Chicken Soup For The Soul

[Rhonda]

My Bruin Banner
My Bruin Banner From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inside Basketball
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inside Basketball
By Steven Schultz, Boys' Head Basketball Coach,
Fountain Valley High School, Fountain Valley,




We make our decisions and then our decisions turn around and make us.
~R. W. Boreham

I was primed to spend five beautiful, sunny California days on the campus of the greatest collegiate basketball program ever. For the second year in a row, I was coaching at the UCLA Bruin Basketball Summer Camp. The program is an overnight camp so we sleep in the dorms and have non-stop basketball from 7 A.M. - 11 P.M. For five days, I would be a surrogate Bruin.

The first day of camp we created teams and kept those teams for the remainder of the week. Every day we ran practices with our teams and then played in games against the other high school teams. I was fortunate to get some great kids who were competitive, played hard, and were eager to please to gain my approval. We won every game all week and ended up in the championship game on the last day of camp. The last game is played in Pauley Pavilion on the Nell and John Wooden court in front of the whole camp and all the parents.

Before the game started, I paused to look at all the championship banners and to think of all the greats who had played there. Now I was getting to coach in a championship game in "Basketball's Mecca." It was just a summer camp game, but the UCLA legacy of excellence made this a true championship game for me.

The score was close the whole game. Since every camper pays over $500 for this camp, we are given a substitution pattern we are supposed to follow so everyone gets equal playing time. It came down to our last substitution, and the coach of the other team still had not taken out his best player. He was flat-out cheating. One of the other coaches noticed what he was doing and came over to my huddle and said, "Steve, if he is going to cheat, then you can, too. Keep your best guy on the floor."

I said, "No, I don't need to cheat. That's not me."

The final four minutes started and my best player was sitting right next to me. He had heard what the coach had told me and he was willing to go back in. I quickly explained to him that it would not be the right thing to do and that it is important to always do the right thing. The other team took the lead, but I still had my peace of mind and character intact. I looked down at the university's blue ink logo that spelled out Wooden on the court and I was reminded how Coach Wooden talked about having faith that things will work out as they should as long as we do what we should.

The final buzzer sounded and my team won by two points. We did it! We had won and we won the right way. I could envision them raising our banner to the rafters to add to the lofty Bruin collection.
Since there had been so many high school players in camp, it was broken up into two sections, so one more championship game followed ours. One of the coaches in that game was the coach who had come up to me during my game telling me to keep my best players in. I knew he was just trying to defend me as he was upset about what the other coach was doing. Once his game started I didn't think anything of our conversation. His team won the game by one point in overtime. UCLA coach, Ben Howland, gave a speech to all the parents and awards were handed out and camp was over. Many of the parents of my players came and had me pose for pictures with their sons. I felt like I was famous. My team just won a championship game in Pauley Pavilion and now I was posing for pictures. Could it get any better?

A little later that same coach who won his game came up to me and said he wanted to thank me. I asked why. He said that during his game he was tempted to cheat and keep his best player in during overtime. However, the fact that I had chosen not to inspired him and gave him the strength to do the right thing as well. I was blown away. I was just being me; I was not consciously trying to influence another coach. I was twenty-one years old and my example had been a positive influence on a man in his late forties who had been coaching for more years than I had been alive. It was a brief moment shared between two people that no one else knew about. It was my most profound moment of camp.

This moment served to reinforce my beliefs that staying true to myself, never compromising my character, and choosing to always do the right thing was still important and necessary, not just for my well-being, but for that of my fellow human beings as well. It taught me just how powerful positive examples are to leadership and how people are always watching, "taking notes." We never know when the choices we make will have an effect on the choices of those around us and, exponentially, those we have never dreamed of. Remember, it does not matter how old you are, you can still be a formidable leader.

They might not be raising a banner at UCLA for my team's accomplishments at summer camp, but my fellow coach and I experienced a championship thrill like the players represented by the banners in the rafters; not because both our teams went undefeated, but because of the choices we made.

Choices create the champions. You never know when you might change a life. It can happen on a hot summer's day inside a basketball gym through the quick decision you make while you have your team in a huddle. I am proud of what my team did that week at camp. I am pleased that I could mirror UCLA's basketball tradition for the five days I got to be a Bruin. I think Coach Wooden would approve, too, of the manner in which I conducted myself on his court. Every time I return to UCLA to watch a game or observe a practice, I always look up in the rafters, imagine my banner hanging up there, and am reminded of the lives that were elevated along with it.

[Rhonda]

The Great Candy Bar Debate
By Naida Grunden

The Great Candy Bar Debate From Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Wisdom of Dads

Wisdom is knowing what to do next; virtue is doing it.
~David Star Jordan, The Philosophy of Despair

Evening meals were sacrosanct at our little house in Burbank, California. Only genuine illness or events of compelling academic or spiritual importance excused us. Mother provided the food, Dad the entertainment. I was almost of age before I realized that not everyone's evening meal involved vigorous, fun, intellectual debate.

At Friday dinners, Dad took a little tablet from his left breast pocket. Every time he encountered a word he did not know, he wrote it down there. By Friday, he'd looked it up and the games began.

"What is a fillip?" he asked.

When neither my brother nor sister knew, I was relieved. As the youngest child, if I occasionally knew an answer, I felt really smart. That evening we all fell short, not knowing that a fillip was the quick, striking motion made by flipping a long finger away from the thumb. In our vernacular, it was a "thump on the head," Mother's discipline technique of last resort.

When spelling, vocabulary and current events played themselves out, Dad delighted in moving us on to his next favorite arena: ethics.

"What would you do if you were walking into a store and noticed that someone had left his car lights on?"

Of course we asked some clarifying questions like, "Was the car locked?" "Was it a nice car?" and so on.

My brother Jim came up with a plausible answer. "If the car's unlocked, you reach in and turn the lights off."

This response pleased Dad. "Yes. Would you tell anyone about it?"

"No."

"Right again. Just do the good deed and let it go at that."

The morals of these ethics discussions were consistent: do well, don't brag, be honest and throw yourself across the tracks to stop an oncoming injustice. We usually aced Dad's ethics quizzes.

The mock situation that stopped us in our tracks came to be known as the Great Candy Bar Debate. Dad brought it up periodically, and it became a chronic family controversy.

Here's the situation: You approach a candy machine, coins in hand. You can't wait for that Snickers bar to drop into the tray. But before your coin drops, you notice that there's already a candy bar in the tray. What do you do?
The only clarifying question three kids needed was, "What kind of candy bar?" Unless it was something vile like marshmallow, that candy bar was history.

"I'd take that candy bar and put my money back in my pocket," Jim said. Surely he knew this was not the right answer, although it made such sense.

"That's tempting, but that candy bar does not belong to you. You haven't paid for it," Dad instructed.

"I'd still take it," said my sister, Andrea. "The candy bar company knows they'll lose a few that way."

"That's a rationalization. Their business is not your concern. You shouldn't take something you haven't paid for."

"Well if I don't take it, the next person will," Jim said.

"Another rationalization. That next person will have to answer for stealing that candy bar on Judgment Day. You'll have done right, leaving the candy bar in the tray."

About now, Mother tried to arbitrate, asking Dad if the question about candy wasn't too tempting for three kids.

Dad became spirited. "I cannot imagine a justification for taking a candy bar you hadn't paid for! How would you explain that to God?"

I could see Dad's point, but I wondered if I couldn't find justification somewhere. I knew that in the real world, every one of us except Dad would take that candy bar and eat it.

Dad's honesty plagued him to the end of his life. As a retiree, he and Mother occasionally worked as movie extras in Hollywood. The pay was minimal, twenty bucks apiece. Sometimes it was given in cash, "under the table." Most of the folks probably had a quiet dinner out on the earnings. Dad kept books, noted every dime of income, claimed it on his IRS Form 1040, and paid the tax he owed.

When Dad's memory began to fail, things got complicated. Mother took him to the attorney to see how to get him the medical care he needed without bankrupting the family. Dad didn't comprehend much, but he wanted no legal shenanigans that might ensure his medical care but jeopardize his soul.

Fortunately, as a combat veteran of World War II, he was eligible for treatment through the VA. To qualify for the Dementia Program, Dad took a battery of memory tests, which included vocabulary.

The psychiatrist told Mother, "I can't find a word he doesn't know. When we got to ‘frangible,' he gave me synonyms and antonyms."

Dad was their favorite patient after that, a kind of "dementia savant." He told the best stories and remained his charming self. He just didn't know what day it was.

The time came when the doctors could do no more. They called Mother one morning. Dad was fading fast.
By the time we got there, Dad lay still and gray against the white sheets, his pulse faint. We wept. Then we dried our tears and started telling him stories. With the family reunited there, things felt strangely festive. When we started to get hungry, I went downstairs for snacks.

The lounge was filled with patient-veterans in various states of illness and decrepitude. I bought sodas from the machine, and then decided to get a Snickers bar. Approaching the candy machine, quarters in hand, I noticed a Three Musketeers lying in the tray. I looked up toward Dad's room, toward heaven. Was this a test? Was this a joke?

Across the room, a Vietnam-aged veteran, an amputee on crutches, said, "Aw, geez! I forgot my money, and I'm starving! Can I borrow change from somebody?"

"How about a Three Musketeers instead?" I asked.

"That'd be great."

I handed him the misbegotten bar.

With drinks and candy I'd paid for, and the solution to the Great Candy Bar Debate, I returned to Dad's room. Everyone agreed that giving it to a hungry veteran was the brilliant justification that had eluded us all those years.

Later that evening Dad slipped away. I know he heard everything we said. I'm pretty sure I can explain every nuance of the Great Candy Bar Debate to the Almighty when the time comes. I just hope my explanation will satisfy Dad.

[Rhonda]

A Leap of Faith
By B.J. Taylor
A Leap of Faith From Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Resolution

A marriage is two people trying to dance a duet and two solos at the same time.
~Anne Taylor Fleming

"Come and work with me," my husband blurted out one Saturday morning.

"Work with you? Like what, just for today?" I asked.

"No, quit your job and work with me fulltime."

"Are you nuts? Marriage and working together don't mix."

"But I have to let the office girls go. We can't afford the overhead. You can do the work better and faster anyway."

We owned a small business selling tools. The two girls answered the phones, did the invoicing, filing, and all accounting and bookkeeping. We had a shipping guy in the back and one other salesman. I knew things weren't very good, but I didn't think they were that bad.

I already had a fulltime job as a secretary. I liked my boss, my health benefits, vacation time and the perks of a twenty-five-person office that celebrated birthdays and made you feel special. Why would I want to leave all that?

"I don't think working together is a good idea," I said. "I haven't heard of very many marriages that work out when the couple is together 24/7."

"But I need you there."

"That doesn't mean it would be good for us. What about our relationship?"

"We could resolve to make it work."

"Let's think about this," I said, trying to buy some time to get my emotions and thoughts in order. "I'm going upstairs to make the bed."

I almost ran up the steps and into our bedroom. I walked over to the mirror and started brushing my hair. Thoughts barreled one over the other. Was I crazy to even consider this? We'd be in each other's faces with problems and questions and financial issues and phone calls. And what about setting boundaries like going home at a decent hour? I could see us working twelve or fourteen hour days. Would I have to go in early, like he does? I like getting into the office at 9:00 and leaving at 5:00. I set down the hairbrush, walked over to the bed, and yanked up the sheet. Even with the best of intentions and resolutions there's no way this would ever work. I threw the pillows toward the head of the bed, and then pulled the comforter up with such force it flew halfway to the top. He's got some nerve to ask me to do such a thing.

The rest of the day neither one of us broached the subject. But on Sunday night he brought it up again. "So, did you think about it?"
"I did. And I still don't like the idea."

The next morning I went into work and, over a cup of coffee, told a few close girlfriends about my dilemma. "You're crazy. If I ever worked with my husband, I'd kill him," said one. "Don't do it. It'll be the death of your marriage," said another. "I can't get through a weekend without having some kind of argument with my spouse," said the receptionist when she came in and filled her cup. "I like it just fine when we both go our separate ways on Monday."

They were right. There were pitfalls in the plan. Financially it made sense, but I couldn't shake the feeling that our marriage would be in trouble.

"Honey," I said when we both were home that night, "I've given it a lot of thought."

"And?"

"I'm worried you'll holler at me when things go wrong, and I'll get all over your case about things you don't do right."

"Then let's make a division of labor. You handle all the office stuff, and I'll handle the sales and shipping."

"I make the decisions in the front?"

"Yup, and I'll do all the work in the back."

"That might be good…" I whispered, but something nagged at me.

"What are you thinking?" my husband said.

"That our marriage is more important than work. Our relationship comes first."

"I totally agree. I'll tell you what. If it doesn't work out, you can quit."

"I can quit?"

"Resolve to give it six months. If you don't like it, leave."

My mind starting spinning. I wondered if they'd take me back at my old job if I left. If we let the two office girls go, and I did the work for six months, who would do it if I quit? Somehow, though, just the thought of being able to get out if I wanted to felt good.

"Well, that's something to consider. But it's not about the work. It's about us. If it isn't working for our marriage, then I'll leave because our relationship is the most important thing."

"Deal."

"For real?" I questioned.

"For real. At six months, and every six months after that if you stay, we'll sit down and talk. We'll discuss what's working, and what isn't. How you like the hours, the job itself, and how you like working with me. And me with you."
"You may think I'm a pain in the butt to work with."

"Maybe. We'll both have an out. Okay?"

"Okay."

The next Monday he gave the girls their two-week notice and I gave mine. My boss begged and pleaded for me to stay, but how could he argue against my reason for leaving?

With strong resolve, but some trepidation, I began my new job. Some of the work I was used to. Over the years I had come in on various weekends with my husband and cleaned up things that needed to be done. What I wasn't used to was how my husband maintained his office. I was a neat freak. He wasn't. I liked to arrive and leave at a reasonable time. He always had something more to do.

So I started driving myself in every morning instead of coming in together. That extra hour or two at home made a huge difference in my mental attitude. And I left at 5:00 to make dinner a few times a week. We negotiated a schedule of eating out or picking something up the other nights.

And his messy desk versus my clean one? Well, that came to a head right away.

"Can you help me find a file? It's here in my office somewhere," my husband called out one day.

"It's a black hole in there," I called back from my chair. "Everything that goes into that place gets sucked in and never comes out."

"You're better at finding things than I am. Can you help me?"

"Okay," I responded, and walked into his office. "But if I find what you're looking for, you owe me a dollar."

Years later, those dollars multiplied to hundreds, but who's counting? And that escape clause? There were times I wrote in huge, big, black letters "I QUIT" on a white sheet of paper and flashed it at him from his office doorway. We smiled, then laughed, and got over what irked us at the time.

Every six months we talk about our relationship. It was rocky at first, that's for sure, but fifteen years later, we still work together, side by side. I'm really glad I took that leap of faith. Now, I wouldn't have it any other way.



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[Rhonda]

Hybrid Harmony
By Alexandra Bergstein

Hybrid Harmony From Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Resolution

Kilometers are shorter than miles. Save gas, take your next trip in kilometers.
~George Carlin

I feel like I'm reborn. I'm still a forty-year-old homemaker in Greenwich, CT, with three kids, a husband, and a dog. But a psychic weight has been lifted from my shoulders and I've transcended the suburban jungle around me. I have a spring in my step and my neck muscles are finally relaxed. Did I find a miracle diet to melt all traces of fat? A yoga guru to transport me to spiritual ecstasy? Definitely not. I'm exactly the same person as before, only now I'm enlightened.

I'm driving a new car, in fact a whole new class of car (at least among my Mommy friends). Since I had my first child ten years ago I've been driving big cars, the kind that could go head-to-head with a truck should they ever collide. I've driven SUVs made by Lexus, Mercedes, Volvo, and BMW. I was a suburban stereotype -- driving my luxury SUV with a Blackberry headset in my ear and a Starbucks at my side. But those days of excess are over. I've found a new guilt-free indulgence and it's the Toyota Prius. The egg-shaped compact hybrid car is now our preferred mode of transportation.

In the pick-up line at school, other Moms ask doubtfully, "Does that really fit everybody?"

"Yes" I answer "and hockey bags too."

They pause to ponder whether I'm an environmental zealot or just trying to be trendy. What they're also calculating is whether they could survive in a car where children actually sit next to one another. The idea of those little humans in close proximity -- with the ability to pinch, push and spit on their neighbor -- does not conjure a peaceful ideal. Instead, they envision tangled limbs, piercing screams and an occasional Gameboy hurled through the air. Better to separate the children into their own territories, with individual entertainment centers and feeding stations. That way moms can drive and talk undisturbed on their Bluetooth headsets. Why give up the fortress of an SUV for a silly blob of a car that could probably be crushed by an Escalade?

For years, I'd eyed the Prius. Its body puzzled me -- was it adorable or ugly? And as a former corporate attorney, I questioned its performance prowess. How could this hybrid achieve 45 mpg when all others could barely break 30? Surely the car must have a fatal flaw that would be revealed in a class action suit someday. I imagined a plaintiff telling the jury that after hitting a pothole, his Prius catapulted into the air and was crushed like an accordion. It's not a car, you see, just an aluminum-covered balloon. But my cynical fantasies never materialized. Everywhere I went I saw more of these creatures prowling the road. The rest of the world was buying into this trend and apparently enjoying the experience.

One day, I secretly went for a test drive. It was surprisingly smooth, more of a sedan than the tin can I expected. When I reached the first traffic light, I felt like a toddler strapped in a stroller looking up at my surroundings. But my perspective soon adjusted. I began to pity all those supersized SUVs. They looked like overworked horses -- Clydesdales who'd been carting their loads far too long. Their engines gunned even when standing still. The exhaust pouring out would nauseate anyone nearby. But their drivers -- ensconced in their soundproof thingypits yards away -- were oblivious. They never saw or smelled any of this waste, as they drove from errand to activity and back again. Everyone says they're in favor of clean air, but have they looked to see what's coming out of their own tailpipe?

Coming from the world of hermetically-sealed, tank-like vehicles, converting to a Prius has been a life-altering experience for me. (I realize that I'm on the tail end of the hybrid trend, but we're not known for being cutting-edge in Greenwich). The first thing I noticed when the ignition turned on was Silence, even with the windows open. No spewing sounds of fuel combustion. A quiet hush. Does anyone remember what that sounds like? In a life filled with chaos and noise, silence is a true luxury, a calming force. I began to think this car might be the antidote to my harried existence. The next big difference is that driving a Prius feels more like gliding.

The thrill of being in this stream-lined Jetsonesque car started to take hold. When I finally drove my own model off the lot, I felt exhilarated -- and liberated. My conscience was free from the shackles of the monster truck and its toxic carbon emissions. I was doing my part to save the environment and parking would be a whole lot easier too.

The ultimate surprise was how quickly my children fell for the car too. At first they said it was 'weird" but curiosity overcame them. After the second day of shuttling about, they were excited to be in the Prius. It's not just the novelty of the car that appeals to them, but something deeper and more personal. The Prius has none of the "child-friendly" gadgets that are now standard in family cars -- no individual DVD screens or headsets. But my kids never noticed this absence. Instead their joy seems to come from within -- the voice that says I want to see the world at eye level and be recognized as an equal. This car matches their own body size, and makes them feel substantial. Whether they realize it or not, the smaller size also brings us closer together -- literally and spiritually. Snuggling in a space where the only entertainment choices are conversation or music is a newly-discovered pleasure. It recharges our connections with each other and makes us whole again.

My generation of women grew up before SUVs and minivans were invented, but now we accept these as a necessary part of family life. It's a classic example of groupthink. If everyone else has one, then I need one too. We can just as easily unravel this knot by thinking ourselves in another direction. People seem to postpone choosing a hybrid car because the perfect model isn't yet available. They expect something that looks and feels just like their current car, only with the fuel-efficiency of a motorbike. That mentality is exactly what allows car manufacturers to avoid changing their product lines. They count on the fact that consumers dislike change.

I propose that consumers buying family cars make their voices heard by choosing smaller, hybrid cars. The overscaled, gas-guzzling vehicles of the past decade are relics of an era of self-absorption. We are now fully informed about the consequences of burning copious amounts of gas. Not only will air quality plummet and global warming rise, but foreign policy will be dictated by gasoline addiction. We cannot pretend to be helpless in this struggle. A hybrid car may not solve the entire problem, but it is certainly a step in the right direction. And the added benefits of family harmony and spiritual liberation are priceless. From my own experience, I conclude that everyone should rethink their wheels, and when it comes to driving the family, a smaller and cleaner car just feels better.


By Alexandra Bergstein



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[Rhonda]

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Increase Kindness in Your Life

From "The Force of Kindness: Change your life with love and compassion" by Sharon Salzberg:

We must learn to view the fact that we have negative feelings not as an irreversible personal defect or as some kind of portentous setback on our path to liberation, but simply as the result of conditioned habits of mind. We can hold both a vision of our heart's objective and a compassionate acknowledgment of whatever truth is manifesting in the present moment.
Even the Dalai Lama says about himself, "I don't know why people like me so much." And then he says, "It must be because I try to be compassionate, to have bodhicitta, that aspiration of compassion: ' Bodhidtta is the bedrock of Tibetan Buddhism, a wish for the happiness, welfare, and freedom from suffering for all beings everywhere, along with the commitment to work toward that end. Notably, even the Dalai Lama doesn't claim complete success; he claims a dedication to really trying.

Ways of Increasing the Force of Kindness in Your Life

Reflect on someone in your life who has reached out to you in kindness--how do you regard him or her? ·
Notice how the mood of someone in a chance encounter--such as the checkout person in the supermarket, or a bank teller--affects you. ·
Think about your degree of confidence in yourself. What factors have helped enhance it or decrease it? ·
Reflect on why kindness might be considered a force instead of a weakness. ·
Make. the effort to thank someone each day. Notice what is created between you and the other person in that way.
Reflect on who you admire in life, and why.

[Rhonda]

Baking Away Bitterness
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Divorce and Recovery
By Linda Fitzjarrell

Baking Away Bitterness
Baking Away Bitterness From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Divorce and Recovery

Cooking is like love... It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.
~Harriet Van Horne

Today is the first anniversary of my ex-husband's death. My mind is flooded with memories of Harry; my heart is filled with a jumble of emotions.

We spent sixteen years together, building a number of small businesses with various degrees of success. He was in charge of sales and I took care of production. We made a dynamic team -- but we were better in business than we were on a personal level. So we kept our focus on work.

We founded a company that turned into my dream venture. I loved everything about it. I went to work each day with eager anticipation. It was my pride and joy.

After the third year, my husband became bored with the company. But I did not want to leave the job I had grown so fond of. So we decided to split our directions. He would start something new, while I continued with the already established business. However, without each other's abilities, neither of us was able to succeed.

I soon realized that without a business venture we could share, there was nothing keeping us together. We began attacking each other -- not physically -- but as many people know, mental scars can be the hardest to heal.

By the time our divorce was finalized, my bitterness toward Harry was overwhelming. I never wanted to hear his voice, see his face, or even hear his name again.

I remarried, and my new husband and I enjoyed our life together with our baby daughter. After a long absence, happiness was finally a part of my life again. A few more years passed, and we added two more children to our happy family. The bitterness was finally melting away from my heart.

One year, we invited our neighbors to celebrate Thanksgiving with us. I decided to make a carrot cake for dessert, mainly because my son had requested it. I pulled out my old recipe, and the stained 3x5 card immediately brought back memories of my ex-husband. I had often made this particular dessert for Harry's birthday and on other special occasions. It was his favorite. After a moment of hesitation, I went ahead and started to make the carrot cake.

As I assembled the ingredients for the cake, the phone rang. It was my neighbor, Herb. He was calling from the hospital where he had taken his wife, Nancy, because of a complication from a broken arm. Apparently, Harry was also in the hospital. The doctors didn't expect him to get out. Cancer had taken over his body. Because Herb was a long-time friend of Harry's, he had called to tell me that Nancy, he, and Harry would be having Thanksgiving dinner together at the hospital.

As I hung up the phone and stared at the carrot cake ingredients sitting on the counter, I felt a strange urge to send my ex-husband a large piece of the cake. For me, it would symbolize forgiveness. I knew, deep in my soul, that God was telling me I needed to do this -- for Harry and for myself.

As I made that carrot cake, memories of good times with Harry crossed the barriers I had built up in my mind. I hadn't allowed myself to think anything but negative thoughts about him for so long, it seemed strange to not be angry anymore. I still didn't want to talk to him. I simply didn't have the words. I hoped the cake would let him know that I no longer held any hard feelings for what had happened between us.

I asked Herb to pick up my ex's piece of cake on his way to the hospital on Thanksgiving morning. That afternoon, he called. "When Harry found out the cake was from you," he said, his voice cracking, "I saw tears come to his eyes. And he refused to share a single bite with anyone, even me."

Harry died the next day.

Now, a year later, I'm thankful I was able to express my forgiveness to Harry before it was too late. I hope he understood it for what it was. I believe God made sure he did.

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[Rhonda]

Little Things, Big Payoff
When you do something kind for others, do you always get rewarded? Yes, but not in the way you might expect, says Bob Perks.
BY: Bob Perks


"Do you like doing things for people?" I asked a friend.


"Yes, most of the time," she replied.


"Most of the time?"


"Well, I love to do things that are unexpected. I like to do little things most people wouldn't think about doing," she said.


"But why did you say most of the time?"


"Well, sometimes after doing those little things people take advantage of you. I mean, they expect you to do it again. They ask you to do it. That's when I don't like it."


It was odd that I had this conversation. This just happened to me. I too love to do little things. I will pay for a meal card for the people in the office every time we have a meeting there. Not a big thing. It's a little thing. $5.30 will pay for almost five lunches. Hey, big spender!


But it's not the amount, it's the idea, the fact that I did something.


I also ran out a few weeks ago and bought a bag of animal crackers for a friend at work. She was having a tough day and not very happy at all. I drove down to the Wal-Mart and picked up a huge bag for under $2.00. Her smile was worth it.


But this week she said, "Bob, we ran out of crackers. We love them so much." I didn't want to do it. I smiled and she persisted. I finally admitted, "It's different when I do it because I want to, but now you are trying to make me go get them. It's not the same."


So that voice inside of me struggled with it. I tried and won out over that feeling and stayed right there in the office a while longer so as to avoid caving in. That is until I overheard her talking. The boss was having "one of those days" and unfairly chose her to point the finger at her in front of everyone. She was almost in tears when I heard her sharing the moment with a coworker. I had to go.


It’s about five miles to the store from there. I had to park at the extreme lower end of the lot. It was bitter cold—in the single digits on Tuesday. But when I got out of my car I stepped into summer. How?


Seagulls. Yes, there were three or four gulls flying above me. I heard one cry out as it glided on the cold, brisk air above. I immediately closed my eyes and I was transported from a strip mall parking lot to the seashore at Wildwood, New Jersey. I pictured in my mind that I was walking along the boardwalk, and the birds provided the perfect background sounds. "Ahhhhhh, summer!"


I hurried to the cookie aisle and found what I was looking for. Rushing out to the register, I walked through the bakery and stopped dead in my tracks.


"I'll get some bread to feed the gulls. Just like Wildwood!" I rushed out the door and walked down to the other end of the lot.


A bird flew over and I motioned that I had food. It hovered above waiting patiently for the treat. I ripped open the bag and threw a slice in the air. He grabbed it just like they always do. I looked around for the other three birds and...out of nowhere...without exaggerating...at least thirty gulls came to see what I had.


"Screeeechhhh...Caaaaaawwwwww!" They crashed into each other as they dive bombed me. I was overpowered by the number and finally dumped the entire loaf on the ground and ran to my car. I was laughing and so full of excitement. The tip of my nose was frozen and the tears of joy running down my face burned against my dry, cold skin. "Summer! I love it!"


So what 's my point here? Every time you do little things, big things happen.


Upon my return I expected her to be thrilled that I went out of my way. She hardly acknowledged me. I shrugged it off and left. I did what I thought in my heart was the right thing to do.

She got the cookies. Me? I got to feed seagulls at the Jersey shore in early March, and I got a glimpse of better days ahead.



























































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[Rhonda]

: 12 Things I Learned in Therapy
Wednesday March 25, 2009
Categories: Mental Health
A few days ago, the Huffington Post published my post, "12 Things I Learned in Therapy." To check out the post, click here. I've excerpted the first six.

I've spent more time in therapy than I care to think about. More hours on that bloody couch than I've spent in the shower, brushing my teeth, or on the phone with telemarketers, because let's face it, when I'm home, there really are no decision makers at my house. If I calculate one hour a week for 12 years, that's 600 hours, which is 25 DAYS. What do I have to show for it? Lots of wisdom and advice. Journals and journals of it. But for your sake, I'll just list 12. And after you get done reading my shrink insights, I want you to tell me yours, because I'm compiling such pearls for a writing project.

1. Know your triggers.

From the first year of therapy: know your triggers. If a conversation about global warming, consumerism, or the trash crisis in the U.S. is overwhelming you, simply excuse yourself. If you're noise-sensitive and the scene at Toys-R-Us makes you want to throw whistling Elmo and his buddies across the store, tell your kids you need a time-out. (Bring along your husband or a friend so you can leave them safely, if need be.) For me it's best if I don't hang out in a bar with a crowd of drinkers, you know, if I don't want to drink myself.

2. Count to four.

I can't remember if I learned this pearl in therapy or in first grade. All I know is that breathing is the foundation of sanity, because it is the way we provide our brain and every other vital organ in our body with the oxygen needed for us to survive. Breathing also eliminates toxins from our systems.

Years ago, I learned the "Four Square" method of breathing to reduce anxiety:


* Breathe in slowly to a count of four.
 * Hold the breath for a count of four.
 * Exhale slowly through pursed lips to a count of four.
 * Rest for a count of four (without taking any breaths).
 * Take two normal breaths.
 * Start over again with number one.

3. Hunt down unrealistic expectations.

Yep, I identify those bad boys every week. I record them on a sheet of paper or (on a good day) in my head and then revise them about 2,035 times during the day. Cataloged are things like: "penning a New York Times bestseller in my half-hour of free time in the evening," "being homeroom mom to 31 kids and chaperoning every field trip," and "training for a triathlon with a busted hip." Listing the more realistic possibilities of actions I can take to inch toward my broad goals (being a good mom, an adequate blogger, and a healthy person) can be extremely liberating.

4. Celebrate your mistakes.

Alright, celebrate is an awfully strong word. Start, then, with accept your mistakes. But I do think each big blunder deserves a round of toasts. Because almost all of them teach us precious, rare lessons that can't be acquired by success. Nope, the embarrassment, humiliation, self-disgust ... all those are tools with which to unearth the gold. Just like Leonard Cohen writes in his song, "Anthem" that a friend of mine tapes to his computer as a reminder to ignore the perfectionist in him:


Ring the bells that still can ring, Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything, That's how the light gets in.

5. Add some color.

My therapist often points out that I am color blind. I see the world in black and white. Example: either I am the best blogger in the entire blogosphere or I should throw my iMac into the Chesapeake Bay and become a water taxi driver. Either I am the most involved mom in David's school or I am a slacker parent who should let a more capable mom adopt her son. Does this kind of thinking sound familiar? In order to get a pair of glasses on my inner zebra, then, my therapist helps me add a few hues to every relationship, event, and goal so that I become a tad more tolerant of life's messiness, unresolved issues, and complicated situations that can't be neatly boxed up.

6. Believe in redemption.

Redemption is an odd thing. Because identifying the broken places in your heart and in your life can be one of the scariest exercises you ever do, and yet only then can you recognize the grace that comes buried with every hole. If the journey to the Black Hole of despair and back has taught me anything, it's this: everything is made whole in time ... if you can just hang on to the faith, hope, and love in the people and places around you long enough to see the sun rise yourself. Absolutely nothing is forsaken, not even those relationships and memories and persons that you think are lost forever. Most things are made right in time. So you don't always have to get it right on the first try.

7. Compare and despair.

The last thing you should do when you're stressed--which I always do when I'm stressed--is start looking around at other people's package (job, family support, balanced brain) and pine for some of that. I grow especially jealous of non-addict friends who can enjoy a glass of wine with dinner or those with moms nearby that offer to take the kids for sleepovers. But I don't have all the information. The mom who takes the kids for the night might also have an opinion for every piece of furniture in your house and her own spare key to your home so she can pop in whenever. So comparing my insides to someone else's outsides is a fruitless and dangerous game to play, especially when I'm stressed.

8. Learn how to recharge.

Many folks know how to have fun and recharge their batteries. Mentally-ill addicts like myself have to learn this from scratch. With the help of their therapist. After some experimentation I know that spending quiet time by the water (kayaking, running, biking in warmer months), reading spiritual literature, and watching a movie with a friend are all ways that will nurture me so that I can better tolerate stress.

9. Team up.

Think of the buddy system from Boy Scouts. Teaming up with someone means that you have to be accountable. You have to report to someone. Which brings down your percentage of cheating by 60 percent, or something like that. Especially if you're a people-pleaser like me. You want to be good, and get an A, so make sure someone is passing out such reviews.

Also, there is power in numbers, which is why the pairing system is used in many different capacities today: in the workplace, to insure quality control and promote better morale; in twelve-step groups to foster support and mentorship; in exercise programs to get your butt outside on a dark, wintry morning when you'd rather enjoy coffee and sweet rolls with your walking partner.

10. Categorize your problems.

My therapist is an organizer, so she likes to sort my problems into categories. The effect is fascinating: you feel like you have less of them. When we agree to tackle a class of problems--say "boundaries issues"--then a few tweaks here or there can be applied to a variety of situations. I don't have to spent time with each hiccup along the way.

11. Make a self-esteem file and read it.

It was my therapist who first told me to ask some friends to list some positive qualities about me, and to keep those lists in a folder that I could read when my self-esteem was below sea-level. Today that folder is the first thing I'd grab in a fire (alright, after the kids). It serves as my security blanket on many afternoons.

12. Look backwards.

Another great exercise my therapist taught me is to look backwards and cull from my past the strengths I used in certain situations. This means that on the afternoons my depressed brain believes death is preferable to life, I say to myself something like: "Self, you have been sober for 20 years!! Weaklings can't pull off a stunt like that. You've got the right stuff, girlfriend. Just hold on." (The soundtrack to "Rocky" is playing in the background, of course.)

What have you learned?

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