TURN ... AND COME OUT RIGHT

[Rhonda]

TURN ... AND COME OUT RIGHT
Steve Goodier
Not long ago a commercial airliner landed at New York's JFK
Airport. The captain was new to the New York run and steered the
jet off the runway, onto the taxiway and stopped. Slowly he began
taxiing. First he turned the nose of the aircraft to the right.
Then he turned it to the left. Then he turned the plane
completely around.

Finally, over the public-address system, a confused voice asked,
"Does anyone know where Gate 25 is?" Perhaps if he just turned
around enough times he would come out right!

Deciding to turn, though, is something we often have to do if we
are to live fully and live well! For each of us knows what it is
to head the wrong direction in life; and we also know how
relieved we feel to turn around again.

Do you remember the old Shaker hymn, written by Joseph Brackett, Jr.
over 150 years ago?

'Tis the gift to be simple,
'tis the gift to be free,
'tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
'Til by turning, turning we come round right

Turning. I believe it is one of the most hopeful words in our
language. We human beings, by turning, can do something about the
course we've taken. We may not be able to change what we've
already done; and we may not be able to fully escape the
consequences of past choices. But we need not continue in the
same, destructive path. We can turn. We can find our way again!

Are you headed the wrong direction? Don't give up...you can
always start over. You can always turn. And turn again...and
again...until you come out right.

__________

P.S. ADVICE
Never argue with an idiot; they'll drag you down to their level and
beat you with experience. -- Anonymous

[Rhonda]

YOUR LIFE -- IT'S ON LOAN!
Steve Goodier

I like to take long walks in the cemetery. I've noticed something
about the hundreds of people beneath the cemetery ground. None of
them kept their bodies! They each were given a body to use -- some
for a short time and some for many years. But they all gave those
bodies up.

And that is true with their things, too. They came into the world
with nothing and they left the things of this world behind.
Everything. Their bodies; their money; their responsibilities; their
families; and, all of their things!

An old story tells of a grandmother and her grandson walking the
beach. The little boy spotted a dead pelican in the sand. "What
happened to that bird?" he asked.

"That pelican died and went to heaven to be with God," explained his
grandmother, in hopes of soothing the child.

Still puzzled, he asked, "Well, why did God throw him back?"

I rented a car recently. The rental papers indicated that the car
was "dented all over." I looked closely and, sure enough, it was
covered with little, round dents! Every door, the hood, the roof and
the trunk were affected. The car looked as if it had been caught in a
severe hail storm.

The damage was only visible upon close inspection, so it didn't
particularly bother me that it was dented. I drove the vehicle for a
few days and returned it to the rental agency. It wasn't my car. I
knew I couldn't keep it if I wanted to.

Our bodies are like loaner vehicles. They are ours to use, but not
ours to keep. We must care for them and maintain them, for the better
shape they are in, the longer we may borrow them. But we will someday
turn them back in. We were fortunate enough to be given bodies to use
for a while, but sometime they will become sick, damaged or simply
worn out, and we will need to return them.

This simple concept is one of the most transforming, comforting and
freeing truths I have come to know. I have been given the
extraordinary gift of a body to use for a season, and a few things of
this world to enjoy for a time. But NONE of these are mine to keep.
Therefore, I will guard against becoming too attached, for I know I
must give it all up someday.

I can live freed from unnecessary worry about myself. It's all on
loan. Mine to use well and enjoy for a time. And then, when I return
it all, I will give it back in gratitude and joy, thankful that I
even got to use it at all!

CELEBRITY QUIP
I've got a wonderful doctor. If you can't afford the operation, he
touches up the X-rays. -- Henny Youngman

DO YOU HAVE AN ANCHOR?
Steve Goodier
Though I have never seen it, I'm told that the Niagara River has a
couple of interesting signs upstream of the famous falls. There is
one by the side of the river visible to daredevil boaters that reads,
"Do you have an anchor?" Then just downstream is a second sign that
says, "Do you know how to use it?"

"Do you have an anchor?" I have found that a solid anchor is
indispensable to one who intends to live life fully. To have an
anchor is to be centered and well-grounded. It is to have a vital
spiritual base.

"Do you know how to use it?" For no amount of faith is enough if it
is not used.

We all come to what has been described as the "Red Sea place" in our
lives. That is the place where there is no way back and no way
around. We have to go through.

You know the places I mean . We find ourselves up against a critical
loss, an irreversible setback or a course of action that cannot be
changed. There is no way back and no way around. We have to go
through.

Even a small ship can weather major storms if it has an anchor. But
it is likely to be tossed about and even capsized if the anchor is
not used.

What will you do when you get to the next "Red Sea place" in your
life? Do you have an anchor? Do you know how to use it?
__________


P.S. AIN'T IT SO
All I want is less to do, more time to do it, and higher pay for not
getting it done ``unknown

[Rhonda]

ECHOES OF KIND WORDS
Steve Goodier
A little boy said to his father, "Let's play darts. I'll throw the
darts and you say, `Wonderful!'"

Here is a boy who was not afraid to ask for the encouragement he
needs. Maybe we all have something to learn from him!

Inspirational author and educator, Fr. Brian Cavanaugh, relates a
story about the devastating effects of discouragement. Dante Gabriel
Rossetti, the famous 19th Century poet and artist, was once
approached by an elderly man who asked him to look at a few of his
sketches and drawings. The gentleman wanted to know if the artist
thought they were of any value.

As gently as possible, Rossetti told the man that the sketches were
of no value and showed little talent. He apologized for the harsh
assessment but said that he believed he should be honest.

The visitor was disappointed but asked the artist if he could take a
look at just a few more, which were all done by a young art student.
Rossetti looked over the second batch of sketches and immediately
became enthusiastic over the talent they revealed. "These," he
said, "oh, these are good." He went on to say that the young student
shows much promise and should be given every help and encouragement,
as he may have a great future if he will study and work hard.

The old man was deeply moved. Rossetti asked, "Who is this fine,
young artist? Your son?"

"No," replied the visitor sadly. "It is I - forty years ago. If only
I had heard your praise then. For you see, I became discouraged and
gave up too soon."

Mother Teresa wisely said, "Kind words can be short and easy to
speak, but their echoes are truly endless." Sometimes it may be
enough to just say, "Wonderful!"


There are two kinds of people, those who finish what they start and
so on. -- Robert Byrne

[Rhonda]

I misplaced my joy this morning. I woke up to find it missing like a set
of lost keys. I started looking for it everywhere. I looked for it in
the morning paper. It wasn't there. I looked for it in my books. It
wasn't there. I looked for it in some music. It wasn't there. I looked
for it while I ate breakfast, got the kids ready for school, and headed
out the door this morning, but I couldn't find it anywhere. When I
finally got back home I decided to take a walk. I thought that if I
couldn't find my joy then at least I could get some exercise. The last
leaves of Autumn were thickly covering the ground. I walked for awhile
on this beautiful, crunchy carpet and breathed in the fresh, cool air.
It was so peaceful and wonderful. After walking for a bit I stopped and
smiled. I suddenly knew where to look. I glanced down and saw my joy
peeking up at me from deep inside my soul. It had been sitting there
right next to my love and God's love just waiting for me to find it.
"Ah, there you are," I said. Then I laughed at myself for not knowing
where to look all along.
It is amazing how we so often look for joy in every single place except
the only place where it can truly be found, within ourselves. We are
like a person running around searching for the glasses that are perched
on the top of his head. We need to stop the search. We need to look deep
into our souls and see the joy that has been sitting there all along. It
isn't hidden and it isn't hard to find. It is there shining brightly
right next to God's love and our love. It is just waiting for us to
smile down and say, "Ah, there you are."
Reach down and grab that joy today. Choose it, rejoice in it, and live
in it. Take it along with your love and God's love and share it with the
world. And if you ever misplace it again remember where to look for it
first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
May the Great Spirit Bless Your Path With
Peace, Understanding and
Everlasting Love.

[Rhonda]

THE SMILING GAME

It's been said that a smile is the lighting system of the face, the cooling system of the head and the heating system of the heart. But a smile is also a powerful weapon against toxic attitudes of all kinds.

Lisa Gurnsey, of Portland, Oregon, wrote to me about a man whose smile quite literally changed her life: "I was having a horrible day -- hating my job, tired of the weather, tired of trying to keep up on bills, and just completely stressed out. I stopped at the post office in the morning and, as I was entering, an older business man commented to me that it was going to be a good day and life shouldn't be as bad as I make it look. I glared at him and simply said, 'I wish it was Friday.'
"I felt better about my day when I left the post office...that man's smile and comment, although irritating at first, made me think.
"The second time I ran into the man I went out of my way to say 'Happy Friday' to him and to smile. I saw him a few more times and always he was cheery and 'made my day.'
"I looked for him around Christmastime to give him a card and explain how his kind words and smile that very first day made me regroup my thinking and realize I didn't have it so bad. But I have not seen him at the post office since then. I look every morning...I go at different times to see if I can catch him.
Maybe he retired, maybe he is ill. I think to myself, 'I wish I had thanked him for being a kind person.' I can honestly say this man changed my life. I will work to spread that same feeling to those I see in need of a smile."

Speaker Josh Hinds makes this suggestion: "Play the smiling game in your daily life. See how many people you can get to smile back at you. Keep score and tally the results at the end of each day."

That sounds like a game we can all play. The rules are
simple. There are lots of winners. And who knows...you may even "make" someone's day -- even if that someone is you!


By Steve Goodier

[Rhonda]

Circle of Love
By Maria Sears

Before my husband and I purchased a small ranch in Idaho that included fifty head of Herefords, I never really knew much about cows. I used to think they were large, not particularly bright creatures who spent peaceful uncomplicated lives grazing in green fields or napping in the sunshine. But once we started living on the ranch, I started to pay closer attention and learned to appreciate them on a deeper level.
I soon began to recognize the cows by their different markings, personalities and habits. I gave them all names, and they became my "pets" - in a wild sort of way. Two of my favorites were Freckles and her calf, Spunky.
Freckles first came to my attention early one spring. The cattle had spent the winter months on our lower pasture along the river, but when the cows started calving, we decided to move them to one of the upper pastures near our house. The move was uneventful, except that we discovered that one cow was missing. It was Freckles. We weren't alarmed because we assumed that she had probably given birth and was hiding in the thick patch of willows near the water. The birthing process is a private matter for most cows, and when labor begins they are quite clever at finding a hiding place away from the rest of the herd.
As we got near the bottom of the hill, Freckles came running out of the willows and headed across the field. A look of fury flashed in her eyes, as if to scold us for intruding. Her belly was considerably smaller since the last time I had seen her and her udder was swollen with milk. These were both signs that she had calved. My husband went after Freckles to coax her back, and I headed toward the willows to find her baby.
The calf was so still I almost tripped over her. Nestled in a soft hollow of spring grass was the most beautiful little creature I had ever seen. The calf was a dark russet color with a white spot on her forehead and a tuft of white at the end of her tail. She was curled up like a fawn and looked up at me with enormous brown eyes. I slowly knelt down and spoke softly as I reached out to stroke her velvety coat. She quivered under my touch, but she didn't move. She wouldn't even raise her head. She couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours old, but she had already learned how to stay put and be quiet.
My husband managed to guide Freckles back toward the willows and when she saw me she bellowed for her baby. In a flash, the little calf understood the command, bolted from her nest and ran bawling toward her mother. We stood back to watch as they came together. The calf reached for the comfort of warm milk while her mother licked her reassuringly.
Once they had calmed down, we walked them up the hill to join the herd. With her head held high and her tail bobbing like a pump handle, the calf pranced behind her mother. We laughed and christened her Spunky - a fitting name, as she turned out to be our liveliest and most mischievous calf that spring.
As we got closer, the other cows started calling to Freckles. They bellowed back and forth, again and again, as if to guide her back to their new location, and they were all waiting by the fence when we arrived. As soon as we closed the gate behind them and moved away, they surrounded Freckles, and with nodding heads and soft lowing sounds they gently greeted her and inspected Spunky. Apparently satisfied, they slowly drifted apart and began to graze. A sense of peace and harmony was restored to their little community.
I was puzzled the first few times I saw a single cow surrounded by several little calves, until I learned that cattle herds establish unique baby-sitting co-ops. Once again, I was amazed at their ability to communicate. How did they decide who would be the baby-sitter? And how did the mothers tell the babies not to move while they wandered away, sometimes for several hours?
One day, I glanced out my kitchen window and was astounded to see Red Man, our huge twenty-five-hundred-pound bull, lying in the pasture with a group of calves. The cows had somehow persuaded him to baby-sit that day. At least fifteen tiny calves surrounded Red Man, all of them content to lie lazily in the sun, except for Spunky, who had obviously grown tired of nap time. She slowly stood up. Her rump came up first, followed by a long stretch extending to the tip of her tail. Then she shook her head, flicked her tail and seemed about to go romping across the field when Red Man lifted his massive head and gave her a disapproving glare. I watched, entranced. Would the tiny calf defy the giant Red Man? Not that day. Spunky gazed at the bull for a long moment, and then her legs seemed to melt back into the ground, once again the docile baby waiting for her mother to return.
One night, we woke up to the terrifying sounds of a pack of coyotes on the hunt. Barking and howling, they raced down the hill behind our ranch and into the pasture where the cattle had settled for the night. Young calves were their favorite prey. The cattle stampeded in their panic to escape from the pack. My husband grabbed the shotgun and ran outdoors. A few shots fired into the air were enough to scare the coyotes, and we stood there listening to them yip and howl as they disappeared into the night. The herd had been badly frightened and their restless bawling went on for hours. But other than that, all was well.
Or so we thought. At daybreak we went out to check. All the animals were unharmed - except for one. We found a dead calf near some rocks, apparently killed in the stampede. My heart nearly stopped beating when I saw the white spot on its forehead, but it wasn't Spunky. It was a younger calf with similar markings. We carried the little body close to the gate and covered it with a tarp until we could bury it.
A while later, I heard a cow bawling. I looked around and saw the mother of the dead calf nudging it with her nose. Then I watched as Freckles and eleven other cows slowly walked over and formed a circle around them. ; One by one they began to bawl with the mother. The low, mournful tones of their lamentation drifted across the land as the morning sun rose.
As I watched them, I, too, became a member of their circle; I was one with them in their grief for the little life that had been, and was no more.
The cows stayed in that circle of love for over an hour. Finally, the mother backed away, turned and walked to a far corner of the pasture. Only then did the others end their vigil and move quietly away.
I stood rapt and motionless in the now-silent pasture, feeling the depth of their compassion in my own heart. Filled with awe and admiration for these animals, I turned back towards the house - that rare and tender scene firmly etched in my mind.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
__._,_.___

[Rhonda]

LABOR OF LOVE

Steve Goodier
Too many people think they have nothing to offer. The can't build a
house, teach a math course, repair an automobile or paint a beautiful
picture! They feel they are less valuable than others.

One man applied for a job as a handyman. The prospective employer
asked, "Can you do carpentry?" The man answered in the negative.

"How about bricklaying?" Again the man answered, "No."

The employer asked, "Well, what about electrical work?"

The man said "No, I don't know anything about that, either."

Finally the employer said, "Well, tell me then what is handy about
you?"

The man replied, "I live just around the corner."

His greatest ability was his availability. But beyond your
availability, you may have more to offer than you think. For WHO you
are is often more important than WHAT you do. Let me explain.

Millions of tourists have visited Taj Mahal in India. Some say that
stepping through the vast sandstone gate is like immersing oneself in
a photo. The Taj Mahal glistens in the light of dawn, glowing like a
sculpted ember.

It was built by an emperor of India for his beloved wife, whom he
called Taj Mahal. She died in childbirth, and as she departed, the
story goes, she asked him to build her something beautiful and to
visit the site each year on their anniversary and light a candle.

Millions of precious and semiprecious stones adorn the walls. Lapis,
jade, quartz, amber, emeralds and onyx, among others, are set into
the white marble. Marvelously detailed arrangements of these polished
and shaped stones form garlands of flowers, both timeless and
exquisite. One can only imagine gnarled fingers lifting blocks of
white marble, shaping and polishing the blocks until they were as
smooth as an infant's tummy.

The Taj Mahal was designed to reflect the different moods of the day,
and as the sun rises, the mausoleum whitens, almost as though
daylight were bleaching it. The white marble wondrously reflects the
light around it, seemingly changing colors throughout the day.

Built as a labor of love, it is truly one of the great wonders of the
world. Your life, too, can become a labor of love.

The Taj Mahal is made of many of earth's finest materials. Similarly,
your life can also be built of the finest of qualities: character,
commitment, devotion, integrity and honor.

The Taj Mahal is adorned with jewels. Likewise, your life can bear
fruits of love, joy, peace, kindness, hope and more.

You may have more to offer than you realize. Perhaps what you
generously give away is your own beautiful life. And that is the best
gift of all.
__________

P.S. CELEBRITY QUIP
Mrs. Lindsay: You certainly look cool.
Yogi Berra: Thanks, you don't look so hot yourself.

[Rhonda]

Lesson in Courage
By Ami Fox as told to Dianne Gill


Numbly, I walked through the neonatal intensive care unit.
"He's been through so much," I breathed, as I peered at my little boy in his incubator. How long can he keep going like this?
"He's a fighter," doctors had told me. But in my heart, I couldn't find the courage to hope. Little did I imagine it would be this little fighter himself who would teach me the meaning of courage. . . .
My husband Jon and I had rejoiced when we found ourselves staring at a positive home pregnancy test.
"A baby brudder - or sister!" cried Samantha, four, and Emma, three.
Then one night when I was just twenty-four weeks along, a sharp pain and a gush of fluid jarred me awake. "Something's wrong," I panicked.
"There's a small tear in your amniotic sac," the doctor said. He hoped medication would delay my labor until the baby's lungs could develop. But one week later, contractions started.
"You have a uterine infection," the doctor said. "We have to deliver the baby now, or we could lose you both!"
"No!" I sobbed. "It's too soon!"
Holding me, Jon soothed, "Everything's going to be okay. He's going to be a fighter, just like you. You'll see."
But inside, I knew he was wrong about my being a fighter, because with each contraction, fear tore through me. How can I bear to lose this baby? I anguished.
Seven hours later, Sean Eric Fox, weighing just one pound, seven ounces, came into the world without so much as a peep and was whisked to intensive care before I could hold him.
The next day, when I saw him for the first time, I was filled with despair. Unlike the healthy, pink babies his sisters had been, Sean had lobster-red skin. His eyes were closed. And he had so many tubes, I couldn't find a place on his body to touch.
"Is he going to make it?" I stammered.
"We're doing our best," his doctor answered. He explained that because Sean was so premature, his lungs so underdeveloped, there was a chance of blindness, brain damage, death. "A lot will depend on Sean," he added. "If he's a fighter, there's a chance."
But I barely heard his words.
"We're going to lose him!" I wept.
"No!" Jon insisted. "He's going to make it!"
Back home, I tried to carry on as if everything was okay. "When is Sean coming home?" the girls asked.
How could I explain that their little brother might never come home. Sitting by Sean's incubator, my heart pounded each time a monitor went off to signal his oxygen level had dropped. What if they can't help him? I'd panic as nurses rushed over.
And when, at three weeks, nurses finally let me hold Sean, I was so scared of hurting him. Yet as scared as I was, Sean seemed utterly fearless. Even when his lungs were working so poorly that his fingernails turned blue, he'd curl his hands into a tiny fist and swing them furiously as if to say, "I'm not giving up!"
I'm so proud of him, I often thought. But deep down, I worried how long he could keep fighting. Would I ever see him again? I wept when doctors said he needed surgery to repair a hernia that was strangling his intestines.
Though he came through the operation with flying colors, my heart ached with worry. And when his oxygen level dropped again, as it had so many times before, I couldn't hold back my tears. "He's not getting better," I wept. "He's never going to come home." But that evening as I sat in the intensive care unit watching Sean kick with all his might as the nurse changed his dressings, I couldn't help but smile. "I guess he really is a fighter," I chuckled.
"That's why he's come so far," the nurse said. "Whatever life throws his way, he fights back with everything he's got. That's why babies like Sean make it."
Hearing her words, a little twinge stabbed my heart. She's right! I gulped. No matter how many times his oxygen level dropped, no matter how high his fever raged, no matter how much pain he was in, Sean never gave up. Oh, I knew the doctors and nurses had fought hard to keep him alive, but I sensed there was something more keeping Sean going. He doesn't know the odds are against him! I realized. All he knows is that he's alive and he's got to keep fighting - kicking those legs, churning those arms, clutching with those tiny fingers.
If a six-week-old preemie can fight that hard, why can't I? I thought, brushing away a tear. Constantly thinking about the worst that can happen isn't going to help anybody - not Sean, not my family, not me. And though I wasn't sure how, I knew that, somehow, I had to be more like Sean.
"It's not going to be easy for an old worrier like your mom to change her ways," I whispered. "But I promise, Sean, if you'll keep fighting, I'll try, too."
As if he understood every word, Sean squeezed my finger with all his might.
Until then, I'd been too afraid of hurting Sean to learn how to give him the special care he needed. Now, I reasoned, the more I learned, the less scary it would be. "Could you show me how his monitors work?" I asked his nurse.
At home the next day, when I peeked into the empty nursery, instead of feeling sorry for myself, I told myself to imagine Sean in my arms as I rocked him.
When the girls asked, "When is Sean coming home?" instead of sinking into despair, I'd say, "He's getting bigger every day - he gained a whole gram yesterday!"
A few weeks later, when I brought Samantha and Emma to see their baby brother for the first time, my heart filled with joy as they cooed in awe. To my amazement, I no longer doubted that Sean would one day climb the jungle gym in our yard with his big sisters. Slowly, I'd let hope fill my heart, and to my amazement, I'd discovered a strength I'd never known.
And as if Sean sensed my renewed spirit, he seemed to fight even harder. And after twelve weeks, he finally came home weighing a hefty three pounds, fourteen ounces!
"I told you he was a fighter!" Jon said as I took Sean to his own nursery for the first time. "Just like his mommy!"
"Thanks," I smiled. "But I learned everything I know about being a fighter from my son."
Today, Sean is a healthy toddler who loves Popsicles and playing peek-a-boo with his sisters. I'll always be inspired by the fighting spirit that saw him through those first hard days - and taught me everything I know about courage and hope.

Reprinted by permission of Ami Fox and Dianne Gill

[Rhonda]

Dream Deferred
By Marie Bunce

My friend Rita celebrated her fifty-fifth birthday on January 28, 1998. Forty-five years ago on this date, she was scheduled to be on the local T-Bar V television show along with other children celebrating their birthdays.
Rita had anticipated this event for months. The excitement of being on television would have been tremendous for any child, but for Rita it would have been a special dream come true. Rita's father was a violent drug addict long before drugs were a common part of everyday life. They lived in the projects, and Rita was ashamed of it at school. Sometimes she had to ask neighbors for food. Once she had been left on the steps of an orphanage all night until her grandparents decided to come back and get her. By the time she was nine years old, she had already been in and out of numerous foster homes. So the prospect of being on television was truly a fairy tale come true.
Rita's grandmother had arranged the TV appearance months earlier. She had bought Rita a new dress, coat, gloves and shoes. Her grandmother was the most loving, stabilizing person in her life. She was making Rita's dream a reality.
Months before the big event, social workers came to Rita's home and removed her and her brothers and sisters from an environment deemed unacceptable for children. The decision was permanent; there was no returning to her family this time. Rita and her siblings were sent to a children's center where unwanted children mixed with juvenile delinquents.
Rita did not get to be on the television show on her birthday. Making time for one child to be on a birthday program was not part of the agenda at the children's center. She watched the show on her birthday and heard Randy Atcher, the program emcee, say, "Happy Birthday to Rita, who couldn't be with us today." Rita watched as the other birthday children climbed up on Randy's lap and told their names and what they hoped to get for their birthdays. She listened and watched as Randy sang the T-Bar V birthday song. The children's center gave her a doll for her birthday, but she had to return it to the center when she was sent to another foster home. Her heart had never been emptier.
Rita's austere life was filled with a series of institutions and foster homes and eventual adoption. No one wanted all of the children together, so Rita's brothers and sisters were farmed out to various families. As the oldest of the siblings, Rita tried to keep track of them. But eventually she lost contact with all her brothers and sisters.
The opportunity to be on T-Bar V did not arise again. The years went by, and the show ended. Rita grew up, married and had her own child, who had grown up. Rita tracked down her siblings. Life went on.
Rita never forgot how close she came to being on the T-Bar V show. She did not dwell on it, but each birthday the memory reappeared. The emptiness she felt that day as her childhood dream and the memories of having her family taken from her would arise from the dark part of her innermost being and fill her with despair. She did not share her story; it was simply too painful to talk about.
But at age fifty-four, she finally told a friend about these painful parts of her history. The friend grasped the intensity of Rita's feelings and suggested she write Randy Atcher to tell him about her experience and explain how much it would mean to her to simply get a birthday card from him. At first Rita thought, This is silly. Too many years have passed to bring it up. Randy Atcher would think I'm a nut. It is ridiculous. I am a grown woman with a grown son. But the idea continued to grip her.
At first Rita drafted her letter thinking she would never send it. She looked at it for a few days and, finally, holding her breath, she addressed and mailed it. She thought, I'll never hear anything about it. But she was consoled by telling herself, At least I tried, at least I tried. As a child, she had survived many disappointments. But missing her appearance on the birthday program placed at the top of the list. So she simply could not squelch that small glimmer of hope that she might get a response from her letter.
As her birthday neared, Rita became more hopeful. She told no one of her hopes, but prayed she would get a card. It would erase some of the childhood hurt. The days went by, but no card came. Finally, her birthday arrived. Maybe it will come today, she thought. But she would not allow herself to believe it would. The mail came on her birthday, but there was no card. What did I expect? Rita asked herself. Randy must have thought I was crazy. It was a foolish idea.
Rita went to the birthday dinner prepared by her son and daughter-in-law. The food was wonderful, and she tried to enjoy herself. But she simply could not fully enjoy the attention. Her mind kept riveting back to the card that never came and to the television show she didn't get to be on as a young child.
When the doorbell rang, Rita's daughter-in-law answered it. Rita was speechless! Seventy-nine-year-old Randy Atcher and his wife walked in the door. Randy gave Rita a big birthday hug and said, "I understand that you had a childhood dream to be on my television show on your tenth birthday. Would you tell us the whole story?" For an hour they all listened, laughed and cried, as Rita described her family, the ups and downs of their lives, and how important the missed T-Bar V birthday had been to her.
Randy Atcher gave Rita an autographed picture of himself and his television partner, Cactus. Rita shed tears of joy as her daughter-in-law brought out a huge cake inscribed with "Happy T-Bar V Birthday, Mom" while Randy sang the T-Bar V birthday song:
Happy, Happy Birthday from all of us to you.
Now you'll have happy birthdays all your life through.
Rita smiled through her tears, for she knew the words of the song were true. At last.

Reprinted by permission of Marie Bunce (c)

[Rhonda]

A Gift of Love
By Phyllis DeMarco

Two years after an ectopic pregnancy and a bleak diagnosis for any chance of conceiving, my husband and I decided to adopt a baby. Always surrounded by family with children in abundance, we realized that it didn't matter how our baby arrived in this world. We just knew that our lives would not be complete without children to share the love we had to offer. Once the decision was made, we acted upon it immediately and registered with several adoption agencies. Unfortunately, the agencies offered little hope, and we knew in our hearts that our only real chance of adopting a baby would be through independent adoption.
We retained an adoption attorney and, following his advice, began placing ads in newspapers throughout the state. We set up a separate telephone line with an answering machine, then waited. At first, we had little response, but after a few weeks of consistent advertising, we began to receive calls. Our lawyer had given us a list of questions we could politely ask, which turned out to be extremely helpful since I was so nervous whenever the phone rang that I could barely remember my name, let alone ask anything meaningful. Throughout the next several months, I waded through obscene calls, pranksters and a few slim prospects, never getting over the heart palpitations and trembling that each phone call evoked. Eventually, I spoke with Julia.
Julia was four months pregnant, unwed, young and poor. She invited us to her house in a nearby town, and we gratefully accepted the invitation. As I walked up her rickety front steps, I remember taking a deep breath and thinking that my whole future depended on these next few moments. When she answered the door, I almost cried. She was so beautiful. Long, dirty-blonde hair framed her face, blue eyes sparkled with curiosity, and I could just make out the slightest rise in her stomach. We met both her mother and grandmother, and as three generations of women grilled us about our principles and beliefs, I silently prayed that we would be found worthy of their precious gift.
After three interminably long hours, we were hugged at the door as we departed. I was so elated on the trip home that I couldn't stop jabbering. "Did you see her tiny nose?" I asked my husband, who immediately laughed since our own rather large noses were almost literally a bone of contention. Over the next few months, with our attorney as mediator, we helped Julia with expenses related to her pregnancy. We paid for her doctor check-ups and maternity clothes, and I had nightly conversations with Julia about her health and welfare. I felt as if she were my sister, feeling bonded in a way that was nurturing for both of us. Which was why it was so incredibly devastating when in her eighth month, Julia decided to keep her baby. The loss was as profound as my ectopic pregnancy had been; perhaps even worse because I was much further along in this pregnancy. I took to my bed for the next three days, barely able to eat, crying constantly, unwilling to speak with anyone but my husband. I was in mourning, and I desperately needed to grieve.
As difficult as it was, I continued to place ads, watching the months drag by with no response and little hope of my dream ever being fulfilled. It was two weeks after Christmas when my lawyer called me at work to ask if I could leave within the hour to go upstate and meet with a woman who had given birth to a baby two weeks before. Aurea was from the Philippines, unwed and visiting with family friends. She needed to go home, but there was no way she could take her baby with her. Being an unwed mother was a disgrace in her country, and she would be unable to provide for her child by herself. She had answered the ad of another couple who were clients of my lawyer and who, as Orthodox Jews, could not adopt a Filipino baby. Since Aurea had made the initial contact with my lawyer, it was completely legal for him to notify me of Aurea and her child. Within two hours, my husband and I had met shy, sweet Aurea and her beautiful baby boy. When she held him out to me, our eyes met, and I saw hope mingled with pain, the smile on her face only there to offer me support. I held him close, smelling his precious baby smell, not wanting to appear too aggressive, yet barely able to suppress my excitement. We stayed for an hour, communication shaky at best. When we left, it was agreed that Aurea would place her baby with us. She just needed a little more time to say good-bye to him.
The next week was a living nightmare. We searched our souls, desperately trying to confirm that we could handle loving and raising a racially different child. The loving part was no problem, but we weren't foolish enough to think that raising him would be simple. We didn't care. The adage, "love can conquer all," was to be our future motto. During the same week, Aurea had changed her mind. Not about us; she simply didn't want to part with her son, and who could blame her? I felt differently this time. I experienced no bitterness or anger. I understood.
But by the end of the week, she told my lawyer to have us come. It was snowing that day. A storm was predicted, but nothing would stop us. When we arrived, Aurea had dressed her baby in his finest clothes. She handed my husband a plastic bag filled with the articles she had acquired for her child over the past three weeks. She placed the baby in my arms and hugged me close, whispering in my ear, "Please, take care of my baby." "Always," I whispered back, sobbing as I left her crying in the kitchen and walked to my car. My husband, tears streaming down his face, backed out of the driveway. We headed home, all three of us, our hearts filled with love and gratitude, mingled with sorrow for Aurea's pain.
We never changed our son's first name. We felt it was the best gift we could give both him and Aurea. He is now twelve years old, and Aurea's act of kindness lives on daily in our hearts and souls.

Reprinted by permission of Phyllis DeMarco (c