still the person who gives you the better of the two choices, holds your hand when you're
scared, helps you fight off those who try to take advantage of you, thinks of you at times
when you are not there, reminds you of what you have forgotten, helps you put the past
behind you but understands when you need to hold on to it a little longer, stays with you
so that you have confidence, goes out of their way to make time for you, helps you clear
up your mistakes, helps you deal with pressure from others, smiles for you when they are
sad, helps you become a better person, and most importantly loves you!
************************************
Pass on to those friends of the past,
and those of the future...and those you have met along the way...
[crying yet? oh there's more]
Thank you for being a friend. No
matter where we go or who we become, never forget who helped us get there.
There's never a wrong time to pick up
a phone or send a message telling your friends how much you miss them or how much you love
them.
You know who you are, pass it on to
someone who you want to remind. So send this to all your friends and maybe those who
aren't but just watch and see who sends it back. If you love someone, tell them. Remember
always to say what you mean.
Never be afraid to express yourself.
Take this opportunity to tell someone what they mean to you. Seize the day and have no
regrets.
Most importantly, stay close to your
friends and family, for they have helped make you the person that you are today and are
what it's all about anyway. Pass this along to your friends. Let it make a difference in
your day and theirs.
The difference between expressing love
and having regrets is that the regrets may stay around forever.
Send this to other people. You
will have a miraculous occurrence in your relationships. You will find new
love or have an old love rekindled. If you do not send it, you will have once
again passed up the opportunity to do something loving and beautiful and continue
the trend that gives you problems in your relationships.
If you've received this it
is because someone cares for you and it means there is probably at
least someone for whom you care. 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 or that little thing that would make a difference in your
relationships? [oh the guilt!] And the better you'll get at reaching out
to those you care about. (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
A Slow Dance:
Submitted by Stacey White - Stacey
is Connor White's mom, he has his own Cancer Webpages at http://www.wellspringbiblechurch.org/Connor/connerwhite.html
Have you ever watched kids On a
merry-go-round Or listened to the rain Slapping on the ground. Ever followed a butterfly's
erratic flight Or gazed at the sun into the fading night.
You better slow down. Don't dance so
fast. Time is short. The music won't last.
Do you run through each day On the
fly? When you ask "How are you?" Do you hear the reply? When the day is done, Do
you lie in your bed With the next hundred chores Running through your head?
You'd better slow down. Don't dance so
fast. Time is short. The music won't last.
Ever told your child, We'll do it
tomorrow? And in your haste, Not see his sorrow? Ever lost touch, Let a good friendship
die, Cause you never had time, To call and say "Hi"?
You'd better slow down. Don't dance so
fast. Time is short. The music won't last.
When you run so fast to get somewhere
You miss half the fun of getting there. When you worry and hurry through your day, It is
like an unopened gift.... Thrown away.
Life is not a race. Do take it slower
Hear the music, Before the song is over.
***************** This is the request
of a special little girl who will soon leave this world as she has cancer.
Thank you for your effort, this isn't
a chain letter, but a choice for all of us to save a little girl that's dying of a serious
and fatal form of cancer. Please send this to everyone you know... or don't know.
This little girl has 6 months left to
live, and as her dying wish, she wanted to send a chain letter telling everyone to live
their life to the fullest, since she never will. She'll never make it to prom, graduate
from high school, or get married and have a family of her own.
Dr. Dennis Shields,
Professor Department of Developmental and Molecular Biology
Albert Einstein College of Medicine of Yeshiva University
1300 Morris Park Avenue
Bronx, New York 10461 (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
When I was a kid in Minnesota, watermelon was a
delicacy. One of my father's buddies, Bernie, was a prosperous fruit-and-vegetable
wholesaler, who operated a warehouse in St. Paul.
Every summer, when the first watermelons rolled in,
Bernie would call. Dad and I would go to Bernie's warehouse and take up our positions.
We'd sit on the edge of the dock, feet dangling, and lean over, minimizing the volume of
juice we were about to spill on ourselves.
Bernie would take his machete, crack our first
watermelon, hand us both a big piece and sit down next to us. Then we'd bury our faces in
watermelon, eating only the heart - the reddest, juiciest, firmest, most seed-free, most
perfect part - and throw away the rest.
Bernie was my father's idea of a rich man. I always
thought it was because he was such a successful businessman. Years later, I realized that
what my father admired about Bernie's wealth was less its substance than its application.
Bernie knew how to stop working, get together with friends and eat only the heart of the
watermelon.
What I learned from Bernie is that being rich is a
state of mind. Some of us, no matter how much money we have, will never be free enough to
eat only the heart of the watermelon. Others are rich without ever being more than a
paycheck ahead.
If you don't take the time to dangle your feet over
the dock and chomp into life's small pleasures, your career is probably overwhelming your
life.
For many years, I forgot that lesson I'd learned as
a kid on the loading dock. I was too busy making all the money I could.
Well, I've relearned it. I hope I have time left to
enjoy the accomplishments of others and to take pleasure in the day. That's the heart of
the watermelon. I have learned again to throw the rest away.
Finally, I am rich.
- By Harvey Mackay 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)
Never! Never did I ever think that I would lose
both of my parents on the same day. However, I received a phone call telling me that both
of my parents had been killed in an automobile accident.
Why did they both have to die the same day? Why me?
Why did two good people like them have to die? Why? Why? Why? Why?
I caught the next flight out to Kentucky absolutely
in shock, full of questions and full of disbelief. I met my two sisters who were
hysterical and in full denial that this could be happening to us.
I went to my parents' home and there, laying on the
stand next to my dad's favorite rocking chair, was the birthday gift I had sent him. In
their home, their spirit and ambiance was still warm and it seemed to collect around me in
a mysterious way. I couldn't believe it; I had talked to them only two days earlier on the
phone. Now, forever gone! Eternity!
During the four-day wake, several hundred friends
and relatives came to pay their respects. Friends sat around the casket recalling the good
times they had with my dear parents. I was never more proud of them in my life. But the
one thing that helped me understand their deaths more than anything was the statement made
in the eulogy by Reverend Dewitt Furrow. He said, "You may ask why they were called
to heaven on the same day! They would have wanted it that way, since they were never
apart, always hand in hand and arm in arm, always walking in love on this earth. It would
be selfish of us to want one to stay, one to go on. The remaining one would have died of
grief within a year. God has two angels now, walking around heaven together as they did
here on earth. God would have wanted it that way!"
Later, while praying and crying at the cemetery, I
just stared at their graves. Then, words seemed to resound through the air so clearly that
it startled me and they were, "God would have wanted it that way."
He would.
- By Douglas Paul Blankenship from A Cup of Chicken
Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry
Spilchuk (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
A Real
Friend:
Submitted by Dave Singer
- A simple friend has never seen you cry.
A real friend has shoulders Soggy from your tears.
- A simple friend doesn't know your parents' first
names.
A real friend has their phone numbers in his address book.
- A simple friend brings drink or food to your party.
A real friend comes early to help you cook and stays late to help you clean.
- A simple friend hates it when you call after he has
gone to bed.
A real friend asks you why you took so long to call.
- A simple friend seeks to talk with you about your
problems.
A real friend seeks to help you with your problems.
- A simple friend wonders about your romantic history.
A real friend could blackmail you with it.
- A simple friend, when visiting, acts like a guest.
A real friend opens your refrigerator and helps himself.
- A simple friend thinks the friendship is over when
you have an argument.
A real friend knows that it's not a friendship until after you've had a fight.
- A simple friend expects you to always be there for
them.
A real friend expects to always be there for you!
- A simple friend will read and throw this letter
away.
A real friend will send it back to you until he's sure it's been received.
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
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