Chicken Soup For The Soul

[Rhonda]

What Will I Be?
By Cheryl Kremer

After twenty years of working full-time, I found myself with an opportunity to quit my job and be a stay-at-home mom. As I faced this decision, I felt the stirrings of longing to be more of a mother than a career woman. My seven-year-old daughter and four-year-old son had grown up in the daycare system since they were both six-weeks old. At the time, I never felt any regret in handing my children over to them each morning. I had a great job that I loved and had worked my way up to being the Assistant to the Vice-President of Sales at an Internet company.
I decided to resign and begin my new job as a full-time mom, but it felt strange to lose this part of my identity. The first time I needed to fill out an application for online banking, I came to the line that asked my occupation. I stared at it, not wanting to write "N/A." Ultimately, I threw the application away, rather than label myself as a "non-worker." I continued to struggle with this feeling.
However, after a few months of waiting at the bus stop, volunteering in the classroom, and making good dinners, I began to get into the whole idea. My daughter was in school, but my son Cobi was with me all day. For the first time in his life, I was all his. We rollerbladed, took walks, played soccer and made crafts. He thrived on this alone time with me and I began to see what I had missed.
One day as we kicked the ball in the park, Cobi looked up at me and said, "Mommy, do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"
"A professional soccer player?" I asked.
"No," he smiled at me. "I want to be a stay-at-home mom."
My heart melted. I've never looked back since.

Reprinted by permission of Cheryl Marie Kremer
~~~~~~~~~~

[Rhonda]

"In God we Trust?"
You always hear the usual stories of pennies on the sidewalk being
good luck, gifts from angels, etc. This is the first time I've ever
heard this twist on the story. Gives you something to think about.
Several years ago, a friend of mine and her husband were invited
to spend the weekend at the husband's employer's home. My friend,
Arlene, was nervous about the weekend. The boss was very wealthy, with a
fine home on the waterway, and cars costing more than her house.
The first day and evening went well, and Arlene was delighted to
have this rare glimpse into how the very wealthy live. The husband's
employer was quite generous as a host, and took them to the finest
restaurants.
Arlene knew she would never have the opportunity to indulge in
this kind of extravagance again, so was enjoying herself immensely.
As the three of them were about to enter an exclusive restaurant
that evening, the boss was walking slightly ahead of Arlene and her
husband.
He stopped suddenly, looking down on the pavement for a long,
silent moment.
Arlene wondered if she was supposed to pass him. There was nothing
on the ground except a single darkened penny that someone had dropped,
and a few cigarette butts. Still silent, the man reached down and picked
up the penny.
He held it up and smiled, then put it in his pocket as if he had
found a great treasure. How absurd! What need did this man have for a
single penny?
Why would he even take the time to stop and pick it up?
Throughout dinner, the entire scene nagged at her. Finally, she
could stand it no longer. She causally mentioned that her daughter once
had a coin collection, and asked if the penny he had found had been of
some value.
A smile crept across the man's face as he reached into his pocket
for the penny and held it out for her to see. She had seen many pennies
before!
What was the point of this?
"Look at it." He said. "Read what it says." She read the words
"United States of America."
"No, not that; read further."
"One cent?" "No, keep reading."
"In God we Trust?" "Yes!" "And?"
"And if I trust in God, the name of God is holy, even on a coin.
Whenever I find a coin I see that inscription. It is written on
every single United States coin, but we never seem to notice it! God
drops a message right in front of me telling me to trust Him? Who am I
to pass it by? When I see a coin, I pray, I stop to see if my trust IS
in God at that moment. I pick the coin up as a response to God; that I
do trust in Him. For a short time, at least, I cherish it as if it were
gold. I think it is God's way of starting a conversation with me. Lucky
for me, God is patient and pennies are plentiful!
When I was out shopping today, I found a penny on the sidewalk. I
stopped and picked it up, and realized that I had been worrying and
fretting in my mind about things I cannot change. I read the words, "In
God We Trust," and had to laugh. Yes, God, I get the message.
It seems that I have been finding an inordinate number of pennies
in the last few months, but then, pennies are plentiful!
And, God is patient...
Have a blessed day!!
--Author Unknown

[Rhonda]

Performance Under the Stars
By Rayleen Downes

They slouched in folding chairs in a semicircle, eyeing me suspiciously. Their ages ranged from fourteen to sixteen, and they were there because they loved drama. I was a new teacher, and I had absolutely no experience in directing drama. My background was in teaching, writing and literature.
No problem, I thought.
That was how I found myself in chaos late that fall, staging the musical Godspell. I spent countless nights at rehearsals coaxing my Jesus to sing louder and my Mary to tone down her body language.
My three-year-old, Breana, was the least of my worries. She was a sweet child, undemanding and easy to please. Usually I left her at home with my husband. But when he couldn't watch her, I'd throw her in the car and take her to rehearsals. She wandered about the stage, bottle in hand.
When I was wrapped up with responsibilities, I would pass Breana off to students. Her word for bottle was "baboo," and it was common to hear the pitiful cry of "Baboo!" from some corner of the drama room. The student nearest to her would then hunt it down.
As rehearsals for the play progressed, the integration of the acting with the choreography and the music became extremely time-consuming and intense. Breana seemed to accept my hectic schedule with characteristic charm. Once the play was over, I reasoned, I would give her back the time I was taking from her.
On the way home from one particularly good rehearsal, I asked lightheartedly, "Do you love Mommy?" She turned to me and said simply, "No." Wounded, I drove on in silence.
Opening night. We played to a sold-out crowd. My Jesus sang like a dove. The crucifixion scene had the audience in tears. At the last song, people were on their feet, wildly cheering for more.
The next night an even bigger crowd appeared, and we had to bring in more bleachers. Those who couldn't find a seat crowded shoulder to shoulder in the back.
Breana came both nights. The first night, she sat on her dad's lap - dutiful but fidgeting. As everyone complimented me on a job well done, she fell asleep.
The second night, she was bored. I sat her in a corner where she played quietly. Then she came over and pulled on my arm.
"Go outside," she whispered.
I looked in vain for her dad.
"Go outside," she whispered again.
I glanced down. Breana was looking especially pretty in a red dress with petticoats. Loose hair from her pigtails trailed softly down her neck in tendrils. I relented. My cast could be without me for a few minutes.
There was a slight chill in the air. I let her pull me wherever she wished. We ended up outside the cafeteria, where there was a small amphitheater.
Breana pushed at my waist. "Sit, Mommy!" I did. She looked at me with sparkling eyes. "Watch me!"
Marching up on the stage, she put her arms straight out to her sides and began to twirl. Her red dress lifted up, revealing white tights that were bagging a little. I leaned forward and chuckled. She threw her head back and laughed gleefully as she spun.
Around and around she twirled like a plane out of control. I could hear the noise from the auditorium, but it began to subside as I focused on my daughter.
I remembered my countless hours at rehearsals. I remembered handing Breana off to others because I didn't have the time.
A rousing cheer came from the theater, but that was only background noise now. I was at the best performance - sitting under the stars, watching my three-year-old revel in her delight. She spun. She skipped. She finally bowed. And straight-backed on a wooden bench, I sat alone and clapped and clapped.

Reprinted by permission of Rayleen Downes (c)

[Rhonda]

Motherhood - A Trivial Pursuit?
By Jacklyn Lee Lindstrom

You've no doubt heard of Trivial Pursuit, the popular board game based on answering trivia questions. I've often thought that mothering is similar to such a game. It seems we spend much of our time in a maze of trivia, fumbling through the daily minutiae of family living, never quite sure whether we're ahead of the game or not.
With that in mind, I have devised my own trivia game for mothers. The rules are simple - you'll start with 10 marbles, and collect or deduct marbles as you play the game.
Are you ready? Okay, let's go . . .

Square 1. You are awaiting the arrival of your firstborn child. If you look at your rapidly expanding waistline and say, "As soon as the baby is born I'll be a size 6 again," deduct 2 marbles - for wishful thinking.
Square 2. It is two years later and your second child is soon to be born. To avoid sibling rivalry you have prepared carefully for the event, spending "quality time" with your firstborn, giving him his own baby doll to feed, bathe and cuddle. When the new baby comes home, older brother is fine. But deduct 1 marble - it's the dog who's jealous.
Square 3. Your number one son has just announced at the supper table that he is to be an oak tree in the school play and needs a costume by tomorrow morning. If you stay up until 3 a.m. making an imaginative and innovative costume, deduct 3 marbles for setting an impossible example for the rest of us. On the other hand, if you stick him into a brown paper bag with a hole for head and arms and tape green leaves all over front and back, collect 5 marbles. You've just taken the rest of us off the hook.
Square 4. The kids now number three and are all in school. You have discovered that "mother" is synonymous with "taxi service." On a typical day you drop the youngest off at her music lesson, then go with the boys to their Little League practice. Then back to pick up daughter and drop accumulated Little Leaguers off at their assorted homes. It's dinner on the fly because somebody has to be at choir practice at 7 p.m. It's now bedtime and you discover you have an extra kid. But you don't panic . . . it's happened before and soon the phone will ring as another mother discovers she's missing one. Collect 5 marbles for endurance.
Square 5. The little darlings that you tucked lovingly into bed for so many years suddenly treat you as though you lost your brains in kindergarten. They are embarrassed to be seen with you. Guess what: You are the parent of teenagers, those strange creatures who think they are eight feet tall and bulletproof. If you survive this age with your senses intact, collect 8 marbles for heroism under fire. Until then, always remember that you hold the ultimate weapon - you have the car keys!
Square 6. You can tell your oldest child is home from college when you see the pile of dirty laundry in the front hall. If you take the clothes downstairs to sort, wash and press as in days of old . . . deduct 3 marbles and shame on you! If, instead, you take him by the hand and show him the room where the automatic washer and dryer have been housed since he was small, collect 5 marbles. Some of the most important things in life are not taught in college, you know.
Square 7. The children, by some miracle, have grown into responsible adults. By chance you overhear your now grown-up son telling the same bedtime stories to his firstborn that you so long ago told to him, and the tears fall silently down your cheeks. Don't despair - these are the pearls of parenting, and that is what the game is all about.

*****

Congratulations. You have crossed the finish line and it's time to add up the score. The game you have just played is called "Motherhood" - and if you haven't lost all your marbles - you win!

Reprinted by permission of Jacklyn Lee Lindstrom (c)

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

[Rhonda]

To Have and to Hold
By Elizabeth Thring

In the summer of 1959, I flew from Washington, D.C., to Los Angeles accompanied by my father. Nineteen years old, pregnant and frightened, I was flying to this distant city to live with total strangers, so that my unborn child could be born far away from prying eyes and gossiping mouths and then be put up for private adoption.
On September 3rd, I gave birth to a little boy and though I saw him once, lying in the nursery, I was not allowed to hold him. The doctor and nurses felt it would be too painful for me, and I suppose they were right. Shortly after the birth, I flew back to Washington, signed the adoption papers and, as my doctor had suggested, continued on with my life.
Although the pain of the parting diminished with time, I never forgot for a moment that I had a son. Every September 3rd for the next thirty-three years I silently mourned, grieving for the child I had given away. Mother's Day was always the worst. It seemed that every woman I knew was a mom. I'm a mother, too, I wanted to say but couldn't.
And so the years passed and turned into decades, and the memory of my only child lingered just beneath my conscious mind, ready to explode at a moment's notice.
Then on March 26, 1993, I received this message on my answering machine: "Elizabeth," a woman's voice said, "I have some news which I hope will be of interest to you and bring you great joy and happiness."
Her voice broke, and it was quite evident she was crying. "If you are the same Elizabeth Thring who did me a favor thirty-three years ago, please call me in Newport Beach, California. I would very much like to have a chat with you."
I called back immediately and was connected to an answering machine. Three days later, when I finally got through, the woman said her name was Susie. She thanked me profusely for calling and asked if I knew who she was.
"I believe so," I replied, "but I'm not 100 percent sure."
"Oh, Elizabeth," she said, "I adopted your beautiful baby boy thirty-three years ago, and I am just calling to tell you what a wonderful son you have. Bill is married to a terrific girl, and you have two absolutely beautiful little granddaughters."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I had fantasized about this very moment in some form or another for years, and now it was a reality. I told her that I couldn't think of another woman I knew with such generosity of spirit. Susie said that one day while watching her two little granddaughters playing, she thought to herself, "What woman wouldn't want to know about such beautiful children?" and so she began to search for me.
She told me that although Bill knew generally that she was looking for me, he had no knowledge of this most recent attempt to locate me, since there was always the possibility that I might not want to see him.
Soon after, I sent Bill a letter. In it I wrote: Oh, what joy - what pure, absolute, sheer joy, to discover after all these years that you are here, on the same earth, under the same blue heaven and stars and moon at night as I - and that you, my darling boy, want to know me as much as I yearn to know, hold and love you. Billy, it is important for me that you know I never, ever forgot you or ceased loving you. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for wanting to know me and not giving up on me. Your loving mother, Elizabeth.
In the middle of April I flew to Los Angeles. On the way, I wrote thirty-three birthday cards to my son with a short description of what I had done for each year of his life. Bill needs, I thought, to learn about me, too.
DeAnn, Bill's wife, videotaped me coming down the ramp at the airport. With her were my granddaughters, and standing just behind her was a very tall, blond, impeccably dressed man.
When he saw me, Bill stepped from behind his wife and walked toward me with arms open wide. Into this circle of love I stepped, feeling just like every other mother in the world holding her baby for the first time.

Reprinted by permission of Elizabeth Thring (c)

[Rhonda]

Getting Even
By Suzanne Lowe Vaughan

Several years ago my son was attending a college out of state. He called one evening and asked if he could come home for Spring Break. I reassured him that he was welcome. There was a pause and he asked, "Can I bring my sweetheart Deanna with me?"
"Sure Jeff," I said. "We'd love to meet her."
While I hung up the phone, I started remembering all the times this particular son had totally embarrassed me. Like the time I asking him to pick out a box of cereal at the store, then turned around to see him doing his stammering Elmer Fudd imitation to the delight of fellow shoppers. Or the time I was speaking from the pulpit at church and saw him sitting in the pew wearing glasses with bloodshot eyeballs springing from the lenses, swaying back in forth. His pranks were never-ending.
"So," I said to myself, "this is my chance!" I decided to show up at the airport to meet him and his sweetheart in less than my conservative manner of dress. I donned a black leather mini skirt, patterned hose, and six-inch patent leather heels. I wore a gold sweater that sparkled and glowed in the dark, accented by earrings swaying from my ear lobes to my shoulders. I spiked my hair and moussed it orange.
When my husband came home that evening, he took one look at me and said, "What is this? The bachelor party I never had? You aren't going to go through with this, are you?"
I nodded. He drove me to the upper level of the airport and let me out of the car, refusing to walk with me to the gate.
It was a long walk through the airport. I found myself looking down a lot. I found out what men think of women dressed like I was. I found out what women think of women dressed like that. But when Jeffrey got off the airplane, ohhhhhhhhhh it was all worth it! I ran arms outstretched toward him.
I squealed, stretching out his name as if he was a long, lost relative. "Jeffrey!" He looked away as soon as he saw me, the color quickly fading from his face. Deanna stood behind him, grinning - or was it grimacing.
"Aren't you going to introduce me?" I asked.
"No," he said abruptly. I looked at Deanna, smiled and reached forth my hand.
"Oh hi, Deanna, I'm Jeffrey's Mom."
She seemed not to know whether to laugh or cry. A snort of disbelief came from her as she covered her face to disguise her reaction. I looked back at Jeffrey, whose horrified expression looked as if he'd experienced his worst nightmare.
I smiled.
About now, his father showed up and as they walked together to baggage claim Jeff asked, "What in the world has gotten into Mom since I left for college?"
His Dad whispered, "A severe mid-life crisis."
I chatted nonchalantly all the way home. Jeffery and Deanna clung to each other and barely spoke. When we got home, I jumped in the shower and washed the orange out of my hair. I entered the living room in slacks and a sweater, looking like the mom Jeff knew and remembered. A look of relief flooded his face and he burst out laughing. "You got me, Mom!"
We hugged and laughed and spent the next several hours giggling and reminiscing about the tricks Jeff had pulled on all of us.
The next trip home for Jeffrey and Deanna was in December after they were married. I went to the airport to pick them up. I arrived at the gate just as the doors opened and cheerful seasonal travelers filed off the plane. I noticed two large reindeer coming toward me in full fur and antlers, one with a blinking red nose.
I hugged Rudolph.
"You feel a little silly this time, Mom?"
"No," I laughed. "Don't you?"
Somehow we were even for all those times he had totally mortified me.
Or were we?

Reprinted by permission of Suzanne Lowe Vaughan (c)

[Rhonda]

SUCCESS LESSONS I LEARNED FROM MY SINGLE MOM by Chris Widener


I was at a dinner party the other night when someone posed this question: Who has influenced your life the most? I thought for a moment and said what no one else said, "My mother."

You see, when I was four, my dad died. At the time, it seemed like we were on top of the world. My dad was making over $80,000 a year (in 1969), we were living in the largest house in one of the most prestigious country clubs in Seattle. Then my dad came down with cancer and was gone in 6 months.

Then we found out that my dad had only $30,000 in life insurance (I don't sell life insurance, but I can tell you this - you need more!). My mom and I went from the upper bracket to the lower middle financial bracket almost overnight. A year after my dad's death, we were comfortably lower middle class.

As I reflect back on my life, most of what I am today I learned from a tough as nails woman who went to work and busted her tail to get me ready for life. I realize now how many success principles she displayed while living out her life. The following success principles, though they can be and should be applied by all of us, are dedicated to all of those single moms out there. You are doing a tough job. Keep plugging away, be tenacious, and love your kids. They'll see your life and turn out all right.

Don't whine during tough times. You know, my mom got a bad deal, but as I look back on it, I cannot ever remember her complaining about her lot in life. That spoke volumes to me and has been a lesson ever since. Two people working, one whines, the other makes the most of the situation and works harder - who do you root for? Successful people don't whine, they work harder and beat the odds.
Be creative. My mom immediately went to selling real estate. She did all right, but she also bought old houses and fixed them up and sold them. We would move in and she would hire the workers from the real estate office to fix up the house on the weekends. A couple of years later we would sell the house and pocket some much needed extra cash. I moved a lot, but you do what you have to when your back is against the wall. Successful people get creative when it comes to solving problems.

Sacrifice for others. I know we didn't have much growing up but my mom always found ways to give me the extras. We would cut back here and there so that we could take the mandatory trip to Disneyland or get new athletic shoes. Finding purpose by sacrificing for others is one of the highest calling in success. Successful people live not only for themselves but for those around them as well.

Be independent. My mom didn't cut corners or get a leg up in anything. She worked hard for what she got. And she taught me to do the same. I can remember being taught to do things on my own that other parents were doing for their kids. Many of those kids still need their parents to get the job done. Successful people don't rely on others to do for them what they can do themselves.

Believe in yourself. When I would say I wanted to do something but didn't think I could, my mom would ask me, "Has anybody else ever done it?" I would say "Of course, lots of people." Her reply? "Then you can too. You are smarter than them!" Well, I probably wasn't smarter than them, but point well taken. If someone else has proven it can be done, then you have a chance! Successful people believe that they can do it!

Have a dream and pursue it - even if it takes years. My mom kept a dream alive and pursued it on the side as I grew up. The year I graduated from high school, my mom graduated from college. She was 54 years old. She kept her dream alive and worked at it bit by bit and finally it happened! Successful people dream big dreams and then complete them no matter how long it takes.

Stretch yourself. I can remember my mom taking me to business and real estate seminars when I was a twelve-year-old kid. Not because she couldn't find babysitting, but because she wanted me to learn something! Most parents wouldn't even think that their twelve-year-old could learn something there. Mine did. And I did learn a thing or two. Successful people stretch themselves.

Experience is the greatest teacher. My mom used to pull me out of school all the time and take me on these wild trips and journeys. I would say, "Uh, mom, shouldn't I be in school." She would always answer the same way, "Chris, we can't let school get in the way of your education!" Successful people understand that going to school can get you some knowledge and a degree, but nothing beats actually doing it.

Some things are worth more than money. One of the greatest sacrifices my mother made for me was when I began high school. I did well in sports and played in the evenings, so my mom quit selling real estate, which takes up a lot of evenings, and took a lower paying job as a secretary at the University. She rarely missed a game all through high school. Successful people realize there are some things money can't buy.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chris Widener is an internationally recognized speaker.

Ultimately the people who win, who achieve victory in Life are the people who are committed to it. They outlast everybody else. Because quite frankly all success in business, all success in relationships, all success in life comes at the end of the road of commitment!" -- Chris Widener

[Rhonda]

To Read When You're Alone
By Mike Staver


I was 13 years old. My family had moved to Southern California from North Florida a year before. I hit adolescence with a vengeance. I was angry and rebellious, with little regard for anything my parents had to say, particularly if it had to do with me. Like so many teenagers, I struggled to escape from anything that didn't agree with my picture of the world. A "brilliant without need of guidance" kid, I rejected any overt offering of love. In fact, I got angry at the mention of the word love.
One night, after a particularly difficult day, I stormed into my room, shut the door and got into bed. As I lay down in the privacy of my bed, my hands slipped under my pillow. There was an envelope. I pulled it out and on the envelope it said, "To read when you're alone."
Since I was alone, no one would know whether I read it or not, so I opened it. It said "Mike, I know life is hard right now, I know you are frustrated and I know we don't do everything right. I also know that I love you completely and nothing you do or say will ever change that. I am here for you if you ever need to talk, and if you don't, that's okay. Just know that no matter where you go or what you do in your life, I will always love you and be proud that you are my son. I'm here for you and I love you - that will never change. Love, Mom.
That was the first of several "To read when you're alone" letters. They were never mentioned until I was an adult.
Today I travel the world helping people. I was in Sarasota, Florida, teaching a seminar when, at the end of the day, a lady came up to me and shared the difficulty she was having with her son. We walked out to the beach, and I told her of my mom's undying love and about the "To read when you're alone" letters. Several weeks later, I got a card that said she had written her first letter and left it for her son.
That night as I went to bed, I put my hands under my pillow and remembered the relief I felt every time I got a letter. In the midst of my turbulent teen years, the letters were the calm assurance that I could be loved in spite of me, not because of me. Just before I fell asleep I thanked God that my mom knew what I, an angry teenager, needed. Today when the seas of life get stormy, I know that just under my pillow there is that calm assurance that love - consistent, abiding, unconditional love - changes lives.

Reprinted by permission of Mike Staver

~~~~~~~~

[Rhonda]

The Call at Midnight
By Christie Craig


We all know what's it like to get that phone call in the middle of the night. This night's call was no different. Jerking up to the ringing summons, I focused on the red illuminated numbers of my clock. Midnight. Panicky thoughts filled my sleep-dazed mind as I grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?"
My heart pounded, I gripped the phone tighter and eyed my husband, who was now turning to face my side of the bed.
"Mama?" I could hardly hear the whisper over the static. But my thoughts immediately went to my daughter. When the desperate sound of a young crying voice became clearer on the line, I grabbed for my husband and squeezed his wrist.
"Mama, I know it's late. But don't . . . don't say anything, until I finish. And before you ask, yes, I've been drinking. I nearly ran off the road a few miles back and. . . ."
I drew in a sharp shallow breath, released my husband and pressed my hand against my forehead. Sleep still fogged my mind, and I attempted to fight back the panic. Something wasn't right.
"And I got so scared. All I could think about was how it would hurt you if a policeman came to your door and said I'd been killed. I want . . . to come home. I know running away was wrong. I know you've been worried sick. I should have called you days ago, but I was afraid . . . afraid. . . ."
Sobs of deep-felt emotion flowed from the receiver and poured into my heart. Immediately I pictured my daughter's face in my mind and my fogged senses seemed to clear. "I think -"
"No! Please let me finish! Please!" She pleaded, not so much in anger, but in desperation.
I paused and tried to think what to say. Before I could go on, she continued. "I'm pregnant, Mama. I know I shouldn't be drinking now . . . especially now, but I'm scared, Mama. So scared!"
The voice broke again, and I bit into my lip, feeling my own eyes fill with moisture. I looked at my husband who sat silently mouthing, "Who is it?"
I shook my head and when I didn't answer, he jumped up and left the room, returning seconds later with the portable phone held to his ear.
She must have heard the click in the line because she continued, "Are you still there? Please don't hang up on me! I need you. I feel so alone."
I clutched the phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance. "I'm here, I wouldn't hang up," I said.
"I should have told you, Mama. I know I should have told you. But when we talk, you just keep telling me what I should do. You read all those pamphlets on how to talk about sex and all, but all you do is talk. You don't listen to me. You never let me tell you how I feel. It is as if my feelings aren't important. Because you're my mother you think you have all the answers. But sometimes I don't need answers. I just want someone to listen."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at the how-to-talk-to-your-kids pamphlets scattered on my nightstand. "I'm listening," I whispered.
"You know, back there on the road, after I got the car under control, I started thinking about the baby and taking care of it. Then I saw this phone booth, and it was as if I could hear you preaching about how people shouldn't drink and drive. So I called a taxi. I want to come home."
"That's good, Honey," I said, relief filling my chest. My husband came closer, sat down beside me and laced his fingers through mine. I knew from his touch that he thought I was doing and saying the right thing.
"But you know, I think I can drive now."
"No!" I snapped. My muscles stiffened, and I tightened the clasp on my husband's hand. "Please, wait for the taxi. Don't hang up on me until the taxi gets there."
"I just want to come home, Mama."
"I know. But do this for your mama. Wait for the taxi, please."
I listened to the silence in fear. When I didn't hear her answer, I bit into my lip and closed my eyes. Somehow I had to stop her from driving.
"There's the taxi, now."
Only when I heard someone in the background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension easing.
"I'm coming home, Mama." There was a click, and the phone went silent.
Moving from the bed, tears forming in my eyes, I walked out into the hall and went to stand in my sixteen-year-old daughter's room. The dark silence hung thick. My husband came from behind, wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on the top of my head.
I wiped the tears from my cheeks. "We have to learn to listen," I said to him.
He pulled me around to face him. "We'll learn. You'll see." Then he took me into his arms, and I buried my head in his shoulder.
I let him hold me for several moments, then I pulled back and stared back at the bed. He studied me for a second, then asked, "Do you think she'll ever know she dialed the wrong number?"
I looked at our sleeping daughter, then back at him. "Maybe it wasn't such a wrong number."
"Mom, Dad, what are you doing?" The muffled young voice came from under the covers.
I walked over to my daughter, who now sat up staring into the darkness. "We're practicing," I answered.
"Practicing what?" she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, her eyes already closed in slumber.
"Listening," I whispered and brushed a hand over her cheek.

Reprinted by permission of Christie Craig
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[Rhonda]

Potato Salad and Picnics
By Nancy B. Gibbs


Life is like potato salad; when it's shared it becomes a picnic.
When my three children were young, my husband Roy and I were very busy. He was working on his masters degree while working three jobs and I had three jobs of my own. There was very little time that wasn't crammed with stress, busy-ness and term papers.
"Can we go on a picnic, Mama?" my six-year old daughter, Becky begged. "Please."
I had said no so many times in recent months, I decided the usual Saturday morning chores could wait. To her surprise, I agreed. I prepared a few sandwiches and filled a cooler with ice and drinks and called Roy at work. "Meet us at the college pond for a picnic at twelve o'clock sharp," I said excitedly. My eleven-year-old twin sons loaded the cooler and the picnic basket in the trunk and off we went to spend some quality time together as a family. I glanced at the kitchen counter just before heading to the car and spied a package of stale hamburger buns. I thought about the family of ducks living at the pond. We stopped and picked up a bucket of fried chicken at a fast-food restaurant on the way.
Becky and I spread the tablecloth on the cement picnic table while Brad and Chad tossed a football back and forth. In no time flat the ducks joined us. Becky squealed with delight as the ducks begged for breadcrumbs. About the time I got the lunch spread out on the table, Roy arrived on the scene. We joined hands and bowed our heads. As the wind blew and the ducks quacked, he thanked God not only for the food but for our family.
That was one of the happiest meals we ever shared together. The gentle breeze God sent our way caressed my face, as the sunshine warmed my heart. The meal was graced with giggles and laughter. We felt a closeness that had been hidden by work and school-related responsibilities for so many months. Once the food was consumed, Roy and the boys skipped rocks on the lake. Becky continued to feed the ducks and I sat quietly on the picnic table, thanking God for blessing me with such a wonderful family.
Too soon, Roy had to go back to work. The kids continued to play together while I watched. I put the many things which I needed to do on the backburner of my life and simply enjoyed sharing the day with my children. Seeing the joy on each of their faces made me smile.
When we got into the car to return home, Becky crawled in the front seat with me. "Here Mama!" she exclaimed. She was holding a tiny yellow wildflower. Happy tears came to my eyes as I reached out and took it from her. When we arrived home, I put the tiny flower in a toothpick holder and placed the remaining food into the refrigerator.
That night as I tucked our children under their covers, I kissed their cheeks and realized what a wonderful life I had.
"Thank you for the picnic," one of the boys whispered.
"My pleasure," I whispered back.
As I walked out of the room it dawned on me that even the busiest lifestyle could become a picnic when it's shared it with the ones you love.
Even though the kids have now grown up and moved away from home, I can still remember how I felt that day while sitting on the picnic table.
Maybe today would be a good time to cook potato salad, call all of my grown kids, feed some hungry ducks and throw a few rocks into the lake. Since life is like potato salad, let's make it a picnic.

Reprinted by permission of Nancy B. Gibbs