Stories and
Inspirational Messages:
Making
Change
A young boy went to a police department
auction of bicycles accumulated over a period of time. Each time the auctioneer
started the bidding, the boy would say, "I bid one dollar, sir." The bidding
would continue higher and higher until each bicycle was sold to the highest
bidder. Each time the boy would bid one dollar. As the last bicycle to
be sold was brought forth, the little boy cried, "I bid one dollar, sir."
The figures in the bidding rose higher and the auctioneer finally closed
the bidding at nine dollars to the little boy in the front row.
Then the auctioneer reached into
his pocket and pulled out eight dollars and laid them on the counter; the
little boy came up and put his one dollar in nickels, dimes and pennies
alongside it, picked up his new bike, and started out the door. Then he
laid the bike down, ran back to the auctioneer and threw his arms around
the auctioneer's neck and cried.
By Elder Featherstone, Submitted
by Jack ZoBell from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by
Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Keep Your Fork
The sound of Martha's voice on the
other end of the telephone always brought a smile to Brother Jim's face.
She was not only one of the oldest members of the congregation, but one
of the most faithful. Aunt Martie, as all the children called her, just
seemed to ooze faith, hope and love wherever she went.
This time, however, there seemed
to be an unusual tone to her words.
"Preacher, could you stop by this
afternoon? I need to talk with you."
"Of course. I'll be there around
three, Is that okay?"
As they sat facing each other in
the quiet of her small living room, Jim learned the reason for what he
sensed in her voice. Martha shared the news that her doctor had just discovered
a previously undetected tumor.
"He says I probably have six months
to live." Martha's words were certainly serious, yet there was a definite
calm about her.
"I'm so sorry to . . . " but before
Jim could finish, Martha interrupted.
"Don't be. The Lord has been good.
I have lived a long life. I'm ready to go. You know that."
"I know," Jim whispered with a reassuring
nod.
"But I do want to talk with you
about my funeral. I have been thinking about it, and there are things
that I know I want."
The two talked quietly for a long
time. They talked about Martha's favorite hymns, the passages of Scripture
that had meant so much to her through the years, and the many memories
they shared from the five years Jim had been with Central Church.
When it seemed that they had covered
just about everything, Aunt Martie paused, looked up at Jim with a twinkle
in her eye, and then added, "One more thing, preacher. When they bury me,
I want my old Bible in one hand and a fork in the other."
"A fork?" Jim was sure he had heard
everything, but this caught him by surprise. "Why do you want to be buried
with a fork?"
"I have been thinking about all
of the church dinners and banquets that I attended through the years,"
she explained. "I couldn't begin to count them all. But one thing sticks
in my mind.
"At those really nice get-togethers,
when the meal was almost finished, a server or maybe the hostess would
come by to collect the dirty dishes. I can hear the words now. Sometimes,
at the best ones, somebody would lean over my shoulder and whisper, `You
can keep your fork.' And do you know what that meant? Dessert was coming!
"It didn't mean a cup of Jell-O
or pudding or even a dish of ice cream. You don't need a fork for that.
It meant the good stuff, like chocolate cake or cherry pie! When they told
me I could keep my fork, I knew the best was yet to come!
"That's exactly what I want people
to talk about at my funeral. Oh, they can talk about all the good times
we had together. That would be nice.
"But when they walk by my casket
and look at my pretty blue dress, I want them to turn to one another and
say, `Why the fork?'
"That's what I want you to say.
I want you to tell them that I kept my fork because the best is yet to
come."
By Roger William Thomas from A 3rd
Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and
Mark Victor Hansen (TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
Hold Your Tongue
Ida and David both wanted all their
sons to graduate from college. They knew their boys would have to pay their
own way since David never made more than $150 a month. Still, they encouraged
their sons to achieve all they could. Arthur, however, went directly from
high school to a job. Edgar began studying law. When Dwight graduated he
didn't have a goal in mind, so he and Ed made a pact: Dwight would work
two years while Ed studied, sending Ed as much as he could, and then they
would reverse the arrangement. While working Dwight found an opportunity
that appealed to him more than college - West Point.
Both Ida and David were crushed
by Dwight's decision. Ida was deeply convinced that soldiering was wicked.
Still, all she ever said to him was, "It is your choice." David also remained
silent, allowing his adult son full freedom to forge his own future.
Yes, Ida and David wisely held their
tongues - but they never withheld their applause, especially on the day
their son, General Dwight Eisenhower, became President of the United States
of America.
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)
Why Do These Things Have to Happen?
One of my joys and passions is my
voice. I love to perform in our local community theaters. My throat became
very sore during a particularly grueling show run. It was my first time
performing an operatic piece, and I was terrified I had actually done damage
to my vocal cords. I was a lead and we were about to open. So I made an
appointment with my family doctor where I waited for an hour. I finally
left in a huff, went back to work, grabbed a phone book and found a throat
specialist close by. Once more I made an appointment and off I went.
The nurse showed me in and I sat
down to wait for the doctor. I was feeling very disgruntled. I rarely get
sick and here I was sick when I needed to be healthy. Besides, I had to
take time out of my workday to go to two different doctors, both of whom
kept me waiting. It was very frustrating. Why do these things have to happen?
A moment later the nurse came back in and said, "May I ask you something
personal?"
This seemed odd; what else do they
ask you but personal questions in a doctor’s office? But I looked at the
nurse and replied, "Yes, of course."
"I noticed your hand," she said
a bit hesitantly.
I lost half of my left hand in a
forklift accident when I was 11. I think it is one of the reasons I didn’t
follow my dream of performing in theater, although everyone says, "Gee,
I never noticed! You are so natural." In the back of my mind I thought
that they only wanted to see perfect people on stage. No one would want
to see me. Besides, I’m too tall, overweight, not really talented ... no,
they don’t want to see me. But I love musical comedies and I do have a
good voice. So one day I tried out at our local community theater. I was
the first one they cast! That was three years ago. Since then, I have been
cast in almost everything I tried out for.
The nurse continued, "What I need
to know is how it has affected your life."
Never in the 25 years since it happened
has someone asked me this. Maybe they’ll say, "Does it bother you?" but
never anything as sweeping as, "How had it affected your life?"
After an awkward pause, she said,
"You see I just had a baby, and her hand is like yours. I, we.., I need
to know how it has affected your life."
"How has it affected my life?" I
thought about it a bit so I could think of the right words to say. Finally,
I said, "It has affected my life, but not in a bad way - I do many things
that people with two normal hands find difficult. I type about 75 words
a minute, I play guitar, I have ridden and shown horses for years, I even
have a Horsemaster Degree. I’m involved in musical theater and I am a professional
speaker, I’m constantly in front of a crowd. I do television shows four
or five times a year. I think it was never ‘difficult’ because of the love
and encouragement of my family. They always talked about all the great
notoriety I would get because I would learn how to do things with one hand
that most people had trouble doing with two. We were all very excited about
that. That was the main focus, not the handicap.
"Your daughter does not have a problem.
She is normal. You are the one who will teach her to think of herself as
anything else. She will come to know she is ‘different.’ but you will teach
her that different is wonderful. Normal means you are average. What’s fun
about that?"
She was silent for a while. Then
she simply said, "Thank you" and walked out.
I sat there thinking, "Why do these
things have to happen?" Everything happens for a reason - even that forklift
falling on my hand. All the circumstances leading up to me being at this
doctor’s office and this moment in time happened for a reason.
The doctor came in, looked at my
throat and said he wanted to anesthetize and put a probe down it to examine
it. Well, singers are very paranoid about putting medical instruments down
their throats, especially ones so rough they need to be anesthetized! I
said, "No thanks," and walked out. The next day, my throat was completely
better.
Why do these things have to happen?
By Lilly Walters from A 2nd Helping
of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1995 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
Giving from the Heart
When I was a teenager, probably
about 13, my mother taught me a very valuable lesson I've never forgotten.
We were grocery shopping in a small store one day when I noticed a family
come into the store. It looked like a mother, her daughter, and her granddaughter.
They were clean but dressed in worn clothes, and it was obvious they were
less fortunate. They pushed a cart through the store, carefully selecting
items, mostly generic, and all necessary foods.
My mother and I finished our shopping
and headed toward the clerk to pay. As we got there, the family was in
front of us, with one person in between. As I watched the family place
groceries on the conveyor belt, I heard the mother ask the clerk every
so often to subtotal, as she only had so much to spend. This took a while,
and the person in front of me was getting noticeably impatient and even
started mumbling things which I'm sure were overheard. When the store clerk
did a final total, the woman did not have enough money, so she began pointing
to different food items to put back. My mother reached in her purse, pulled
out a twenty dollar bill and handed it to the woman. The woman looked very
surprised and said, "I can't take that!" My mother looked directly at the
woman and quietly replied, "Yes, you most certainly can. Consider it a
gift. There's nothing in that cart you don't really need, so please accept
it." The woman then reached out and took the money, squeezing my mom's
hand for just a moment, and with tears running down her cheeks, said, "Thank
you very much. No one's ever done nothin' like this for me before."
I know I left the store with tears
in my eyes, and it is something I will cherish forever. You see, my parents
raised six children and didn't have a whole lot of money themselves, although
I can never remember wanting for anything. I'm very happy to say that I
inherited her caring heart. I have given selflessly before, and there is
not a better feeling in the whole world!
By Dee M. Taylor from A Cup of Chicken
Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen &
Barry Spilchuk (TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
The Master's Hand
From: "Angels Online humor"
Wishing to encourage her young son's
progress on the piano, a mother took her boy to a Paderewski concert.
After they were seated, the mother spotted a friend in the audience and
walked down the aisle to greet her.
Seizing the opportunity to explore
the wonders of the concert hall, the little boy rose and eventually explored
his way through a door marked "NO ADMITTANCE." When the house lights
dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the mother returned to her seat
and discovered that the child was missing.
Suddenly, the curtains parted and
spotlights focused on the impressive Steinway on stage. In horror,
the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard, innocently picking
out "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." At that moment, the great piano
master made his entrance, quickly moved to the piano, and whispered in
he boy's ear, "Don't quit. Keep playing."
Then leaning over, Paderewski reached
down with his left hand and began filling in a bass part. Soon his
right arm reached around to the other side of the child and he added a
running obbligato. Together, the old master and the young novice
transformed a frightening situation into a wonderfully creative experience.
The audience was mesmerized.
That's the way it is with our Heavenly
Father. What we can accomplish on our own is hardly noteworthy.
We try our best, but the results aren't exactly graceful, flowing music.
But with the hand of the Master, our life's work truly can be beautiful.
Next time you set out to accomplish
great feats, listen carefully.
You can hear the voice of the Master,
whispering in your ear, "Don't quit. Keep playing." Feel His
loving arms around you. Know that His strong hands are there helping
you turn your feeble attempts into true masterpieces.
Remember, God doesn't call the equipped,
He equips the called. And He'll always be there to love and guide
you on to great things. (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Life Stories
From: AngelDr
The Most Important
Question---
During my second month of nursing
school, our professor gave us a pop quiz. I was a conscientious student
and had breezed through the questions, until I read the last one: 'What
is the first name of the woman who cleans the school?" Surely this was
some kind of joke. I had seen the cleaning woman several times. She was
tall, dark-haired and in her 50s, but how would I know her name?
I handed in my paper, leaving the
last question blank. Before class ended, one student asked if the
last question would count toward our quiz grade.
"Absolutely," said the professor.
"In your careers you will meet many people. All are significant. They deserve
your attention and care, even if all you do is smile and say hello".
I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.
Say a Prayer---
I was taking my usual morning walk
when a garbage truck pulled up beside me. I thought the driver was going
to ask for directions. Instead, he showed me a picture of a cute little
five-year-old boy. "This is my grandson, Jeremiah," he said. "He's on a
life-support system at a Phoenix hospital."
Thinking he would next ask for a
contribution to his hospital bills, I reached for my wallet. But he wanted
something more than money. He said, "I'm asking everybody I can to say
a prayer for him. Would you say one for him, please?"
I did. And my problems didn't seem
like much that day.
Pickup in
the Rain:
One night, at 11:30 pm, an older
African-American woman was standing on the side of a Alabama highway trying
to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately
needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young
white man stopped to help her-generally unheard of in those conflict-filled
1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and
put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote
down his address, thanked him and drove away.
Seven days went by and a knock came
on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant combination console color
TV and stereo record player were delivered to his home. A special
note was attached. The note read:
Dear Mr. James: Thank you so much
for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched
not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came along. Because
of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just
before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving
others.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole.
Unselfish
Love (Giving Blood):
Giving Blood many years ago, when
I worked as a transfusion volunteer at Stanford Hospital, I got to know
a little girl named Liza who was suffering from a disease and needed blood
from her five-year-old brother, who had miraculously survived the same
disease and had developed the antibodies needed to combat the illness.
The doctor explained the situation to her little brother, and asked the
boy if he would be willing to give his blood to his sister. I saw him hesitate
for only a moment before taking a deep breath and saying,
"Yes, I'll do it if it will save
Liza."
As the transfusion progressed, he
lay in bed next to his sister and smiled, as we all did, seeing the color
returning to her cheeks. Then his face grew pale and his smile faded.
He looked up at the doctor and asked with a trembling voice, "Will
I start to die right away?" Being young, the boy had misunderstood the
doctor; he thought he was going to have to give her all his blood.
Something
To Consider---
Jean Thompson stood in front of
her fifth-grade class on the very first day of school in the Fall and told
the children a lie. . Like most teachers, she looked at her pupils and
said that she loved each of them the same, that she would treat them all
alike. And that was impossible because there in front of her, slumped in
his seat on the third row, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard.
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed he didn't play
well with the other children, that his clothes were unkempt and that
he constantly needed a bath.
And Teddy was unpleasant. It got
to the point during the first few months that she would actually take delight
in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then
highlighting the "F" at the top of the paper biggest of all.
Because Teddy was a sullen little
boy, no one else seemed to enjoy him, either. At the school where Mrs.
Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's records and delayed
Teddy's until last. When she opened his file, she found a surprise. His
first-grade teacher had written, "Teddy is a bright, inquisitive child
with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is
a joy to be around."
His second-grade teacher had penned,
"Teddy is an excellent student, well-liked by all his classmates, but he
is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home
must be a struggle."
His third-grade teacher had noted,
"Teddy continues to work hard but his mother's death has been hard on him.
He tries to do his best but his father doesn't show much interest and his
home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth-grade teacher had
commented, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in
school. He doesn't have many friends and often falls asleep in class.
He is tardy and could become a more serious problem."
By now Mrs. Thompson realized the
extent of the problem, but Christmas was coming fast. It was all she could
do, with the school play and all, until the day before the holidays began
and she was suddenly forced to focus again on Teddy Stoddard. Her children
brought her presents, all in beautiful ribbon and bright paper, except
Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper of a scissored
grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other
presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a
rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that
was one-quarter full of cologne. She stifled the children's laughter while
she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some
of the perfume behind the other wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed behind after
class just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like
my mom used to."
After the children left, she cried
for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching
reading, and writing, and speaking. Instead, she began to teach children.
Jean Thompson paid particular attention to one they all called "Teddy."
As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged
him, the faster he responded. On those days when there would be an
important test, Mrs. Thompson would remember that cologne.
By the end of the year he had become
one of the highest achieving children in the class and, well, he had also
somewhat become the "pet" of that teacher who had once vowed to love all
of her children exactly the same.
A year later she found a note under
her door, from Teddy, telling her that of all the teachers he'd had in
elementary school, she was his favorite.
Six years went by before she got
another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school,
third in his class, and she was still his favorite teacher of all time.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while
things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck
with it, and would graduate from college with the highest of honors. He
assured Mrs. Thompson she was still his favorite teacher.
Four more years passed and yet another
letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree,
he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still
his favorite teacher but that now his name was a little longer. The letter
was signed, Theodore F.Stoddard, M.D.
The story doesn't end there. You
see, there was yet another letter that Spring. Teddy said he'd met this
girl and was to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple
of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in
the pew usually reserved for the mother of the groom. And on that
day, she wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing.
And on that special day, Jean Thompson smelled just like the way
Teddy remembered his mother smelling on their last Christmas together.
THE MORAL: You never can tell what
type of impact you may make on another's life by your actions or lack of
action. Consider this fact in your venture through life. (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
GOD'S COVER LETTER
From: Gene Richards
To: Whom It May Concern .
. .
I heard you were considering a new
manager in your life.
I would like to apply for the job.
I believe I am the most qualified
candidate.
I am the only one that has even
done this job successfully.
I was the first manager of human
beings. In fact I made them, so naturally I know how humanity works,
and what is best to get people back into proper working condition.
It will be like having the manufacturer as your personal mechanic.
If this is your first time considering
me, I would just like to point out that my salary has already been
paid by the blood of my son, Jesus on the cross of Calvary. What
I need from you is the acknowledgment that the price is sufficient to pay
for all of your sin and your independence from Me.
I need you to believe this in your
heart and to tell somebody else about your decision with your mouth.
The next thing I ask for, is the
right to change and fix your life so you can learn how to stay close to
Me. I will make some major changes and revisions. They are not for
you to worry about. I need your permission to execute these changes,
in My way and in My time. I will change your desires and give you
the strength to make the changes.
Please keep your hands out of the
way. Don't try to help me and Don't resist me. I really do
need your full commitment and cooperation. If you give me those,
the process can go smoothly, without delays.
Yours Sincerely,
GOD
P.S. I created the heavens and the
earth. I AM.
GOD'S RESUME . . .
GOD
Everywhere
All over, Every Place 00000
Phone: (123) 456-PRAY (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Faith to Move Mountains
From: Gene Richards
A small congregation in the foothills
of the Great Smokies built a new sanctuary on a piece of land willed to
them by a church member. Ten days before the new church was to open,
the local building inspector informed the pastor that the parking lot was
inadequate for the size of the building. Until the church doubled
the size of the parking lot, they would not be able to use the new sanctuary.
Unfortunately, the church with its undersized parking lot had used every
inch of their land except for the mountain against which it had been built.
In order to build more parking spaces, they would have to move the mountain
out of the back yard. Undaunted, the pastor announced the next Sunday
morning that he would meet that evening with all members who had
"mountain moving faith." They would hold a prayer session asking
God to remove the mountain from the back yard and to somehow provide enough
money to have it paved and painted before the scheduled opening dedication
service the following week. At the appointed time, 24 of the congregation's
300 members assembled for prayer. They prayed for nearly three hours.
At ten o'clock the pastor said the final "Amen". "We'll open next
Sunday as scheduled," he assured everyone. "God has never let us down before,
and I believe He will be faithful this time too. "The next morning
as he was working in his study there came a loud knock at his door. When
he called "come in", a rough looking construction foreman appeared, removing
his hard hat as he entered. "Excuse me, Reverend. I'm from Acme Construction
Company over in the next county. We're building a huge new shopping mall
over there and we need some fill dirt. Would you be willing to sell us
a chunk of that mountain behind the church? We'll pay you for the dirt
we remove and pave all the exposed area free of charge, if we can have
it right away. We can't do anything else until we get the dirt in and allow
it to settle properly." The little church was dedicated the
next Sunday as originally planned and there were far more members with
"mountain moving faith" on opening Sunday than there had been the previous
week! Would you have shown up for that prayer meeting? Some
people say faith comes from miracles. But others know: MIRACLES COME
FROM FAITH! (TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
Simple Life:
From: Gene Richards
Satan called a worldwide convention.
In his opening address to his evil angels, he said, "We can't keep the
Christians from Going to church.
We can't keep then from reading
their Bibles & knowing the truth. We can't even keep them from conservative
values. But we can do something else. We can keep them from
forming an intimate, abiding experience in Christ. If they gain that
connection with Jesus, our power over them is broken.
So let them go to church, let them
have their conservative lifestyles, but steal their time, so they can't
gain that experience in Jesus Christ. This is what I want you to
do, angels. Distract them from gaining hold of their Savior &
maintaining that vital connection throughout their day!"
"How shall we do this?", shouted
his angels.
"Keep them busy in the non-essentials
of life & invent un-numbered schemes to occupy their minds," he answered.
"Tempt them to spend, spend, spend,
then, borrow, borrow, borrow. Convince the wives to go to work &
the husbands to work 6 or 7 days a week, 10-12 hrs. a day, so they can
afford their lifestyles. Keep them from spending time with their
children. As their family fragments, soon, their homes will offer
no escape from the pressures of work."
"Over stimulate their minds so that
they cannot hear that still small voice. Entice them to play the
radio or cassette player whenever they drive, to keep the TV, the VCR,
& their CD's going constantly in their homes. And see to it that
every store & restaurant in the world plays music constantly.
This will jam their minds & break that union with Christ."
"Fill their coffee tables with magazines
& newspapers. Pound their minds with the news 24 hrs. a day.
Invade their driving moments with billboards. Flood their mailboxes
with junk mail, sweepstakes, mail order catalogues, & every kind of
newsletter & promotional offering, free products, services, & false
hopes."
"Even in their recreation, let them
be excessive. Have them return from their recreation exhausted, disquieted
& unprepared for the coming week. Don't let them go out in nature.
Send them to amusement parks, sporting events, concerts & movies instead.
And when they meet for spiritual fellowship, involve them in gossip &
small talk so that they leave with troubled consciences & unsettled
emotion."
"Let them be involved in soul-winning.
But crowd their lives with so many good causes they have no time to seek
power from Christ. Soon they will be working in their own strength,
sacrificing their health & family unity for the good of the cause."
It was quite a convention in the
end. And the evil angels went eagerly to their assignments causing
Christians everywhere to get busy, busy, busy & rush here & there.
Has the devil been successful at
his scheme? You be the judge. (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Have Your Kleenex Box Nearby...
From: Gene Richards
The day is over, you are driving
home. You tune in your radio. You hear a little blurb about a little village
in India where some villagers have died suddenly, strangely, of a flu that
has never been seen before. It's not influenza, but three or four fellows
are dead, and it's kind of interesting, and they're sending some doctors
over there to investigate it.
You don't think much about it, but
on Sunday, coming home from church, you hear another radio spot. Only they
say it's not three villagers, it's 30,000 villagers in the back hills of
this particular area of India, and it's on TV that night. CNN runs a little
blurb; people are heading there from the CDC in Atlanta because this disease
strain has never been seen before. By Monday morning when you get up, it's
the lead story. For it's not just India; it's Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran,
and before you know it, you're hearing this story everywhere and they have
coined it now as "the mystery flu".
The President has made some comment
that he and everyone are praying and hoping that all will go well over
there. But everyone is wondering, "How are we going to contain it?" That's
when the President of France makes an announcement that shocks Europe.
He is closing their borders. No flights from India, Pakistan, or any of
the countries where this thing has been seen. And that's why that night
you are watching a little bit of CNN before going to bed. Your jaw
hits your chest when a weeping woman is translated from a French news program
into English: "There's a young man lying in a hospital in Paris dying of
the mystery flu." It has come to Europe.
Panic strikes. As best they can
tell, once you get it, you have it for a week and you don't know it. Then
you have four days of unbelievable symptoms. And then you die. Britain
closes its borders, but it's too late. South Hampton, Liverpool, North
Hampton, and it's Tuesday morning when the President of the United States
makes the following announcement: "Due to a national security risk,
all flights to and from Europe and Asia have been canceled. If your loved
ones are overseas, I'm sorry. They cannot come back until we find a cure
for this thing." Within four days our nation has been plunged into an unbelievable
fear. People are selling little masks for your face. People are talking
about what if it comes to this country, and preachers on Tuesday are saying,
"It's the scourge of God."
It's Wednesday night and you are
at a church prayer meeting when somebody runs in from the parking lot and
says, "Turn on a radio, turn on a radio." And while the church listens
to a little transistor radio with a microphone stuck up to it, the announcement
is made. "Two women are lying in a Long Island hospital dying from the
mystery flu." Within hours it seems, this thing just sweeps across the
country. People are working around the clock trying to find an antidote.
Nothing is working. California, Oregon, Arizona, Florida, Massachusetts.
It's as though it's just sweeping in from the borders.
And then, all of a sudden the news
comes out. The code has been broken! A cure can be found. A vaccine can
be made. It's going to take the blood of somebody who hasn't been infected,
and so, sure enough, all through the Midwest, through all those channels
of emergency broadcasting, everyone is asked to do one simple thing:
"Go to your downtown hospital and have your blood type taken. That's all
we ask of you." "And when you hear the sirens go off in your neighborhood,
please make your way quickly, quietly, and safely to the hospitals." Sure
enough, when you and your family get down there late on that Friday night,
there is a long line, and they've got nurses and doctors coming out and
pricking fingers and taking blood and putting labels on it. Your wife and
kids are out there, and they take your blood type and they say, "Wait here
in the parking lot and if we call your name, you can be dismissed and go
home." You stand around scared with your neighbors, wondering what in the
world is going on, and that this is the end of the world.
Suddenly a young man comes running
out of the hospital screaming. He's yelling a name and waving a clipboard.
What? He yells it again! And your son tugs on your jacket and says, "Daddy,
that's me." Before you know it, they have grabbed your boy. "Wait a minute,
hold it!" And they say, "It's okay, his blood is clean. His blood is pure.
We want to make sure he doesn't have the disease. We think he has got the
right type." Five tense minutes later, out come the doctors and nurses,
crying and hugging one another some are even laughing. It's the first
time you have seen anybody laugh in a week, and an old doctor walks up
to you and says, "Thank you, sir. Your son's blood type is perfect. It's
clean, it is pure, and we can make the vaccine."
As the word begins to spread all
across that parking lot full of folks, people are screaming and praying
and laughing and crying. But then the gray-haired doctor pulls you and
your wife aside and says, "May we see you for a moment? We didn't realize
that the donor would be a minor and we need...we need you to sign a consent
form." You begin to sign and then you see that the number of pints of blood
to be taken is empty. "H-h-h-how many pints?" And that is when the old
doctor's smile fades and he says, "We had no idea it would be a small child.
We weren't prepared. We need it all." "But - but...""You don't understand.
We are talking about the world here. Please sign. We - we need it
all - we need it all!" "But can't you give him a transfusion?" "If we had
clean blood we would. Can you sign? Would you sign?" In numb
silence you do.
Then they say, "Would you like to
have a moment with him before we begin?" Can you walk back? Can you
walk back to that room where he sits on a table saying, "Daddy? Mommy?
What's going on?" Can you take his hands and say, "Son, your Mommy
and I love you, and we would never ever let anything happen to you that
didn't just have to be. Do you understand that?"
And when that old doctor comes back
in and says, "I'm sorry, we've - we've got to get started. People all over
the world are dying." Can you leave? Can you walk out while he is saying,
"Dad? Mom? Dad? Why why have you forsaken me?"
And then next week, when they have
the ceremony to honor your son, and some folks sleep through it, and some
folks don't even come because they go to the lake, and some folks come
with a pretentious smile and just pretend to care.
Would you want to jump up and say,
"MY SON DIED! DON'T YOU CARE?" Is that what He wants to say?
"MY SON DIED. DON'T YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I CARE?"
"Father, seeing it from Your eyes
breaks our hearts. Maybe now we can begin to comprehend the great love
You have for us. Amen."
From Isaiah 49:15,16 God says, "Can
a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child
she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have
engraved you on the palms of my hands." (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Charity of Poor People
He was not your typical cabbie.
As we took off from the downtown Hyatt en route to the Kansas City Airport,
he drove by what appeared to be a sparsely furnished office in a relatively
seedy section of downtown. Then he said proudly, "That's my office!" The
window front said "COPP" on it. He said, "I take care of the invisible
10,000 Kansas City homeless out of there." I could sense the emotion in
his words. My eyes started tearing up.
"Yep," Richard Tripp said, "I feed
800 people Christmas breakfast when they get kicked out of the regular
shelters that are preparing for Christmas dinner. I started COPP (Charity
of Poor People) when I got back on my feet again after being homeless for
six months. I'd been hackin' for 20 years and got too many speedin' tickets,
lost my license and was suddenly homeless. It wasn't too bad. See those
truckin' yards? They got heavy plastic that I pulled out of their garbage
cans. Heavy duty plastic makes a rainproof tent and sleepin' bag that'll
keep you alive. I slept in those woods over there every night for six months.
If someone's homeless over six months, nine out of ten of `em will stay
permanently homeless. I give `em a new choice and a chance.
"We don't take no money - only
food, long johns, and real stuff the homeless need now. I go on the radio
and get lots of stuff.
"Last year a husband and wife who
heard me on the radio came into COPP, and I touched `em because I talk
with my heart. The couple's five-year-old daughter got killed by a hit-and-run
driver. They gave gloves to 800 people in memory of their daughter. It
was the best and most useful gift I ever saw anyone give. Everyone thanked
`em and cried because their hands would not freeze anymore."
Because of Richard Tripp, 5,000
of the 10,000 homeless people in Kansas City have been served meals and
provided clothing on a yearly basis.
By Mark Victor Hansen from A Cup
of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark
Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Courage of the Heart
I sit on the rickety auditorium
chair with the camcorder on my shoulder and I can feel the tears well up
in my eyes. My six-year-old daughter is on stage, calm, self-possessed,
centered and singing her heart out. I am nervous, jittery and emotional.
I try not to cry.
"Listen, can you hear the sound,
hearts beating all the world around?" she sings. Her little round
face turns up to the light, a little face so dear and familiar and yet
so unlike my own thin features. Her eyes - eyes so different from mine
- look out into the audience with total trust. She knows she is loved.
"Up in the valley, out on the plains,
everywhere around the world, heartbeats sound the same."
The face of her birth mother looks
out at me from the stage. The eyes of a young woman that once looked into
mine with trust now gaze into the audience. These features my daughter
inherited from her birth mother - eyes that tilt up at the corners, and
rosy, plump little cheeks that I can't stop kissing. "Black or white,
red or tan, it's the heart of the family of man . . . oh, oh beating away,
oh, oh beating away," she finishes.
The audience goes wild. I do, too.
Thunderous applause fills the room. We rise as one to let Melanie know
we loved it. She smiles; she already knew. Now I am crying. I feel so blessed
to be her mom. She fills me with so much joy that my heart actually hurts.
The heart of the family of man
. . . the heart of courage that shows us the path to take when we are lost
. . . the heart that makes strangers one with each other for a common purpose:
this is the heart Melanie's birth mother showed to me. From deep inside
the safest part of herself, Melanie heard her birth mother. This heart
of courage because of her commitment to unconditional love. She was a woman
who embraced the concept that she could give her child something no one
else ever could: a better life than she had.
Melanie's heart beats close to
mine as I hold her and tell her how great she performed. She wiggles in
my arms and looks up at me. "Why are you crying, Mommy?"
I answer her, "Because I am so
happy for you and you did so well, all by yourself!" I can feel myself
reach out and hold her with more than just my arms. I hold her with love
for not only myself, but for the beautiful and courageous woman who chose
to give birth to my daughter, and then chose again to give her to me. I
carry the love from both of us . . . the birth mother with the courage
to share, and the woman whose empty arms were filled with love . . . for
the heartbeat that we share is one.
By Patty Hansen from A 3rd Serving
of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
Something
to Look Forward To
A while ago, I was treated to a
couple of pampering weeks in the beautiful mountains of Santa Barbara,
California. I had asked my friends if I could stay in their guest house
for the time I was finishing a book I was working on.
My first three days were incredible
and I was treated to two very special things on each of those days. First,
the heavens opened up and we were deluged with three days of uninterrupted
rain. It was really quite cozy but after a while, I had thoughts of building
an ark.
My second treat came in the form
of an assistant. Every day at noon, my friends' son, Christopher, would
come home from his kindergarten class and offer to "help" me. On the last
day of the downpour he asked me why it was raining so much. Just to make
conversation I said, "Sometimes when it rains, it means that God is sad
and he is crying."
"He's probably crying because Valentine's
Day is over," explained my five-year-old prophet. In his very self-assured
way he went out into the rain, looked up and said, "Don't worry, God. Valentine's
Day may be over but Easter is coming soon!"
It wasn't long after that the rain
stopped!
By Barry Spilchuk from A Cup of
Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen & Barry Spilchuk (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The Circus
Once when I was a teenager, my father
and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus. Finally, there
was only one family between us and the ticket counter. This family made
a big impression on me. There were eight children, all probably under the
age of 12. You could tell they didn’t have a lot of money. Their clothes
were not expensive, but they were clean. The children were well-behaved,
all of them standing in line, two-by- two behind their parents, holding
hands. They were excitedly jabbering about the clowns, elephants and other
acts they would see that night. One could sense they had never been to
the circus before. It promised to be a highlight of their young lives.
The father and mother were at the
head of the pack standing proud as could be. The mother was holding her
husband’s hand, looking up at him as if to say, "You’re my knight in shining
armor." He was smiling and basking in pride, looking at her as if to reply,
"You got that right."
The ticket lady asked the father
how many tickets he wanted. He proudly responded, "Please let me buy eight
children’s tickets and two adult tickets so I can take my family to the
circus."
The ticket lady quoted the price.
The man’s wife let go of his hand,
her head dropped, the man’s lip began to quiver. The father leaned a little
closer and asked, "How much did you say?"
The ticket lady again quoted the
price.
The man didn’t have enough money.
How was he supposed to turn and
tell his eight kids that he didn’t have enough money to take them to the
circus?
Seeing what was going on, my dad
put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill and dropped it on the
ground. (We were not wealthy in any sense of the word!) My father reached
down, picked up the bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, "Excuse
me, sir, this fell out of your pocket."
The man knew what was going on.
He wasn’t begging for a handout but certainly appreciated the help in a
desperate, heartbreaking, embarrassing situation. He looked straight into
my dad’s eyes, took my dad’s hand in both of his, squeezed tightly onto
the $20 bill, and with his lip quivering and a tear streaming down his
cheek, he replied, "Thank you, thank you, sir. This really means a lot
to me and my family."
My father and I went back to our
car and drove home. We didn’t go to the circus that night, but we didn’t
go without.
By Dan Clark from A 2nd Helping
of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1995 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
Merry Christmas, Jennifer
Hi, sweetheart. Christmas won't
be the same without you this year, but we will try to cope with the many
memories of our 19 years spent with you. All I want for Christmas is to
have you back with us, but knowing that is impossible I will settle for
a letter to you: God will hopefully hand-deliver it in time for the holiday.
I missed having you being here
to help me with my Christmas shopping. You always had a sense of what your
mom liked. I managed okay, I think you were probably helping me. Your mom
will love the gift you sent her from Heaven! Sarah too!
Your mom has done a lot of baking
this week; uncooked cake, date squares, etc. Surprised, eh?
Our traditional Christmas get-together
will be at your Uncle Steve's place this year. We don't know how we will
handle it, but will cross that bridge when we come to it.
Sarah is doing okay, still dating
Brian (which has really helped her). We know she misses you mostly at nights,
when you two would do so much talking. She misses her big sister's advice
and odd spat!
I have to go to the cemetery tomorrow
and shovel 3-1/2 feet of snow, in case some of the family want to visit
your grave site. We decorated the poles, hung a white and red bird and
a few bells for you to hear when the wind blows. It really looks nice.
We know Patrick misses you, and you him. Sorry I wasn't more supportive
of your relationship; that will bother me until I can apologize in person.
I'm sorry you never got to experience
the Internet, Jenny. You would have loved it! I have met some wonderful
people online, families that have also lost children. They have helped
me tremendously in coping with your death. Most times, other than your
mom, it has been my only release. Losing one's child is the most pain a
parent can experience, and being able to correspond with others in the
same situation is surely a blessing. Jennifer, we will miss you always.
We will never stop loving you or ever forget you!
By Love, Sarah, Mom and Dad Furrow
from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield,
Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The Gentlest Need
At least once a day our old black
cat comes to one us in a way that we've all come to see as a special request.
It does not mean he wants to be fed or to be let out or anything of that
sort. His need is for something very different.
If you have a lap handy, he'll
jump into it; if you don't, he's likely to stand there looking wistful
until you make him one. Once in it, he begins to vibrate almost before
you stroke his back, scratch his chin and tell him over and over what a
good kitty he is. Then his motor really revs up; he squirms to get comfortable;
he "makes big hands." Every once in a while one of his purrs gets out of
control and turns into a snort. He looks at you with wide open eyes of
adoration, and he gives you the cat's long slow blink of ultimate trust.
After a while, little by little,
he quiets down. If he senses that it's all right, he may stay in your lap
for a cozy nap. But he is just as likely to hop down and stroll away about
his business. Either way, he's all right.
Our daughter puts it simply: "Blackie
needs to be purred."
In our household he isn't the only
one who has that need: I share it and so does my wife. We know the need
isn't exclusive to any one age group. Still, because I am a schoolman as
well as a parent, I associate it especially with youngsters, with their
quick, impulsive need for a hug, a warm lap, a hand held out, a coverlet
tucked in, not because anything's wrong, not because anything needs doing,
just because that's the way they are.
There are a lot of things I'd like
to do for all children. If I could do just one, it would be this: to guarantee
every child, everywhere, at least one good purring every day.
Kids, like cats, need time to purr.
By Fred T. Wilhelms from Chicken
Soup for the Soul Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
Try
Something Different
I'm sitting in a quiet room at the
Milcroft Inn, a peaceful little place hidden back among the pine trees
about an hour out of Toronto. It's just past noon, late July, and
I'm listening to the desperate sounds of a life-or-death struggle going
on a few feet away.
There's a small fly burning out
the last of its short life's energies in a futile attempt to fly through
the glass of the windowpane. The whining wings tell the poignant
story of the fly's strategy: Try harder.
But it's not working.
The frenzied effort offers no hope
for survival. Ironically, the struggle is part of the trap. It is
impossible for the fly to try hard enough to succeed at breaking through
the glass. Nevertheless, this little insect has staked its life on
reaching its goal through raw effort and determination.
This fly is doomed. It will
die there on the windowsill.
Across the room, ten steps away,
the door is open. Ten seconds of flying time and this small creature
could reach the outside world it seeks. With only a fraction of the
effort now being wasted, it could be free of this self- imposed trap.
The breakthrough possibility is there. It would be so easy.
Why doesn't the fly try another
approach, something dramatically different? How did it get so locked
in on the idea that this particular route and determined effort offer the
most promise for success? What logic is there in continuing until
death to seek a breakthrough with more of the same?
No doubt this approach makes sense
to the fly. Regrettably, it's an idea that will kill.
Trying harder isn't necessarily
the solution to achieving more. It may not offer any real promise for getting
what you want out of life. Sometimes, in fact, it's a big part of
the problem.
If you stake your hopes for a breakthrough
on trying harder than ever, you may kill your chances for success.
By Price Pritchett from Chicken
Soup for the Soul Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield & Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP) (Back to Stories Index)
The Beauty Remains; the Pain Passes
Although Henri Matisse was nearly
28 years younger than Auguste Renoir, the two great artists were dear friends
and frequent companions. When Renoir was confined to his home during the
last decade of his life, Matisse visited him daily. Renoir, almost paralyzed
by arthritis, continued to paint in spite of his infirmities. One day as
Matisse watched the elder painter working in his studio, fighting torturous
pain with each brush stroke, he blurted out: "Auguste, why do you continue
to paint when you are in such agony?"
Renoir answered simply: "The beauty
remains; the pain passes." And so, almost to his dying day, Renoir put
paint to canvas. One of his most famous paintings, The Bathers, was completed
just two years before his passing, 14 years after he was stricken by this
disabling disease.
By The Best of Bits & Pieces
from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack
Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
A Lesson from My Father
We come by business naturally in
our family. Each of the seven children in our family worked in our father's
store, "Our Own Hardware-Furniture Store," in Mott, North Dakota, a small
town on the prairies. We started working by doing odd jobs like dusting,
arranging shelves and wrapping, and later graduated to serving customers.
As we worked and watched, we learned that work was about more than survival
and making a sale.
One lesson stands out in my mind.
It was shortly before Christmas. I was in the eighth grade and was working
evenings, straightening the toy section. A little boy, five or six years
old, came in. He was wearing a brown tattered coat with dirty worn cuffs.
His hair was straggly, except for a cowlick that stood straight up from
the crown of his head. His shoes were scuffed and his one shoelace was
torn. The little boy looked poor to me--too poor to afford to buy anything.
He looked around the toy section, picked up this item and that, and carefully
put them back in their place.
Dad came down the stairs and walked
over to the boy. His steel blue eyes smiled and the dimple in his cheek
stood out as he asked the boy what he could do for him. The boy said he
was looking for a Christmas present to buy his brother. I was impressed
that Dad treated him with the same respect as any adult. Dad told him to
take his time and look around. He did.
After about 20 minutes, the little
boy carefully picked up a toy plane, walked up to my dad and said, "How
much for this, Mister?"
"How much you got?" Dad asked.
The little boy held out his hand
and opened it. His hand was creased with wet lines of dirt from clutching
his money. In his hand lay two dimes, a nickel and two pennies-- 27 cents.
The price on the toy plane he'd picked out was $3.98.
"That'll just about do it," Dad
said as he closed the sale. Dad's reply still rings in my ears. I thought
about what I'd seen as I wrapped the present. When the little boy walked
out of the store, I didn't notice the dirty, worn coat, the straggly hair,
or the single torn shoelace. What I saw was a radiant child with a treasure.
By LaVonn Steiner 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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