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Stories and Inspirational Messages:

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Permission to Cry:

Alone in the wheel of light at the dining room table, surrounded by an otherwise darkened house, I sat in tears. Finally, I’d succeeded in getting both kids to bed. A relatively new single parent, I had to be both Mommy and Daddy to my two little children. I got them both washed, accompanied by shrieks of delight, crazy running around, laughing and throwing things. More or less calmed down, they lay in their beds as I gave each the prescribed five minutes of back rubs. Then I took up my guitar and began the nighttime ritual of folk songs, ending with "All the Pretty Little Horses," both kids’ favorite. I sang it over and over, gradually reducing the tempo and the volume until they seemed fully engaged in sleep.

A recently divorced man with full custody of his children, I was determined to give them as normal and stable a home life as possible. I put on a happy face for them. I kept their activities as close to how they had always been as I could. This nightly ritual was just as it had always been with the exception that their mother was now missing. There, I had done it again; another night successfully concluded.

I had risen slowly, gingerly, trying to avoid making even the least sound which might start them up again, asking for more songs and more stories. I tiptoed out of their room, closed the door part way, and went downstairs.

Sitting at the dining room table, I slumped in my chair, aware that this was the first time since I came home from work that I’d been able to just sit down. I had cooked and served and encouraged two little ones to eat. I had done the dishes while responding to their many requests for attention. I helped my oldest with her second grade homework and appreciated my youngest’s drawings and oohed over his elaborate construction of Lego blocks. The bath, the stories, the backrubs, the singing and now, at long last, a brief moment for myself. The silence was a relief, for the moment.

Then it all crowded in on me: the fatigue, the weight of the responsibility, the worry about bills I wasn’t sure I could pay that month. The endless details of running a house. Only a short time before, I’d been married and had a partner to share these chores, these bills, these worries.

And loneliness. I felt as though I were at the bottom of a great sea of loneliness. It all came together and I was at once lost, overwhelmed. Unexpected, convulsive sobs overtook me. I sat there, silently sobbing.

Just then, a pair of little arms went around my middle and a little face peered up at me. I looked down into my five-year-old son’s sympathetic face.

I was embarrassed to be seen crying by my son. "I’m sorry, Ethan, I didn’t know you were still awake. "I don’t know why it is, but so many people apologize when they cry and I was no exception. "I didn’t mean to cry. I’m sorry. I’m just a little sad tonight."

"It’s okay, Daddy. It’s okay to cry, you’re just a person."

I can’t express how happy he made me, this little boy, who in the wisdom of innocence, gave me permission to cry. He seemed to be saying that I didn’t have to always be strong, that it was occasionally possible to allow myself to feel weak and let out my feelings.

He crept into my lap and we hugged and talked for a while, and I took him back up to his bed and tucked him in. Somehow, it was possible for me to get to sleep that night, too. Thank you, my son.

By Hanoch McCarty 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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Two Things Not to Worry About:

In my life, I have found there are two things about which I should never worry. First, I shouldn't worry about the things I can't change. If I can't change them, worry is certainly most foolish and useless. Second, I shouldn't worry about the things I can change. If I can change them, then taking action will accomplish far more than wasting my energies in worry. Besides, it is my belief that, 9 times out of 10, worrying about something does more danger than the thing itself. Give worry its rightful place - out of your life.

By Source Unknown from Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubrey & Nancy Mitchell, R.N.    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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The Little Boy and the Old Man:

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the little old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded. "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

By Shel Silverstein Submitted by Ruth Wiele from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen     (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Are You Strong Enough to Handle Critics?:

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes short again and again because there is no effort without error and shortcomings, who knows the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at his best knows in the end the high achievement of triumph and who at worst, if he fails while daring greatly, knows his place shall never be with those timid and cold souls who know neither victory nor defeat.

By Theodore Roosevelt from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Living Example:

Reporters and city officials gathered at a Chicago railroad station one afternoon in 1953. The person they were meeting was the 1952 Nobel Peace Prize winner. A few minutes after the train came to a stop, a giant of a man - six feet four inches - with bushy hair and a large mustache stepped from the train. Cameras flashed. City officials approached him with hands outstretched. Various people began telling him how honored they were to meet him.

The man politely thanked them and then, looking over their heads, asked if he could be excused for a moment. He quickly walked through the crowd until he reached the side of an elderly black woman who was struggling with two large suitcases. He picked up the bags and with a smile, escorted the woman to a bus. After helping her aboard, he wished her a safe journey. As he returned to the greeting party he apologized, "Sorry to have kept you waiting."

The man was Dr. Albert Schweitzer, the famous missionary doctor who had spent his life helping the poor in Africa. In response to Schweitzer's action, one member of the reception committee said with great admiration to the reporter standing next to him, "That's the first time I ever saw a sermon walking."

By From God's Little Devotional Book from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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A Father's Love:

Fathers seldom say "I love you"
Though the feeling's always there,
But somehow those three little words
Are the hardest ones to share.

And fathers say "I love you"
In ways that words can't match -
With tender bedtime stories -
Or a friendly game of catch!

You can see the words "I love you"
In a father's boyish eyes
When he runs home, all excited,
With a poorly wrapped surprise.

A father says "I love you"
With his strong helping hands -
With a smile when you're in trouble
With the way he understands.
He says "I love you" haltingly,
With awkward tenderness -
(It's hard to help a four-year-old into a party dress!)

He speaks his love unselfishly
By giving all he can
To make some secret dream come true,
Or follow through a plan.

A father's seldom-spoken love
Sounds clearly through the years -
Sometimes in peals of laughter,
Sometimes through happy tears.

Perhaps they have to speak their love
In a fashion all their own.
Because the love that fathers feel
Is too big for words alone!

By Author Unknown

From A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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"Jake":
Submitted by Josh Hunt

Bill Andrews was a big, awkward, homely guy. He dressed oddly with ill-fitting cloths. There were several fellows who thought it smart to make fun of him. One day one fellow noticed a small tear in his shirt and gave it a small rip. Another worker in the factory added his bit, and before long there was quite a ribbon dangling. Bill went on about his work and as he passed too near a moving belt the shirt strip was sucked into the machinery. In a split second the sleeve and Bill were in trouble. Alarms were sounded, switches pulled, and trouble was avoided.

The foreman, however, aware of what had happened, summoned the men and related this story: "In my younger days I worked in a small factory. That's where I first met Mike Havoc. He was big and witty, was always making jokes, playing little pranks. Mike was a leader. Then there was Pete Lumas. He always went along with Mike. He was a follower. And then I remember Jake.

He was a little older than the rest of us -- quiet, harmless, apart.  He ate his lunch by himself.  He wore the same patched trousers for three years straight.  He never entered into the games we played at noon, wrestling, horse shoe and such. He was indifferent.

"Jake was a natural target for practical jokes.  He might find a live frog in his dinner pail, or a dead rodent in his hat. But he always took it in good humor.

"Then one fall when things were slack, Mike took off a few days to go hunting. Pete went along, of course.  And they promised all of us that if they got anything they'd bring us each a piece.  So we were all quite excited when we heard that they'd returned and that Mike had got a really nice big buck.

We heard more than that. Pete could never keep anything to himself, and it leaked out that they had a real whopper to play on Jake. Mike had cut up the critter and had made a nice package for each of us.  And, for the laugh, for the joke of it, he had saved the ears, the tail, the hoofs -- it would be so funny when Jake unwrapped them.

"Mike distributed his packages during the noon hour.  We each got a nice piece, opened it, and thanked him.  The biggest package of all he saved until last.  It was for Jake.  Pete was all but bursting; and Mike looked very smug.  Like always, Jake sat by himself; he was on the far side of the big table.

Mike pushed the package over to where he could reach it; and we all sat and waited.  Jake was never one to say much.  You might never know that he was around for all the talking he did.  In three years he'd never said a hundred words. So we were all quite hypnotized with what happened next.

"He took the package firmly in his grip and rose slowly to his feet. He smiled broadly at Mike -- and it was then we noticed that his eyes were glistening.  His adam's apple bobbed up and down for a moment and then he got control of himself.

"I knew you wouldn't forget me," he said gratefully; "I knew you'd come through! You're big and you're playful, but I knew all along that you had a good heart." He swallowed again, and then took in the rest of us.

"I know I haven't seemed too chummy with you men; but I never meant to be rude. You see, I've got nine kids at home -- and a wife that's been an invalid -- bedfast now for four years.  She ain't ever going to get any better. And sometimes when she's real bad off, I have to sit up all night to take care of her.  And most of my wages have had to go for doctors and medicine. The kids do all they can to help out, but at times it's been hard to keep food in their mouths.  Maybe you think it's funny that I go off by myself to eat my dinner. Well, I guess I've been a little ashamed, because I don't always have anything between my sandwich.  Or like today -- maybe there's only a raw turnip in my pail.  But I want you to know that this meat really means a lot to me. Maybe more than to anybody here because tonight my kids," he wiped the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand, "...tonight my kids will have a really..." He tugged at the string.

"We'd been watching Jake so intently we hadn't paid much notice to Mike and Pete.  But we all noticed them now, because they both dove at once to try to grab the package.  But they were too late. Jake had broken the wrapper and was already surveying his present.  He examined each hoof, each ear, and then he held up the tail.  It wiggled limply.  It should have been so funny, but nobody laughed -- nobody at all.  But the hardest part was when Jake looked up and tried to smile."

This was where the foreman left the story and the men. He didn't need to say anymore; but it was gratifying to notice that as each man ate his lunch that day, he shared part with Bill Andrews and one fellow even offered him his shirt.    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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"Information, please...":
Submitted From Angels Online

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood.  I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used  to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know.  "Information Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor.  Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer.

The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy.  I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.

The telephone!

Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing.  Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.  "Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece  just above my head.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

"Information."

"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone.  The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother home?" came the question.

"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No," I replied.  "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open your icebox?" she asked.  I said I could.

"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything.  I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was.  She helped me with my math.  She told me my pet chipmunk that I had  caught in the park just the day  before would eat fruits and nuts. Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died.  I called "Information  Please" and told her the sad story.

She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was un-consoled.   I asked her,  "Why  is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all  families,  only  to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better. Another day I was on the telephone.  "Information Please."

"Information," said the now familiar voice.

"How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston.  I missed my friend very much.  "Information Please" belonged  in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought  of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then.  I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes.  I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now.   Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown  operator and said,  "Information, Please".

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information."

I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how  to spell fix?"

There was a long pause.  Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."

I laughed.  "So it's really still you,' I said.  "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time."

"I wonder", she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

"Please do, she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle.   A different voice answered Information."  I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?"  She said.

"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, she said.  Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five  weeks ago."

Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute.  Did you say your name was Paul?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sally left a message for you.  She wrote it down in case you called.

"Let me read it to you."   The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in.  He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up.  I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.          (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Subject: too sweet not to share
Date: Wed, 01 Jul 1998 20:30:41 -0400
From: Gene Richards 
"Butterfly Kisses"

We often learn the most from our children.  Some time ago, a friend of mine punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper.  Money was tight, and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box to put under the tree. Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father the next morning and said, "This is for you, Daddy."   He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found that the box was empty.   He yelled at her, "Don't you know that when you give someone a present, there's supposed to be something inside of it?" The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh, Daddy it's not empty.  I blew kisses into the box.  All for you, Daddy." The father was crushed.  He put his arms around his little girl, and he begged her forgiveness.  My friend told me that he kept that gold box by his bed for years.  Whenever he was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there.    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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"The Most Caring Child"

Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge.  The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child.  The winner was a four year old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman's yard, climbed onto his lap, and just sat there.  When his mother asked him what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, "Nothing, I just helped him cry."

"What It Means to Be Adopted"

Teacher Debbie Moon's first graders were discussing a picture of a family.  One little boy in the picture had a 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 was adopted."  "What does it mean to be adopted?" asked another child.  "It means," said Jocelynn, "that you grew in your mommy's heart instead of her tummy."     (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Whiners

When my grandmother was raising me in Stamps, Arkansas, she had a particular routine when people who were known to be whiners entered her store. My grandmother would ask the customer, "How are you doing today, Brother Thomas?"
And the person would reply, "Not so good today, Sister Henderson. You see, it's this summer heat. I just hate it. It just frazzles me up and frazzles me down. It's almost killing me." Then my grandmother would stand stoically, her arms folded, and mumble, "Uh-huh, uh-huh." And she would cut her eyes at me to make certain that I had heard the lamentation.
As soon as the complainer was out of the store, my grandmother would call me to stand in front of her. And then she would say the same thing she had said at least a thousand times, it seemed to me. "Sister, did you hear what Brother So-and-So or Sister Much-to-Do complained about?" And I would nod. Mamma would continue, "Sister, there are people who went to sleep all over the world last night, poor and rich and white and black, but they will never wake again. And those dead folks would give anything, anything at all for just five minutes of this weather that person was grumbling about. So you watch yourself about complaining, Sister. What you're supposed to do when you don't like a thing is change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. Don't complain."
It is said that persons have few teachable moments in their lives. Mamma seemed to have caught me at each one I had. Whining is not only graceless, but can be dangerous. It can alert a brute that a victim is in the neighborhood.

By Maya Angelou from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen   (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Love Is Stronger . . .

Having a goal based on love is the greatest life insurance in the world.  If you had asked my dad why he got up in the morning, you would have found his answer disarmingly simple: "To make my wife happy."
Mom and Dad met when they were nine. Every day before school, they met on a park bench with the homework. Mom corrected Dad's English and he did the same with her math. Upon graduation, their teachers said that the two of them were the best "student" in the school. Note the singular!
They took their time building their relationship, even though Dad always knew she was the girl for him. Their first kiss occurred when they were 17, and their romance continued to grow into their 80s.
Just how much power their relationship created was brought to light in 1964. The doctor told Dad he had cancer and estimated that he had six months to one year left at the most.
"Sorry to disagree with you, Doc," my father said. "But I'll tell you how long I have. One day longer than my wife. I love her too much to leave the planet without her."
And so it was, to the amazement of everyone who didn't really know this love-matched pair, that Mom passed away at the age of 85 and Dad followed one year later when he was 86. Near the end, he told my brothers and me that those 17 years were the best six months he ever spent.
To the wonderful doctors and nurses at the Department of
Veterans' Affairs Medical Center at Long Beach, he was a walking miracle. They kept a loving watch on him and just couldn't understand how a body so riddled with cancer could continue to function so well.
My dad's explanation was simple. He informed them that he had been a medic in World War I and saw amputated arms and legs, and he had noticed that none of them could think. So he decided he would tell his body how to behave. Once, as he stood up and it was evident he felt a stabbing pain, he looked down at his chest and shouted, "Shut up! We're having a party here."
Two days before he left us he said, "Boys, I'll be with your mother very soon and someday, some place we'll all be together again. But take your time about joining us; your mother and I have a lot of catching up to do."
It is said that love is stronger than prison walls. Dad proved it was a heck of a lot stronger than tiny cancer cells.
Bob, George and I are still here, armed with Dad's final gift.

A goal, a love and a dream give you total control over your body and your life.

By  John Wayne Schlatter from Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubery & Nancy Mitchell, R.N.   (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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The Cookie Thief

A woman was waiting at an airport one night,
With several long hours before her flight.
She hunted for a book in the airport shop,
Bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop.

She was engrossed in her book, but happened to see,
That the man beside her, as bold as could be,
Grabbed a cookie or two from the bag between,
Which she tried to ignore, to avoid a scene.

She read, munched cookies, and watched the clock,
As the gutsy "cookie thief!" diminished her stock.
She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by,
Thinking, "If I wasn't so nice, I'd blacken his eye!"

With each cookie she took, he took one too.
When only one was left, she wondered what he'd do.
With a smile on his face and a nervous laugh,
He took the last cookie and broke it in half.

He offered her half, as he ate the other.
She snatched it from him and thought, "Oh brother,
This guy has some nerve, and he's also rude,
Why, he didn't even show any gratitude!"

She had never know when she has been so galled,
And sighed with relief when her flight was called.
She gathered her belongings and headed for the gate,
Refusing to look back at the "thieving ingrate."

She boarded the plane and sank in her seat,
Then sought her book, which was almost complete.
As she reached in her baggage, she gasped with surprise:
There was her bag of cookies in front of her eyes!

"If mine are here," she moaned with despair,
"Then the others were his and he tried to share!"
Too late to apologize, she realized with grief,
That she was the rude one, the ingrate, the thief!

By Valerie Cox from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Universal Rx

No moving parts, no batteries,
No monthly payments and no fees;
Inflation proof, non-taxable,
In fact, it's quite relaxable;

It can't be stolen, won't pollute,
One size fits all, do not dilute.
It uses little energy,
But yields results enormously.

Relieves your tension and your stress
Invigorates your happiness;
Combats depression, makes you beam,
And elevates your self-esteem!

Your circulation it corrects
Without unpleasant side effects.
It is, I think, the perfect drug:
May I prescribe, my friends . . . the hug!

(And, of course, fully returnable!)

By Henry Matthew Ward from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk     (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Start With Yourself

The following words were written on the tomb of an Anglican bishop in the crypts of Westminister Abbey:
When I was young and free and my imagination had no limits, I dreamed of changing the world. As I grew older and wiser, I discovered the world would not change, so I shortened my sights somewhat and decided to change only my country.
But it too seemed immovable.
As I grew into my twilight years, in one last desperate attempt, I settled for changing only family, those closest to me, but alas, they would have none of it.
And now as I lay on my deathbed, I suddenly realize: If I had only changed myself first, then by example I would have changed my family.
From their inspiration and encouragement, I would then have been able to better my country and, who knows, I may have even changed the world.

By Anonymous from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen   (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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He is Just a Little Boy

He stands at the plate
with his heart pounding fast.
The bases are loaded,
the die has been cast.
Mom and Dad cannot help him,
he stands all alone.
A hit at this moment,
would send the team home.
The ball meets the plate,
he swings and he misses.
There's a groan from the crowd,
with some boos and some hisses.
A thoughtless voice cries,
"Strike out the bum."
Tears fill his eyes,
the game's no longer fun.
So open your heart and give him a break,
For it's moments like this,
a man you can make.
Please keep this in mind,
when you hear someone forget,
He is just a little boy, and not a man yet.

By Chaplain Bob Fox from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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A Sense of a Goose:
(Note by webmaster: Are you the Christian Goose that the Lord has called you to be?! If not isn't it about time you started flying in the correct formation!)

When you see geese flying along in "V" formation, you might consider what science has discovered as to why they fly that way. As each bird flaps its wings, it creates an uplift for the bird immediately following. By flying in "V" formation, the whole flock adds at least 71 percent greater flying range than if each bird flew on its own.

People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going more quickly and easily because they are traveling on the thrust of one another.

When a goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to go it alone – and quickly gets back into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the bird in front.

If we have as much sense as a goose, we will stay in formation with those people who are headed the same way we are.

When the head goose gets tired, it rotates back in the wing and another goose flies point.

It is sensible to take turns doing demanding jobs, whether with people or with geese flying south.

Geese honk from behind to encourage those up front to keep up their speed.

What messages do we give when we honk from behind?

Finally - and this is important - when a goose gets sick or is wounded by gunshot, and falls out of formation, two other geese fall out with that goose and follow it down to lend help and protection. They stay with the fallen goose until it is able to fly or until it dies, and only then do they launch out on their own, or with another formation to catch up with their group.

If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other like that.

By Source Unknown from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen   (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Things We Can  Learn from a Dog:
(NOTE by webmaster: If only I and you could learn like a dog and or at least keep these DOG attributes in mind as we walk through our daily lives with Christ we would make such a difference (such as putting on the whole armor of God) to those around us and within ourselves also!) Song is a midi from Jack Will called "I want a dog" to listen to it stop the media player at top of page and then switch this one on!

•  1. Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joy ride.
•  2. Allow the experience of fresh air and the wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.
•  3. When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.
•  4. When it’s in your best interest, always practice obedience.
•  5. Let others know when they’ve invaded your territory.
•  6. Take naps and always stretch before rising.
•  7. Run, romp, and play daily.
•  8. Eat with gusto and enthusiasm.
•  9. Be loyal.
•  10. Never pretend to be something you’re not.
•  11. If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.
•  12. When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit close by and nuzzle them gently.
•  13. Delight in the simple joy of a long walk.
•  14. Thrive on attention and let people touch you.
•  15. Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.
•  16. On hot days, drink lots of water and lie under a shady tree.
•  17. When you are happy, dance around and wag your entire body.
•  18. No matter how often you are criticized, don’t buy into the guilt thing and pout. Run right back and make friends.

Author Unknown from Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover’s Soul Copyright1998 Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marty Becker and Carol Kline    (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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Billy:

A number of years ago (1983-1987), I had the opportunity to play the character of Ronald McDonald for the McDonald's Corporation. My marketplace covered most of Arizona and a portion of Southern California.

One of our standard events was "Ronald Day." One day each month, we visited as many of the community hospitals as possible, bringing a little happiness into a place where no one ever looks forward to going. I was very proud to be able to make a difference for children and adults who were experiencing some "down time." The warmth and gratification I would receive stayed with me for weeks. I loved the project, McDonald's loved the project, the kids and adults loved it and so did the nursing and hospital staffs.

There were two restrictions placed on me during a visit. First I could not go anywhere in the hospital without McDonald's personnel (my handlers) as well as hospital personnel. That way, if I were to walk into a room and frighten a child, there was someone there to address the issue immediately. And second, I could not physically touch anyone within the hospital. They did not want me transferring germs from one patient to another. I understood why they had this "don't touch" rule, but I didn't like it. I believe that touching is the most honest form of communication we will ever know. Printed and spoken words can lie; it is impossible to lie with a warm hug.

Breaking either of these rules, I was told, meant I could lose my job.

Toward the end of my fourth year of "Ronald Days," as I was heading down a hallway after a long day in grease paint and on my way home, I heard a little voice. "Ronald, Ronald."

I stopped. The soft little voice was coming through a half-opened door. I pushed the door open and saw a young boy, about five years old, lying in his dad's arms, hooked up to more medical equipment than I had ever seen. Mom was on the other side, along with Grandma, Grandpa and a nurse tending to the equipment.

I knew by the feeling in the room that the situation was grave. I asked the little boy his name - he told me it was Billy - and I did a few simple magic tricks for him. As I stepped back to say good-bye, I asked Billy if there was anything else I could do for him.

"Ronald, would you hold me?"

Such a simple request. But what ran through my mind was that if I touched him, I could lose my job. So I told Billy I could not do that right now, but I suggested that he and I color a picture. Upon completing a wonderful piece of art that we were both very proud of, Billy again asked me to hold him. By this time my heart was screaming "yes!" But my mind was screaming louder. "No! You are going to lose your job!"

This second time that Billy asked me, I had to ponder why I could not grant the simple request of a little boy who probably would not be going home. I asked myself why was I being logically and emotionally torn apart by someone I had never seen before and probably would never see again.

"Hold me." It was such a simple request, and yet...

I searched for any reasonable response that would allow me to leave. I could not come up with a single one. It took me a moment to realize that in this situation, losing my job may not be the disaster I feared.

Was losing my job the worst thing in the world?

Did I have enough self-belief that if I did lost my job, I would be able to pick up and start again? The answer was a loud, bold, affirming "yes!" I could pick up and start again.

So what was the risk?

Just that if I lost my job, it probably would not be long before I would lost first my car, then my home...and to be honest with you, I really liked those things. But I realized that at the end of my life, the car would have no value and neither would the house. The only things that had steadfast value were experiences. Once I reminded myself that the real reason I was there was to bring a little happiness to an unhappy environment, I realized that I really faced no risk at all.

I sent Mom, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa out of the room, and my two McDonald's escorts out to the van. The nurse tending the medical equipment stayed, but Billy asked her to stand and face the corner. Then I picked up this little wonder of a human being. He was so frail and so scared. We laughed and cried for 45 minutes, and talked about the things that worried him.

Billy was afraid that his little brother might get lost coming home from kindergarten next year, without Billy to show him the way. He worried that his dog wouldn't get another bone because Billy had hidden the bones in the house before going back to the hospital, and now he couldn't remember where he put them.

These are problems to a little boy who knows he is not going home.

On my way out of the room, with tear-streaked makeup running down my neck, I gave Mom and Dad my real name and phone number (another automatic dismissal for a Ronald McDonald, but I figured that I was gone and had nothing to lose), and said if there was anything the McDonald's Corporation or I could do, to give me a call and consider it done. Less than 48 hours later, I received a phone call from Billy's mom. She informed me that Billy had passed away. She and her husband simply wanted to thank me for making a difference in their little boy's life.

Billy's mom told me that shortly after I left the room, Billy looked at her and said, "Momma, I don't care anymore if I see Santa this year because I was held by Ronald McDonald."

Sometimes we must do what is right for the moment, regardless of the perceived risk. Only experiences have value, and the one biggest reason people limit their experiences is because of the risk involved.

For the record, McDonald's did find out about Billy and me, but given the circumstances, permitted me to retain my job. I continued as Ronald for another year before leaving the corporation to share the story of Billy and how important it is to take risks.

By Jeff McMullen 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)  

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Golden Rules for Living:

If you open it, close it.
If you turn it on, turn it off.
If you unlock it, lock it up.
If you break it, admit it.
If you can't fix it, call in someone who can.
If you borrow it, return it.
If you value it, take care of it.
If you make a mess clean it up.
If you move it, put it back.
If it belongs to someone else and you want to use it, get permission.
If you don't know how to operate it, leave it alone.
If it's none of your business, don't ask questions.
If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
If it will brighten someone's day, say it.
If it will tarnish someone's reputation, keep it to yourself.

By Source Unknown from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen  (TOP)   (Back to Stories Index)  

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