Chicken Soup For The Soul

[Rhonda]

Inspirational-Metamorphosis




In 1993 I was into my eighth year as a single parent, had three kids in college, my youngest just became a teenager, my unmarried daughter had just given birth to my first grandchild, and I was about to break up with a very nice man I'd dated for over two years. It wasn't the best year of my life, to be sure, and I was spending lots of time feeling sorry for myself.

That April, a magazine I'd written some stories for, called and asked me to interview a woman who lived in a small town in Minnesota. So during Easter vacation Andrew, my 13-year-old, and I drove across two states to meet Jan Turner.

Andrew dozed most of the way during the long drive, but every once-in-a-while I'd start a conversation.

"She's handicapped, you know."

"So what's wrong with her? Does she have a disease?"

"No. She had to have both arms and legs amputated."

"Wow. How does she get around?"

"I'm not sure. We'll see when we get there."

"Does she have any kids?"

"Two boys. She's a single parent, too. Only she's never been married. She adopted her two boys. The oldest, Tyler, is about your age. Cody's the younger one."

"So what happened to her?"

"Four years ago Jan was just like me, a busy single mother. She was a full-time music teacher at a grade school. Taught all sorts of musical instruments. She was also the music director at her church. She told me on the phone that she and the boys spent weekends and summers camping, fishing and hiking."

"Must be nice. We never go camping, fishing or hiking."

"We hike in the park."

"That's not the same as real hiking."

"Well, I just don't like to hike in the wilderness without another adult."

Andrew fell asleep again before I could finish telling him what little I did know about what happened to Jan. As I drove across Minnesota I began to wonder how the woman I was about to meet could cope with such devastating news that all four limbs had to be amputated. How did she learn to survive? Did she have live-in help? I wondered.

When we arrived in the small town of Willmar, Minnesota, I called Jan from our hotel to tell her that I could come to her house and pick her and the boys up so they could swim at our hotel while we talked.

"That's OK, Pat, I can drive. The boys and I will be there in ten minutes. Would you like to go out to eat first? There's a Ponderosa close to your hotel."

"Sure, that'll be fine," I said haltingly, wondering what it would be like to eat in a public restaurant with a woman who had no arms or legs. And how on earth does she drive? I wondered.

Ten minutes later Jan pulled up in front of the hotel in a big, older model car. She got out of the car, walked over to me with perfect posture on legs and feet that looked every bit as real as mine, and extended her right arm with its shiny hook on the end to shake my hand, ?Hello, Pat, I'm sure glad to meet you. And this must be Andrew."

I grabbed her hook, pumped it a bit and smiled sheepishly. "Uh, yes, this is Andrew." I looked in the back seat of her car and smiled at the two boys who grinned back. Cody, the younger one, was practically effervescent at the thought of going swimming in the hotel pool after dinner.

Jan bubbled as she slid back behind the driver's seat, "So hop in. Cody, move over and make room for Andrew."

We arrived at the restaurant, went through the cafeteria line, paid for our food, ate and talked midst the chattering of our three sons. The only thing I had to do for Jan Turner that entire evening was unscrew the lid on the catsup bottle. As I struggled with the tight lid, I remember feeling dumbfounded that Jan drove a car, carried her own food tray, pulled the dollars and change out of her wallet for the waitress and fed herself as if she'd been born with those hooks instead of hands.

Later that night as our three sons splashed in the pool, we single moms sat on the side and talked. Jan told me about life before her illness.

"We were a typical single parent family. You know, busy all the time. On weekends we did all those roustabout things young boys like." I winced when she mentioned hiking, camping, fishing and hunting, remembering Andrew's comment in the car. I'd never done any of those things with my own sons.

"We have dogs and we love the outdoors. Life was so good, in fact that I was seriously thinking about adopting a third child."

Once again my conscience stung. I had to face it. The woman next to me was better at single parenting than I ever thought about being.

Jan continued. "One Sunday in November of '89 I was playing my trumpet in front of the church when I suddenly felt weak, dizzy and nauseous. I struggled down the aisle, motioned for the boys to follow me and drove home. I crawled into bed but by evening I knew I had to get help."

Jan explained that by the time she arrived at the hospital, she was comatose. Her blood pressure had dropped so much that her body was already shutting down.

By the third day, after many tests, the doctors told Jan that she had pneumococcal pneumonia, the same bacterial infection that took the life of Muppets creator, Jim Henson. One of its disastrous side effects turns on the body's clotting system and causes the blood vessels to plug up. Because there was no blood flow to her hands or feet she quickly developed gangrene in all four extremities. Two weeks after being admitted to the hospital, Jan's arms had to be amputated at mid-forearm and her legs at mid-shin.

Just before the surgery she said she cried out, "Oh God, no! How can I live without arms and legs, feet or hands? Never walk again? Never play the trumpet, guitar, piano or any of the instruments I teach? I'll never be able to hug my sons or take care of them let alone take care of myself! Oh God, don't let me be dependent on others for the rest of my life!"

Six weeks after the amputations as her dangling limbs healed, a doctor talked to Jan about prosthetics. She said Jan could learn to walk, drive a car, go back to school, even go back to teaching.

Jan found that hard to believe so she picked up her Bible, looking for some words of comfort. The book fell open to Romans, chapter twelve. Her eyes dropped to verse two: Don't copy the behavior and customs of this world, but be a new and different person with a fresh newness in all you do and think. Then you will learn from your own experience how his ways will really satisfy you.

Jan thought about that. Be a new and different person with a fresh newness in all you do. She decided to give it a try and started to look forward to stepping into her new legs and taking those first steps. Even though the skin on her limbs had healed after surgery, she wasn't prepared for the pain of the 100 pounds of body weight pushing down into the prosthetics. With a walker strapped onto her forearms near the elbow and a therapist on either side she could only wobble on her new legs for two to three minutes before she collapsed in exhaustion and pain.

Take it slowly, Jan said to herself. Be a new person in all that you do and think, but take it one step at a time.

The next day she tried on the prosthetic arms, a crude system of cables, rubber bands and hooks operated by a harness across the shoulders. By moving her shoulder muscles she was able to open and close the hooks to pick up and hold objects, dress and feed herself do almost everything she used to do, only in a new and different way.

Within a few months Jan learned that being different isn't so bad after all. For one thing, she always wished she was taller. So each time she got new prosthetics for her legs she had them made an inch longer. She went from being 5'5" to 5'8".

Every year since she was a little girl, Jan said her hands and feet would freeze during the bitter cold Minnesota winters. But now? Jan giggled as she rubbed her short brown hair with her left hook, "My hands and feet haven't been cold since 1989! And I'm the only person I know who can take the food out of the oven without hot pads. If I step in a mud puddle by mistake, I don't even notice that cold, wet feeling on my socks and shoes.

"When I finally got to go home, after four months of physical and occupational therapy, I was so nervous about what life would be like with my boys and me alone in the house. But when I got home, I got out of the car, walked up the steps to our house, hugged my boys with all my might and we haven't looked back since."

As Jan and I continued to talk, Cody, who'd climbed out of the hotel pool, stood close to his Mom with his arm around her shoulders. As she told me about her newly improved cooking skills, Cody grinned, ?Yup," he said, "She's a better Mom now than before she got sick, because now she can even flip pancakes!"

The next day, Andrew and I visited Jan and her sons at their home where she demonstrated how she puts on and takes off her arms and legs each morning and evening. She showed me how she washes her hair, using a washcloth with shampoo on it to rub onto her scalp. She played with their five hunting dogs and laughed like a woman who is blessed with tremendous happiness, contentment, and unswerving faith in God.

Since my visit with Jan Turner in 1993, she has completed a second college degree, this one in communications and she is now an on-air announcer for the local radio station. She also studied theology and has been ordained as the children's pastor at her church, the Triumphant Life church in Willmar.

Most importantly she's still the only adult in her household and loves every minute of her active life with her two boys. Simply put, Jan says, "I'm a new and different person, triumphant because of God's unending love and wisdom."

After my visit with Jan Turner I was a new and different person, as well. I learned to praise God for everything in my life that makes me new and different whether it's struggling through one more part-time job to keep my kids in college, learning to be a grandmother for the first time, raising another teenager, or having the courage to end a relationship with a wonderful friend who just wasn't the right one for me.

Jan Turner may not have real flesh-and-blood arms and legs, hands or feet, but that woman has more heart and soul than anyone I ever met before or since. She taught me to grab on to every "new and different" thing that comes into my life with all the gusto I can muster and just put one foot in front of the other until I get the job done.

This story may not be forwarded or used in any way without permission of the author, Patricia Lorenz.

Patricia Lorenz is a nationally-known inspirational, art-of-living writer and speaker. She’s the author of six books: Stuff That Matters for Single Parents

[Rhonda]

"The Little Red Wagon"

To be perfectly honest, the first month was blissful. When Jeanne, age six, Julia, four and Michael, three, and I moved from Missouri to my hometown in northern Illinois the very day of my divorce from their father, I was just happy to find a place where there was no fighting or abuse.



But after the first month I started missing my old friends and neighbors. I missed our lovely, modern, ranch-style brick home in the suburbs of St. Louis, especially after we'd settled into the 98-year-old white frame house we'd rented, which was all my "post-divorce" income could afford.



In St. Louis we'd had all the comforts: a washer, dryer, dishwasher, TV and a car. Now we had none of these. After the first month in our new home, it seemed that we'd gone from middle-class comfort to poverty-level panic.



The bedrooms upstairs in our ancient frame house weren't even heated, but somehow the children didn't seem to notice. The linoleum floors, cold on their little feet, simply encouraged them to dress faster in the mornings and to hop into bed quicker in the evenings.



I complained about the cold as the December wind whistled under every window and door in that old frame house. But they giggled about the "funny air places" and simply snuggled under the heavy quilts Aunt Bernadine brought over the day we moved in.



I was frantic without a TV. "What will we do in the evenings without our favorite shows?" I asked. I felt cheated that the children would miss out on all the Christmas specials. But the children were more optimistic and much more creative than I. They pulled out their games and begged me to play "Candyland" and "Old Maid" with them.



We cuddled together on the gray tattered couch the landlord provided and read picture book after picture book from the public library. At their insistence we played records, sang songs, popped popcorn, created magnificent Tinker-Toy towers and played hide-and-go seek in our rambling old house. The children taught me how to have fun without a TV.



One shivering December day, just a week before Christmas, after walking the two miles home from my temporary part-time job at a catalog store, I remembered that the week's laundry had to be done that evening. I was dead tired from lifting and sorting other people's Christmas presents, and somewhat bitter, knowing that I could barely afford any gifts for my own children.



As soon as I picked up the children at the baby-sitter's, I piled four large laundry baskets full of dirty clothes into the children's little red wagon, and the four of us headed toward the Laundromat three blocks away.



Inside we had to wait for washing machines and then for people to vacate the folding tables. The sorting, washing, drying and folding took longer than usual.



Jeanne asked, "Did you bring any raisins or crackers, Mommy?"


"No," I snapped. "We'll have supper as soon as we get home."



Michael's nose was pressed against the steamy glass window. "Look Mommy! It's snowing! Big flakes!"



Julia added, "The street's all wet. It's snowing in the air but not on the ground!"



Their excitement only upset me more. If the cold wasn't bad enough, now we had snow and slush to contend with. I hadn't even unpacked the box with their boots and mittens yet.



At last the clean, folded laundry was stacked into the laundry baskets and placed two-baskets deep in the little red wagon. It was pitch dark outside. Six-thirty already? No wonder they were hungry! We usually ate at five.



The children and I inched our way into the cold winter evening and slipped along the slushy sidewalk. Our procession of three little people, a crabby mother, and four baskets of fresh laundry in an old red wagon moved slowly as the frigid wind bit into our faces. We crossed the busy four-lane street at the crosswalk. When we reached the curb, the front wagon wheels slipped on the ice and tipped the wagon over on its side, spilling all the laundry into a slushy black puddle.



"Oh no!" I wailed. "Grab the baskets, Jeanne! Julia, hold the wagon! Get back up on the sidewalk, Michael!"



I slammed the dirty, wet clothes back into the baskets.



"I hate this!" I screamed. Angry tears spilled out of my eyes.



I hated being poor with no car and no washer or dryer. I hated the weather. I hated being the only parent responsible for three small children. And if you want to know the truth, I hated the whole blasted Christmas season.



When we reached home I unlocked the door, threw my purse across the room and stomped off to my bedroom for a good cry.



I sobbed loud enough for the children to hear. Selfishly I wanted them to know how miserable I was. Life couldn't get any worse. The laundry was still dirty, we were all hungry and tired, there was no supper started and no outlook for a brighter future.



When the tears finally stopped I sat up and stared at a wooden plaque of Jesus that was hanging on the wall at the foot of my bed. I'd had that plaque since I was a small child and carried it with me to every house I'd ever lived. It showed Jesus with his arms outstretched over the earth. Obviously solving the problems of the world.



I kept looking at his face, expecting a miracle. I looked and waited, and finally said aloud, "God, can't you do something to make my life better?" I desperately wanted an angel on a cloud to come down and rescue me.



But nobody came…except Julia, who peeked into my bedroom and told me in her tiniest four-year-old voice that she had set the table for supper.



I could hear six-year-old Jeanne in the living room sorting the laundry into two piles, "really dirty, sorta clean, really dirty, sorta clean,…"



Three-year-old Michael popped into my room and gave me a picture of the first snow that he had just colored.



And you know what? At that very moment I did see, not one, but THREE angels before me! Three little cherubs, eternally optimistic and once again, pulling me from gloom and doom into the world of "things will be better tomorrow, Mommy."



Christmas that year was magical as we surrounded ourselves with a very special kind of love, based on the joy of doing simple things together. One thing's for sure: single parenthood was never again as frightening or as depressing for me as it was the night the laundry fell out of the little red wagon. Those three angels have kept my spirits buoyed and today, 30 years later, they continue to fill my heart with the presence of God.


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This story may not be forwarded or used in any way without permission of the author, Patricia Lorenz.

Patricia Lorenz is a nationally-known inspirational, art-of-living writer and speaker. She’s the author of six books: Stuff That Matters for Single Parents

[Rhonda]

Chicken Soup for the Soul


A Mother's Love
By Pat Laye

When I think of Clara Harden's family, happiness is what comes to mind. The sounds of laughter always greeted my visits.
Their lifestyle was so very different from mine. Clara's mother believed nurturing the mind was more important than trivial chores. Housekeeping wasn't a high priority. With five children ranging in age from Clara, the oldest at twelve, to a two-year-old baby, this lack of order sometimes bothered me but never for long. Their home was always in some state of chaos with at least one person's life in crisis, real or imagined. But I loved being part of this boisterous bunch, with their carefree, upbeat attitude toward life. Clara's mother was never too busy for us. She'd stop ironing to help with a cheerleading project, or switch off the vacuum cleaner and call us all to trek into the woods to gather specimens for a child's science project.
You never knew what you might do when you visited there. Their lives were filled with fun and love - lots of love.
So the day the Harden children stepped off the school bus with red, swollen eyes, I knew something was desperately wrong. I rushed to Clara, pulled her aside, begging to hear what had happened but not prepared for her answer. The night before, Clara's mother had told them she had a terminal brain tumor, with only months to live. I remember that morning so well. Clara and I went behind the school building where we sobbed, holding each other, not knowing how to stop the unbelievable pain. We stayed there, sharing our grief until the bell rang for first period.
Several days passed before I visited the Harden home again. Dreading the sorrow and gloom, and filled with enormous guilt that my life was the same, I stalled until my mother convinced me that I couldn't neglect my friend and her family in their time of sadness.
So I visited. When I entered the Harden house, to my surprise and delight, I heard lively music and voices raised in animated discussion with lots of giggles and groans. Mrs. Harden sat on the sofa playing a game of Monopoly with her children gathered round. Everybody greeted me with smiles as I struggled to hide my bewilderment. This wasn't what I had expected.
Finally Clara freed herself from the game, and we went off to her room where she explained. Her mother had told them that the greatest gift they could give her would be to carry on as if nothing was amiss. She wanted her last memories to be happy, so they had agreed to try their hardest.
One day Clara's mother invited me for a special occasion. I rushed over to find her wearing a large gold turban. She explained that she'd decided to wear this instead of a wig now that her hair was falling out. She placed beads, glue, colored markers, scissors and cloth on the table, and instructed us to decorate it, while she sat like a regal maharaja. We turned the plain turban into a thing of gaudy beauty, each adding his or her own touch. Even as we squabbled over where the next bauble should be placed, I was conscious of how pale and fragile Mrs. Harden appeared. Afterwards, we had our picture taken with Clara's mother, each pointing proudly to her contribution to the turban. A fun memory to cherish, even though the unspoken fear of her leaving us wasn't far beneath the surface.
Finally the sad day arrived when Clara's mother died. In the weeks that followed, the Hardens' sorrow and pain were impossible to describe.
Then one day I arrived at school to see an animated Clara laughing, gesturing excitedly to her classmates. I heard her mother's name mentioned frequently. The old Clara was back. When I reached her side, she explained her happiness. That morning dressing her little sister for school, she'd found a funny note her mother had hidden in the child's socks. It was like having her mother back again.
That afternoon the Harden family tore their house apart hunting messages. Each new message was shared, but some went undetected. At Christmastime, when they retrieved the decorations from the attic, they found a wonderful Christmas message.
In the years that followed, messages continued sporadically. One even arrived on Clara's graduation day and another on her wedding day. Her mother had entrusted the letters to friends who delivered them on each special day. Even the day Clara's first child was born, a card and poignant message arrived. Each child received these short funny notes, or letters filled with love until the last reached adulthood.
Mr. Harden remarried, and on his wedding day a friend presented him with a letter from his wife to be read to his children, in which she wished him happiness and instructed her children to envelop their new stepmother in love, because she had great faith that their father would never choose a woman who wouldn't be kind and loving to her precious children.
I've often thought of the pain Clara's mother must have experienced as she wrote these letters to her children. I also imagined the mischievous joy she felt when she hid these little notes. But through it all I've marveled at the wonderful memories she left those children, despite the pain she quietly suffered and the anguish she must have felt leaving her adored family. Those unselfish acts exemplify the greatest mother's love I've ever known.

Reprinted by permission of Pat Laye (c) 2000

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[Rhonda]

Brief Encounter
By Joseph J. Gurneak

Several Saturdays ago I was cleaning my car at a do-it-yourself car wash. As I vacuumed, I noticed a few wisps of yellow dog fur.
I stopped my cleaning. I picked up the fur, placed it in an envelope and put the envelope in the glove compartment. The fur belonged to Buddy. As I went about the rest of the day, I couldn't help but think of the brief encounter with Buddy and his "family" just a couple of days before.
It was a Wednesday afternoon. I had just gotten off work. As I passed a truck stop, I noticed a man with a large backpack. There beside him was a dog on a leash sitting in the grass strip that separates the entrance and exit to the interstate. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon and quite hot.
I stopped a few feet away and walked up to the man. "You and the dog okay?" I asked.
I guess he was a little startled. "I'm not breakin' no law sittin' here, am I?" he asked.
"No," I replied, "I just wanted to make sure you and the dog were okay."
"We're okay, just a little hot."
I noticed a handwritten cardboard sign beside him saying something about working for food. My guess was that he hadn't had a good meal in some time.
"Look," I said, "here's a twenty - make sure you and the dog get a good meal tonight."
"God bless you, sir," he said as he accepted the money.
I walked back to my car. As I turned around, the pair were headed under an overpass to the westbound side of the I-78 ramp. Somehow I felt I should have done a little more. I went into the truck stop, bought a large hoagie and soda for the man and a couple of hot dogs and water for the dog.
As I approached the ramp, they were gone. I figured someone had picked them up. I got back on the freeway intending to get off at the next exit. There were my two "friends." I pulled over. As we spoke, I gave pieces of the hot dogs to the dog along with a few sips of cool water. The stranger wolfed down the sandwich in two minutes.
I asked the dog's name. It was Buddy.
I don't usually give strangers a ride, but I just couldn't let them walk down the busy freeway at night. I offered to give them a ride, and they accepted. He instructed Buddy to get in the back seat, but I told him it was okay if Buddy rode in the front. Buddy put his head on my lap as though we had been friends for years. I knew he enjoyed the cooling breeze of the air conditioner. He very quickly fell asleep, as I occasionally petted him on his head.
Buddy was a beautiful, noble dog, some kind of mixed breed although the man said he was a sheltie. His fur was soft and surprisingly well kept. The man was a drifter.
He told me bits and pieces about his life. He said he didn't have any sort of identification. He told me he had lost his wallet a few weeks back. My guess was he was about forty. He was tall and lean, with a beard. His piercing blue eyes seemed to hold pain, but he was a gentle person. He was born in Oregon and traveled around always looking for work, he said.
I asked him about Buddy. He told me he found him in Alabama as a puppy about a year and a half before. From that day to this, they had always been together.
There was a pause in the conversation and I asked him whether the dog was ever a burden to him, with all the traveling around. I would have gladly offered a great home to Buddy. There was a long silence. From the corner of my eye I could see tears rolling down the man's cheeks.
"Sir," he said to me, barely above a whisper, "old Buddy is the only family I got. Some days, when food is scarce, I'd gladly go without, so long as Buddy has somethin'."
There was no doubt he spoke the truth. I felt embarrassed that I would even think of offering to take the man's only worthwhile possession.
The ride was all too short. I pulled over and the man got his backpack out of the back seat. Then Buddy hopped out. The man began to slowly close the door. Buddy turned, looked up at me and wagged his tail a couple of times. I'm certain it was his way of saying "thanks."
I turned around and headed east. I had one last look at Buddy and his "family." As I drove off I was disappointed in myself; I didn't even ask the man his name.
That night I was out late watering the flowers. I looked up at the heavens. I wondered why it is that sometimes these brief encounters make such profound impressions on my life. I said a little prayer asking God to please watch over them in their travels, and to say thanks for just the few brief moments I was able to share with them.
Without their knowledge, the two "world travelers" had enriched my life, touched my soul and heart. The wisps of fur will always be a reminder to me of the summer afternoon that I encountered Buddy and his companion.

Reprinted by permission of Joseph J. Gurneak (c) 1999

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[Rhonda]

A Tree House for Everyone
By Maureen Heffernan

I often say I have the best job on earth. But the truth is, for a
passionate gardener, working at the Cleveland Botanical
Garden isn't really a job at all! And when we decided to build a half-acre
garden for children, well, it got even more interesting.
We thought it was important to involve children in the design process.
That way we could learn what children themselves wanted
to see and do in a garden. So we invited the public to come help us design
the garden. On February 4, 1996, more than one hundred
parents, grandparents and children showed up.
We rolled out big sections of white butcher paper on the floor and
passed out lots of crayons. Then I asked the children to
draw their fantasy garden. I also told them to place themselves somewhere
in the picture.
Soon, close to seventy-five children were down on the floor, drawing
intently. A dazzling, colorful mural began to emerge,
filled with apple trees, streams, grape arbors, huge pumpkin patches,
boulders, scarecrows, corn and a crazy quilt of flowers. They
drew black bears, deer, raccoons, rabbits, watermelons, rainbows, ponds,
forts, sunflowers, acorns, frogs, tomatoes and more.
An eight-year-old boy named Alan came late to the workshop. He had
cerebral palsy and was strapped into a wheelchair. "Alan
saw the special invitation asking children to the workshop," his mother
said. "He insisted on coming." She wheeled him over to a
table, and we gave him some paper and crayons. He went right to work - he
knew exactly what he wanted to draw.
When all the children were done, I asked them to show everyone their
drawings and describe them. When it was Alan's turn, his
mother helped him hold up his drawing and point to it. He had drawn a very
tall tree with a tree house teetering right at the top.
Sitting in this high tree house was a boy in a wheelchair.
My heart went to my throat. It was both heartbreaking and inspiring to
see how much a wheelchair-bound boy wanted to feel what
it would be like to be way up in a treetop, looking down just like the other
boys and girls. I turned to Deborah Hershey Guren, one
of the Botanical Garden's biggest supporters. She looked as moved as I was.
"A tree house for everyone. Wouldn't that be
wonderful?" she murmured.
"Yes, but I don't know how you'd ever get a wheelchair up there," I
replied.
Deborah said nothing, but kept her eyes on Alan and his drawing.
More than three-and-a-half years later, after many long hours of
planning, building and planting, we were ready to host the
grand opening of the new Hershey Children's Garden. With several hundred
people there and all the opening festivities going on, no
one noticed a young boy in a wheelchair waiting patiently for the garden to
open. As soon as the invited dignitaries cut the
ribbon, dozens of children ran inside. Most of them headed straight toward
a large water fountain that had been designed especially
for kids to play in and get wet.
Meanwhile, Alan directed his motorized chair right up the long ramp
that led into the new tree house. As he rolled higher and
higher, his smile kept growing brighter.
It just so happened that Deborah had headed over to the tree house, as
well. She was looking down on all the children enjoying
the garden below, when up rolled Alan, beaming with excitement and pride.
He looked out over the tree house railing and said loudly
to everyone in earshot, "This was my idea!"
When Deborah recognized Alan as the same young boy who had touched
everyone so deeply with his desire three years earlier, she
had to wipe away tears of joy. Her gift had made one child's dream come
true. Alan had ached for something most of us take for
granted. And she had helped to make it happen. Didn't it sound so simple,
yet so profound?
A tree house for everyone.

Reprinted by permission of Maureen Heffernan (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for
the Gardener's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen, Cynthia Brian, Cindy Buck, Marion Owen, Pat Stone and Carol
Sturgulewski.

[Rhonda]

Hearts Across the World
By Amsheva Miller

Clattering along in the hot Indian sun, our train neared the southern city of Nagpur, India. Beside me this Thanksgiving Day sat my husband and our two adopted Indian sons. We were traveling to Nagpur to meet the small Indian girl we were adopting to complete our family. Sadly, because the foreign adoption process takes a long time, we would not be able to take our daughter home to the United States right away. But at least we could visit her for a few hours.
Three years earlier, I had come to India from our home in Maryland and established a second residence in Hyderabad, near the orphanage where I was adopting my sons. Now I was staying in Hyderabad again, and my husband was visiting briefly from Maryland, where his job supported our efforts to adopt this little girl. The duration of my stay would be determined by the slow-moving Indian adoption court, a system over which we had no control. But at least for a few hours on this hot day, we could be a family.
Shortly after lunch, a bicycle rickshaw carried us the last miles to the overcrowded orphanage where we were greeted by a hundred eager faces, each hoping to belong to us. The sight was heartbreaking. And yet the people in charge seemed genuinely to care for the children, and the conditions, though humble, were orderly.
We waited, fidgeting in our seats, until a small, delicate girl was escorted into the room. Immediately, I recognized the child my heart had been praying for daily for almost a year. Ghita, our daughter! We hugged and kissed her in our joy, creating in that moment a bond that would last a lifetime.
Ghita could not speak a word of English, but it didn't matter. She was our daughter, and at last our family would be complete. We shared some ice cream and looked at picture books, then parted with tear-stained smiles, knowing that in a month we could be together for good.
My husband returned to his job in the States, and I
settled in with my sons in Hyderabad, almost 300 miles from the Nagpur orphanage, anxiously awaiting notification that Ghita's papers were processed. I often lay awake at night, imagining myself holding her in my arms and protecting her from harm in the crowded orphanage. She was so delicate, so trusting.
Finally the news arrived that I could proceed to Nagpur immediately to take custody of my daughter. Wasting no time, I arranged to travel by air, so that I would not have to leave my boys overnight. Then it happened - the Hindu temple at Ayodhya in the north was bombed by Muslims. Although we were thousands of miles away, Hyderabad was a heavily Muslim city. All flights were canceled for fear of terrorism, and the entire city was placed under curfew.
Undaunted, I decided to travel to Nagpur by train instead, making arrangements for my sons to stay with friends. But our hired driver, himself a devout Muslim, advised against it. "Madam, you would not come home alive!" He explained that an American woman traveling alone would be a prime target for random violence. My close Hindu friends gave me the same advice and urged me to abandon my plans.
Then I hit on the idea of driving to Nagpur. After all, I reasoned, my driver was Muslim and I knew I could trust him. He had even helped us secure food during curfew, allowing the children and me to stay safely at home. But again he discouraged me. "Madam," he said, "I am only one man. What can I do against a gang of robbers? Be safe - remain at home!" I had to remember my responsibility to the children I already had, so I sadly surrendered to the reality that there was nothing to do but wait.
As the days turned into weeks and weeks into months, I prayed daily for my little daughter in the orphanage. What did she think? Did she even know why I hadn't come? My sons grew more agitated and harder to handle. I desperately needed support, but my husband and friends were 10,000 miles away. As the challenges I faced grew more severe, I realized that I alone had to meet them, through my own inner strength. Keep cool. Try to act normal. God, please give me the strength I need to get through this.
Gradually the tension between the Hindus and Muslims dissolved, curfew was lifted, and life in the city normalized. It was now March, four months since that sunny Thanksgiving Day when we met Ghita. My husband came to visit again, and I felt I had passed an enormous test. I could take a deep breath now and feel some lightness in my heart - and there in my heart was Ghita.
Then the miracle - the news that flights to Nagpur had resumed! We acted like lightning and within a few hours were holding tickets for the next day's flight.
The bicycle rickshaw to the orphanage seemed to move in slow motion. I could hardly contain myself. Then, finally, the moment we had waited for arrived. Out of the crowd of eager faces, I saw only one - one shining little face that stepped forward and said, "Mommy!" It was her first English word, spoken with eyes as big as the universe and enough love to last a lifetime.

Reprinted by permission of Amsheva Miller (c) 1997

[Rhonda]

River Baptism
By Garth Gilchrist

The summer I turned thirteen, my family's summer vacation was a visit to our relatives in the mountains of North Carolina. My cousin Jim, who was my age, took me down to his favorite swimming hole along the river. It was a deep pool under a high canopy of leaves. From the top of a twenty-five-foot cliff, we looked down into the shimmering water and across to a sandy beach.
Standing beside us on the edge of that cliff grew a big white oak tree, with its roots sunk deep down into the rock. And hanging from a limb that stretched out at just the right height and angle was a rope swing.
"Look here," said Jim. "This is the way you do it. You got to get a running start. Then you grab the rope and swing out and up as high as you can, and then you let go and fall to the water. Here, I'll show you."
Jim made it look easy, and when his head surfaced in the bubbling water, he hollered up, "Now it's your turn!"
I was certain I was going to die, but at thirteen dying is better than looking bad. When I came up sputtering, Jim smiled approvingly, and we swam a few strokes to the beach, lay on the hot sand for a while, and then swam back across the pool to do it again.
Jim and all of his friends always wore the proper North Carolina swimming attire, because skinny-dipping was a time-honored tradition among boys throughout the mountain states. Sometimes I felt like I was a wild boy, or a beaver sliding through the water. Jim said he felt like an otter, since he loved to turn and twist in the deep pools and could swim underwater a long way.
Jim's family was Baptist. On Sunday, Jim's mom made us dress up in straight-jacket white shirts and stranglehold ties, marched us down the street and filed us into church.
"You must be baptized, by water and by the Spirit!" the preacher thundered. That water baptism sounded mighty good. I sat there dreaming of the river and waiting for the wonderful moment when the sermon would be over, and Jim and I could go running down the path to the river.
On the tails of the closing prayer, Jim and I flew out into the sunny day and home for a quick sandwich. Then we plunged down the trail into the woods alive with the hum of cicadas hanging thick in the branches of the burr oaks and hickories.
When we got within a hundred yards of the rope swing, Jim said, "I'll race you!"
"You got it!" I replied.
We dropped our clothes right there and tore down the trail to see who could get to the rope swing first. I was a fast runner, but Jim was faster. He pulled ahead of me and dove for the rope. With a shriek of victory, Jim swung out over the water and up, to the very top of the arc. In perfect form, Jim let go of the rope and looked down to see where he was going to land.
But there - not twenty yards away on the beach - stood the preacher and two dozen of the faithful, performing a baptism. I could see they were looking straight up at Jim with their mouths wide open.
As fervently as Jim prayed to fly, he quickly descended from the heavens. Jim abandoned his plans for a graceful swan dive and instinctively assumed the cannonball position - known for its magnificent splash.
The whole congregation got baptized that day, but Jim never saw it. He broke his record for underwater swimming and was around the bend and out of sight while the congregation stood stunned and speechless on the shore.
"Don't worry, Jim," I consoled him later. "I'm sure everybody thought you were an angel, and besides, it turned out fine. You got the river dunking you wanted, and those folks will never forget that baptism."
Thinking about it now, I don't think there's much difference, anyway, between wild boys and angels, or between heaven and a rope swing on the river.

Reprinted by permission of Garth Gilchrist (c) 2000

[Rhonda]

The World's Worst Mother
By Polly Anne Wise

After mothering me for thirty years, my mom stood in the kitchen of my home and announced these words, "I was the world's worst mother, and I am so sorry." She then proceeded to apologize for all the things that she did wrong in raising me. I realized that she was filled with guilt about the strict rules of her child-raising years, causing me to miss many school dances. She was mortified that she and my father were too poor to afford my high school ring. She was ashamed of herself for punishments that lasted for weeks. She was sad that she tried to choose my friends. My mother went on and on about her mistakes and regrets as tears of pain streamed down her face.
Right at that moment my mom looked so beautiful. I wondered why my entire family, including me, took her for granted. How do you tell your mother all that she is to you? I wanted to tell her that the punishments and strict rules of my childhood have a small spot in my memory in comparison to my recollections of the nights she let me stay up late and bake cookies with her. I kept silent instead of telling her how much it meant that she scraped together the money for my wedding shoes and matching purse. I couldn't swallow the lump in my throat so I could explain all of the millions of ways she makes me feel so special. I should have told my mother, on that day, that of all the people in my life, no one has ever loved me in the unconditional way that she does.
Four years have gone by since the day I didn't tell my mother that her mistakes were tiny molehills, and her love and understanding were big beautiful mountains in my life. But I'm telling her now. Thank you, Mom, and thank you, God, for the world's worst mother.

Reprinted by permission of Polly Anne Wise (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Mother and Daughter Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Dorothy Firman, Julie Firman and Frances Salorio. .

[Rhonda]

DON'T SEND YOUR DUCKS TO EAGLE SCHOOL
by Jim Rohn
(Excerpted from Leading an Inspired Life)


The first rule of management is this: don't send your ducks to eagle school. Why? Because it won't work. Good people are found not changed. They can change themselves, but you can't change them. You want good people, you have to find them. If you want motivated people, you have to find them, not motivate them.

I picked up a magazine not long ago in New York that had a full-page ad in it for a hotel chain. The first line of the ad read, "We do not teach our people to be nice." Now that got my attention. The second line said, "We hire nice people." I thought, "What a clever shortcut!"
Motivation is a mystery. Why are some people motivated and some are not? Why does one salesperson see his first prospect at seven in the morning while the other sees his first prospect at eleven in the morning? Why would one start at seven and the other start at eleven? I don't know. Call it "mysteries of the mind."

I give lectures to a thousand people at a time. One walks out and says, 'I'm going to change my life." Another walks out with a yawn and says, "I've heard all this stuff before." Why is that?

The wealthy man says to a thousand people, "I read this book, and it started me on the road to wealth." Guess how many of the thousand go out and get the book? Answer: very few. Isn't that incredible? Why wouldn't everyone go get the book? Mysteries of the mind...

To one person, you have to say, "You'd better slow down. You can't work that many hours, do that many things, go, go, go. You're going to have a heart attack and die." And to another person, you have to say, "When are you going to get off the couch?" What is the difference? Why wouldn't everyone strive to be wealthy and happy?

Chalk it up to mysteries of the mind, and don't waste your time trying to turn ducks into eagles. Hire people who already have the motivation and drive to be eagles and then just let them soar.

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

[Rhonda]

Popcorn and Dirty Bare Feet
By B.J. Taylor

"Don't slam that door!" I yelled at the boys for the fourth time. The screen door slammed again.
My sons were five and six that hot, sticky August afternoon. School was out, and they were home for the summer. I was constantly wiping fingerprints off the refrigerator door, scrubbing the kitchen floor, picking up dirty dishes, and doing loads of laundry. I strived to make a perfect house, a perfect yard, perfect dinners on the table at night, and perfect kids. It was so hard to keep up, though, and I was exhausted.
When my husband came home, he announced at the supper table, "Let's go to the drive-in movies tonight!" The last thing I wanted was more work to do.
"Yippee! We're going to the drive-in," both boys hollered in unison as they threw up their arms up in glee.
"Oh, Stan, does it have to be tonight? I'm so tired."
"Come on, it'll be fun," he coaxed.
Yeah, it was fun for him, but who had to get the boys in their pajamas, pack the car with pillows and blankets, and pop the giant bowl of popcorn to bring along? "Okay, boys, you go upstairs and get your pjs on, and I'll make the popcorn," I said grudgingly.
Bringing out the old popcorn kettle, I added oil, then just enough kernels to cover the bottom. Slowly I moved it back and forth across the flame on the stove, and the kernels slowly popped. My mind raced. Why do I have to do more work tonight? All I want is a bubble bath away from everyone and everything. The kernels began popping all at once, pushing the lid of the kettle up and spilling popcorn out the sides. My emotions were bubbling over too, but I shoved the feelings of anger aside. The wonderful smell filled the house, and the boys came running.
"Can we have some now?" they pleaded.
"Wait until we get to the drive-in," I answered, as I finished pouring melted butter over the popcorn that now filled a huge green bowl. After shaking salt over the top, I put the lid on and stowed the bowl in the back of the station wagon.
"It's almost dark. Let's go," Stan yelled to the boys and they ran to the car and climbed in.
It was only a ten-minute ride to the drive-in theater. We found a spot toward the front, pulling close to a metal pole that held a speaker. Right after the car stopped, the kids ran to the swings to play. "Be careful and don't get dirty," I called out to them.
As the first cartoon melody began playing on the big screen, they crawled into the back of the old wagon, huffing and puffing. They propped themselves against the bed pillows and munched popcorn and giggled with delight as first one cartoon character and then another danced across the screen. It was a pleasure to see them having so much fun; I bit my tongue from saying anything to spoil the messy moment.
After a while it grew quiet; both boys were sound asleep. I cast a glance at the back of the car and saw the huge green bowl now spilling the last of its contents. Amidst the popcorn lay our two children with the dirtiest bare feet I'd ever seen. Oh, how I wanted to scrub them right then and there, but then I looked at the smiles on my sons' faces as they lay in a peaceful slumber.
Why am I so worried about perfection? Does it really matter if the house isn't perfectly clean or the dirty laundry is piling up? Would it hurt to relax and enjoy them while they are here with me instead of trying to bend them to fit into the mold of what I think perfect children should be?
It was at that moment I realized those two little boys were already perfect. Those dirty bare feet could be washed in the morning, along with the empty popcorn bowl.
"This was a good idea, honey," I told Stan as I snuggled up close while we watched the final movie in the triple feature. "It was just what the boys – and I – needed."

Reprinted by permission of B.J. Taylor