Chicken Soup For The Soul

[Rhonda]

Night Watch
By Roy Popkin


"Your son is here," the nurse said to the old man. She had to repeat the words several times before the man's eyes opened. He was heavily sedated and only partially conscious after a massive heart attack he had suffered the night before. He could see the dim outline of a young man in a Marine Corps uniform, standing alongside his bed.
The old man reached out his hand. The Marine wrapped his toughened fingers around the old man's limp hand and squeezed gently. The nurse brought a chair, and the tired serviceman sat down at the bedside.
All through the night, the young Marine sat in the poorly lighted ward, holding the old man's hand and offering words of encouragement. The dying man said nothing, but kept a feeble grip on the young man's hand. Oblivious to the noise of the oxygen tank, the moans of the other patients, and the bustle of the night staff coming in and out of the ward, the Marine remained at the old man's side.
Every now and then, when she stopped by to check on her patients, the nurse heard the young Marine whisper a few comforting words to the old man. Several times in the course of that long night, she returned and suggested that the Marine leave to rest for a while. But every time, the young man refused.
Near dawn the old man died. The Marine placed the old man's lifeless hand on the bed and left to find the nurse. While the nurse took the old man away and attended to the necessary duties, the young man waited. When the nurse returned, she began to offer words of sympathy, but the Marine interrupted her.
"Who was that man?" he asked.
Startled, the nurse replied, "He was your father."
"No, he wasn't," the young man said. "I've never seen him before in my life."
"Then why didn't you say something when I took you to him?"
"I knew there had been a mistake by the people who sent me home on an emergency furlough. What happened was, there were two of us with the same name, from the same town and we had similar serial numbers. They sent me by mistake," the young man explained. "But I also knew he needed his son, and his son wasn't there. I could tell he was too sick to know whether I was his son or not. When I realized how much he needed to have someone there, I just decided to stay."

Reprinted by permission of Roy Popkin (c) 1998 from A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen.

[Rhonda]

McDonald's
By Shelly Miller


Most of my friends are what society would call "punks." We are the teenagers who hang out at the coffee shops or the movies for lack of anything better to do. But being punks doesn't mean much.
One evening, after a day of not doing much, we were sitting in McDonald's when a guy in our group whom I had just met that day walked in. Brian was the typical punk teenager, dressed in black with the dyed hair. Right before he stepped inside, he yelled something outside to a man walking down the street. I just hoped he wasn't trying to start trouble. He sat down and a minute later, a burly homeless man stuck his head in and looked at Brian.
"Did you say something to me?" the man demanded, and I thought I saw a mean glint in his eyes. I shrank back, thinking that if Brian had tried to pick a fight, this was the wrong guy to do it with. I had seen too many people and places kick teenagers like us out for pulling stuff.
While the rest of us were looking for a place to back into, Brian got up and walked up to him. "Yeah . . . would you like something to eat?"
The relief was almost audible, and the man smiled and walked in.
After a large meal of hamburgers, fries and dessert, the man left, and even the staff waved good-bye to him. When we asked Brian about it, he explained how he had money that he didn't need and the man had none, so it was only right.

Reprinted by permission of Shelly Miller (c) 1998

[Rhonda]

Berry Mauve or Muted Wine?
By T. Suzanne Eller


He found me weeping bitterly in the hospital room. "What's wrong?" Richard asked, knowing that we both had reason to cry. In the past forty-eight hours, I learned that I had a cancerous lump in my breast that had spread to my lymph nodes, and there was a possible spot on my brain. We were both thirty-two with three young children.
Richard pulled me tight and tried to comfort me. Our friends and family had been amazed at the peace that had overwhelmed us. Jesus was our Savior and comfort before I found out I had cancer, and he remained the same after my diagnosis. But it seemed to Richard that the terrifying reality of my situation had finally crashed in on me in the few moments he was out of the room.
As he held me tight, Richard tried to comfort me. "It's all been too much, hasn't it Suz?" he said.
"That's not it," I cried and held up the hand mirror I had just found in the drawer. Richard looked puzzled.
"I didn't know it would be like this," I cried, as I stared in shock at my reflection in the mirror. I didn't recognize myself. I was horribly swollen. After the surgery, I had groaned as I lay asleep and well-meaning friends had freely pushed the self-dispensing medication to ease what they thought was pain. Unfortunately I was allergic to morphine and had swelled like a sausage. Betadine from the surgery stained my neck, shoulder and chest and it was too soon for a bath. A tube hung out of my side draining the fluid from the surgical site. My left shoulder and chest were wrapped tightly in gauze where I had lost a portion of my breast. My long, curly hair was matted into one big wad. More than one hundred people had come to see me over the past forty-eight hours, and they had all seen this brown-and-white, swollen, makeup-less, matted-haired, gray-gowned woman who used to be me. Where had I gone?
Richard laid me back on the pillow and left the room. Within moments he came back, his arms laden with small bottles of shampoo and conditioner that he confiscated from the cart in the hall. He pulled pillows out of the closet and dragged a chair over to the sink. Unraveling my IV, he tucked the long tube from my side in his shirt pocket. Then he reached down, picked me up and carried me - IV stand and all - over to the chair. He sat me down gently on his lap, cradled my head in his arms over the sink and began to run warm water through my hair. He poured the bottles over my hair, washing and conditioning my long curls. He wrapped my hair in a towel and carried me, the tube, and the IV stand back over to the bed. He did this so gently that not one stitch was disturbed.
My husband, who had never blow-dried his hair in his life, took out a blow-dryer and dried my hair, the whole while entertaining me as he pretended to give beauty tips. He then proceeded, based on the experience of watching me for the past twelve years, to fix my hair. I laughed as he bit his lip, more serious than any beauty-school student. He bathed my shoulder and neck with a warm washcloth, careful to not disturb the area around the surgery, and rubbed lotion into my skin. Then he opened my makeup bag and began to apply makeup. I will never forget our laughter as he tried to apply my mascara and blush. I opened my eyes wide and held my breath as he brushed the mascara on my lashes with shaking hands. He rubbed my cheeks with tissue to blend in the blush. With the last touch, he held up two lipsticks. "Which one? Berry mauve or muted wine?" he asked. He applied the lipstick like an artist painting on a canvas and then held the little mirror in front of me.
I was human again. A little swollen, but I smelled clean, my hair hung softly over my shoulders and I recognized myself.
"What do you think?" he asked. I began to cry again, this time because I was grateful. "No, baby. You'll mess up my makeup job," he said and I burst into laughter.
During that difficult time in our lives, I was given only a 40 percent chance of survival over five years. That was seven years ago. I made it through those years with laughter, God's comfort and the help of my wonderful husband. We will celebrate our nineteenth anniversary this year, and our children are now in their teens. Richard understood what must have seemed like vanity and silliness in the midst of tragedy. Everything I had ever taken for granted had been shaken in those hours - the fact that I would watch my children grow, my health, my future. With one small act of kindness, Richard gave me normalcy. I will always see that moment as one of the most loving gestures of our marriage.

Reprinted by permission of T. Suzanne Eller (c) 1998

[Rhonda]

TODAY IS YESTERDAY'S TOMORROW




TODAY IS YESTERDAY'S TOMORROW by Jim Rohn
(Excerpted from the book The Five Major Pieces to the Life Puzzle)


The problem with waiting until tomorrow is that when it finally arrives, it is called today. Today is yesterday's tomorrow. The question is what did we do with its opportunity? All too often we will waste tomorrow as we wasted yesterday, and as we are wasting today. All that could have been accomplished can easily elude us, despite our intentions, until we inevitably discover that the things that might have been have slipped from our embrace a single, unused day at a time.

Each of us must pause frequently to remind ourselves that the clock is ticking. The same clock that began to tick from the moment we drew our first breath will also someday cease.

Time is the great equalizer of all mankind. It has taken away the best and the worst of us without regard for either. Time offers opportunity but demands a sense of urgency.
_______________________________________________________


When the game of life I finally over, there is no second chance to correct our errors. The clock that is ticking away the moments of our lives does not care about winners and losers. It does not care about who succeeds or who fails. It does not care about excuses, fairness or equality. The only essential issue is how we played the game.

Regardless of a person's current age, there is a sense of urgency that should drive them into action now - this very moment. We should be constantly aware of the value of each and every moment of our lives - moments that seem so insignificant that their loss often goes unnoticed.

We still have all the time we need. We still have lots of chances - lots of opportunities - lots of years to show what we can do. For most of us, there will be a tomorrow, a next week, a next month, and a next year. But unless we develop a sense of urgency, those brief windows of time will be sadly wasted, as were the weeks and months and years before them. There isn't an endless supply!

So as you think of your dreams and goals of your future tomorrow, begin today to take those very important first steps to making them all come to life.

To Your Success,
Jim Rohn

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jim Rohn is a World Renown Business Philosopher.

[Rhonda]

Perfect Stroke - for the Car?
By Marci Martin

About twenty years ago, when we lived in Tulsa, Oklahoma, my husband Harold bought a new car and gave me his, a 1973 Ford LTD. It ran very well, and I had no trouble with it until one day while out doing errands.
I came out of the grocery store, sat in the car and turned the key. Nothing happened. I tried again. Silence. The car had apparently died a quiet death while I was in the store.
I went back in the store to a telephone and, fortunately, Harold was home.
"I need you," I said after telling him my plight.
"Where are you?"
I told him.
"I'll be right there."
He came, sat in the car and turned the key as if he had to prove to himself that I was right, and I wouldn't have been surprised if it had started for him. I'd had this experience before, you see. But the car remained inactive.
Next he popped the hood and puttered around a bit, then opened the trunk. After rummaging around, he pulled a club out of my golf bag and tapped on one of the battery cables.
"See if it'll start," he said, looking confident.
Sure enough the engine purred like a satisfied kitten.
"Well," I said, "in case this happens again, I guess I need to know what to do."
"If it does, use a 5-iron." He grinned and winked.
I've had golf lessons before, but never one on this particular use of a 5-iron.
All went well with the car until a week or so later when it stalled right in the middle of a busy intersection. I remained undaunted, knowing exactly what to do this time.
I popped the hood, opened the trunk, took out my 5-iron and tapped that battery cable just like a pro. I sat in the car, turned the key and the engine purred again. Several well-intentioned men had come to my aid and watched the procedure with obvious wonder. When the car started, one of the men came up to my window, grinned and asked, "Hey lady, I have to know - what club did you use?"

Reprinted by permission of Marci Martin (c) 1998

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's All Relative
By Elayne Clift

If someone were to ask me what I would do if I "had it to do all over again," my answer would be this: I would love my friends and relations so well that no matter what, they would love me back in the same way. No reservations, no quid pro quos. No angst, no sibling rivalry, no holds barred. Maybe then I wouldn't be wondering now what it is that gets in the way of relationships between people whose connection to one another is so profound that nothing ought to be able to harm it.
I started thinking about this because of the extraordinary and painful rifts that seem to be tearing through the bonds of sisters I know. Has it always been there, I wonder, this awful, almost inevitable hurting of each other's souls? Are we just now owning it, or has something fundamental gone out of our relational lives, making space for the hot acid of recrimination that appears to creep so readily into the crevices of our hearts? Much has been made of the complex mother-daughter dyad in recent times, but almost no one, it seems, has explored the delicate territory of sisterhood, or friendship for that matter. If not altogether unmapped, those are tough topographies worthy of further exploration.
I became convinced of that when a friend told me with great sadness recently about the falling-out she'd had with her sister shortly before the sister's death. This was followed by a tearful conversation with one of my favorite cousins whose relationship with her beloved sister had become so fragile that she feared they would never repair the damage done. Shortly afterwards, another cousin, and then another, told similar stories. "She's not there for me when I need her," they told me. "She did this or didn't do that." "She just doesn't understand me." "I love her dearly, but we can't seem to talk." "She doesn't know where I'm coming from." "There's too much competition between us." All of it was familiar to me. I, too, had suffered the emotional split from a much-loved sister and had grieved the change in our relationship for years. It is an experience of loss that only those who have gone through it can know.
In each case, I gave them the same advice. "No matter what your issues are," I said, "find your way back to what binds you. No matter what it takes: hours of talking together, weeping, screaming, whatever - have it out until you get back in touch with the love, the loyalty, the special relationship you once had. Reclaim your sister before it's too late. If you don't, you may live to regret it." I could say this with quiet authority: I lost my sister, my only, much-loved older sister, before I could reclaim her, and it was too late. Each of them understood me, I think, but none has been able yet to act.
This scenario, while perhaps more dramatic between siblings, isn't confined just to family. Friendship and other meaningful relationships are destroyed every day over mundane as well as profound issues. One friend of mine, a lifelong friend on my short list of people I could count on, told me recently that an offhand remark of mine had offended her so much that she could not accept my invitation to an annual holiday dinner. I was stunned. Even if I had been unintentionally tactless, was that a reason to virtually end all contact? If I stopped talking to everyone I love who had ever offended me, I thought, life would be a pretty lonely affair.
When did relationships become this cheap, this dispensable? When did we begin to give up on "working things out"? When did we start junk-piling the important connections in our lives and stop stockpiling the reservoirs of forgiveness and tolerance that made family and friendship work in spite of themselves?
I've talked to my cousins and my friends about this a lot lately. And every time, a familiar ache roots itself in my chest, and I wonder what would have happened had my sister lived. Would we have done our screaming, weeping and talking until we were able to hug our way back to sisterhood and the bond of sibling connection?
Will her daughters, with whom I struggle so heartily now to forge family ties, ever understand why my heart breaks when they keep me at arm's length because of the baggage they insist on bearing? Will my cousins reclaim their own sisters before it's too late?
With all my heart, I hope so. Because they are the lucky ones. They can do it all over again. And that is an opportunity just too good to pass up in this time of fragile friendships, remote relatives and hungry hearts yearning for simple connection.

Reprinted by permission of Elayne Clift (c) 1999
```````````````````
It's Baseball Season
By Denise Turner

The team members' attention spans stretch barely the length of a cartoon. Their eyes are invisible beneath oversized batting helmets. They wear T-shirts with messages like "Critter Ridders Pest Control: 30 Years of Service in Roaches."
All across the country, it's T-ball season.
I became a T-ball mom when my seven-year-old son signed up to be a Giant (an obvious misnomer for a team where no one can bench press a Nerf ball). I should have been prepared. We limped through flag football last fall.
I still remember that day when the youngest kid on the football field kept interrupting the game squealing, "Coach, are we winning yet?"
It's a significant question.
In T-ball, no one even keeps score. That's good. It makes me think of Megan, a little girl I met before I moved to Idaho. Megan could neither hit nor throw a ball, but she wanted to play T-ball. I saw a few of her games.
Megan's parents and coaches practiced with her, encouraged her and never once considered calling her a klutz. But when the last game of the season rolled around, Megan still hadn't connected with the ball.
When she finally did, she hit an easy pop fly and her team lost. But the people in the bleachers stood up and cheered for Megan. Because, by that time, everyone knew she was a winner.
I moved away before Megan grew up, but I'm sure she grew up successful. Not because she had any more talent than the boy whose dad yelled at him whenever he didn't get a hit. In fact, she probably had much less. But Megan had something else. She had people around her who cared, not about her batting average, but about her.
Not long ago, I sat listening to a speaker who insisted that we are living in the midst of a generation of kids who see themselves as potential failures.
Among the causative factors, she said, parental influence is the greatest. I'm determined to be the right kind of T-ball mom. My husband may do a better job with practice sessions, but I'm pretty good at screaming, "Way to go, slugger!" Even when (and all of this has happened this season) . .
The second baseman is turning cartwheels when he's supposed to be fielding the ball.
A child is lying flat on the ground refusing to budge after he's been thrown out - and the other kids are trampling over him.
A batter is rounding the bases because the right fielder doesn't want to give up the ball.
The coach is yelling, "Take your base, Son," but the kid is standing there pointing toward center field. His mother yells from the stands, "That means he has to go to the bathroom."
In spite of it all, these children are making their first stabs at growing up. They're taking their first steps toward life in the major leagues. They may be chewing bubble gum instead of tobacco and they may not have learned how to scratch themselves yet, but they take their base hits seriously.
I'm glad they haven't yet "arrived." I'd hate to give up being a T-ball mom, because I think I really like the game.
After all, anything that ends with Reese's Pieces and Kool-Aid Kool Bursts can't be all bad.

Reprinted by permission of Denise Turner (c) 1993
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In Sickness and in Health
By Dorothy C. Randle

When Herman and I took our wedding vows over fifteen years ago, we were committed to our relationship. We became best friends, sharing everything, holding hands, laughing at our mistakes and failures, as well as our triumphs and successes. We liked to go on mini-vacations and often would get away for rest and relaxation. Our honeymoon never ended.
Yet little did we know how much our love for each other would be tested through those five little words we proclaimed in our vows, "In sickness and in health."
It was January 1990. Herman had just come from a routine visit to his doctor - a trip he had taken for over two decades since his kidney transplant in 1967.
Herman was only seventeen years old when his father unselfishly gave his son the gift of life: one of his kidneys. At the time, Herman was well known on the Centennial High School campus in Compton, California, where he excelled in sports. Baseball was his life, but the transplant ended his dreams of professional success. Even during those trying times, Herman kept his smile.
But on that day in 1990, Herman - whose broad smile and heartfelt laughter always bred celebration - showed terror, hurt and despair, mirroring the feelings in my heart. Without warning, the transplanted kidney had stopped functioning.
Herman began dialysis treatments two months later. A machine substituted for his kidney by purifying his blood three days a week, three to four hours at a time. His smooth muscular arms soon knotted with bulges from the constant needle pricks. His exhausted veins collapsed.
No more unplanned vacations; the dialysis treatments came first. Often passionate lovemaking became cuddling each other to sleep. We found solace in our love and made laughter the key to our survival.
And we prayed for another kidney.
Eleven years later, an unexpected phone call from UCLA Medical Center answered those prayers: "We have a donor."
Together, we rejoiced and offered more prayers, this time in thanksgiving. But, would it be a match? We waited to hear . . . one hour, two hours, then three. The phone rang again, this time with disappointing news.
Oh, well, we consoled ourselves, we've waited this long. Surely we can keep waiting.
One week to the day later, we received another call. It was a perfect match! We anxiously rushed down to UCLA. As we drove, we reflected on all the years of dialysis and how we had prayed for this miracle, and then we cried - happy tears and tears of sorrow. For the other side of our joy was the reality that someone had lost their life to give Herman this opportunity to live.
It was a nineteen-year-old man who had died of head trauma. He had only been eight years old when Herman's kidney failed. For eleven years we prayed for a perfect match. For that same eleven years this young man had grown up, graduated from elementary, junior high and high school. He was probably in college. It never occurred to us that someone so young would give life to a fifty-one-year-old man. We never thought that the answer to our prayers would be the devastation of someone else's. How unselfish of his family. Now, instead of praying for a kidney, we pray for this young man's family.
Throughout the process, I remained at Herman's side. I learned every medication and followed the prescribed routine for his recovery. Everything else in my life faded. His care was my primary concern.
While he was in the hospital, one nurse remarked on my commitment to my husband. "You have no idea how many people separate and divorce because of the strain on the relationship when dealing with dialysis and transplants," she told me.
Leave my husband during a time of sickness? Never. I was committed to our vows. More importantly, I could never leave the love of my life!
It's been a year since the surgery, and Herman is doing well. His body is still recovering, but he is the same happy and joyful person he was when we met. And now we both truly understand that life is precious. We travel again, and we still hold hands and take long walks. We laugh a lot, even when Herman's recovering body is not up to making love. Our marriage has been sustained by our commitment to love and to cherish each other in sickness and in health.

Reprinted by permission of Dorothy C. Randle (c) 2004
~~~~~~~~~~~



First Injection
By Barbara Bartlein

From the time I was four years old, I announced to anyone who asked, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a nurse.” My parents tried to nurture this dream. They would surprise me with little nurse’s kits. Contained in a small plastic case latched at the top was all the equipment needed to be a nurse: a thermometer permanently marked to 98.6, a pill bottle filled with candy (which would be gone in two hours), a stethoscope that didn’t work and, best of all, a syringe.
I loved that syringe. I would spend hours filling it up with water and “injecting” my little sister. I would “inject” the family dog and a very reluctant cat. No other single function represented nursing to me as well as giving injections. To me, giving shots was the epitome of what nurses do.
You can imagine my excitement, therefore, when we reached the part of my nurses’ training where we learned injections. I studied the techniques carefully and practiced on peaches. I practiced so much that the fruit at my house had little water blisters all over that looked like scabies. I participated in the “return demonstration” with my fellow nursing students. I always claimed that my partner’s injection was painless so that she would make a similar claim when it was my turn.
The following week, I began my emergency room rotation at Penrose Hospital in Colorado Springs. One day, a handsome, tanned construction worker was admitted with a large laceration on his right arm. About six feet, five inches tall, 250 pounds, he had huge muscles and a grin to match. “I just sliced this a little with some sheet metal, Ma’am,” he reported. He lay on the exam table while the doctor sutured him with a dozen stitches. He listened intently while the doctor gave instructions for wound care.
And then the magical moment occurred. The doctor turned to me and said, “Nurse Bartlein, would you please give this gentleman a tetanus shot?” My big chance! A real injection on a real patient. I practically floated on air as I scrambled to the refrigerator and took out the tetanus vaccine. I carefully drew up the prescribed amount and returned to the patient. I meticulously swabbed the site with an alcohol wipe and then expertly darted that needle deep into the deltoid muscle. I aspirated as taught and slowly injected the vaccine.
With a grin, the construction worker said, “Thank you, Ma’am” and stood up. I winked at him, and he winked at me. He stood there for a minute and promptly crumpled to the floor unconscious. Oh, my God, I killed him! My first injection and I killed the patient. My impulse was to run out the door as far into the mountains as possible. Forget about being a nurse, forget about injections, I’ll live off the land. No one will ever find me.
Everyone else came running and slowly helped the patient to his feet. The doctor could see that I was quite shaken. He reassured me with a smile and said, “Don’t worry, he’s fine. The big ones always faint!”

Reprinted by permission of Barbara Bartlein (c) 1999

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winners Never Quit
By Lisa Nichols

I had been swimming competitively for about five years and was ready to quit, not because I had satisfied my desire to swim, but because I felt I was horrible at it. I was often the only African American at a swim competition, and our team could not afford anything close to the great uniforms the other teams were wearing. Worst of all though, and my number-one reason for wanting to quit, was that I kept receiving "Honorable Mentions" at each competition, which simply means, "Thank you for coming. You did not even rank first, second or third, but we don't want you to go home with nothing, so here is something to hide later." Any athlete knows that you don't want to have a bookshelf or a photo album full of "Honorable Mentions." They call that the "show-up ribbon"; you get one just because you showed up.
One hot summer day, the very day before a big swim meet, I decided to break the news to my grandma that I was quitting the swim team. On the one hand I thought it was a big deal because I was the only athlete in the family, but on the other hand, because no one ever came to see me compete, I didn't think it would be a major issue. You have to know my grandma - she stood on tiptoe to five-feet-two-inches and weighed a maximum ninety-five pounds, but could run the entire operation of her house without ever leaving her sofa or raising her voice. As I sat next to my grandma, I assumed my usual position of laying my big head on her tiny little lap so that she could rub it.
When I told her of my desire to quit swimming, she abruptly pushed my head off of her lap, sat me straight up facing her and said, "Baby, remember these words: 'A quitter never wins and a winner never quits.' Your grandmother didn't raise no losers or quitters. You go to that swim meet tomorrow, and you swim like you are a grandchild of mine, you hear?"
I was too afraid to say anything but, "Yes, ma'am."
The next day we arrived at the swim meet late, missing my group of swimmers in the fifteen/sixteen age group. My coach insisted I be allowed to swim with the next group, the next age older. I could have just as easily crawled out of the gym. I knew she was including me in the race so our long drive would not be wasted, and she had no expectations whatsoever that I would come in anything but eighth - and only that because there were not nine lanes.
As I mounted the board, I quickly noticed that these girls with their skintight caps, goggles and Speedo suits were here to do one thing - kick my chocolate butt!
All of a sudden my grandma's words rang in my head, Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
SPLASH!
Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
I was swimming harder than I'd ever swum before. As I drew my right arm back, I noticed I was tied with one person. I assumed we were battling for eighth place and I refused to finish dead last, so I added more kick on the last two hundred yards.
Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
I hit the wall and looked to the left and to the right for the swimmers who had beat me, but no one was there. They must have gotten out of the water already.
I raised my head to see my coach screaming hysterically. My eyes followed her pointing finger and I couldn't believe what I saw. The other swimmers had just reached the halfway point of the pool! That day, at age fifteen, I broke the national seventeen/eighteen-year-old 400-freestyle record. I hung up my honorable mentions and replaced them with a huge trophy.
Back at Grandma's, I laid my head on her lap and told her about our great race.

Reprinted by permission of Lisa Nichols (c)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[Rhonda]

Who Was That Masked Man?
By Robert R. Thomas

Hurricane Bertha left me in a bad mood. I had managed to maintain my sour disposition for several days in spite of the attempts of almost everybody to cheer me up. I had leaks in my ceiling at the gallery, the floors were flooded, the showcases dirty, there was no air conditioning or electricity, and I had over one hundred artists calling me to see if their work had been damaged. On top of all that, I had to drive over to Jacksonville in the pouring rain and choking heat, and the air conditioner in my truck had quit working.
I was not happy.
As I motored along North Carolina's Highway 24 to Jacksonville, my faithful truck was trying to tell me something . . something important like . . . YOU FORGOT TO BUY GAS! For the first time in my life I had run out of gas. I'd always smirked at the friends and family who'd done this, as if to say, "How could you be so stupid? There's a gauge on the dashboard to tell you that your tank is empty, and all you have to do is read it."
I was right: There was a gauge, and it said EMPTY.
I was not happy.
I coasted to the side of the road, saying several things about my own mental abilities . . . several things about Hurricane Bertha . . . and vowing to sit there until the darn truck rotted and fell apart.
As I contemplated the possibility of getting a job with the French Foreign Legion, I heard a motorcycle pull up beside me: a big, throaty, rumbling, growling Harley-Davidson. I opened my door and was face to face with a throwback to the 1960s. Snakes were painted all over his face shield and helmet and tattooed all over his body. He wore the traditional Harley-Davidson garb: denim jacket, jeans and biker boots. Chains hung from every available hook or loop. His hair was so long that he had it doubled up and tied to keep it out of his wheels. The Harley was straight out of Easy Rider - extended front fork; suicide rack on the back; black, purple and green paint job, and the gas tank painted to look like a skull with glowing green eyes.
"S'wrong?" he said. His shield and helmet completely masked his face
"I'm out of gas," I whispered.
"B'right back." And he rode off. About fifteen minutes later he returned with a can of gas.
When I offered to pay him he said, "Wait till ya get to the station."
I started my truck and drove the two or three miles to the station as he followed along (in the pouring rain). Again I offered to pay him. He said, "Pay the guy inside. Everything okay now?" I said yes. He said, "See ya!" And off he rode down Highway 24 toward Jacksonville, hair undone and flying in the wind, Harley roaring and throwing up spray from the pavement.
After pumping twenty-four dollars worth of gas, I went into the station and gave the attendant thirty dollars. He said, "It's only four dollars. The other guy paid twenty and said to tell you to 'pass it on, Brother.'"
I will always remember the kindness of the snakes-and-chains stranger on the Harley with the glowing green eyes, and I will never again judge anyone by their looks (a promise I had often made to myself). And I will always wonder, "Who was that masked man?"
As for the twenty dollars . . . I passed it on.

Reprinted by permission of Robert R. Thomas (c) 1996

[Rhonda]

Japanese Goodbye
By Julia Booker

I looked up at the signs, trying to decipher which train I needed to take to Narita Airport. After ten months backpacking through Africa and Asia, using every form of transport from donkey to rickshaw, I was on the final leg of my journey, the flight that would take me home to Canada.
I was feeling the weight of my huge pack. Knowing that I would soon be shedding the burden on my back, I finally allowed myself to purchase gifts for my family. The Japanese language was a complete mystery to me, and I stared up at the board, searching for any symbol that appeared familiar. Anything at all.
Everywhere salary men were rushing to catch their crowded trains. Everybody, everything was moving fast. No Zen here.
And then, out of the mass, a woman stopped and asked, in English, which way I wanted to go. She took me to the station master. She spoke to him in Japanese, found out the platform number, the price of a ticket and the time of departure. I had half an hour.
I thanked her and bid her farewell, but she said she had ten minutes and insisted I join her for a quick tea.
She told me she had been born in Japan, but had spent a year backpacking in New York and knew what it was like to be a woman traveling solo. We excitedly traded stories but soon our brief chat was over. Her train was leaving. She hurriedly paid for both our drinks.
"Save your money," she said and wished me luck. And then, she was gone.
I stood up to go, pulling the load once more onto my back. Suddenly, she reappeared, out of breath, with a square box wrapped in white and red paper.
"You aren't vegetarian are you?" she asked.
"Uh, no..." and she pushed the box into my hands. It was warm.
"For the train. Goodbye." And she was gone, again.
I had seen these specially prepared boxed meals for sale in the stations. They looked delicious but they were beyond my budget.
As I waited on the platform, my pack didn't feel as heavy. Even though I had been given one more gift to carry, I felt lighter - blessed with the taste of warm food, the dreams of my homecoming and the generosity of a Japanese woman I would know only this once. And I never even caught her name.

Reprinted by permission of Julia Booker (c) 1998

[Rhonda]

The Last Attack
By Wayne Allen Levine

As a child I was stricken with severe allergies and asthma, which kept me from having, holding, tasting, touching and smelling a variety of foods, most plants, trees, grass and flowers. And keeping a pet - especially a dog or a cat - was completely out of the question. All my childhood doctors had agreed: I needed to avoid everything I was allergic to, remain sedentary and visit the doctor every Saturday morning for my weekly allergy shot.
"Do not exert yourself," he told me. "It will probably trigger a dangerous asthma attack."
Often disregarding his advice, I played hard, ran everywhere, rode my bike like a demon, swam every summer and trained in gymnastics year-round. I became the top gymnast in my grammar school and also set the 50-, 60- and 100-yard dash records. At eleven, I told my parents that I would no longer be taking the allergy shots each week - a subjective decision based not on information I read in any book, nor on the advice of any experts. Rather, my body told me I didn't need them anymore.
My parents, though doubtful, agreed to a trial period. "We'll see how you do without them," they said.
But I wasn't through. I begged, pleaded and finally convinced them to get a dog - a furry little Pekinese we all grew to love - and I began to immerse myself in all the things that used to make me sick (or had been told would make me sick). I cut the grass for neighbors who didn't know I wasn't supposed to be near lawns. I smelled flowers and climbed trees. I even began to eat strawberries, which doctors said "could possibly be fatal."
I don't remember my first asthma attack, but I vividly remember my last. I was eleven years old; it was a humid, hot summer day in Chicago, and I was running hard through the African jungle - in reality, the alleys behind our house. There were many beasts and potential predators I needed to outrun. Sometimes while running, especially on a sticky day, my lungs would swell and squeeze off my air supply. That day was no different. Reluctantly, I decided to leave the jungle and return home to rest.
The house was empty, a true blessing that allowed for undisturbed, quiet focus. In the stillness, I came to a new awareness and found my cure.
As I lay on my parents' bed gazing up at a ceiling fan, I stared at the shiny silver bolt that held the sharp blades together. I focused on what seemed like the still point in the center of the fan's great vortex and held my attention there, while listening calmly to the chorus in my chest. I heard the rapid, rhythmic crackling sounds of blocked lungs, accompanied by high pitched whistles, which marked the trail of the few puffs of air struggling to make their way through narrow passageways. I remained calm, content to listen to my body.
Then came the sudden, dazzling realization that altered my life forever: a simple thought that penetrated to my core: I have all that I need. I understood, for the first time, that the little bit of air getting through was all that was necessary to sustain me. It was enough. When I realized I have nothing to fear, I will always have enough air, my lungs opened fully.

Reprinted by permission of Wayne Allen Levine (c) 1999

[Rhonda]

Making Memories
By Tonna Canfield

After eating breakfast, my little girl says, "Mommy, will you watch this show with me?" I look at the breakfast dishes in the sink and then at her big brown eyes.
"Okay," I say, and we snuggle together on the couch and watch her favorite show.
After the show, we put together a puzzle and I head for the kitchen to wash those dirty dishes when the phone rings. "Hi," my friend says, "What have you been doing?"
"Well," I say, "watching my little one's favorite show with her and putting together a puzzle."
"Oh," she says, "so you're not busy today."
No, I think to myself, just busy making memories.
After lunch, Erica says, "Mommy, please play a game with me." Now I am looking at not only the breakfast dishes but also the lunch dishes piled in the sink. But again, I look at those big brown eyes and I remember how special it felt when my mom played games with me when I was a little girl.
"Sounds like fun," I answer, "but just one game." We play her favorite game, and I can tell she is delighting in every moment.
When the game ends, she says, "Please read me a story."
"Okay," I say, "but just one."
After reading her favorite story, I head for the kitchen to tackle those dishes. With the dishes now done, I start to fix supper. My willing little helper comes eagerly to the kitchen to help me with my task. I'm running behind and thinking about how much faster I could do this if my sweet little one would just go play or watch a video, but her willingness to help and her eagerness to learn how to do what her mommy is doing melts my heart, and I say, "Okay, you can help," knowing it will probably take twice as long.
As supper is about ready, my husband comes home from work and asks, "What did you do today?"
I answer, "Let's see, we watched her favorite show and we played a game and read a book. I did the dishes and vacuumed; then with my little helper, I fixed supper."
"Great," he says, "I'm glad you didn't have a busy day today."
But I was busy, I think to myself, busy making memories.
After supper, Erica says, "Let's bake cookies."
"Okay," I say, "let's bake cookies."
After baking cookies, once again I am staring at a mountain of dishes from supper and cookie baking, but with the smell of warm cookies consuming the house, I pour us a glass of cold milk and fill a plate with warm cookies and take them to the table. We gather around the table eating cookies, drinking milk, talking and making memories.
No sooner have I tackled those dishes than my little sweetie comes tugging at my shirt, saying, "Could we take a walk?"
"Okay," I say, "let's take a walk." The second time around the block I'm thinking about the mountain of laundry that I need to get started on and the dust encompassing our home; but I feel the warmth of her hand in mine and the sweetness of our conversation as she enjoys my undivided attention, and I decide at least once more around the block sounds like a good idea.
When we get home, my husband asks, "Where have you been?"
"We've been making memories," I say.
A load in the wash and, my little girl all bathed and in her gown, the tiredness begins to creep in as she says, "Let's fix each other's hair."
I'm so tired! my mind is saying, but I hear my mouth saying, "Okay, let's brush each other's hair." With that task complete, she jumps up excitedly, "Let's paint each other's nails! Please!" So she paints my toenails, and I paint her fingernails, and we read a book while waiting for our nails to dry. I have to turn the pages, of course, because her fingernails are still drying.
We put away the book and say our prayers. My husband peeks his head in the door, "What are my girls doing?" he asks.
"Making memories," I answer.
"Mommy," she says, "will you lay with me until I fall asleep?"
"Yes," I say, but inside I'm thinking, I hope she falls asleep quickly so I can get up; I have so much to do.
About that time, two precious little arms encircle my neck as she whispers, "Mommy, nobody but God loves you as much as I do." I feel the tears roll down my cheeks as I thank God for the day we spent making memories.

Reprinted by permission of Tonna Canfield (c) 1998

[Rhonda]

Both Sides Now
By Bobbie Probstein

After my mother passed away, my dad tried even harder to stay healthy and active. Each morning, until the weather turned too cold, he swam in the turquoise pool in the complex where he lived. Each day - no matter how he felt - he swam one more lap than the previous day, just to prove there was always room for improvement. Every few days he reported the new number of laps to me, pride edging his voice. I would answer truthfully, "Golly, Dad, I don't know if I could still swim that many!"
By his late seventies, in spite of swimming and working six days a week, my dad had noticeably dwindled in strength and energy. By age eighty-one he was in poor health and had to retire. He pretended he didn't need to lean heavily on me for support as we walked slowly, and I pretended not to notice. His mind was clear, but congestive heart problems and disabling arthritis had worn him down. One day he said, "In case of an emergency I do not wish to be kept alive by any extraordinary means. I've signed an official paper to this effect." He smiled his wonderful, broad grin and said, "I've been blessed to have had your mother as my wife and you as my only child, and I'm ready to go."
Less than a month later he had a heart attack. In the emergency room, he again reminded his doctor and me of his wishes, but I couldn't imagine - in spite of this latest crisis - that he wouldn't always be saying, "Have I told you yet today that I adore you?"
He was miserable in intensive care; tubes seemed to come from every opening. But my dad still had his sense of humor, asking me, "Does this mean we can't keep our lunch date tomorrow?" His voice faltered.
"I'll be here to pick you up and we'll go someplace special." I answered, a lump in my throat.
Dad refused to look at me for the first time in his life and turned toward the blank green wall next to his hospital bed. There was a painful silence between us. He said, "I don't want you to remember me like this. Promise me you won't, darling! And please go now - I'm so miserable."
That night, back at the hospital with my husband, the attendants wouldn't let us in to see him. "He's having a little problem," one said. "Please wait in the visitors' lounge and we'll call you as soon as possible."
I sat holding my husband's hand for about ten minutes. Suddenly, a jolt shook me and I felt my heart stop beating. "Oh, honey," I said. "Daddy just died. I felt it!" I jumped up, rushed down the hall to intensive care and began knocking on the door. "Let me in to see him," I begged.
"He just died a moment ago," one of the nurses answered. "Please go back to the lounge and we'll come get you in a few minutes." They blocked the door so I couldn't rush in.
It had seemed to me that this beloved man could never die. He had been such a solid, loving presence in my life. In spite of what the nurse had said, my heart refused to believe he died so suddenly. I raged inside, believing I had let my dad down by not being at his side, holding his hand and telling him of my love as he had passed on. That's the way it should have been, my inner critic scolded. You should have told him how much you loved him, as he had always told you. You should have been there for him. It would have meant a lot to him. That's what you should have done! And I felt the relentless heaviness of guilt mingled with grief.
Knowing I'd been an attentive and loving daughter wasn't enough as the months and years wore on. Nothing made a dent in my stubborn conviction that I hadn't been there when he'd needed me the most.
Now a dream has set me free.
After a dozen years, my father came to visit me in a dream and tell me his side of the story:

You know I worked long past retirement age, and when my knees just couldn't carry me anymore, I felt disgraced by being so weak. Most of all, I never wanted you to see me as a helpless old man dying in a hospital bed. It would have hurt too much to have you there. So I'm telling you the truth, my darling daughter: I know you loved me as I loved you. And I did not want you there at my death, and I did not want you holding my hand when I died. That was what you wanted, not what I wanted. My death was perfect, just the way it was. There are two sides to everything - even death.

Reprinted by permission of Bobbie Probstein (c) 1998