Chicken Soup For The Soul

[Rhonda]

Black Jellybeans
By Margie Seyfer


I've never read an official study on the matter, but I've noticed that in animal shelters, black cats are the most overlooked. Black seems to be the least preferred of cat colors, ranking below all combinations of white, orange, gray, spotted and striped. Black cats are still stereotyped as Halloween cats, creatures of bad luck, more appropriate on a witch's broomstick than curled up on your pillow. To make matters worse, in cages, black cats become close to invisible, fading into the dark shadows in the back of a stainless-steel cage.
For eleven years, starting when I was ten years old, I volunteered at an urban animal shelter. It always struck me as particularly unfair that, time after time, I'd get to know affectionate, adorable black cats, only to watch them be passed over by adopters merely because of their color. I assumed there was nothing that could be done.
One day, many years into my work at the shelter, I spent a few minutes petting a sweet, black half-grown kitten, who had been found as a stray and brought to the shelter. The slender thing purred warmly at my attention, gently playful as she patted my hand with one paw. I thought about what a shame it was that the kitten was already too big to be adopted on baby-kitten appeal alone, and so solidly black that most people wouldn't even pause in front of her cage. I noticed there was no name written on the informational card on her cage. Since volunteers were welcome to name the strays that came to the shelter, I thought for a moment about what I could name this black kitten. I wanted to think of a name that could give the kitten the kind of appealing "color" that might encourage an adopter to take a second look. The name Jellybean popped into my head, and I wrote it on the card, just as I'd named thousands of cats in the past.
I was taken entirely by surprise when, later that afternoon, I overheard a woman walking through the cat room say, "Jellybean! What a wonderful name!" She stopped to look more closely at the kitten, now batting at a piece of loose newspaper in the cage. She asked me if she could hold Jellybean, and, as I opened the cage, I sheepishly admitted that the kitten didn't know her name, as I'd named her just hours before. I lifted her into the woman's arms, and the kitten leaned into the woman, looking up into her eyes with a purr of kitten bliss. After a few minutes, the woman told me that she'd like to adopt this black kitten, and, when the paperwork was approved a few days later, she took Jellybean home.
I was pleased, of course - adoptions were always what nourished my soul - but I chalked it up to a lucky break for one black kitten, and moved on.
I was surprised again a few weeks later when the woman came back to the shelter. She found me refilling water bowls in a cat room and said, "You were the one who helped me adopt that black kitten a few weeks ago, remember? Jellybean? I know you were the one who named her, and I've been wanting to stop back to thank you. She's the sweetest thing - I just love her to pieces. But I don't know if I would have noticed her if she hadn't had that great name. It just suits her perfectly. She's so bouncy and colorful - I know that sounds crazy. Anyway, I wanted to say thank you."
I told her I was touched that she had stopped by and thrilled to hear that Jellybean was doing well in her new home. Then I explained how I thought black cats were often unfairly overlooked and admitted the name had been my conscious attempt to get someone to notice a cat who would probably not have been adopted otherwise. She said, "Well, it worked! You should name all the black cats Jellybean."
I smiled politely at the suggestion, thinking to myself that this woman knew nothing of the harsh realities of animal shelters. Just because I named one kitten Jellybean and it had gotten adopted didn't mean anything - it had just been a stroke of luck. Black cats were still black cats, after all, and most people didn't want them.
As the day went on, I kept thinking about the woman's advice: "You should name all the black cats Jellybean." As crazy as it seemed, I decided I had nothing to lose. Pen in hand, I walked along the cages, looking for a black cat without a name. There was only one, a small black kitten alone in a cage, sleeping. I wrote "Jellybean" on its cage card. Later that afternoon, someone came along and said they'd like to adopt that little Jellybean. Well, I thought to myself, that wasn't really a fair test - it was so cute and tiny.
A few days later, a nameless black cat came along, fully grown. I named it Jellybean. It was adopted. Days later, another. Adopted. The process repeated itself enough times that, after a while, I had to admit that maybe there was some magic in the name, after all. It began to seem morally wrong not to name black cats Jellybean, especially ones who had a bounce in their step and a spark of joy in their eyes. Although I'd usually refrained from using the same name for more than one cat, after a while, my fellow volunteers ceased to be surprised when they came across another of my Jellybeans.
Of course, we'll need more far-reaching solutions to ensure that every cat has a home. But for my black Jellybeans, sitting in sunny windows, sniffing at ladybugs walking across the kitchen floor, snuggling in beds with their adopted people, a name made all the difference. "Jellybean" allowed some humans to see beyond a dark midnight coat into the rainbow of riches in a cat's heart.

Reprinted by permission of Dorian Solot (c)

[Rhonda]

Esmerelda's Song
By Dan Millman


In my long athletic career as a gymnast, I had trained with the best. At Stanford University I coached the top Olympians and a nationally ranked team. But my favorite students were beginners - especially adult novices, filled with doubt about their abilities, but game enough to try.
Students of all ages and abilities would show up for my gymnastics classes - little boys with oversized shorts and mismatched socks; little girls with red pigtails and matching freckles; adolescents and adults who looked warily around at the apparatus, their fear mingled with excitement. Over the years I taught them - in a rooftop room at the Berkeley YMCA, in a fancy gym club in Atlanta and in a tiny studio in San Francisco - at Stanford, Berkeley and finally, Oberlin College.
There, I remember an amazing, heavyset young man named Darwin, blind from birth, who announced that he had his heart set on learning a front flip on the trampoline. Darwin's lack of balance or visual cues led me to doubt the likelihood of his learning even the basics of trampoline, much less a somersault. But I welcomed him to class and said we'd take it one step - or rather, one bounce - at a time. After many months of preparation and many failed attempts, on the last day of class Darwin Neuman accomplished a front somersault, to the cheers and tears of everyone in the class. I remember the mixture of surprise and delight on Darwin's face; I remember the moment as if it were yesterday.
I also remember other students, of course - one is a now-famous Broadway star. And over the years, many students have made me a believer by showing, again and again, the power of persistence.
But most of all, I remember Esme.
Her real name was Esmerelda Esperanza Garcia, but she asked me to call her Esme that first day of my ten-week course in basic gymnastics at Oberlin. Esme had no particular disabilities - she could see and hear and to all appearances was in good physical health - although she was a bit thin and frail for the rigors of bars and beam. As it turned out, I had never before met a teaching challenge like Esme. Something had brought her to me and to one of the more challenging physical education classes at Oberlin. She brought with her a set of psychological baggage that included her self-image as a klutz, and she seemed determined to demonstrate that each day. Esme didn't just fall behind everyone else - she was like a golfer who played entirely in the rough, never touching a fairway.
To fully appreciate what Esme faced, understand this: each term, as new students wandered into the gymnastics area and looked around, I would call them together and demonstrate a full exercise routine on the floor and on all the apparatus. These included a variety of swings, arm changes, handstands, cartwheels, and rolls and dance elements requiring flexibility, strength, coordination, balance, stamina and reflex speed. Then, as I watched the looks of incredulity, doubt or total disbelief on their faces, I would then predict that they would indeed be able to do every one of those routines by the term's end.
One of the greatest joys I experienced as a teacher was to help my students to do far more than they believed they could accomplish. So my courses became something more than mere skill learning; in transcending their limiting beliefs in this area of life, my students were more likely to excel in other areas as well. I believe that most students returned the second day on trust alone - on blind faith that "this guy might be able to deliver what he promises." So, beginning on the proverbial wing and a prayer, on hope and dreams and the challenge I'd set before them, they began.
In Esme's case, she had complete faith—negative faith. She was certain she could not even come close to what I had predicted, but at least she would learn something. Apparently intent on convincing me of her ineptitude, she told me stories of glasses of milk knocked over on the dinner table; of slips and falls, and of being the last-to-be-picked for every team in every sport at every school she attended. She was giving it another try because she had heard that I was a "miracle worker," and said she needed a miracle at that point in her life.
I'd like to say that a miracle happened - that Esme became the star of the class and went on to the Olympics, or some such thing, but that would be sheer fantasy. Esme trailed behind the class all the way to the end, and received a "B" for persistence, effort and yes, some discernable improvement.
But then she did something no student had ever done - Esme asked if she could take the same course over again. Normally, I would decline, because the class had a long waiting list, and new students should have an opportunity to participate. This time I made an exception.
By the third week of class, even with her head start, Esme was again behind half the class. But this meant she was even with, or ahead of the other half! - a new experience for her, and one that did not escape her notice. She was like a runner who glances back to see people behind her for the first time. This struck her with the force of revelation, and something wonderful happened - Esme was stuck in a handstand. Not permanently, but for a few wonderful seconds, her handstand was so straight, and so well balanced, she just hung up there, to my surprise and to her amazement. She came down beaming, and the entire class applauded.
A light went on inside Esmerelda Garcia on that day, in that moment.
After that, she started pleading with me to spend a little extra time to help her after class - with her cartwheel, her balance beam dismount, her hip circle on the uneven bars. She asked questions, tried, fell, asked more questions, tried again, her face focused with an intensity I'd only seen in world-c lass gymnasts and young children. Now it was do-or-die for Esmerelda Esperanza Garcia.
By the term's end, Esme got through every single routine, with only one minor fall and a few bobbles. The class members, who had come to know and help one another in their common endeavor, had come to know Esmerelda as well, and to respect her dedication. As she completed her last routine, they gave her a standing ovation. She laughed. Then she broke down in tears.
Who would have guessed that a two-unit physical education class could change someone's life?
My only bittersweet regret in teaching was that I hadn't learned more about each of my students - their lives outside the gymnasium. They showed up, were gymnasts for an hour and a half, two days a week, for ten weeks; then they left the gymnasium and went on with other classes, other lives.
As it happens, Oberlin College has one of the finest conservatories of music in the United States. And one of the many things I had not known about Esme was that she was a conservatory student, and that her specialty was voice.
In mid-April, after the last snowfall, as the first touch of spring warmed the air - about four months after Esme's triumphant completion of my class - I was walking through Tappan Square, the park directly across from the conservatory. I noticed an announcement sign - "Senior Recital: Vocalist . . ." - an announcement I would have passed by with barely a glance, until I saw the name of the vocalist: "Esmerelda Garcia."
That night I sat in a small audience of students, faculty and friends of Esme. I sat mesmerized by her voice, her skill, her charisma and her radiant singing. Again, her performance was rewarded with well-earned applause, which I joined enthusiastically.
I believe someone told her that I had attended, because when I returned home that evening, I found a note by my door. It read:
"Dear Dan, I was at an impasse in my singing and my life, and about to give up. Then I met you and learned what I could do." It was signed:
"With love and gratitude, Esme."
I gazed out into an evening made more beautiful by Esme's song. Memories of her voice mingled with images of her in the gymnasium, blending like the spring breeze through the blossoming apple trees. It felt good to be a teacher, good to be alive.

Reprinted by permission of Dan Millman (c)

[Rhonda]

Through the Eye of the Storm
Devastated by Katrina and ignored by FEMA, these people pulled themselves out of disaster and never gave up hope.

By Cholene Espinoza



Air Force pilot, United Airlines captain, embedded war reporter--Cholene Espinoza has lived many lives. After 9/11 she felt lost, and her once-strong religious faith faltered. When Hurricane Katrina struck, Espinoza was determined to help. Through a chance encounter with storm survivors from DeLisle, Mississippi, Espinoza discovered people who were stronger than the obstacles and losses they faced. She made more than a dozen trips to DeLisle with supplies and funds, and witnessed first-hand the power of love and community. Espinoza became transformed and her faith was renewed. Her book, "Through the Eye of the Storm," excerpted below, tells of the strength of the human spirit. Proceeds from the book will fund the Pass Christian/DeLisle Community Center.





In 2005, Mississippi was ranked last in an annual “Most Livable States” study for the seventh year in a row. According to the Morgan Quitno Press, the study is based on forty-four factors ranging from infant mortality rate to per capita income—which was $26,650 at the last U.S. Census Bureau estimate, and that was when times were good. It’s no wonder the Mississippi state patron saint is Our Lady of Sorrows.

“I know Mississippi is ranked last in a lot of things. But there are a lot of us who are workin’ hard to change things,” said Ms. Rebecca Endt, who teaches world history and psychology and coaches volleyball and softball at Gautier High School. “Workin’ hard” was an understatement.

I had the opportunity to visit Gautier High School. Myrick Nicks and Anthony Herbert are the assistant vice principals. They, along with Principal Bernard Rogers, the rest of the administrative staff, and the teachers, are committed to educate and mentor the young adults who will ultimately lead Mississippi out of last place. Almost six months after the storm, they had not been given additional financial or material resources to cope with the added stress of the storm. They were making up the difference out of their own pockets.

When I met Principal Rogers, he had just come from buying some school uniforms for his students on his lunch break. Myrick and Shantrell also shopped in the evenings and weekends in order to clothe the needy students.

Myrick always kept a positive attitude, but I could see that he was worried about his students. Ellen asked Myrick one night as we were sitting around talking, “What do you do when you see your high school kids living in these horrible situations?” She was referring to pre- and post-Katrina. “Don’t you just want to save every one of them?”

“Yes, I do. But after a while, you realize that as much as you want to, you can’t really do that. The best thing we can do is to create a great environment for them while they are at school. We do the best we can in the time we have with them,” Myrick replied.

His teachers and staff are equally committed. Ms. Anita Lawrence, who teaches special education, informed Anthony that one of her students was still sleeping on a wet mattress from the storm. His family had somehow been overlooked for assistance. Anthony asked the teacher to collect a list of needs and within a few hours, she had gone to the home and completed a list that was as all-encompassing as any I had seen. The family did not have pillows, blankets, towels, underwear, shoes, pants, or toilet paper. They only had the love of a teacher who valued their child as though he was her own.

Shantrell and I delivered the supplies to Ms. Lawrence’s classroom after I returned from President Bush’s visit. I admired her courage. I cannot imagine what it would be like to have to look into the eyes of those students every day and know that they lack the most basic of human needs.

Some of the teachers I met were sharing their land so that other staff members would have a place to put their tents or trailers.

I watched as Anthony and Myrick patrolled the halls between classes. “This is a quiet zone, Gators. Quiet in the halls.” Shantrell joked that it was like boot camp. Personal responsibility and respect for oneself and others were the foundations of learning and teaching..


A large sign in the school summarized Gautier High School’s values. In the middle of the sign was the word EXCUSES circled in red with a red line through it. Underneath it said, “This teacher makes none nor accepts any.” These quotations were printed in each of the four corners of the sign:

“Ninety-nine percent of failures come from people who have a habit of making excuses.” —George Washington Carver
“You’ve got to continue to grow or you’re just like last night’s cornbread—stale and dry.” —Loretta Lynn
“Heart is what separates the good from the great.” —Michael Jordan
“One important key to success is self-confidence. One important key to self-confidence is preparation.” —Arthur Ashe

No one would know by looking at these students, teachers, or staff members that many of them no longer had homes, that they were taking their only shower for the day in the school gym, or that they had no money to repair their homes. They smiled and joked about their situations and spoke of their community with love and pride. They were focused on the future.


*********************

Hurricane Katrina is the worst natural disaster in American history. As Myrick once said, “It’s like we were a bunch of ants on our ant hill living life, doing what ants do and then all of a sudden someone comes along and kicks our hill way up in the air and destroys our whole world.”
Myrick, Shantrell, Rev. Rosemary, Rev. Theodore, Anthony, Sonya, and the hundreds of other people I have met in the Gulf Coast understand that if they do not take responsibility for rebuilding, it will not be rebuilt. Their community will be lost. They will continue to do their part. But they also understand that there will be no community, no businesses, and no jobs without homes. Homes cannot be rebuilt or repaired without money in the form of loans and/or grants.

Our commitment to Katrina’s survivors must outlive the length of time she remains in the headlines or we will create a social crisis of homelessness and unemployment that will last for decades. Individually and collectively, we will reap what we sow.

The people of the Gulf Coast of Mississippi and those who have come to their aid have shown me that the human spirit, powered by the force of love, soars above bureaucracy, neglect, and injustice. Katrina transformed my view of life, forcing me to view destruction and loss through the lens of love. It is through the eye of the storm that I can clearly see the power of God’s love manifested in the charity, service, and sacrifice of the weak, weary, and worn. The storm has cleared a path for hope that can only survive if we are faithful to our fellow brothers and sisters in their hour of need. Christ said in Matthew 7:24, “Everyone then who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock. The rain fell, the floods came, and the winds blew and beat on that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on rock.”

[Rhonda]

Angel to the Bone
By Lori Shaw-Cohen


When I met Cindy, she seemed like any one of us women dropping our children off at school: thirty-something, a wife and a mother of two with a minivan, a dog, a house in the suburbs - a middle-class woman living a middle-class life. But things aren't always the way they seem.
Shortly after I met Cindy I found out she had leukemia. Her appearance gave no hint, nor did her attitude reflect it. If it weren't for the fact that she was listed with the National Bone Marrow Registry, I wouldn't have believed it.
While days for the rest of us passed with relative normalcy - kids with stuffy noses, trips to the vet, grocery and dry cleaners - Cindy continued with business as usual too - except that her young life was slipping away as each day passed without word of a donor match. She went to the market, drove carpool, baked cookies for her youngest daughter's preschool and cheered as she watched her seven-year-old daughter perform gymnastics. She even went on daily, one-hour power walks with her friends, met us gals for the occasional lunch and managed to laugh during our many silly get-togethers. When I think back on it now, I marvel at her strength. Cindy set an example for all of us.
The only time I can remember her broaching the subject of her illness is when one of her young daughters asked Cindy if she was really dying, or whether it was just a bad dream.
Those were the hardest days, when she thought about her children. She was a mother and wife first, and a cancer patient a distant second.
Overcoming the odds was Cindy's specialty: one match out of 20,000 possible donors was located in a few months. The donor had passed the initial screening and follow-up tests; all systems were go. Cindy's husband could breathe again, her children had fewer nightmares and her family and friends rejoiced.
But this was real life, not a medical television drama.
After seven months of indecision, the donor backed out. It was as simple and as devastating as that. (The names of all donors are confidential until a year after the transplant.)
The agonizing awareness of the odds in finding another matching donor was almost too much to bear. As much as Cindy tried to hide it, the strain was beginning to show in her beautiful eyes. Her laugh, when it came, was no longer as easy or as deep. Days now seemed like weeks, and we all knew that time was the enemy, and the enemy was closing in.
Lightning rarely strikes twice in the same spot, but in Woodland Hills, California, one winter afternoon, a second miracle appeared in the form of a telephone call. Another donor had been found. And because of what had happened the first time, the registry had waited to make sure this donor was committed.
Most angels are easily identifiable, given away by their gossamer wings and opaque halos. But sometimes they live here on Earth - even disguised as a twenty-eight-year-old married mother of a two-year-old daughter from New Hampshire. Although Cindy didn't know anything about her donor - her angel - she received a note as she waited in her hospital room for the gift of bone marrow from this perfect stranger.
It said simply:
"I know this marrow will help you. My mother will be watching over you, Patty."
Patty was released the next day after the bone marrow aspiration. Cindy had a six-week hospital stay. After a fever and an additional week in the hospital to remedy that, as well as some drug modifications, the first year of Cindy's recovery went well. The doctors explained that the biggest hurdle was the first hundred days; after that, if the disease stayed in remission for one year, the prognosis would improve significantly.
At first, her friends handled Cindy like fragile crystal. We networked on the telephone, confirming with each other that she seemed to be getting stronger, looking better, acting like herself again. But before long, as we were swept into the business of our own daily lives, Cindy's illness faded into history.
Then, exactly one year to the day after Cindy's transplant, that harbinger of life-altering news - the telephone - rang again. Cindy's husband answered the call and handed her the phone.
"It's your sister," he said.
When Cindy put the receiver to her ear, the voice on the other end was not familiar to her. "This isn't my sister," Cindy mouthed to Hal.
"Oh yes it is," insisted her husband, his voice trembling.
Then she realized it was Patty.
Tears ran down Cindy's cheeks; on the other end, Patty was crying, too. They spent an hour on the phone, swapping information through the telephone lines back and forth between New Hampshire and California. Cindy learned that Patty had lost her mother to cancer, and although she couldn't help her mother, she was determined to help someone else. She had originally registered as a donor with the City of Hope to help a little boy. She called every two weeks to inquire about the status of her compatibility with him. Ultimately, she discovered she was not a match for the boy, but she was for a woman in California: a wife and mother named Cindy.
Patty had recently given birth to another daughter - but she had waited to get pregnant until she was able to donate her marrow to someone in need. Cindy described her battles with the life-threatening disease and how she eventually emerged victorious due to Patty's generous and loving act. They made plans to meet the following month.
Cindy and her family flew to Boston, then drove to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Patty arrived at their hotel with her tiny daughter. When the door opened the two women fell into each other's arms like the long-lost sisters they had now become. Between tears and laughter, these two women, once strangers, who now shared identical bone marrow, forged a permanent friendship and bond.
Five months later, Patty and her family made the trip to California to meet Cindy's fam ily and friends, who all wanted a chance to personally thank the woman who saved Cindy's life. They met at a local restaurant - a modest setting for the thirty people who gathered to celebrate the kindness of strangers and to renew their trust in the goodness of people.
When Patty was introduced, some guests raised glasses and some broke out in applause; others wept openly as they beheld the face of an earthbound angel and everyday saint.
Every year, on October 14 - the anniversary of Cindy's transplant - Cindy places a call to Patty and says the same heartfelt words: "Thanks for another year, angel." Eight priceless years of memories and cherished time have come and gone since the paths of these two remarkable women crossed: a story of love, character and courage. A gift of healing and hope.

Reprinted by permission of Lori Shaw-Cohen (c

[Rhonda]

Reunion on the Dock
By Margaret Brown Marks

It was a chilly December day in 1945. I stood, one of an expectant crowd, on a dock in Tacoma, Washington. Although the Red Cross ladies had given us steaming cups of coffee as well as thermal gloves to wear, we still huddled by the garbage-can fire, savoring its warm flames as they leapt up in the crisp sea air.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the tattered letter that I must have read a hundred times, and read it once again. “The war is over. I’m coming home!”
Lieutenant Robert Marks, my husband, was alive and well, and coming home from Seoul. It had been so long, I still didn’t know if I believed it.
The letter had been delivered to me in Seattle, less than fifty miles from Tacoma, where I was serving as company commander at the Ft. Lawton WAC Detachment. I’d been relieved and happy and excited all at once, and the girls in my company had shared my elation. Three long years of loneliness, sleepless nights and the dread of a “We regret to inform you” letter were about to end. Over and over, I’d had the thought, What I wouldn’t give to be there when Bob’s troop ship, the Oscaloosa, pulls into dock!
So I could hardly believe it when one of the ranking officers at Ft. Lawton pulled me aside and said, “We’ve arranged a surprise welcome for Bob in Tacoma. You’ll be there when he steps onto American soil again for the first time.”
The morning of Bob’s return, my driver and I left Ft. Lawton so early that we arrived in Tacoma with hours to spare. I was waiting on the dock, dreaming of the future that Bob and I would share, when suddenly a tugboat made two short blasts with its horn, startling me out of my reverie. I watched as the tiny tugboats nudged the huge troop ship into the harbor, where it safely anchored.
The Oscaloosa was docked. My husband was home.
On board the ship, Bob’s crewmates had kept the secret of our homecoming from him, so while I waited impatiently outside, Bob, deep in the hold, slowly and methodically packed his barracks bag. He was so absorbed in his task, he told me later, that he didn’t even hear a page for him and was surprised when one of his buddies tracked him down and told him to report to his battalion commander.
“You’re getting off the ship,” Bob’s commander told him.
“Just me?” a puzzled Bob asked.
“Just you,” his commander replied. “Get your paperwork and gear together.”
Bob gathered his things, wondering what was going on. As the gangplank was lowered, a large number of soldiers were all standing on deck, watching in silence. On the dock, my fellow officers and I strained to see, quiet with anticipation. The only sounds were water slapping against the ship and screeches from seagulls.
Suddenly the hatch opened and Bob - my Bob - emerged. He was thin, his skin orange from the medication he’d been given to ward off malaria. Still, my heart raced wildly. This was the moment I’d been awaiting for years, the moment when I’d run over to meet my husband, to hug and cry and laugh with him. But for some reason, I couldn’t move. I was suspended in time, like a movie frozen midframe.
Bob walked slowly down the gangplank. Then he saw me, and time started again. Bob ran toward me, his bags tossed aside. He grabbed me, laughing, swung me up in his arms and covered my face with kisses. I hugged him again and again, tears of joy the only speech I could muster. The soldiers on deck went wild, cheering and chanting: “Mar-ga-ret and Bob! Mar-ga-ret and Bob!” They flashed the victory sign, and the band broke out into song: “It’s Been a Long, Long Time.”
We hugged so long that the people around us eventually smiled, shrugged their shoulders and returned to their tasks.
The Red Cross volunteers, fighting back tears, rushed out with steaming cups of coffee with real cream for us. Bob finally released his hold on me, took a sip and grinned. “This is the first good cup of coffee I’ve had in years,” he said.
We nibbled at warm cinnamon doughnuts on the chilly dock, oblivious to anything but each other and our coffee and doughnuts. We touched hands and smiled with pure joy. Such simple, ordinary acts - they hardly warranted the delight they gave us. But my husband and I were together, you see, and it had been a long, long time.

Reprinted by permission of Margaret Brown Marks (c) 1999

[Rhonda]

Something Special
By Pam Bumpus

"I would do something special for her. Not take out the trash without being reminded. Something special, something I wouldn't ordinarily do." With tears streaming down his face, the gentleman had just answered the reporter's question, "What would you do differently if you had known you might not see your wife again?"
Now, I personally think that is a pretty crappy question to ask anyone, much less the husband of a victim of a terrorist attack. The reporter seemed to have no compassion for this man whose wife's plane had been flown into the World Trade Center.
"I'm just glad I kissed her good-bye and told her I loved her this morning," he managed to choke out.
Of course, we would all act differently if we knew time together with our spouse was running out. My anger at the insensitive reporter simmered along with the disbelief and fear that had become part of my life since watching the results of the attack on America. "Stupid guy," I muttered to myself, switching off the television. Maybe I needed a break. I have that luxury. I can turn off the pictures of the devastated buildings, despondent relatives and harried rescue workers.
But could I turn off my feelings? My husband Alan and I farm. He was cutting a field of soybeans that afternoon. I decided to go take pictures of the American flag he had mounted on the back of our combine. With terrorists trying to cripple our nation, we wanted to show our support: The American farmer was still hard at work.
Back at the house, starting a load of laundry, I found myself thinking about that interview. I would do something special, played over and over in my mind. That gentleman would never have that opportunity now, but I did. I hope Alan and I have another forty years together. But there are no guarantees. Tomorrows are not guaranteed.
Something I wouldn't ordinarily do. Well, his pickup could sure use a good cleaning. So I got to it. After about thirty minutes of vacuuming and scrubbing the interior, I was ready to wash the outside. I had one little problem: Starting the power washer was a bit tricky. You had to choke the motor just enough, and the idle had to be set just so. The possibility of getting jerked on the recoil was significant. Something special. . . . Grabbing the pull rope I tackled it head on. Suddenly it was very important to me to accomplish this surprise for Alan. Several attempts later, with no success and an aching arm, I thought I might not succeed. Lord, I prayed silently, I could sure use your help. I want to get this started so I can finish this for Alan. I really want to do this for him.
The guilt hit immediately. How could I bother our Lord at a time like this? Thousands were praying for their loved ones. Much more important prayers needed his attention right now. "I'm sorry, Lord," I whispered. How could I be so selfish? I had spent a lot of time in prayer over the past three days, asking for comfort for the victims' families, strength for our nation's leaders and healing for all of us. My request for help now was automatic. I always ask for help when facing a difficult task. But it just didn't seem right to do so today.
Defeat didn't seem an option either, so I pulled the rope one more time. The motor sputtered to life.
Yes, Alan was surprised and grateful when he saw his pickup. And I was surprised and grateful for the important lessons I learned that day. First of all, despite his tactless approach, the reporter brought home a very important point. Through his pain, the man who lost his spouse taught me to cherish mine. I will look for those "special" things to do for Alan.
Secondly, and maybe more importantly, God does care about us, all of us. He hears the prayers of those whose suffering seems unbearable. He cares. And he hears those of us who need a little boost when we have set out to do something special for someone we love.

Reprinted by permission of Pam Bumpus (c) 2001

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[Rhonda]

Knocked off the Horse
By Jan Kremenik

I am sixty-four years old, soon to be sixty-five. My faith journey has encompassed four-plus decades and has been singularly unspectacular. My journey has been full of ups and downs, times of closeness with the Lord and times of distance, but unlike many of my friends I've never had a lot of dramatic encounters with God. And in my younger life, that worried me. I thought maybe I wasn't paying attention (well, sometimes I probably wasn't!), or God didn't have anything special to say to me. I tried many avenues, daily Mass attendance, Bible Study, Small Faith Sharing Groups, even the Charismatic Movement for a while. Through all of them I met wonderful people, many of whom are still in my life today. They all helped me on my faith journey, but I yearned for a "knocked from my horse" experience. It is only as I look back on my life that I see maybe I'd had them- - gently- -after all.
As usual, I was at an ordinary Sunday Mass in my early thirties, struggling with all the "stuff" of marriage and two preschool children. But this particular Sunday, as I casually tossed my envelope into the basket, something had changed. I hate to say I "heard" God speak to me, but I really can't explain it any other way. What I heard was, "Jan, I don't want just your money, I want all of you." It was so real and so profound that I found myself still sitting while the rest of the community had risen to their feet, so overwhelming that I remember none of the rest of that Mass. That WAS the beginning of years of volunteer service that started with preschool, went on to include adult faith development, liturgy, parish council and church committee work and even an advanced degree in Theology. While my husband worked at a job that supported our family, I worked thirty-one years at a ministry that supported my faith journey.
Then two years ago a very dear friend of ours died. She and her husband lived about an eight-hour drive from us, in the city where my husband and I had met and married and where we still maintained a wonderful group of friends. Since my husband was retired, I suggested we drive up for the services and make it a mini-vacation. We drove to the services, comforted George, and spent a day or so visiting old friends. On our return trip we investigated some of the wonderful areas of our state we had missed on earlier trips. It was October, there was a bit of crispness in the air, most of the tourists were gone, and we spent five leisurely days driving home. We had a wonderful time! We rediscovered how well we travel together; how much we enjoy just "hangin' out." One evening while enjoying dinner from a candlelit deck overlooking a roaring river somewhere in the Sierra Madres of California, I suggested that we take ourselves a really long car trip, two or three months, just roam around the northwest. My husband thought it was a great idea, but said, "How can we do that, you always have commitments at church?"
I guess you could say my husband's response was my "knocked off the horse" encounter. How long had I been relegating my husband and our life together to second place behind my commitments at church? He had been retired for ten years. Was it now time for me to retire?
While I was "knocked off the horse," I wasn't blinded. In fact I saw very clearly the Lord's next plan for me. My answer to my husband was, "I can give it up." It came as clearly and simply as anything that has ever been said to me. I knew this was right. I knew this was where God wanted me next, right beside my husband, doing all the things we had been wanting to do - things we hadn't been able to do because of my involvement. As soon as we got home I gave my Pastor notice.
We made our two-and-one-half month car trip and loved every beauty filled moment. We have refreshed ourselves and our relationships with old friends with little mini-vacations and retreats. We have been to Eastern Europe to discover an unknown relative of my husbands and we have wandered the streets of Rome. We see my daughter and grandchildren almost every week now. We have lunch together, we watch baseball together, we cook together, we laugh more, we play more. And, surprisingly enough, my church has gone on just fine without me! Other younger people with new fresh ideas have stepped up and taken over the positions I once occupied; positions I thought only I could fill.
I'm happier than I have been in years. I'm less stressed. I have more time to pray.
My increased time with my husband, my family and my friends, I count as increased time with my God.

Reprinted by permission of Jan Kremenik (c) 2002

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[Rhonda]

Solomon's Smile
By Sharon Melnicer

All right, I admit it. I was a self-confessed doorknob polisher. You know the type. Every can in the cupboard lined up military-style with its label facing forward. No can upside down, no dents or dimples on the tin (the risk of botulism!), and the labels pristine, never ragged or torn. Classification was as important as appearance. Vegetables were stored with vegetables, fruits with fruits. Still, peas were not stored beside corn. I had good reasons. Obviously, color: Peas are green, and corn is yellow. Besides, everyone knows peas are legumes. Thus, peas and corn couldn't be allowed to indiscriminately mingle on a single shelf.
Elsewhere in the house, a crooked picture made me twitch. An open drawer with an inch of sweat sock hanging out had me searching for the nearest bottle of Zoloft. I don't need to tell you that a dust-bunny didn't stand a chance around my house. Not only could you eat off my floors, you could perform open-heart surgery on them.
Until I got the cat.
As you've probably observed, cats remain notoriously indifferent to others' wishes. It's not that they mean to be disdainful, but, elegant and aristocratic, they can genuinely claim royal lineage and display the very epitome of majestic attitude. Their unwavering stare is nothing less than regal. Then witness their incredible gymnastic ability and talent for catapulting themselves to places thought unreachable, and you understand the depth of their complete lack of respect.
Not only that - they have fur.
Fur that comes out all over the place, fur that layers sofa cushions and area rugs, fur that winds up in your toothpaste and on your little black thingytail dress. Fur even winds up in an obscure corner of the La-Z-Boy—looking like a repulsive version of a Tootsie Roll-shaped nut bar—as a hairball.
So you can imagine how far in the loosening-up department I've had to go. Flexibility is not my strong suit. It never was. I think it's a genetic thing.
As a kid, I had foisted upon me a series of cold-blooded creatures that were purchased as substitutes for cuddly, high-maintenance pets. No puppies or kittens for me! My folks, both working parents, persuaded me that a goldfish or a turtle could be just as fulfilling as something warm and furry. A bribe in the form of a Caravan Bar (remember those?) and a bottle of Jersey Cream Soda always made the alternatives to "warm and furry" seem much more appealing. I think that I would have gone for a baked potato at the bottom of a fish tank had I been plied with enough sugar.
At any rate, after more than fifty years of pet deprivation, at last I resolved to get the animal-child I had always wanted. Thanks to a desperate plea by his owner in the pet-giveaways section buried deep within the classifieds, a ragdoll cat (Siamese mixed with Persian) came to live with me. Solomon, my gentle, fearful Buddha-cat with the Mona Lisa smile, also proved to be the instrument of an amazing, life-changing transformation.
For one thing, I stopped wearing black. I even tossed the charming little black thingytail dress. And I really like black. It's dramatic. In fact, I stopped wearing dark-colored clothing altogether. I just couldn't be bothered. The upholstery and the carpeting were more complicated. How many hours of the day did I really want to vacuum? I decided that I couldn't be bothered.
I overlooked long white hairs the consistency of fishing line. I squinted myopically at my houseplants when I watered them; the sweater of white cat-fluff that coated the leaves actually made them look fuller. I ignored the dusty paw prints dotting my countertops, appliances and the glass doors of my china cabinet. They could be brushed away with a careless swipe of my sleeve. Did I really want to obsessively follow my cat around with a cloth and bottle of Windex? No way; I couldn't be bothered.
I couldn't believe it! Had I actually said, I couldn't be bothered?
I'm not sure when the epiphany came, but the moment of insight slammed into me like a tractor-trailer loaded with perishable food late for a delivery. I had actually let go, chilled out. I found myself on the road to change, saying good-bye to my anal-retentive ways. Without even realizing it, I had made a life-altering choice. I had opted for a fur-covered existence, a permanently fluffy ambience, a softer world with a little less shine.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I turned into Oscar Madison. I'm not wiping my jam-covered hands on the drapes yet. But what I have done is cut myself, and the others I live with, some significant slack. Peas and corn amicably dwell on the same shelf in the cupboard, a crooked picture goes unnoticed for days, and sweat socks can hang out until the next time the laundry gets done. I'm saving a fortune on prescriptions.
Truth is, I'm pretty proud of myself. When friends express wonder at what's happened to me (in a good way), I know what they mean. I hardly know myself. No more worrying about little things that don't matter - let me tell you, it feels great! I do have one question, though: Is anal-retentive spelled with, or without, a hyphen?

Reprinted by permission of Sharon Melnicer (c) 2004

[Rhonda]

Granny's Last Cartwheel
By Nancy Harless


Being a family today is complicated, but it hasn't always been this way. When I was growing up in a small town in the fifties, life - and family - was simple. Like all my friends, I lived in a house with two parents, and Mom was there every day when I came home from school, filling our home with the cozy smells of something cooking. Dad worked long hours and came home exhausted, but not too weary to watch my tricks when I performed somersaults, handstands and my favorite of them all - the cartwheel.
He would sit on the porch in the evening trying (I now understand) to have a few moments of solitude, yet he would always have a cheer for me as I performed my one-woman, amazing circus act on the soft, green lawn of our front yard. A somersault got a nod. With handstands, he helped me count the seconds I could remain upside down, legs splayed, balanced on those skinny little arms. But it was my cartwheel - my amazing, back-arched, legs-perfectly-straight, toes-pointed-to-the-sky cartwheel - that won his applause.
My grandmother was a gray-haired, elderly woman who lived halfway across the world in another country called Minnesota. She wasn't fond of noise or noisy children. When she came on the train for a visit, I was reminded that children "should be seen and not heard." My grandmother never saw my cartwheel.
Yes, life was simple then. Everyone knew the rules, and everyone knew their roles in that choreography we called "family." But life changes, with twists and turns along the way. I grew into adulthood and created my own family. By midlife, I found that I was not only grandmother to my own children's children, but to the progeny of my new husband's children as well. Family was no longer simple.
Even the question of "What should they call me?" was complicated, because they already had the ideal number of two grandmothers. I dubbed myself "Granny Nanny" and hoped that it would take. It did.
I didn't want to be the granny who lived on the other side of the world and didn't like noise when she visited. I didn't want to be the granny whose visits they feared or dreaded. I wanted to be the granny who listened and laughed and loved and played with her grandchildren. In short, I wanted to be a "cool" granny.
On one trip to our granddaughters' Alison and Melissa's home, we visited a beautiful park. It was the very same one I had often taken my own daughters to when they were children. It was here that my children and I had spent many weekends frolicking in the park. Just like I had performed for my father as a child, my children would also run, skip, jump and somersault with glee, shouting, "Watch me! Watch me, Mommy!" Then I would join in and amaze them with my perfect, back-arched, legs-straight, toes-pointed-to-the-sky cartwheel.
On this sunny summer day, Alison and Melissa were bursting with the joy of youth. They began to run and jump and amaze us all with the gymnastic feats they could accomplish. No mere somersaults or cartwheels for these two young gymnasts: They twisted and whirled with back flips, round-offs and amazing multiple cartwheels. I applauded in awe.
When they paused and walked back toward me, I couldn't resist. I knew better - or should have - but I was caught up in the excitement of the show. "I can do an amazing perfect cartwheel," I announced. Both girls grinned at each other as if to say, Granny - a cartwheel? "I don't think so," Melissa even snickered.
Of course, I accepted the challenge. The sun was bright, the sky was filled with puffy cumulus clouds and there was just a little breeze. In the distance, birds were warbling to each other. I inhaled deeply and with a drum roll playing in my head, began the running skip that introduced my cartwheel. Arms raised overhead, I catapulted heels over head, back arched, legs perfectly straight, toes pointed to the sky. I was flying! I was still amazing!
I was in pain! The centrifugal force of the circular spin of the cartwheel became too much for my middle-aged joints. With a loud Crack! my left leg, the trailing one, came out of its hip socket. As I ended my circular descent, however, with both arms raised overhead - the way you always end the show - my left leg slammed back into its socket with a dull thud. The pain! Oh the pain! But not wanting to frighten the children, I blinked back my tears.
"Wow! Granny, you really can do a cartwheel!" Alison exclaimed, and Melissa beamed at me with a newfound respect for her granny. I vaguely remember mumbling something about how we should always warm up before exercising, and that I had forgotten to do it that day.
The next morning, my husband had to help me get out of bed. Every joint in my body ached with a vengeance. Warmed-up or not, I knew that yesterday had taught me something. That was Granny's last cartwheel.
Yes, family today is complicated, but I can still visit all my grandchildren, those related to me through blood or by marriage, and be called Granny Nanny. We can still listen and laugh and love and play together because, be it through shared DNA or shared history; that's what family is.
One day in the park the sun was bright, the sky was filled with puffy white clouds, and I heard the birds call to each other. A soft breeze blew just enough, and for a brief moment in time I soared, back arched, legs perfectly straight, toes pointed to the sky, performing Granny's last cartwheel for my granddaughters' pleasure. And they absolutely knew that their granny was cool.

Reprinted by permission of Nancy Harless (c) 2001

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[Rhonda]

Feeding the Soul
By Chela González


My parents are not educated. On my mother's side of the family, we are third-generation Texans. My father's parents were from Spain, and he was born in Mexico. Both my parents were very religious and active in the Catholic Church. We couldn't afford to go to Catholic school, but we went to daily Mass in the same way we brushed our teeth. In the evening, we would pray the rosary together as a family, and if our friends came around, Catholic or not, they too were included in our family rituals.
I recall one morning I overslept and was the only one in the family who missed Mass. It was a weekday, so I didn't think much of it. However, I knew my father would be waiting in his pickup that evening (as he was known to do for those of us who overslept in the morning). Since I knew I was the only one who hadn't gone, I didn't think my father would "bother;" but a few minutes before the evening Mass at our local church, I heard my father's knock on my door.
"Chela, didn't you oversleep this morning?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied, "but, Dad, I have a lot of homework, and I don't think I'll be going to Mass today."
I thought the issue was resolved (and way too easily) when my father responded compassionately, "Oh, I see. You have homework. Okay."
He started to walk away, and I thought, Wow! That was easy. I actually didn't think his response was too out-of-place. Since none of my siblings had ever challenged going to Mass on a daily basis, we really didn't know how he would react. Hey, I thought, we really don't have to go. I felt somewhat of a heroine, one who had rescued my other siblings from having to attend daily Mass.
But my father hadn't really left.
"So, you have a lot of homework?" he continued to ask.
"Yes," I justified, as I showed him I disagreeignments.
"Okay," he replied, maintaining his interest. "I know now what you studied in school today, so I know you learned something, thus you've fed your mind. What did you have for lunch?"
I replied, telling him as much of the school menu as I recalled.
"That's wonderful!" he said. "I know you fed your mind because you have told me what you learned today at school. I know you fed your body, for you have given me the day's menu. Have you fed your soul today?"
That's all he had to say. I followed him to his pickup and attended Mass. But even more than that, I began to take seriously my father's lesson that I should spend as much time feeding my soul as the rest of me.
My father's lesson that day made me who I am. I went on to combine feeding my mind, body and soul by pursuing graduate degrees in theology, and to this day, I have always worked in ministry positions.
Thanks to my father, when I wake up in the morning, the first question I ask myself is: "How will you feed your soul today?"

Reprinted by permission of Chela González. (c) 2004