Stories and
Inspirational Messages:
Surprising
Moron:
Submitted by Dave Singer
A young woman teacher with obvious liberal tendencies
explains to her class of small children that she is an atheist. She asks
her class if they are atheists too. Not really knowing what atheism is
but wanting to be like their teacher, their hands explode into the air
like fleshy fireworks. There is, however, one exception. A beautiful
girl named Lucy has not gone along with the crowd. The teacher asks her
why she has decided to be different. "Because I'm not an atheist."
Then, asks the teacher, what are you? "I'm a Christian." The teacher
is a little perturbed now, her face slightly red. She asks Lucy why she
is a Christian. "Well, I was brought up knowing and loving Jesus. My
mom is a Christian, and my dad is a Christian, so I am a Christian." The
teacher is now angry. "That's no reason," she says loudly. "What if your
mom was a moron, and your dad was a moron. What would you be then?" A
pause, and a smile. "Then," says Lucy, "I'd be an atheist." (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Rules of the Road:
Though somewhat younger, my wife and I attend a church that
caters to senior citizens. We like it because of the traditional
service and very friendly elderly people. One in particular is a lady
in her early eighties, who cheerfully greets us at the same door every
Sunday morning with a smile and kind words. We look forward to seeing
Betty and giving her an occasional hug.
On a Sunday when I went to church alone, Betty handed me a
small piece of paper and asked me to read it when I had time. On the
slip of paper she had written, "Here are some phrases to thing about
over an egg enjoyed from an egg cup."
Stay loose--learn to watch snails. Make little signs that say yes.
Make friends with freedom and uncertainty. Cry during movies. Swing
as high as you can on a swing by moonlight. Do it for love. Take
lots of naps. Give money away. Do it now. The money will follow.
Believe in magic. Laugh a lot. Celebrate every gorgeous moment.
Read every day. Giggle with children. Listen to those older than you
are. Entertain your inner child. Get wet. Hug trees. Write more
letters. Eat a soft-boiled egg from an egg cup with a candle on the
table. Glory.
One Sunday we got to church and entered without a greeting.
During the service it dawned on me that our friend Betty was not at her
post on this morning. After the service, we went to the fellowship hall
for coffee, and I asked another lady where Betty was. She told me that
she had been hit by a car and had been flown by helicopter to the
hospital in the south of the county. She was small and frail, but not a
bone had been broken. She said that Betty was mad because she had
always wanted to ride on a helicopter and she couldn't remember a thing.
I discovered that Betty had been moved to a rehabilitation
center near my office, so I stopped in to visit for a few minutes. She
was in therapy, but I finally found her sitting at a table alone. I
walked over to her and saw that she was horribly bruised on the whole
left side of her face and body. She smiled when she saw me walking over
to her.
I said, "Betty, do you remember that list you gave me about
how to enjoy life?"
She smiled again and said, "Yes I do."
I said, "Well, I have another thing to add to the list."
She said, "What is it?"
I said, "Look both ways."
She broke out laughing and reached out to give me a hug.
By John C. Fitts from Chicken Soup for the Golden Soul
Copyright 2000 by Jack Canfield and
Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Albert:
Working in a hospital with recent stroke patients was an
all-or-nothing proposition. They were usually go grateful to be alive
or just wanted to die. A quick glance told all.
Albert taught me much about strokes.
One afternoon while making rounds I'd met him, curled in a
fetal position. A pale, dried-up old man with a look of death, head
half-buried under a blanket. He didn't budge when I introduced myself,
and he said nothing when I referred to dinner "soon."
At the nurse's station, an attendant provided some history.
He had no one. He'd lived too long. Wife of thirty years dead, five
sons gone.
Well, maybe I could help. A chunky but pretty divorced nurse
avoiding the male population outside of work, I could satisfy a need. I
flirted.
The next day I wore a dress, not my usual nursing uniform but
white. No lights on. Curtains drawn.
Albert hollered at the staff to get out. I pulled a chair
close to his bed, crossing my shapely legs, head tilted. I gave him a
perfect smile.
"Leave me. I want to die."
"What a crime, all us single women out there."
He looked annoyed. I rambled on about how I liked working
"rehab" unit because I got to watch people reach their maximum
potential. It was a place of possibilities. He said nothing.
Two days later during shift report, I learned that Albert had
asked when I'd be "on." The charge nurse referred to him as my
"boyfriend" and word got around. I never argued. Outside his room, I'd
tell others not to bother "my Albert."
Soon he agreed to "dangle," sit on the side of the bed to
build up sitting tolerance, energy and balance. He agreed to "work"
with physical therapy if I'd return "to talk."
Two months later, Albert was on a walker. By the third
month, he'd progressed to a cane. Fridays we celebrated discharges with
a barbecue. Albert and I danced to Edith Piaf. He wasn't graceful, but
he was leading. Tear-streaked cheeks touched as we bade our good-byes.
Periodically roses, mums and sweet peas would turn up. He
was gardening again.
Then one afternoon, a lovely lavender-clad woman came on the
unit demanding "that hussy."
My supervisor called; I was in the middle of giving a bed
bath.
"So you're the one! The woman who reminded my Albert that
he's a man!" Her head tilted in full smile as she handed me a wedding
invitation.
By Magi Hart from Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul
Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield and
Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Unconditional Mom:
I was a rotten teenager. Not your average spoiled,
know-it-all, not-going-to-clean-my-room,
getting-an-attitude-because-I'm-15 teenager. No, I was a manipulative,
lying, acid-tongued monster, who realized early on that I could make
things go my way with just a few minor adjustments. The writers for
today's hottest soap opera could not have created a worse "villainess."
A few nasty comments here, a lie or two there, maybe an evil glare for a
finishing touch, and things would be grand. Or so I thought.
For the most part, and on the outside, I was a good kid. A
giggly, pug-nose tomboy who liked to play sports and who thrived on
competition (a nice way of saying: somewhat pushy and demanding). Which
is probably why most people allowed me to squeak by using what I now
call "bulldozer behavior tactics," with no regard for anyone I felt to
be of value. For a while, anyway.
Since I was perceptive enough to get some people to bend my
way, it amazes me how long it took to realize how I was hurting so many
others. Not only did I succeed in pushing away many of my closest
friends by trying to control them; I also managed to sabotage, time and
time again, the most precious relationship in my life: my relationship
with my mother.
Even today, almost 10 years since the birth of the new me, my
former behavior astonishes me each time I reach into my memories.
Hurtful comments that cut and stung the people I cared most about. Acts
of confusion and anger that seemed to rule my every move -- all to make
sure that things went my way.
My mother, who gave birth to me at age 38 against her
doctor's wishes, would cry to me, "I waited so long for you, please
don't push me away. I want to help you!"
I would reply with my best face of stone, "I didn't ask for
you! I never wanted you to care about me! Leave me alone and forget I
ever lived!"
My mother began to believe I really meant it. My actions
proved nothing less.
I was mean and manipulative, trying to get my way at any
cost. Like many young girls in high school, the boys whom I knew were
off limits were always the first ones I had to date. Sneaking out of
the house at all hours of the night just to prove I could do it.
Juggling complex lies that were always on the verge of blowing up in my
face. Finding any way to draw attention to myself while simultaneously
trying to be invisible.
Ironically, I wish I could say I had been heavy into drugs
during that period of my life, swallowing mind-altering pills and
smoking things that changed my personality, thus accounting for the
terrible, razor-sharp words that came flying from my mouth. However,
that was not the case. My only addiction was hatred; my only high was
inflicting pain.
But then I asked myself why. Why the need to hurt? And why
the people I cared about the most? Why the need for all the lies? Why
the attacks on my mother? I would drive myself mad with all the why's
until one day, it all exploded in a suicidal rage.
Lying awake the following night at the "resort" (my pet name
for the hospital), after an unsuccessful, gutless attempt to jump from a
vehicle moving at 80 miles per hour, one thing stood out more than my
Keds with no shoe laces. I didn't want to die.
And I did not want to inflict any more pain on people to
cover up what I was truly trying to hide myself: self-hatred.
Self-hatred unleashed on everyone else.
I saw my mother's pained face for the first time in years --
warm, tired brown eyes filled with nothing but thanks for her daughter's
new lease on life and love for the child she waited 38 years to bear.
My first encounter with unconditional love. What a powerful
feeling.
Despite all the lies I had told her, she still loved me. I
cried on her lap for hours one afternoon and asked why she still loved
me after all the horrible things I did to her. She just looked down at
me, brushed the hair out of my face and said frankly, "I don't know."
A kind of smile penetrated her tears as the lines in her
tested face told me all that I needed to know. I was her daughter, but
more important, she was my mother. Not every rotten child is so lucky.
Not every mother can be pushed to the limits I explored time and time
again, and venture back with feelings of love.
Unconditional love is the most precious gift we can give.
Being forgiven for the past is the most precious gift we can receive. I
dare not say we could experience this pure love twice in one lifetime.
I was one of the lucky ones. I know that. I want to extend
the gift my mother gave me to all the "rotten teenagers" in the world
who are confused.
It's okay to feel pain, to need help, to feel love -- just
feel it without hiding. Come out from under the protective covers, from
behind the rigid walls and the suffocating personas, and take a breath
of life.
By Sarah J. Vogt from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul
Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield,
Mark Victor Hansen and
Kimberly Kirberger (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Don't Quit
When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low, and the debts are high,
and you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest if you must, but don't you quit.
Life is queer with its twist and turns
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow,
You may succeed with another blow.
Success is failure turned inside out,
the silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
and you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far;
So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit,
It's when things seem worst,
that you must not quit.
By
Clinton Howell from Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul Copyright 1999
by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
She Told Me It Was
Okay to Cry:
I saw her last night for the first time in years. She was
miserable. She had bleached her hair, trying to hide its true color,
just as her rough front hid her deep unhappiness. She needed to talk,
so we went for a walk. While I thought about my future, the college
applications that had recently arrived, she thought about her past, the
home she had recently left. Then she spoke. She told me about her love
-- and I saw a dependent relationship with a dominating man. She told
me about the drugs -- and I saw that they were her escape. She told me
about her goals -- and I saw unrealistic material dreams. She told me
she needed a friend -- and I saw hope, because at least I could give her
that.
We had met in the second grade. She was missing a tooth, I
was missing my friends. I had just moved across the continent to find
cold metal swings and cold smirking faces outside the foreboding doors
of P.S. 174, my new school. I asked her if I could see her Archie comic
book, even though I didn't really like comics; she said yes, even though
she didn't really like to share. Maybe we were both looking for a
smile. And we found it. We found someone to giggle with late at night,
someone to slurp hot chocolate with on the cold winter days when school
was canceled and we would sit together by the bay window, watching the
snow endlessly falling.
In the summer, at the pool, I got stung by a bee. She held
my hand and told me that she was there and that it was okay to cry -- so
I did. In the fall, we raked the leaves into piles and took turns
jumping, never afraid because we knew that the multicolored bed would
break our fall.
Only now, she had fallen and there was no one to catch her.
We hadn't spoken in months, we hadn't seen each other in years. I had
moved to California,
she had moved out of the house. Our experiences were miles apart,
making our hearts much father away from each other than the continent
she had just traversed. Through her words I was alienated, but through
her eyes I felt her yearning. She needed support in her search for
strength and a new start. She needed my friendship now more than ever.
So I took her hand and told her that I was there and that it was okay to
cry -- so she did.
By Daphna Renan from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul
Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield,
Mark Victor Hansen and
Kimberly Kirberger (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The Age of Disruption:
The celebrated
historian Barbara Tuchman called our times, "The Age of Disruption, a
period when we've lost belief in certain kinds of moral understanding of
good and bad."
A reporter for The
Indianapolis
Star once asked the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner what she thought was
most needed in the next century.
"Probably personal
responsibility," she replied, explaining that this means "taking
responsibility for your behavior and your expenditures and your actions,
and not forever supposing that society must forgive you because it's not
your fault." (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Just One Wish:
Fox River gave life
to the country town of Colby Point, for the road and the river ran
alongside one another. Colby Point was really the name of a road that
crept between the hills and valleys of McHenry,
Illinois. Homes
were scattered here and there -- mostly summer homes and retirement
homes. At the very end of the road three houses all faced one another.
Three sisters -- all single, all seniors -- lived in one of the homes.
Across the way their widowed first cousin lived in a yellow house. Next
to her lived their brother, Bill, and his wife, Cleo.
Cleo had multiple
sclerosis, so the pair had moved to Colby Point seeking a quiet, relaxed
life. Little did they know when they relocated to this serene area that
they would end up rearing their granddaughter, Margie. Before long, the
once-quiet neighborhood became active with the sounds of a child.
Margie always looked
forward to the arrival of Christmas, and this year was no different as
winter began to settle like a warm blanket around Colby Point. Everyone
was in a flurry, for at the church Margie and her family attended, the
congregation was preparing to share their Christmas wishes with each
other. Since Cleo couldn't make it to church, and Bill didn't like to
leave her alone for too long, he was in the habit of dropping Margie off
at church early on Sunday mornings; the aunts would bring her home.
As Margie sat in
church that morning, she rehearsed in her mind over and over what she
would say. She wasn't afraid, for she knew what an important wish this
was. The service seemed to drag on and on. Finally the pastor uttered
the words Margie had been anticipating all morning, "This is a special
time of year when everyone around the world celebrates peace and
goodwill toward our fellow man. This year, here at
St. John's, we want
to hear your Christmas wishes. We cannot fill everyone's wish, but we
would like to try and fill a few. As I call your name, please come
forward and tell us about your Christmas wish."
One after another,
the church members shared their wishes, large and small. Margie was the
last and the youngest to speak. As she looked out at the congregation,
she spoke confidently, "I would like for my grandma to have church. She
cannot walk, and she and my grandpa have to stay at home. They miss
coming so much. So that is what I wish for. And please don't tell
them, for it needs to be a surprise."
Riding home with her
aunts, Margie could tell they were speaking in low tones about her
wish. She hoped that they would keep her secret. As the next Sunday
came around, Margie was getting ready for church when Grandma asked,
"Why are you so fidgety? You haven't sat still all morning."
"I just know that
something wonderful is going to happen today!"
"Of course it will,"
said her grandma with a chuckle. "It's almost Christmas, you know."
Grandpa was getting
on his coat when he happened to look out the front window. He saw some
cars coming down the dirt road one after another. Now at this time of
year there wasn't too much traffic, so this was really amazing. Margie
pushed her grandma to the window so that she could see all the cars.
Pretty soon the cars were parked all up and down the road as far as a
person could see.
Grandpa looked at
Grandma, and they both looked at Margie. Grandpa asked, "Just what did
you wish for, Margie?"
"I wished that you
and Grandma could have church. And I just knew that it would come
true. Look! There's the pastor, and everyone from church is coming up
the walk."
The congregation
arrived with coffee and cookies and cups and gifts. They sang Christmas
carols and listened to the pastor speak on giving to others the gifts
that God gives. Later that night, Margie slipped out the back door and
walked outside to look up at the stars. "Thank you," she whispered,
"thank you for giving me my wish."
That was just one of
the many wishes granted for Margie as she grew up. Her childhood
overflowed with the love of her grandparents, four great aunts and many
wise, caring neighbors. Margie was truly a blessed little girl.
I should know -- I
was that little girl.
By Margaret E. Mack
from Chicken Soup for the Golden Soul Copyright 2000 by Jack Canfield
and Mark
Victor Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Perseverance
When all the world
is looming dark
And things seem not
so clear,
When shadows seem to
hover 'round
Lord, may I
persevere.
When it seems
everything's been tried
And there's no way
to go,
Just let me keep
remembering
Sometimes the
journey's slow.
I may just need to
stop and rest
Along the path I
trod,
A time to try to
understand
And have my talk
with God.
As I gain new
strength to carry on
Without a doubt or
fear,
Somehow I know
things will be right,
And so, I persevere.
By Anne Stortz from
Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield and
Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Funny, Or is it scary?!
Submitted by Dave
Singer
Funny how simple it
is for people to trash God and then wonder why the world's going to
hell.
Funny how we believe
what the newspapers say, but question what the Bible says.
Funny how everyone
wants to go to heaven provided they do not have to believe, think, say,
or do anything the Bible says.
Or is it scary?
Funny how someone
can say "I believe in God" but still follow Satan (who, by the way, also
"believes" in God).
Funny how you can
send a thousand 'jokes' through e-mail and they spread like wildfire,
but when you start sending messages regarding the Lord, people think
twice about sharing.
Funny how the lewd,
crude, vulgar and obscene pass freely through cyberspace, but the public
discussion of Jesus is suppressed in the school and workplace.
FUNNY, ISN'T IT?
Funny how someone
can be so fired up for Christ on Sunday, but be an invisible Christian
the rest of the week.
Are you laughing?
Funny how when you
go to forward this message, you will not sent it to many on your address
list because you're not sure what they believe, or what they will think
of you for sending it to them.
Funny how I can be
more worried about what other people think of me than what God thinks of
me.
Are you thinking? --
Dear Father, holy
God, Write the requirements of your will upon my heart. (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The Rose:
Submitted by Dave
Singer
The first day of
school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to
know someone we didn't already know. I stood up to look around when a
gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to find a wrinkled,
little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire
being.
She said, "Hi
handsome. My name is Rose. I'm eighty seven years old. Can I give you
a hug?"
I laughed and
enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a
giant squeeze. "Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?"
I asked.
She jokingly
replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, have a couple of
children, and then retire and travel."
"No seriously," I
asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this
challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of
having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told me.
After class we
walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake.
We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months we would
leave class together and talk nonstop. I was always mesmerized
listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience
with me. Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and
easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she
reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She
was living it up.
At the end of the
semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet and I'll never
forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the
podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her
three by five cards on the floor. Frustrated and a little embarrassed
she leaned into the microphone and simply said "I'm sorry. I'm so
jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll
never get my speech back in order so let me just tell you what I know."
As we laughed she
cleared her throat and began: "We do not stop playing because we are
old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets
to staying young, being happy, and achieving success.
-
(1) You have
to laugh and find humor every day.
-
(2) You've got
to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have so many
people walking around who are dead and don't even know it!
-
(3) There is
a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you are
nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one
productive thing, you will turn twenty years old. If I am eighty seven
years old and stay in bed for a year and never do anything I will turn
eighty eight. Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or
ability. The idea is to grow up by always finding the opportunity in
change.
-
(4) Have no
regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for that we did, but
rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are
those with regrets."
She concluded her
speech by courageously singing "The Rose." She challenged each of us to
study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.
At the year's end
Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One
week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep. Over two
thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the
wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all
you can possibly be. (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Mrs. Link:
I was 18, about to
start college and broke. To make some money, I plodded down a quiet
street of older homes, selling books door-to-door. As I approached one
gate, a tall, handsome woman in her 80s came to the gate in her bath
robe. "There you are darling! I've been waiting for you! God told me
you'd be coming today." Mrs. Link needed help around her yard and
house, and, apparently, I was the one for the job. Who was I to argue
with God?
The next day I
worked for six hours, harder than I had ever worked before. Mrs. Link
showed me how to plant bulbs, what flowers and weeds to pull up, and
where to haul the wilted plants. I finished off the day by mowing the
lawn with a mower that looked like an antique. When I had finished,
Mrs. Link complimented me on my work and looked under the mower at the
blade. "Looks like you hit a stone. I'll get the file." I soon
learned why everything Mrs. Link owned looked like an antique, but
worked like brand-new. For six hours of work she gave me a check for
three dollars. It was 1978. God's funny sometimes, isn't he?
The next week I
cleaned Mrs. Link's house. She showed me exactly how to vacuum her
antique Persian rug with her antique-looking vacuum. As I dusted her
beautiful treasures, she told me where she had acquired them while she
traveled the world. For lunch she sautéed fresh vegetables from her
garden. We shared a delicious meal and a lovely day.
Some weeks I got to
be a chauffeur. The last gift to Mrs. Link from Mr. Link was a glorious
new car. By the time I met Mrs. Link, the car was 30 years old, but
still glorious. Mrs. Link was never able to have children, but her
sister, nieces and nephews lived nearby. Her neighbors also were fond
of her, and she was active in civic affairs.
A year and a half
passed since I met Mrs. Link. School, work and church were taking up
more of my time, and I saw Mrs. Link less and less. I found another
girl to help her around the house.
Valentine's Day was
coming, and being very undemonstrative and very broke, I was compiling a
very short list of my valentines. Mom glanced at my list and said, "You
need to get Mrs. Link a valentine."
I incredulously
asked, "Why? Mrs. Link has a lot of family, friends and neighbors.
She's active in the community. I don't even spend a lot of time with
her anymore. Why would Mrs. Link want a valentine from me?"
Mom was
unimpressed. "Get Mrs. Link a valentine," she insisted.
On Valentine's Day,
I self-consciously presented Mrs. Link a small bouquet, which she
graciously accepted.
A couple of month
later, I visited Mrs. Link again. Centered on her mantle, in her living
room full of beautiful things, stood my wilted and faded Valentine's Day
bouquet -- the only valentine Mrs. Link received that year.
By Susan Daniels
Adams from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack
Canfield,
Mark Victor Hansen and Kimberly Kirberger (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Help for the Helper:
At age eighteen, I
left my home in
Brooklyn, New York,
and went off to study history at Leeds University in Yorkshire,
England. It was an exciting but stressful time in my life, for while
trying to adjust to the novelty of unfamiliar surroundings, I was still
learning to cope with the all-too-familiar pain of my father's recent
death -- an event with which I had not yet come to terms.
While at the market
one day, trying to decide which bunch of flowers would best brighten up
my comfortable but colorless student digs, I spied an elderly gentleman
having difficulty holding onto his walking stick and his bag of apples.
I rushed over and relieved him of the apples, giving him time to regain
his balance.
"Thanks, luv," he
said in that distinctive
Yorkshire lilt I
never tire of hearing. "I'm quite all right now, not to worry," he
said, smiling at me not only with his mouth but with a pair of dancing
bright blue eyes.
"May I walk with
you?" I inquired. "Just to make sure those apples don't become sauce
prematurely."
He laughed and said,
"Now, you are a long way from home, lass. From the States, are you?"
"Only from one of
them. New
York. I'll
tell you all about it as we walk."
So began my
friendship with Mr. Burns, a man whose smile and warmth would very soon
come to mean a great deal to me.
As we walked, Mr.
Burns (whom I always addressed as such and never by his first name)
leaned heavily on his stick, a stout, gnarled affair that resembled my
notion of a biblical staff. When we arrived at his house, I helped him
set his parcels on the table and insisted on lending a hand with the
preparations for his "tea" -- that is, his meal. I interpreted his weak
protest as gratitude for the assistance.
After making his
tea, I asked if it would be all right if I came back and visited with
him again. I thought I'd look in on him from time to time, to see if he
needed anything. With a wink and a smile he replied, "I've never been
one to turn down an offer from a good-hearted lass."
I came back the next
day, at about the same time, so I could help out once more with his
evening meal. The great walking stick was a silent reminder of his
infirmity, and, though he never asked for help, he didn't protest when
it was given. That very evening we had our first "heart to heart." Mr.
Burns asked about my studies, my plans, and, mostly, about my family. I
told him that my father had recently died, but I didn't offer much else
about the relationship I'd had with him. In response, he gestured
toward the two framed photographs on the end table next to his chair.
They were pictures of two different women, one notably older than the
other. But the resemblance between the two was striking.
"That's Mary," he
said, indicating the photograph of the older woman. "She's been gone
for six years. And that's our
Alice. She was a
very fine nurse. Losing her was too much for my Mary."
I responded with the
tears I hadn't been able to shed for my own pain. I cried for Mary. I
cried for
Alice. I cried for Mr. Burns. And I cried for my father to whom I
never had the chance to say good-bye.
I visited with Mr.
Burns twice a week, always on the same days and at the same time.
Whenever I came, he was seated in his chair, his walking stick propped
up against the wall. Mr. Burns owned a small black-and-white television
set, but he evidently preferred his books and phonograph records for
entertainment. He always seemed especially glad to see me. Although I
told myself I was delighted to be useful, I was happier still to have
met someone to whom I could reveal those thoughts and feelings that,
until then, I'd hardly acknowledged to myself.
While fixing the
tea, our chats would begin. I told Mr. Burns how terribly guilty I felt
about not having been on speaking terms with my father the two weeks
prior to his death. I'd never had the chance to ask my father's
forgiveness. And he had never had the chance to ask for mine.
Although Mr. Burns
talked, he allowed me the lion's share. Mostly I recall him listening.
But how he listened! It wasn't just that he was attentive to what I
said. It was as if he were reading me, absorbing all the information I
provided, and adding details from his own experience and imagination to
create a truer understanding of my words.
After about a month,
I decided to pay my friend a visit on an "off day." I didn't bother to
telephone as that type of formality did not seem requisite in our
relationship. Coming up to the house, I saw him working in his garden,
bending with ease and getting up with equal facility. I was
dumbfounded. Could this be the same man who used that massive walking
stick?
He suddenly looked
in my direction. Evidently sensing my puzzlement over his mobility, he
waved me over, looking more than a bit sheepish. I said nothing, but
accepted his invitation to come inside.
"Well, luv. Allow
me to make you a 'cuppa' this time. You look all done in."
"How?" I began. "I
thought..."
"I know what you
thought, luv. When you first saw me at the market...well, I'd twisted
my ankle a bit earlier in the day. Tripped on a stone while doing a bit
of gardening. Always been a clumsy fool."
"But...when were you
able to...walk normally again?"
Somehow, his eyes
managed to look merry and contrite at the same time. "Ah, well, I guess
that'll be the very next day after our first meeting."
"But why?" I asked,
truly perplexed. Surely he couldn't have been feigning helplessness to
get me to make him his tea every now and then.
"That second time
you came 'round, luv, it was then I saw how unhappy you were. Feeling
lonely and sad about your dad and all. I thought, well, the lass could
use a bit of an old shoulder to lean on. But I knew you were telling
yourself you were visiting me for my sake and not your own. Didn't
think you'd come back if you knew I was fit. And I knew you were in
sore need of someone to talk to. Someone older, older than your dad,
even. And someone who knew how to listen."
"And the stick?"
"Ah. A fine stick,
that. I use it when I walk the moors. We must do that together soon."
So we did. And Mr.
Burns, the man I'd set out to help, helped me. He'd made a gift of his
time, bestowing attention and kindness to a young girl who needed both.
By Marlena Thompson
from Chicken Soup for the Golden Soul Copyright 2000 by Jack Canfield
and Mark
Victor Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Ode to the Champions:
Who are these people
--
These doers of
deeds,
These dreamers of
dreams
Who make us believe?
Who are these people
Who still win the
day --
When the odds are
against them
And strength fades
away?
These people are
champions
For they never give
in.
A heart beats within
them
That is destined to
win.
They follow their
dreams
Though the journey
seems far,
From the top of a
mountain
They reach out to a
star.
And when they have
touched it --
When their journey
is done --
They give to us hope
From the victories
they won.
So here's to the
champions --
To all their great
deeds.
They follow their
hearts
And become winners
indeed.
By Tom Krause from
Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield and
Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
His Life's Work:
When his wife died,
the baby was two. They had six other children - three boys and three
girls, ranging in age from 4 to 16.
A few days after he
became a widower, the man's parents and his deceased wife's parents came
to visit.
"We've been
talking," they said, "about how to make this work. There's no way you
can take care of all these children and work to make a living. So, we've
arranged for each child to be placed with a different uncle and aunt.
We're making sure that all of your children will be living right here in
the neighborhood, so you can see them anytime..."
"You have no idea
how much I appreciate your thoughtfulness," the man responded. "But I
want you to know," he smiled and continued, "If the children should
interfere with my work, or if we should need any help, we'll let you
know."
Over the next few
weeks the man worked with his children, assigning them chores and giving
them responsibilities. The two older girls, aged 12 and 10, began to
cook and do the laundry and household chores. The two older boys, 16 and
14, helped their father with his farming.
But then another
blow. The man developed arthritis. His hands swelled, and he was unable
to grip the handles of his farm tools. The children shouldered their
loads well, but the man could see that he would not be able to continue
in this vein. He sold his farming equipment, moved the family to a small
town and opened a small business.
The family was
welcomed into the new neighborhood. The man's business flourished. He
derived pleasure from seeing people and serving them. Word of his
pleasant personality and excellent customer service began to spread.
People came from far and wide to do business with him. And the children
helped both at home and at work. Their father's pleasure in his work
brought satisfaction to them, and he drew pleasure from their successes.
The children grew up
and got married. Five of the seven went off to college, most after they
were married. Each one paid his or her own way. The children's
collegiate successes were a source of pride to the father. He had
stopped at the sixth grade.
Then came
grandchildren. No one enjoyed grandchildren more than this man. As they
became toddlers, he invited them to his workplace and his small home.
They brought each other great joy.
Finally, the
youngest daughter - the baby, who had been two years old at her mother's
death - got married.
And the man, his
life's work completed, died.
This man's work had
been the lonely but joyful task of raising his family. This man was my
father. I was the 16-year-old, the oldest of seven.
By Wyverne
Flatt from Chicken Soup for the Soul at Work Copyright 1996 by Jack
Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Maida Rogerson, Martin Rutte & Tim Clauss
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
On Gratitude:
I look back upon my
youth and realize how so many people gave me help, understanding,
courage – very important things to me – and they never knew it. They
entered into my life and became powers within me.
All of us live
spiritually by what others have given us, often unwittingly, in the
significant hours of our life. At the time these significant hours may
not even be perceived. We may not recognize them until years later when
we look back, as one remembers some long-ago music or a boyhood
landscape.
We all owe to others
much of the gentleness and wisdom that we have made our own; and we may
well ask ourselves what will others owe to us.
Albert Schweitzer
(1875 – 1965) French medical missionary (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
God Is Like:
Submitted by Dave
Singer
God is a little like
General Electric
He lights your path.
God is a little like
Bayer Aspirin
He works wonders.
God is a little like
Hallmark Cards
He cared enough to
send the very best.
God is a little like
Tide
He gets out the
stains that others leave behind.
God is a little like
VO-5 Hair Spray
He holds through all
kinds of weather.
God is a little like
Dial Soap
Aren't you glad you
know Him?
Don't you wish
everyone did?
God is a little like
Sears
He has everything.
God is a little like
Alka Seltzer
Oh, what a relief He
is!
God is a little like
Scotch Tape
You can't see Him
but you know He's there!
God is a little like
The Copper Top
Battery
Nothing can outlast
him.
God is a little like
American Express
Don't leave home
without Him! (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
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