Stories and
Inspirational Messages:
A
Famous Father:
A great man died today. He wasn't
a world leader or a famous doctor or a war hero or a sports figure. He
was no business tycoon, and you will never see his name in the financial
pages. But he was one of the greatest men who ever lived. He was my father.
I guess you might say he was a person
who was never interested in getting credit or receiving honors. He did
corny things like pay bills on time, go to church on Sunday and serve as
an officer in the P.T.A. He helped his kids with their homework and drove
his wife to do the grocery shopping on Thursday nights. He got a great
kick out of hauling his teenagers and their friends to and from football
games.
Tonight is my first night without
him. I don't know what to do with myself. I am sorry now for the times
I didn't show him the proper respect. But I am grateful for a lot of other
things.
I am thankful that God let me have
my father for 15 years. And I am happy that I was able to let him know
how much I loved him. That wonderful man died with a smile on his face
and fulfillment in his heart. He knew that he was a great success as a
husband and a father, a brother, a son, and a friend. I wonder how many
millionaires can say that.
By Author Unknown from Chicken Soup
for the Teenage Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen
and Kimberly Kirberger
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Song
of the Bird:
A man found an eagle's egg and put
it in a nest of a barnyard hen. The eagle hatched with the brood of chicks
and grew up with them. All his life, the eagle did what the barnyard chicks
did, thinking he was a barnyard chicken. He scratched the earth for worms
and insects. He clucked and cackled. And he would thrash his wings and
fly a few feet in the air.
Years passed and the eagle grew
very old. One day he saw a magnificent bird above him in the cloudless
sky. It glided in graceful majesty among powerful wind currents, with scarcely
a beat of its strong golden wings. The old eagle looked up in awe. "Who's
that?" he asked. "That's the eagle, the king of the birds," said his neighbor.
"He belongs to the sky. We belong to the earth - we're chickens." So the
eagle lived and died a chicken, for that's what he thought he was.
By Anthony DeMello 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)
The
Best Day of My Life:
Today, when I awoke, I suddenly
realized that this is the best day of my life, ever! There were times when
I wondered if I would make it to today; but I did! And because I did I'm
going to celebrate!
Today, I'm going to celebrate what
an unbelievable life I have had so far: the accomplishments, the many blessings,
and, yes, even the hardships because they have served to make me stronger.
I will go through this day with
my head held high, and a happy heart. I will marvel at God's seemingly
simple gifts: the morning dew, the sun, the clouds, the trees, the flowers,
the birds. Today, none of these miraculous creations will escape my notice.
Today, I will share my excitement
for life with other people. I'll make someone smile. I'll go out of my
way to perform an unexpected act of kindness for someone I don't even know.
Today, I'll give a sincere compliment to someone who seems down. I'll tell
a child how special he is, and I'll tell someone I love just how deeply
I care for her and how much she means to me.
Today is the day I quit worrying
about what I don't have and start being grateful for all the wonderful
things God has already given me. I'll remember that to worry is just a
waste of time because my faith in God and his Divine Plan ensures everything
will be just fine.
And tonight, before I go to bed,
I'll go outside and raise my eyes to the heavens. I will stand in awe at
the beauty of the stars and the moon, and I will praise God for these magnificent
treasures.
As the day ends and I lay my head
down on my pillow, I will thank the Almighty for the best day of my life.
And I will sleep the sleep of a contented child, excited with expectation
because I know tomorrow is going to be the best day of my life, ever!
By Gregory M. Lousig-Nont, Ph.D.
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)
He's My
Dad:
To Each Staff Member of this Facility:
As you pick up that chart today
and scan that green Medicaid card, I hope you will remember what I am about
to say.
I spent yesterday with you. I was
there with my mother and father. We didn't know where we were supposed
to go or what we were supposed to do, for we had never needed your services
before. We have never before been labeled charity.
I watched yesterday as my dad became
a diagnosis, a chart, a case number, a charity case labeled "no sponsor"
because he had no health insurance.
I saw a weak man stand in line,
waiting for five hours to be shuffled through a system of impatient office
workers, a burned-out nursing staff and a budget-scarce facility, being
robbed of any dignity and pride he may have had left. I was amazed at how
impersonal your staff was, huffing and blowing when the patient did not
present the correct form, speaking carelessly of other patients' cases
in front of passersby, of lunch breaks that would be spent away from this
"poor man's hell."
My dad is only a green card, a file
number to clutter your desk on appointment day, a patient who will ask
for directions twice after they've been mechanically given the first time.
But, no, that's not really my dad. That's only what you see.
What you don't see is a cabinetmaker
since the age of 14, a self-employed man who has a wonderful wife, four
grown kids (who visit too much), and five grandchildren (with two more
on the way) - all of whom think their "pop" is the greatest. This man is
everything a daddy should be – strong and firm, yet tender, rough around
the edges, a country boy, yet respected by prominent business owners.
He's my dad, the man who raised
me through thick and thin, gave me away as a bride, held my children at
their births, stuffed a $20 bill into my hand when times were tough and
comforted me when I cried. Now we are told that before long cancer will
take this man away from us.
You may say these are the words
of a grieving daughter lashing out in helplessness at the prospect of losing
a loved one. I would not disagree. Yet I would urge you not to discount
what I say. Never lose sight of the people behind your charts. Each chart
represents a person – with feelings, a history, a life – whom you have
the power to touch for one day by your words and actions. Tomorrow it may
be your loved one - your relative or neighbor - who turns into a case number,
a green card, a name to be marked off with a yellow marker as done for
the day.
I pray that you will reward the
next person you greet at your station with a kind word or smile because
that person is someone's dad, husband, wife, mother, son, or daughter -
or simply because he or she is a human being, created and loved by God,
just as you are.
By Author Unknown Submitted by Holly
Cresswell from A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1995
by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Heaven
and Hell - The Real Difference:
A man spoke with the Lord about
heaven and hell. The Lord said to the man, “Come, I will show you hell.”
They entered a room where a group of people sat around a huge pot of stew.
Everyone was famished, desperate and starving. Each held a spoon that reached
the pot, but each spoon had a handle so much longer than their own arm
that it could not be used to get the stew into their own mouths. The suffering
was terrible.
“Come, now I will show you heaven,”
the Lord said after a while. They entered another room, identical to the
first - the pot of stew, the group of people, the same long-handled spoons.
But there everyone was happy and well-nourished.
“I don’t understand,” said the man.
“Why are they happy here when they were miserable in the other room and
everything was the same?”
The Lord smiled, “Ah, it is simple,”
he said. “here they have learned to feed each other.”
From A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup
for the Soul Copyright 1995 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP)
(Back
to Stories Index)
True
Forgiveness:
Forty-three years seems like a long
time to remember the name of a mere acquaintance. I have duly forgotten
the name of an old lady who was a customer on my paper route when I was
a twelve-year-old boy in Marinette, Wisconsin back in 1954. Yet it seems
like just yesterday that she taught me a lesson in forgiveness that I can
only hope to pass on to someone else someday.
On a mindless Saturday afternoon,
a friend and I were throwing rocks onto the roof of the old lady’s house
from a secluded spot in her backyard. The object of our play was to observe
how the rocks changed to missiles as they rolled to the roof’s edge and
shot out into the yard like comets falling from the sky.
I found myself a perfectly smooth
rock and sent it for a ride. The stone was too smooth, however, so it slipped
from my hand as I let it go and headed straight for a small window on the
old lady’s back porch. At the sound of fractured glass, we took off from
the old lady’s yard faster than any of our missiles flew off her roof.
I was too scared about getting caught
that first night to be concerned about the old lady with the broken porch
window. However, a few days later, when I was sure that I hadn’t been discovered,
I started to feel guilty for her misfortune. She still greeted me with
a smile each day when I gave her the paper, but I was no longer able to
act comfortable in her presence.
I made up my mind that I would save
my paper delivery money, and in three weeks I had the seven dollars that
I calculated would cover the cost of her window. I put the money in an
envelope with a note explaining that I was sorry for breaking her window
and hoped that the seven dollars would cover the cost for repairing it.
I waited until it was dark, snuck
up to the old lady’s house, and put the envelope of retribution through
the letter slot in her door. My soul felt redeemed and I couldn’t wait
for the freedom of, once again, looking straight into the old lady’s eyes.
The next day, I handed the old lady
her paper and was able to return the warm smile that I was receiving from
her. She thanked me for the paper and said, "Here, I have something for
you." It was a bag of cookies. I thanked her and proceeded to eat the cookies
as I continued my route.
After several cookies, I felt an
envelope and pulled it out of the bag. When I opened the envelope, I was
stunned. Inside was the seven dollars and a short note that said, "I’m
proud of you."
By Jerry Harpt from A 5th Portion
of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Merry
Christmas, My Friend:
"I will never forget you," the old
man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't
take care of you anymore."
With his head tilted to one side,
Monsieur DuPree watched his master. "Woof woof! Woof woof!" He wagged his
tail back and forth, wondering, What’s he up to now?
"I can't take care of myself anymore,
let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled
a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast.
"Soon, I'll move to an old age home
and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there,
you know."
Bent over from age, the old man
limped over to Monsieur DuPree and stroked his head.
"Don't worry, my friend. We'll find
a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he
added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone
would be proud to own such a fine dog."
Monsieur DuPree wagged his tail
really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. "Woof, woof, woof,
woof." For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with
the odor of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well being. But then,
a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he
stood very still.
"Come here." With great difficulty,
the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled Monsieur Dupree
close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and
then he attached a note to it. Monsieur DuPree wondered what it said.
"It says," the old man read aloud,
"Merry Christmas! My name is Monsieur DuPree. For breakfast, I like bacon
and eggs -- even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes
and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will
be your most loyal friend."
"Woof woof! Woof woof!" Monsieur
DuPree was confused and his eyes begged, What's going on?
The old man blew his nose into his
hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from
the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly
said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold
air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to
fall. Monsieur DuPree pulled back. He didn't want to go.
"Don't make this any harder for
me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else." The street
was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man
and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered
with a blanket of snow.
After a very long time, they came
upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying
and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. Monsieur DuPree stopped,
too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights
adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried
on the wind.
"This will be a nice home for you,"
the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his
dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn’t creak. "Go on now.
Go up the steps and scratch on the door."
Monsieur DuPree looked from the
house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand.
"Woof woof! Woof woof!"
"Go on." The old man gave the dog
a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get
going now!"
Monsieur DuPree was hurt. He thought
his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed,
the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly
he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw
at the front door. "Woof woof! Woof woof!"
Looking back, he saw his master
step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob.
A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind.
When he saw Monsieur DuPree, he threw both arms into the air and shouted
with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mom and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!"
Through teary eyes, the old man
watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly
pull the dog inside. Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve
of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry
Christmas, my friend."
by Christa Holder Ocker from Chicken
Soup for the Kid’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen,
Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The
Purple Belt:
A few years ago, I organized the
Kick Drugs Out of America Foundation. It is an organization designed to
work with high-risk, inner-city children. The idea is to teach the kids
martial arts to help raise their self-esteem and instill discipline and
respect for themselves and others. Many of the kids, boys as well as girls,
come from broken homes and are having trouble in school and in their lives
in general. I’m pleased to say that the program has been working phenomenally
well. Most young people quickly adapt to the philosophy of the martial
arts.
After more than thirty-five years
in the martial arts, competing and training thousands of young people,
there is one story that is engraved in my memory. It was told to me by
Alice McCleary, one of my Kick Drugs Out of America Black Belt Instructors.
One of her young students showed
up for karate training without his purple belt. Alice reminded him that
part of his responsibility as a student was to have his karate uniform
and belt with him at all times.
"Where is your belt?" she asked.
The boy looked at the floor and
said he didn’t have it.
"Where is it?" Alice repeated. After
pressing the boy to answer, he quietly lifted his head and looked at her
and replied, "My baby sister died and I put it in her coffin to take to
heaven with her."
Alice had tears in her eyes as she
told me the story. "That belt was probably his most important possession,"
she said.
The boy had learned to give his
best, unselfishly.
by Chuck Norris from Chicken Soup
for the Kid’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen,
Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
A
Dance with Dad: (I’ve been waiting for you.)
I am dancing with my father at my
parent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. The band is playing an old-fashioned
waltz as we move gracefully across the floor. His hand on my waist is as
guiding as it always was, and he hums the tune to himself in a steady,
youthful way. Around and around we go, laughing and nodding to the other
dancers. We are the best dancers on the floor, they tell us. My father
squeezes my hand and smiles at me.
As we continue to dip and sway,
I remember a time when I was almost three, and my father came home from
work, swooped me into his arms and began to dance me around the table.
My mother laughed at us, told us dinner would get cold. But my father said,
"She’s just caught the rhythm of the dance! Dinner can wait!" And then
he sang out "Roll out the barrel, let’s have a barrel of fun," and I sang
back, "let’s get those blues on the run." That night he taught me to polka,
waltz and do the fox trot while dinner waited.
We danced through the years. When
I was five, my father taught me to "shuffle off to Buffalo." Later we won
a dance contest at a Campfire Girls Round-Up. Then we learned to jitterbug
at the USO place downtown. Once my father caught on to the steps, he danced
with everyone in the hall—the women passing out doughnuts, even the GI’s.
We all laughed and clapped our hands for my father, the dancer.
One night when I was fifteen, lost
in some painful, adolescent mood, my father put on a stack of records and
teased me to dance with him. "C’mon," he said, "let’s get those blues on
the run." I turned away from him and hugged my pain closer than before.
My father put his hand on my shoulder, and I jumped out of the chair screaming,
"Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! I am sick and tired of dancing with you!"
The hurt on his face did not escape me, but the words were out, and I could
not call them back. I ran to my room sobbing hysterically.
We did not dance together after
that night. I found other partners, and my father waited up for me after
dances, sitting in his favorite chair, clad in his flannel pajamas. Sometimes
he would be asleep when I came in, and I would wake him saying, "If you
were so tired, you should have gone to bed."
"No, no," he’d say. "I was just
waiting for you."
Then we’d lock up the house and
go to bed.
My father waited up for me all through
my high school and college years while I danced my way out of his life.
One night, shortly after my first
child was born, my mother called to tell me my father was ill. "A heart
problem," she said. "Now, don’t come. Three hundred miles. It would upset
your father. We will just have to wait. I’ll let you know."
My father’s tests showed some stress,
but a proper diet restored him to good health. Little things, then, for
a while. A disc problem in the back, more heart trouble, a lens implant
for cataracts. But the dancing did not stop. My mother wrote that they
had joined a dance club. "You remember how your father loves to dance."
Yes, I remembered. My eyes filled
up with remembering.
When my father retired, we mended
our way back together again; hugs and kisses were common when we visited
each other. But my father did not ask me to dance. He danced with the grandchildren;
my daughters knew how to waltz before they could read.
"One, two, three and one, two, three,"
my father would count out, "won’t you come and waltz with me?" Sometimes
my heart would ache to have him say those words to me. But I knew my father
was waiting for an apology from me, and I could never find the right words.
As the time for my parent’s fiftieth
anniversary approached, my brothers and I met to plan the party. My older
brother said, "Do you remember that night you wouldn’t dance with him?
Boy, was he mad! I couldn’t believe he’d get so mad about a thing like
that. I’ll bet you haven’t danced with him since."
I did not tell him he was right.
My younger brother promised to get
the band.
"Make sure they can play waltzes
and polkas," I told him.
"Dad can dance to anything," he
said. "Don’t you want to get down, get funky?" I did not tell him that
all I wanted to do was dance once more with my father.
When the band began to play after
dinner, my parents took the floor. They glided around the room, inviting
the others to join them. The guests rose to their feet, applauding the
golden couple. My father danced with his granddaughters and then the band
began to play the "Beer Barrel Polka."
"Roll out the barrel," I heard my
father sing. Then I knew it was time. I knew the words I must say to my
father before he would dance with me once more. I wound my way through
a few couples and tapped my daughter on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," I said, almost choking
on my words, "but I believe this is my dance."
My father stood rooted to the spot.
Our eyes met and traveled back to that night when I was fifteen. In a trembling
voice, I sang, "Let’s get those blues on the run."
My father bowed and said, "Oh, yes.
I’ve been waiting for you."
Then he started to laugh, and we
moved into each other’s arms, pausing for a moment so we could catch once
more the rhythm of the dance.
By Jean Jeffrey Gietzen from A Second
Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark
Victor Hansen and Heather McNamara (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The
Best Time of My Life:
It was June 15, and in two days
I would be turning thirty. I was insecure about entering a new decade of
my life and feared that my best years were now behind me.
My daily routine included going
to the gym for a workout before going to work. Every morning I would see
my friend Nicholas at the gym. He was seventy-nine years old and in terrific
shape. As I greeted Nicholas on this particular day, he noticed I wasn’t
full of my usual vitality and asked if there was anything wrong. I told
him I was feeling anxious about turning thirty. I wondered how I would
look back on my life once I reached Nicholas’s age, so I asked him, "What
was the best time of your life?"
Without hesitation, Nicholas replied,
"Well, Joe, this is my philosophical answer to your philosophical question:
"When I was a child in Austria and
everything was taken care of for me and I was nurtured by my parents, that
was the best time of my life.
"When I was going to school and
learning the things I know today, that was the best time of my life.
"When I got my first job and had
responsibilities and got paid for my efforts, that was the best time of
my life.
"When I met my wife and fell in
love, that was the best time of my life.
"The Second World War came, and
my wife and I had to flee Austria to save our lives. When we were together
and safe on a ship bound for North America, that was the best time of my
life.
"When we came to Canada and started
a family, that was the best time of my life.
"When I was a young father, watching
my children grow up, that was the best time of my life.
"And now, Joe, I am seventy-nine
years old. I have my health, I feel good and I am in love with my wife
just as I was when we first met. This is the best time of my life."
By Joe Kemp from A 5th Portion of
Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor
Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The
Perfect Dog: (Some call it outlook.)
Minnie was the funniest looking
dog I'd ever seen. During summer vacations, I volunteered at the vet's,
and I'd seen a lot of dogs.
Thin curly hair barely covered her
sausage-shaped body. Her bugged-out eyes always seemed surprised. And her
tail looked like a rat's tail.
She was brought to the vet to be
put to sleep because her owners didn't want her anymore. I thought Minnie
had a sweet personality though. No one should judge her by her looks, I
thought. So the vet spayed her and gave her the necessary shots. Finally,
I advertised Minnie in the local paper: "Funny-looking dog, well behaved,
needs loving family."
When a young man called, I warned
him that Minnie was strange looking. The boy on the phone told me that
his grandfather's sixteen-year-old dog had just died. They wanted Minnie
no matter what.
I gave Minnie a good bath and fluffed-up
what was left of her scraggly hair. Then we waited for them to arrive.
At last, an old car drove up in
front of the vet's. Two kids raced to the door. They grabbed Minnie into
their arms and rushed her out to the grandfather. He was waiting in the
car. I hurried behind them to see his reaction to Minnie.
Inside the car, the grandfather
cradled Minnie in his arms and stroked her soft hair. She licked his face.
Her rat-tail wagged around so quickly that it looked like it might fly
off her body. It was love at first lick.
"She's perfect!" the old man exclaimed.
I was thankful that Minnie had found
the good home that she deserved. That's when I saw that the grandfather's
eyes were a milky-white color; he was blind.
by Jan Peck from Chicken Soup for
the Kid’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty
Hansen and Irene Dunlap
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Tiny
and the Oak Tree:
He was scary-looking. Standing about
6 foot 6 inches tall, he had shoulders the width of my dining room table.
His hair hung to his shoulders, a full beard obscured half of his face;
his massive arms and chest were covered with tattoos. He was wearing greasy
blue jeans and a jean jacket with the sleeves cut out. Chains clanked on
his motorcycle boots and on the key ring hanging from his wide leather
belt. He held out a hand the size of a pie plate, in which lay a tiny,
misshapen kitten.
"What's wrong with Tiny, Doc?" he
asked in a gruff voice.
My exam revealed a birth defect.
Tiny's spine had never grown together, and he was paralyzed in his back
legs. No amount of surgery, medicine, or prayer was going to fix him -
I felt helpless.
The only thing I could tell this
big, hairy giant was that his little friend was going to die. I was ashamed
of my prejudice but I felt a little nervous anticipating the biker’s reaction.
Being the bearer of bad news is never pleasant, but with a rough-looking
character like the man in front of me, I didn’t know what to expect.
I tried to be as tactful as possible,
explaining Tiny's problem and what we could expect, which was a slow, lingering
death. I braced myself for his response.
But the big fella only looked at
me with eyes that I could barely see through the hair on his face and said
sadly, "I guess we gotta do him, huh, Doc?"
I agreed that, yes, the best way
to help Tiny was to give him the injection that would end his poor pain-filled
life. So with his owner holding Tiny, we ended the little kitten’s pain.
When it was over, I was surprised
to see this macho guy, the size of an oak tree, just standing there holding
Tiny, with tears running down his beard. He never apologized for crying,
but he managed a choked " Thanks, Doc," as he carried his little friend's
body home to bury him.
Although ending a patient's life
is never pleasant, my staff and I all agreed that we were glad that we
could stop the sick kitten’s pain. Weeks passed, and the incident faded.
Then one day the oak-sized biker
appeared in the clinic again. It looked ominously like we were about to
repeat the earlier scenario. The huge man was wearing the same clothes
and carrying another kitten in his pie plate hand. But I was enormously
relieved upon examining "Tiny Two" to find he was absolutely, perfectly,
wonderfully normal and healthy.
I started Tiny Two's vaccinations,
tested him for worms and discussed his care, diet, and future needs with
his deceptively tough-looking owner. By now, it was obvious that Mr. Oak
Tree had a heart that matched his size.
I wonder now how many other Hell’s
Angel-types are really closet marshmallows. In fact, whenever I see a pack
of scary-looking bikers roaring past me on the road, I crane my neck to
see if I can catch a glimpse of some tiny little kitten poking its head
up out of a sleek chrome side-car or maybe even peeking out from inside
the front of a black leather jacket.
By Dr. Dennis K. McIntosh from Chicken
Soup for the Pet Lover’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen, Marty Becker and Carol Kline (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The
Most Beautiful Flower:
The park bench was deserted as I
sat down to read Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, For the world was intent
on dragging me down. And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day, A young
boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right before
me with his head tilted down And said with great excitement, "Look what
I found!" In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, With it’s
petals all worn – not enough rain or too little light. Wanting him to take
his dead flower and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then shifted
away. But instead of retreating he sat next to my side And placed the flower
to his nose and declared with overacted surprise, "It sure smells pretty
and it’s beautiful, too. That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you." The
weed before me was dying or dead. Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow,
or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached
for the flower and replied, "Just what I need." But instead of him placing
the flower in my hand, He held it in midair without reason or plan. It
was then that I noticed for the very first time That weed-toting boy could
not see: he was blind. I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one. "You’re welcome," he smiled,
and then ran off to play, Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day. I sat
there and wondered how he managed to see A self-pitying woman beneath an
old willow tree. How did he know of my self-indulged plight? Perhaps from
his heart, he been blessed with true sight. Through the eyes of a blind
child, at last I could see The problem was not with the world, the problem
was me. And for all of those times I myself had been blind, I vowed to
see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that’s mine. And then
I held that wilted flower up to my nose And breathed in the fragrance of
a beautiful rose And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in
his hand About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
By Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey from
A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield
and Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
The
Secret of Happiness:
There is a wonderful fable about
a young orphan girl who had no family and no one to love her. One day,
feeling exceptionally sad and lonely, she was walking through a meadow
when she noticed a small butterfly caught unmercifully in a thornbush.
The more the butterfly struggled to free itself, the deeper the thorns
cut into its fragile body. The young orphan girl carefully released the
butterfly from its captivity. Instead of flying away, the little butterfly
changed into a beautiful fairy. The young girl rubbed her eyes in disbelief.
"For your wonderful kindness," the
good fairy said to the girl, "I will grant you any wish you would like."
The little girl thought for a moment
and then replied, "I want to be happy!"
The fairy said, "Very well," and
leaned toward her and whispered in her ear. Then the good fairy vanished.
As the little girl grew up, there
was no one in the land as happy as she. Everyone asked her the secret of
her happiness. She would only smile and answer, "The secret of my happiness
is that I listened to a good fairy when I was a little girl."
When she was very old and on her
deathbed, the neighbors all rallied around her, afraid that the fabulous
secret of happiness would die with her. "Tell us, please," they begged.
"Tell us what the good fairy said."
The lovely old woman simply smiled
and said, "She told me that everyone, no matter how secure they seemed,
no matter how old or young, how rich or poor, had need of me."
The Speaker’s Sourcebook from Chicken
Soup for the Teenage Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen and Kimberly Kirberger (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
A
Sandpiper to Bring You Joy:
Several years ago, a neighbor related
to me an experience that happened to her one winter on a beach in Washington
State. The incident stuck in my mind and I took note of what she said.
Later, at a writers' conference, the conversation came back to me and I
felt I had to set it down. Here is her story, as haunting to me now as
when I first heard it:
She was six years old when I first
met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance
of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me.
She was building a sand castle or
something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said. I answered with
a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked,
not caring.
"Oh, I don't know. I just like the
feel of the sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and
slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers
come to bring us joy."
The bird went glissading down the
beach. "Good-bye, joy," I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned
to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't
give up.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Windy" It sounded like Windy.
"And I'm six."
"Hi, Windy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she
said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on.
Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed
belonged to others; a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing
mother.
The sun was shining one morning
as I took my hands out of the dishwater. "I need a sandpiper," I said to
myself, gathering up my coat.
The never-changing balm of the seashore
awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture
the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when
she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you
want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked,
with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth
again. "I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk" Looking at
her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward
a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says
we're on vacation."
She chattered little-girl talk as
we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left
for home, Windy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better,
I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my
beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood even to greet Windy. I
thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep
her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I'd rather
be alone today. She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned on her and shouted, "Because
my mother died!" – and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little
child?
"Oh" she said quietly, "then this
is a bad day."
Yes, and yesterday and the day before
that and - oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?"
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated
with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I
next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting
to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked
at the door. A drawn-looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened
the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson.
I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come
in."
"Wendy talked of you so much. I'm
afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please accept
my apologies."
"Not at all - she's a delightful
child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it. "Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson.
She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair.
My breath caught.
"She loved this beach; so when she
asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had
a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks she declined
rapidly. . ." Her voice faltered. "She left something for you. . . if only
I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing
for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman.
She handed me a smeared envelope,
with Mrs. P. printed in bold, childish letters.
Inside was a drawing in bright crayon
hues – a yellow beach, a blue sea, a brown bird. Underneath was carefully
printed:
A Sandpiper To Bring You
Joy
Tears welled up in my eyes, and
a heart that had almost forgotten how to love opened wide. I took Wendy's
mother in my arms. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over
and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed
now and hangs in my study. Six words – one for each year of her life –
that speak to me of inner harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from
a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand - who taught me the
gift of love.
By Mary Sherman Hilbert from A 3rd
Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and
Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Adam:
While recuperating from her second
open-heart surgery at Children's Hospital of Western Ontario, my six-year-old
daughter, Kelley, was moved from the intensive care unit to the floor with
the other children. Because a section of the floor was closed, Kelley was
put in the wing reserved for cancer patients.
In the adjacent room, a six-year-old
boy named Adam was fighting a battle with leukemia. Adam stayed at the
hospital for a portion of each month while receiving chemotherapy treatments.
Every day Adam sauntered into Kelley's room to visit, pushing the pole
that held his chemotherapy bag. Despite the discomfort of the treatments,
Adam was always smiling and cheerful. He entertained us for hours with
his many stories. Adam had a way of finding the positive and the humor
in any situation, however, difficult.
One particular day, I was feeling
tired and anxious for Kelley's release from the hospital. The gray, gloomy
day outside only fueled my poor mood. While I stood at the window looking
at the rainy sky, Adam came in for his daily visit. I commented to him
on what a depressing day it was. With his ever-present smile, Adam turned
to me and cheerily replied, "Every day is beautiful for me."
From that day on I have never had
a gloomy day. Even the grayest days bring a feeling of joy as I remember
with gratitude the words of wisdom spoken by a very brave six-year-old
boy named Adam.
By Patti Merritt from Condensed
Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen & Patty Hansen
(TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Love
And The Cabbie:
I was in New York the other day
and rode with a friend in a taxi. When we got out, my friend said to the
driver, "Thank you for the ride. You did a superb job of driving."
The taxi driver was stunned for
a second. Then he said, "Are you a wise guy or something?"
"No, my dear man, and I'm not putting
you on. I admire the way you keep cool in heavy traffic."
"Yeah," the driver said and drove
off.
"What was that all about?" I asked.
I am trying to bring love back to
New York," he said. "I believe it's the only thing that can save the city."
"How can one man save New York?"
"It's not one man. I believe I have
made that taxi driver's day. Suppose he has 20 fares. He's going to be
nice to those 20 fares because someone was nice to him. Those fares in
turn will be kinder to their employees or shopkeepers or waiters or even
their own families. Eventually the goodwill could spread to at least 1,000
people. Now that isn't bad, is it?"
"But you're depending on that taxi
driver to pass your goodwill to others."
"I'm not depending on it," my friend
said. "I'm aware that the system isn't foolproof so I might deal with ten
different people today. If out of ten I can make three happy, then eventually
I can indirectly influence the attitudes of 3,000 more."
"It sounds good on paper," I admitted,
"but I'm not sure it words in practice."
"Nothing is lost if it doesn't.
It didn't take any of my time to tell that man he was doing a good job.
He neither received a larger tip nor a smaller tip. If it fell on deaf
ears, so what? Tomorrow there will be another taxi driver I can try to
make happy."
"You're some kind of a nut," I said.
"That shows how cynical you have
become. I have made a study of this. The thing that seems to be lacking,
besides money of course, for our postal employees, is that no one tells
people who work for the post office what a good job they're doing."
"But they're not doing a good job."
"They're not doing a good job because
they feel no one cares if they do or not. Why shouldn't someone say a kind
word to them?"
We were walking past a structure
in the process of being built and passed five workmen eating their lunch.
My friend stopped. "That's a magnificent job you men have done. It must
be difficult and dangerous work."
The workmen eyed my friend suspiciously.
"When will it be finished?"
"June, a man grunted.
"Ah. That really is impressive.
You must all be very proud."
We walked away. I said to him, "I
haven't seen anyone like you since The Man From LaMancha."
"When those men digest my words,
they will feel better for it. Somehow the city will benefit from their
happiness."
"But you can't do this all alone!"
I protested. "You're just one man."
"The most important thing is not
to get discouraged. Making people in the city become kind again is not
an easy job, but if I can enlist other people in my campaign. . ."
You just winked at a very plain-looking
woman," I said.
"Yes, I know," he replied. "And
if she's a schoolteacher, her class will be in for a fantastic day."
By Art Buchwald from Chicken Soup
for the Soul Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield & Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP)
(Back
to Stories Index)
Socrates:
There once was an eager student
who wanted to gain wisdom and insight. He went to the wisest of the town,
Socrates, to seek his counsel. Socrates was an old soul and had great knowledge
of many things. The boy asked the town sage how he too could acquire such
mastery. Being a man of few words, Socrates chose not to speak, but to
illustrate.
He took the child to the beach and,
with all of his clothes still on, walked straight out into the water. He
loved to do curious things like that, especially when he was trying to
prove a point. The pupil gingerly followed his instruction and walked into
the sea, joining Socrates where the water was just below their chins. Without
saying a word, Socrates reached out and put his hands on the boy’s shoulders.
Looking deep into his student’s eyes, Socrates pushed the student’s head
under the water with all his might.
A struggle ensued, and just before
a life was taken away, Socrates released his captive. The boy raced to
the surface and, gasping for air and choking from the salt water, looked
around for Socrates in order to seek his retaliation on the sage. To the
student’s bewilderment, the old man was already patiently waiting on the
beach. When the student arrived on the sand, he angrily shouted, "Why did
you try to kill me?" The wise man calmly retorted with a question of his
own: "Boy, when you were underneath the water, not sure if you would live
to see another day, what did you want more than anything in the world?"
The student took a few moments to
reflect, then went with his intuition. Softly he said, "I wanted to breathe."
Socrates, now illuminated by his own huge smile, looked at the boy comfortingly
and said, "Ah! When you want wisdom and insight as badly as you wanted
to breathe, it is then that you shall have it."
Retold by Eric Saperston from Chicken
Soup for the Teenage Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen and Kimberly Kirberger (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
Keep
Your Goals in Sight
When she looked ahead, Florence
Chadwick saw nothing but a solid wall of fog. Her body was numb. She had
been swimming for nearly sixteen hours.
Already she was the first woman
to swim the English Channel in both directions. Now, at age 34, her goal
was to become the first woman to swim from Catalina Island to the California
coast.
On that Fourth of July morning in
1952, the sea was like an ice bath and the fog was so dense she could hardly
see her support boats. Sharks cruised toward her lone figure, only to be
driven away by rifle shots. Against the frigid grip of the sea, she struggled
on -hour after hour – while millions watched on national television.
Alongside Florence in one of the
boats, her mother and her trainer offered encouragement. They told her
it wasn't much farther. But all she could see was fog. They urged her not
to quit. She never had . . . until then. With only a half mile to go, she
asked to be pulled out.
Still thawing her chilled body several
hours later, she told a reporter, "Look, I'm not excusing myself, but if
I could have seen land I might have made it." It was not fatigue or even
the cold water that defeated her. It was the fog. She was unable to see
her goal.
Two months later, she tried again.
This time, despite the same dense fog, she swam with her faith intact and
her goal clearly pictured in her mind. She knew that somewhere behind that
fog was land and this time she made it! Florence Chadwick became the first
woman to swim the Catalina Channel, eclipsing the men's record by two hours!
By Author Unknown Submitted by Michele
Borba from A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1995 by
Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen (TOP)
(Back to Stories Index)
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