Chicken Soup For The Soul

[Rhonda]

My Sinking Heart
By Cynthia Briggs


Goose bumps rose on my arms. "Hi, Mom, happy fiftieth birthday!" I heard my son, Brian say as clearly as if he were sitting next to me. But he wasn't.
Brian was on the USS Kitty Hawk on maneuvers somewhere between our U.S. shore and the Persian Gulf.
My party-loving friend, Denise, had invited me out for a quiet fiftieth birthday celebration dinner. It was unlike Denise to let such a special occasion go by without throwing a big birthday bash so I suspected a surprise party was commencing. When we arrived at the restaurant, I suspiciously scanned the sea of faces in the reception area. I didn't recognize a soul.
As Denise checked on the status of our reservation, I sipped a glass of Chardonnay, when once again I heard Brian in my head. "Hi, Mom, happy fiftieth birthday."
My mother's intuition kicked in. A single powerful throb stormed through my body, followed by an eerie chill. "I hope he's okay," I said softly.
A wave of melancholy washed over me, and tears welled in my eyes thinking about my twenty-year-old son, who was now married, and a terrific father to his own little ones. Was it possible that so much time had passed since he was jumping his bike over jury rigged ramps in the cow pasture, gobbling down apple dumplings faster than I could bake them and bathing our new kitten in his kiddy pool?
Knowing the intuitive connection between mother and son can be amazingly keen, I wondered if I was psychically drawing Brian to my side to celebrate this hallmark occasion. My eyes spilled over. My heart sank. I was searching my purse for a tissue when Denise returned.
"What's wrong?" she asked when she saw me dabbing at my eyes.
"I think I've had enough wine. I keep hearing Brian wish me a happy birthday," I said setting my empty wineglass aside.
She gave me an understanding smile. "Our table is ready," she said, ushering me toward the stairs.
"Surprise! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear, Cindy! Happy Birthday to you! And many more."
With beaming faces and rousing voices, friends, family, co-workers, shirttail relatives, and perhaps a few people I'd only met casually in the grocery store, belted out the familiar birthday tune.
Combining my emotional reaction to Brian's telepathic birthday greeting and the surprise birthday party, I nearly collapsed.
I'd no sooner sat down in the chair of honor when a fireman entered the room dressed from head to toe in firefighting bunker gear, carrying a sheet cake that looked like it'd been set afire. My heart sank. I'd seen firefighters at other soirées and they . . . well, let's just say they entered the room dressed to put out a raging fire, but exited the room decked out only in their birthday suit. Didn't Denise know this was not only in poor taste, but also downright embarrassing? How could she have let anyone do this to me?
The firefighter set the cake on the table in front of me so I could blow out the fifty blazing candles. "It's time to cut the cake," he said.
It seemed a bit early to be cutting cake, but I was thankful his clothes were still on his body and that he hadn't started any dancing gyrations yet.
I felt a tug on my heart when I saw the cake was a decadent death-by-chocolate flavor, a favorite Brian and I shared. An odd hollowness filled my chest. He's so far away and so much can happen.
Once again I heard Brian speak, "Mom, be sure to save me a piece of cake." This time he sounded very far away. Was he okay?
I froze in my chair. Was I losing my mind? Was hearing voices another menopausal side effect? My emotional state was fanned by the fear that the fireman might be removing most of his clothing at any moment.
"I'll have some cake as soon as I get this helmet off," the firefighter said. Every drop of blood in my veins flowed to my feet. He was stripping! With one fell swoop, the man grabbed the bottom of the helmet and swiftly pulled it from his head.
"Brian!"
"Hi Mom. Happy fiftieth birthday!"

Reprinted by permission of Cynthia Briggs

[Rhonda]

The Magic Key
By David "Goose" Guzzetta


It was a cool September morning when we piled into a rusty blue university van and began our journey across one of the great divisions in our society: affordable housing. Our group of fifteen college students was heading to Milwaukee to help build homes in a poor inner-city neighborhood with Habitat for Humanity.
After passing through miles of farmland that slowly segued into subdivisions and strip malls, we were soon driving through city neighborhoods where the homes were older and packed tightly into plots protected by chain link fences. As we drove on, we saw many homes and businesses boarded up. That's also when our idle conversation boarded up into stunned silence.
Weaving through a maze of old row houses and empty lots, we knew we were near the Habitat site when we saw cars lining the streets, Dumpsters and a small knot of people armed with work gloves.
At the site, I told the construction supervisor we wanted the toughest job of the day. He smiled and led us to an enormous pile of debris.
"I figure this pile was here before any of you were born," he laughed, mostly to himself. "I'd like to chuck it all in the dumpster out front."
After dubbing the pile "Mount Habitat," we began our arduous task. About two hours into our work, several children walked over and became our kid corps of sidewalk superintendents. We invited them to join us in our mountain assault, and those munchkins enthusiastically agreed.
The smallest boy of the group hung back as the other children put on gloves and dug in. While I was working on a far corner of the pile, I smiled at him when he glanced my way. He strode up to me, puffed out his chest and stated, "My name's J. T., and I'm real strong."
"Well, I can see that," I replied. "My name is David, and I really need some help." I grabbed a shovel that was nearby and handed it to my small helper.
The shovel towered over him by a full two feet and his tiny hands couldn't even wrap around the handle. Without a moment's hesitation, he dug into the pile with great passion. Every few minutes he would stop, then look up at me and exclaim with pride, "I'm helping."
And each time I responded, "I don't know what we would do without you, J. T."
He was dressed much like the other kids: blue jeans rolled up at the bottom so he could grow into them, a T-shirt dirty from the day's adventures, and an unbuttoned well-worn red and white flannel shirt. He wore high-top basketball shoes that were purposely left untied, and upon closer inspection, I realized they were actually two different shoes.
But it was his beautiful brown eyes that set him apart. When he smiled, his eyes remained wide open, which forced his cheeks to bulge out like the cheeks of a cherub. I tried to imagine what this little boy would look like when the rest of his frail body caught up with his eyes.
To amuse each other, we took turns making up stories about items that we found in the pile. A rusted hubcap became a gear from a flying saucer that crashed many years ago. A beat-up old shoe and a broken cup were transformed into a priceless modern art exhibit. I found an old rusted skeleton key and created a story about a magic spaceship. When I finished telling the story, I gave J. T. the key and said, "Now you have the magic key that starts that spaceship."
He gazed at me with those huge brown eyes and ran over to his friends to show them his new treasure.
J. T. and I worked side by side the entire day. I had to give up my shovel a few times when some of the adult volunteers needed one, but I always made sure my new friend had his orange-handled shovel.
And then, as we were getting ready to quit for the day, a well-dressed elderly man walking with a cane called one of the children over. The man then began to yell, "Unless you're gettin' paid, you git away from there and go home right now. I mean it, right now."
All of the children dropped their shovels and quickly dispersed. A woman from our group approached the man and tried to explain Habitat for Humanity's philosophy to him. He was unfamiliar with Habitat's work and refused to believe that people would volunteer their time and then sell the home for no profit. He turned away and continued to shout to the children.
I watched J. T. as he scurried off. He slowed and seemed suspended between the urgings of his peers, the commands of the elderly man and our group. I stood silently clutching my shovel. He turned and his eyes found mine. We shared a mutual smile. Again, he ran toward his friends, but then he stopped, turned around and ran back toward me.
He grasped my hand and pulled me down so that we were eye to eye. Standing on his tiptoes, he whispered in my ear, "You'll always be my friend." Then he pressed something into my hand and ran off with the other children.
I never saw J. T. again, but I will always treasure the gift he gave me, the old rusty key to his magic spaceship.

Reprinted by permission of David "Goose" Guzzetta

[Rhonda]

If You Love Me, Say That!
By Mitch Anthony


Jerry couldn't forget the snowy winter day that his firstborn son almost had a serious accident. Jeff was in his first year of driving, which made Jerry nervous to begin with. The close call with disaster only heightened his anxiety.
One day following the near-accident, Jeff told his father he was getting ready to leave the house.
"Drive carefully, now!" Jerry warned.
Jeff turned to his father with a look of chagrin and asked, "Why do you always say that?"
"Say what?"
"'Drive carefully.' It's like you don't trust me driving."
"No, Son, that's not it at all," Jerry explained. "It's just my way of saying, 'I love you.'"
"Well, Dad, if you want to say you love me, say that!" Jeff said. "That way I can't mix up the message."
"But . . . ," Jerry hesitated. "What if your friends are here with you? If I say 'I love you,' you might get embarrassed."
"In that case, Dad, when you're saying good-bye, just put your hand near your heart, and I'll do the same," Jeff offered.
Jerry was touched that his son wanted, as badly as he, to express his love. "You've got a deal," he said.
A few days later, Jeff was getting ready to leave again, this time with a friend. "Can I have the keys, Dad?" he asked his father.
"Sure," Jerry answered. "Where are you headed?"
"Downtown."
Jerry tossed him the keys. "Jeff," he said, pausing before adding, "have a great time." He subtly placed his hand near his heart. Jeff did the same. "Sure, Dad," he said.
Jerry winked.
Jeff walked back to his father and whispered, "Winks weren't a part of the deal." Jerry was slightly taken aback.
Jeff headed for the door. "Okay, Dad, see ya," he said. Just before he shut the door, he turned back - and winked.

Reprinted by permission of Mitch Anthony

[Rhonda]

Caroline's Compassion
By Frances Pace Putman


When my daughter, Caroline, was very young, we started saying a prayer every time we heard a siren from an ambulance or fire truck. It's a quick prayer, just, "God, please be with the people the ambulance (or fire truck) is going to help."
I always initiated the prayer, and sometimes, she would even whine, "I don't want to say it this time."
I just reminded her that someone was in need, and that if we were in need, we would want people to pray for us. I thought it was a good way to help her learn about compassion and how, as Christians, we love and care for others, even it we don't know them personally.
It's the same reason, I told her, that we pick up a few extra items at the grocery store and deliver them to our church's food pantry. And it's the reason we prepare care packages for missionaries and bag up clothes she has outgrown to take to a local ministry helping the poor.
But when she started kindergarten this year, I realized she might not fully comprehend the compassion thing.
When her class was collecting canned goods at Thanksgiving to benefit a local mission, we looked in our pantry to choose something to donate. She didn't want to give away the corn or sweet peas, because those were her favorites.
"Let's take the black beans and . . . here, kidney beans . . . yuck!" she proclaimed.
I realized that, to Caroline, this was more about cleaning out the pantry and getting rid of the foods she didn't like than it was about helping the needy.
Rationalizing that she was only five years old, we took the cans of "yucky" beans and off we went to school.
I was rather surprised to pass another mom in the hall that morning, carrying two huge bags laden with groceries.
"Ashlen insisted that we bring all of this," she told me. "I tried to pick out a few cans, but she just kept reminding me that the people were hungry and that we needed to give them more."
"That's so sweet," I told her, with what must have looked like a big, fake grin on my face.
Actually, I was thrilled that her daughter was so kind, but I had to wonder why mine, apparently, was not.
Through the holidays, I was determined more than ever, to teach my daughter about compassion. I told Caroline about all the monetary donations during the season, and we spent extra time focusing on the gifts we were going to give others, rather than what we might receive. We made extra deliveries to the food pantry, took flowers to the local nursing home and baked cookies and brownies for a few of our elderly neighbors.
One day at the grocery store, we saw a huge box for donated toys for underprivileged children.
I pointed the box out to Caroline and told her people were bringing toys to be given to children who might not otherwise get Christmas presents.
"Maybe we could bring something for the box," I suggested.
"Well, we could buy some toys, and if they are not something I like, we could bring them here," she told me, matter-of-factly.
Oh, boy. I realized we still weren't quite there yet. In earnest, I turned to God. I asked Him to help me find ways to teach Caroline to be more compassionate, and I asked Him to open her heart to better understand the importance of loving and helping people.
A couple of months later as I rushed through the house picking up toys and putting away laundry, I peeked in Caroline's room and noticed her sitting on her bed, head bowed and hands folded.
"Dear God," she said, "please be with the people the fire truck is going to help."
In all my busyness I had not even heard the siren.
But she did.

Reprinted by permission of Frances Pace Putman

~~~~~~~~~~~

[Rhonda]

Ruby's Roses
By Donna Gundle-Krieg


The neighborhood kids nicknamed the cranky old couple Crazy Jack and Ruby Rednose. Rumor was that they sat inside and drank whiskey all day. It was true that Jack and Ruby Jones preferred to keep to themselves. About the only words we ever heard from them were "Keep out of our rosebushes!"
The rosebushes were seventy beautiful floribunda shrubs that served as a fence between our house and theirs. The rose fence took quite a bit of abuse, since our house was the neighborhood hangout. I was eleven at the time and the oldest of six active girls. We should have played our softball games elsewhere to avoid hurting the roses, but we secretly enjoyed irritating Crazy Jack and Ruby Rednose.
Jack and Ruby had a son whom we nicknamed Crazy Jack Junior. He was due to come home from Vietnam. We heard he had been discharged because of a nervous breakdown. The neighborhood had thrown a big party for Jimmy Brown when he came home from the war, but no one offered to have a party for Crazy Jack Junior.
The day Crazy Jack Junior was scheduled to come home, we had a neighborhood softball game in our yard. Johnny McGrath was trying to catch a fly ball. He stumbled over one of Ruby Rednose's thorny rosebushes and fell on top of several more. Boy, did he yell, but the roses were the ones that really suffered. From my vantage point at second base, it looked like about ten of them were damaged pretty badly. Johnny's timing was terrible, because as he lay there swearing at the roses, the Joneses' pickup rolled into the driveway. The truck screeched to a halt and Crazy Jack Junior sprang out. He ran full speed toward Johnny.
"You little punk!" he screamed. "Look what you've done to our family's roses! You've always been trouble. I'm going to fetch my gun and shoot you!"
The next few minutes were a blur. The neighborhood kids ran for their lives. Ruby and Jack tried to restrain their son. He continued to yell threats and profanities. Ruby wasn't my favorite person, but I felt sorry for her when I saw her tearfully pleading with Crazy Jack Junior. Finally, they coaxed him inside.
Meanwhile, my sisters and I tore into our house. Breathlessly, we told Mom what had happened. She put down her sewing and scolded, "Girls, I have told you not to play softball near those bushes. Come outside right now and help me fix them."
"Mom, we thought you didn't like the Joneses," we protested. "They're mean to us. Besides, Crazy Jack Junior might shoot us."
Mom just glared at us. We followed her outside to help mend the rose fence.
While Mom examined the damaged roses, my sisters and I hung back, plotting how to get out of the thorny job. As we whispered back and forth, the Joneses' garage door opened and Ruby slowly walked out. She looked sad. And it wasn't her nose that was red, it was her eyes.
Ruby walked over to my mother. The two women stood looking at each other through the new gap in the rose fence. We girls held our breath, waiting to see who would shout first and what terrible things would be said. How much trouble would we be in when it was all over?
Suddenly my mother stepped forward and hugged Ruby. "I'm glad your son came back home," she said gently. "It must have been a horrible experience in Vietnam. We're sorry about the flowers. The girls will replace them if we can't fix them. In return for all the bother, they'll help you weed the roses this summer."
My sisters and I looked at each other in horror, but Ruby smiled at my mother through her tears. "I know we're particular about these roses," she said, "but they're very special to us. When my mother came from England, she brought one tiny part of her favorite rosebush. That was her reminder of home."
She paused a minute, then said sadly, "My mother had a magic touch with flowers. Over the years that one plant multiplied into all these bushes. Since she died, I've tried to keep them up, but I just don't have her magic touch."
Her voice was all choked up. "Mom died while Jack Junior was in Vietnam. He just found out about her death today. When he saw her rosebushes damaged, it was the last straw."
Ruby mopped at her tears. "Once we got him inside and calmed down, he admitted he's out of control. Jack just drove him to Clinton Valley to be admitted to a treatment program."
By now I felt really bad for the Jones family - what a sorrowful homecoming! I could tell my mother and sisters felt the same.
"We all enjoy the roses as much as you do. We'll be happy to help you care for them," my mother said. "You know, some people say I have a magic touch with flowers, too."
Soon both women were down on their knees talking and examining the damaged bushes together. A few weeks later, the plants all returned with vigor.
My mother and Ruby worked together on the roses all summer long and many summers to follow. So did my sisters and I. A friendship formed between the families that would include countless birthdays, graduations and weddings - including Jack Junior's.
Years later, when her son left home and her husband died, Ruby became part of our family, spending many happy hours at our house.
She wasn't Ruby Rednose anymore; she was Aunt Ruby. And the rose fence wasn't a fence any longer. My mother had turned it into a bridge.

Reprinted by permission of Donna Gundle-Krieg

[Rhonda]

The Princess Dress
By Anne Goodrich


The phone rang on a Saturday night. It was Kelly.
"Mom, where were you?" she said. "I tried to call you from a store because I want you to help me make up my mind. Oh, Mom, I found the most beautiful dress for my formal! I feel like a princess in it, but it's really expensive. What do you think I should do? Should I buy it?"
I didn't have a moment's hesitation. "Yes," I told her. "Buy the dress." But in those few short minutes on the phone I didn't have the time or the words to explain why I thought she should have the "princess" dress she'd found. There are so many reasons I would give my daughter. . . .
For growing up without many clothes or vacations, because there was never enough money, and not complaining about either one - that would be one reason.
For studying so hard and doing every extra-credit assignment she could get her hands on, so she could go to college.
For all those times she passed the soccer ball, when she knew she could have easily run and scored but valued being a team player more than being a star.
For that fierce determination when she was slammed in the nose during a game, and despite blood running down her face, kept yelling, "I'm fine, Coach! I'm not bleeding anymore. Put me in, Coach!"
For giving up varsity soccer at college because she had to work and couldn't (wouldn't!) let her grades suffer.
For giving up her spring break one year to build houses for the poor in Tijuana and coming home scraped and bruised and sick and exclaiming, "Mom, that was the most wonderful thing I've ever done in my life!"
For deciding that even though she was supporting herself she could still find the money to sponsor a child in El Salvador who has less.
For deciding that faith is the most important thing of all.
For telling me when I wished I could give her more, "Mom, I think of you as my angel," and reminding me just how priceless love is.
Oh yes, I do think that daughter of mine should have that dress. And she's right that no one will notice that her shoes don't match (since there's no extra money to buy new shoes). I know that people will only see the shining joy in those big brown eyes of hers, and that radiant smile that could light a midnight sky. But Kelly was wrong about one thing. I don't think that she'll look like a princess in that dress of hers: To me, my darling daughter is a queen.

Reprinted by permission of Anne Goodrich

[Rhonda]

How to Be New and Different
By Patricia Lorenz


The year 1993 wasn't shaping up to be the best year of my life. I was into my eighth year as a single parent, had three kids in college, 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. Faced with all this, I was spending lots of time feeling sorry for myself.
That April, I was asked to interview and write about a woman who lived in a small town in Minnesota. So during Easter vacation, Andrew, my thirteen-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?"
"I don't think so. But for some reason, 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 - Tyler and Cody - both adopted. She's a single parent, too. Only she's never been married."
"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 and taught all sorts of musical instruments. She was also the music director at her church."
Andrew fell asleep again before I could finish telling him what little I did know about what had 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?
When we arrived in 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 okay, 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. 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 line, paid for our food, and ate and talked amidst the chattering of our three sons. The only thing I had to do for Jan Turner that entire evening was unscrew the top on the ketchup bottle.
Later that night, as our three sons splashed in the pool, Jan and I sat on the side and she told me about life before her illness.
"We were a typical single-parent family. You know, busy all the time. Life was so good, in fact, that I was seriously thinking about adopting a third child."
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 1989, I was playing my trumpet at the front of my 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 then 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. She had pneumococcal pneumonia, the same bacterial infection that took the life of Muppets creator Jim Henson. One of its disastrous side effects is an activation of the body's clotting system, which causes the blood vessels to plug up. Because there was suddenly 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. Oh God, don't let me depend 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. It fell open to Romans, chapter twelve, 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 - about being a new and different person - and she decided to give the prosthetics a try. 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 soon able to open and close the hooks to pick up and hold objects, and dress and feed herself.
Within a few months, Jan learned she could do almost everything she used to do - only in a new and different way.
"Still, 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 there, 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!" Jan laughed like a woman who is blessed with tremendous happiness, contentment and unswerving faith in God.
Since our visit, Jan has completed a second college degree, this one in communications, and she is now an 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. Simply put, Jan says, "I'm a new and different person, triumphant because of God's unending love and wisdom."
After meeting Jan, 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 or having the courage to end a relationship with a wonderful friend who just wasn't the right one for me.
Jan may not have real flesh-and-blood arms, legs, hands or feet, but that woman has more heart and soul than anyone I've 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 . . . to live my life triumphantly.

Reprinted by permission of Patricia Lorenz

[Rhonda]

My Son
By LeAnn Thieman


The war was far from Saigon when I agreed to escort six babies from Vietnam to their adoptive homes in the U.S. Still, the decision to leave my husband and two little girls had not been easy. When the war escalated, I had begged God for a sign that I could back out of my commitment, but He only filled me with a courage and confidence I could explain to no one. Somehow I knew this was all a part of His plan. By the time I landed in Saigon, bombs were falling outside the city limits, Vietnam was falling to the Communists, and President Ford had okayed Operation Babylift. Scores of the estimated 50,000 Amerasian babies and toddlers were herded into our headquarters of Friends of Children of Vietnam in preparation for the airlift.
On my third day there, over breakfast of bread and bottled Coke, Cheri, the director said, "LeAnn, you've probably figured this out. . . . "
I hadn't.
"You and Mark applied for adoption of a son through us and we told you to expect him in two years." She spoke above the din of dozens of bawling babies. "Obviously everything has changed. You'll be assigned one of the babies gathered here - or," she paused to touch my hand, "or you can go into the nursery and choose a son."
I was stunned speechless.
I felt myself flush with excitement--then with fear.
"Really?" I finally croaked. Surely I had heard her wrong.
Cherie's tired eyes danced. "Really."
"So I can just go in there and pick out a son?"
Cherie nodded again.
Dazed, I turned to my friend and traveling companion, Carol. "Come with me." She jumped up immediately and we approached the door to the nursery together.
I paused and took a deep breath. "This is like a fantasy. A dream come true."
I opened the door and we entered a room filled with babies. Babies on blankets and mats. Babies in boxes and baskets and bassinets and cribs.
"Carol, how will I ever choose? There are 110 babies here now."
One baby in a white T-shirt and diaper looked at me with bright eyes. I sat cross-legged on the floor with him on my lap. He seemed to be about nine months old and responded to my words with cute facial expressions and animation. He giggled and clapped his hands.
"We should name you Personality," I said. Then I noticed he was wearing a name bracelet on his ankle. He had already been assigned to a family in Denver. Well, I thought, feeling disappointment rising in my throat, that family is mighty lucky.
Another child caught my eye as he pulled himself to his feet beside a wooden crib. We watched with amusement as he tugged the toes of the baby sleeping inside. Then he dropped to his hands and knees and began crawling to me. I met him halfway across the room and picked him up. He wore only a diaper and his soft, round tummy bulged over its rim. He looked at me and smiled brightly, revealing chubby cheeks and deep dimples. As I hugged him he nestled his head into my shoulder.
"Maybe you'll be our son," I whispered. He pulled back, staring into my eyes, still smiling. For the next hour, I carried him around the room, looking at each infant, touching them, talking to them. All the while, the baby in my arms babbled, smiled, and continued to cuddle. I couldn't bring myself to put him down as we went upstairs where the floor was carpeted with even more babies. The hallway was like a megaphone, blasting the sounds of chattering workers and crying babies.
"Let me hold him," Carol coaxed, "while you look at the others." The couch against the wall held a half-dozen fussy infants side by side. I picked up each of them. Most seemed stiff and unresponsive. How sad that cuddling could be unfamiliar to them. I weaved my way to the blanket of babies at the end of the room and sat caressing each of them. As I cradled one in my arms, I could feel the bones of his spine press against my skin. Another's eyes looked glazed and motionless. Sorrow gripped me.
I felt the little boy Carol was carrying for me pat my arm. As I turned to look, he reached his chubby arms out for me. Taking him from her, I snuggled him close and he snuggled back. Someone had loved him very much.
Downstairs, we meandered from mat to crib looking at all the infants again. I wished I could adopt them all. But I knew there were long waiting lists at the Denver headquarters of hundreds of families who had completed the tedious, time-consuming application process. Each of these precious orphans would have immediate homes carefully selected for them.
"How do I choose?" I asked myself as much as Carol.
The baby boy in my arms answered by patting my face. I had never missed my husband more. "I wish Mark was here."
I turned my full attention to the child I held, waving my hands in front of his face to check his eyes. He blinked and flashed his dimples.
I snapped my fingers by his ears in a foolish attempt to test his hearing. He turned his head, giggled, and grabbed at my hands.
Then I sat on the floor slowly rocking him back and forth in my arms. I whispered a prayer for the decision I was about to make, a decision that would affect many lives forever. The baby nestled into the hollow of my neck, reassuring me that the choice I was about to make was the right one. I could feel his shallow breath and tender skin as he embraced me.
&nb sp; I recalled all the data we had collected for adoption, all the letters of references from friends, bankers, employers, all the interviews with the social workers.
It had all been worth it for this moment.
We rocked in silence and cuddled. Then, with immense joy, I walked back through the nursery door to the office.
"Meet our son, Mitchell Thieman!" I announced, hardly believing my own words. Everyone gathered around and embraced us. I looked at Mitchell's puzzled face and held him closer. Cheri brought a nametag and I eagerly scrawled on it "Reserve for Mark Thieman" and placed it on his ankle.
Joyful tears streamed down my cheeks. For a moment all my fears were gone. I no longer wondered why I had been driven to make this journey. "This is why God sent me to Vietnam," I whispered.
I had been sent to choose a son.
Or had he chosen me?

Reprinted by permission of LeAnn Thieman (c)

[Rhonda]

Good Morning, I Love You!
By Margie Seyfer


When I speak, I tell my audiences, "As you get out of bed each morning and stumble into the bathroom, jump-start each day with a positive attitude. Look in the mirror and say, 'Good Morning. I love you. We're going to have a great day!'"
Jill implemented this plan at home when their Sunday scramble to church had become a war. It was a fight to get her family out of bed and dressed. Yet, despite all her raving and ranting, they always arrived late, surrounded by an angry cloud of silence.
One Sunday, she tried her new affirmation. She stood over her husband's side of the bed and whispered in his ear, "Good Morning. I love you! We're going to have a great day!"
Dan opened one eye and said, "What? Are you crazy?"
She just smiled and went across the hallway to their five-year-old son's bedroom. She opened the door and repeated the greeting. Jeff rolled over and said, "You're wrong, Mom. We're going to have a bad day!"
She smiled again and went across the hallway to check on Dan. She couldn't believe it. He was already up, dressing!
She trotted back to Jeff's room. To her surprise he too was out of bed, putting on his clothes!
That Sunday was the first in a month of Sundays they arrived at church on time and still liking one another.
So Jill turned this greeting into a morning ritual. She had been especially worried about her five-year-old's negative attitude. Each morning, she woke Jeff with her new greeting, and each morning, he gave her some sort of a cynical retort.
Her worries ended when one morning, she opened his bedroom door and before she could speak, Jeff looked up at her with his big brown eyes and said, "Good Morning. I love you, Mom. We're going to have a great day!"

Reprinted by permission of Margie Seyfer (c)

[Rhonda]

This Is the Best Day of My Life
By Dian Tune Lopez


Being a mother of five children who were all born within seven years tells me I am either very crazy or I love being a mother. For me it is the latter. From the moment I felt the first baby moving within my womb I was hooked. I knew my calling in life. I went to college; I did all the things that the modern woman is told to do. But, all I really wanted was to be a full-time domestic goddess (as Roseanne Barr used to say).
For many years I was a full-time mother; however, I did have to supplement my husband's income to make ends meet. So I would tend and fall in love with yet more children. Not children that I gave birth to but working mothers' children. I loved those kids like my own. This allowed me to stay home with my own and share my love for others' children. A working mom is a happy mom when her kids are happy. Well, I did my very best to make sure that their kids were happy.
When my last child started school I decided that I would substitute teach at the local schools. I loved it. Again I was allowed to be home with my kids when they were at home. What I didn't realize was that I would be able to go on field trips with my own children. I would have freedom that I hadn't had in a long time. I had never been able to do this when I ran home daycare. I felt that it was a fair trade-off to be home with my kids.
My son, who was eight at the time, brought home a note for a field trip to be signed. For years I had always checked the "No" box where they ask for chaperones. He pleaded with me to go. I already had a substitute job scheduled for that day. I thought about it for a while and I checked the "Yes" box. Jonathan was thrilled to say the least. I quickly notified the teacher that I wouldn't be able to sub on that day, and she would have to find someone else. She wasn't thrilled but she understood.
The field trip day arrived. We were going to ride the "Bell Carol" steamboat down the Cumberland River and then walk to the Spaghetti Factory for lunch. The anticipation was just about to kill my son. He beamed with pride as we walked into the school building together. He introduced me to his class. I was so touched by his tender words and pride in me.
The bus ride from LaVergne, Tennessee, to downtown Nashville is about thirty minutes on a good day. This can be a very long time with ninety-plus kids on a bus. Jonathan wanted me to sit by him. I chose not to be the disciplinarian to the children that I was sitting by that day. I let the teachers and their aides do that. I focused my entire attention on my son, and we talked the entire ride. We talked about many fun and silly things. I listened while he talked. Our eyes met, and he looked deep inside mine and said, "Mama, this is the best day of my life." My heart was filled with true joy. A soft tear or two rolled down my face and Jonathan asked me, "Mama, don't cry; Mama, why are you crying?" And I answered, "Because you have made this one of the best days of my life."
The true joy of motherhood comes from the simple things that we do for and with our children.

Reprinted by permission of Dian Tune Lopez (c)