Inspirational Stories About Illness or Healing
A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy (True Story) - "Six Words... that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand - who taught me the gift of love..."
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She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach.
"Good-bye joy,"
I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on.
I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy." She giggled.
"You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater.
"I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared....
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again.
"I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation." She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today."
She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt? " she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?" "Of course it hurt!!!!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies." "Not at all - she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it.
"Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." her voice faltered. "She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MR. P printed in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues - a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath was carefully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms.
"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
Six Words - one for each year of her life - that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand - who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: The above is based on and adapted from a story originally written by Mary Sherman Hilbert.
"The full-length version of Hilbert's story appeared in 1978 in a periodical produced by a religious order in Canada and was subsequently picked up by Reader's Digest and offered in condensed form to its readership in 1980. In that shortened version, which went on to become the widely-forwarded piece now part of online culture, the beach walker is identified as Ruth Peterson and the child as Windy." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hospital Window - "Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window..."
Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window.
The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.
And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.
As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.
One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Days and weeks passed.
One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself.
He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.
It faced a blank wall. The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall.
She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."
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Unstoppable Women: Marion Luna Brem's Story - Two kinds of cancer, two surgeries, two children to support and given little but a death sentence by her doctors... this amazing women overcame the odds and won!
In 1984, Marion Luna Brem was 30 years old-and she was dying. Marion had cancer of the breast and cervix and had undergone two surgeries in 11 weeks-a mastectomy and hysterectomy. Now she was suffering the horrifying effects of chemotherapy. Adding to her pain, the disease had robbed her of her hair, her savings, and now her husband. He walked out saying he couldn't deal with the pressure any more. Marion was left with two small boys and no means to support them. Worse, her prognosis was a death sentence: Doctors told her she had 2 years to live, 5 if she was really lucky.
So, on a hot Texas morning in May, Marion laid with her cheek on the cold bathroom floor trying not to throw up-again. And despite her gut-wrenching pain and paralyzing fear, she knew she could not afford to lie there feeling sorry for herself. Instead, Marion had to focus on taking care of her kids. And that meant finding a job. But she had almost no experience and little formal education-not exactly a powerful résumé to launch a budding career. Plus, she was a woman-an Hispanic woman-which in many people's eyes meant she had two strikes against her. Marion thought only of survival. The words rich and successful didn't even enter her mind.
Deciding to Be Courageous
Where to begin? Susan, Marion's best friend, suggested she look for a job in sales, but Marion worried about her lack of experience. Susan reminded her that there was a lot of value in the job market for the skills she possessed as a housewife: time management, budgeting, not to mention the people skills she developed while being a room mother and a member of the PTA. So with all the resolve she could muster, Marion thought, "Why not?"
Of all the industries to pursue, Marion chose the male-dominated field of selling automobiles. One of Marion's past part-time jobs was a switchboard operator at a Dallas car dealership, so she knew there was good money in car sales. She had also seen firsthand how salesmen talked only to the male half of the couple, virtually ignoring the woman. Intuitively, she knew women were an important part of the decision-making process and believed this was an opportunity. Statistics now reveal that Marion was right. When couples purchase a car, the woman influences the decision 80 percent of the time. Marion recognized the need for car saleswomen, and she was determined to fill that need.
Armed only with her gut instinct and a funky blonde wig, Marion approached the first dealership. "Have you ever thought about hiring a woman?" she asked. "No!" was the curt reply. She heard the same response from 16 other sales managers around town. Yet Marion Brem didn't give up. She couldn't! "I think courage is something you decide upon," she says. "You wake up in the morning and have a meeting with the mirror and say, 'Today I'm going to be courageous."
But her approach clearly wasn't working. So on her 17th try, she modified her pitch and said, "Here's what I can do for you.." After telling the manager her angle on women car buyers, she was hired on the spot! Marion Luna Brem's career in car sales had begun.
From Rookie Saleswoman to Manager
At first, her all-male colleagues embraced the rookie saleswoman. "It really wasn't until I began competing with them, beating them, that I noticed a change of heart," Marion recalls. "But when they see that you're not going away, and not going to personalize their derogatory remarks, then a kind of respect is born."
Brem's first year out, she was named salesperson of the year. Of course, the plaque read "Salesman of the Year," and the award included a trip to the Super Bowl and a man's Rolex watch. Still, it was a great honor and a wonderful achievement. Meanwhile, her cancer went into remission and Marion was going strong.
For 2 more years, Marion was a top producer, but she wanted more. It was then that she approached her boss about a management position. Her proposal was flatly rejected. He said that he'd be "nuts" to take her out of sales with all the money she was making both of them. As difficult as it was for her to leave the security of the established clientele of repeat and referral business she had worked so hard to create, she moved on, believing she would find what she was looking for. That meant, once again, knocking on doors.
After several frustrating weeks of pounding the pavement, Marion was finally hired as an entry-level manager at a new dealership. She quickly climbed the management ladder. Two and a half years later, she was ready to start her own dealership. She envisioned an operation run by women for women. All she needed was a "measly" $800,000 and she was off to the races. To Marion, it might as well have been $800 million.
A Labor of Love
Once again, Marion rolled up her sleeves. "I put together a portfolio on myself. I literally went to the drugstore and got 50 of those school folders," she recalls. Inside, she put her certificates, press clippings, and a biography. Marion called it her "brag folder." On the advice of a trusted friend, she sent the package to 50 CPAs all over Texas-money managers who represented doctors looking for investment opportunities.
Two weeks later, Marion received a call from one of her contacts. It would change her life. The CPA had a client, a cardiologist, who had agreed to become her silent partner. The doctor helped arrange $800,000 in working capital as well as millions more in loans needed to lease, stock, and market her first dealership. Marion approached Chrysler Corporation-and quickly struck a deal.
Now all she needed was a name for her brand-new dealership. Marion wanted something distinctive-and it had to be feminine. She tried several "feel-good" names, but nothing stuck. Finally, it hit her: "Love." "It's the most positive word in the dictionary," she thought. "And it's the way I feel about this project, the way I'm going to treat my customers and employees."
So in 1989, just 5 years after selling her first car, "Love Chrysler" was born, complete with a heart logo on every car. Marion's motto: "It's not just the hearts on our cars, it's the hearts inside our people. We're spreading Love all over Texas!"
Marion's labor of love paid off handsomely. Today, she is cancer-free, is the owner of two car dealerships, and recently celebrated the 11th anniversary of Love Chrysler. Her company is 89th on the Hispanic Business 500 with revenues of more than $45 million.
At the age of 30, Marion Luna Brem had lost her breast, her womb, her marriage.and soon, the doctors said, she would lose her life. But Marion literally dragged herself off a cold tile floor, put on a cheap wig, and took on a world dominated by good ole boys. In the process, she raised two kids, beat a devastating illness, and turned steel into love.
"Sometimes it's not enough to simply knock on doors.
You've gotta knock them down!"
-Marion Luna Brem
Don't Tell Me What I Can't Do! - Even before I could understand the words, doctors told my parents that if I did live I wouldn’t be active at all. I’d basically be a vegetable. They told my parents to put me in a home. I'm thankful they didn’t listen.
Have you ever watched ABC’s hit TV show Lost? My favorite episode was titled “Walkabout” because like the topic character, I too overcame paralsis.
In it, you learn that the mysterious outdoorsman Locke was paralyzed and the mysterious circumstances leading to his recovery.
Locke was actually planning to go on a Walkabout, which is a sacred outdoor adventure. But the leader, seeing Locke’s limitation, forbade him to go. Angrily Locke shouted “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
At that dramatic moment, you flash forward to the plane crash, and see Locke on the ground, slowly moving his legs. Then stand up. And walk.
I’ve had many “Locke Moments” in my life, including the time when at the age of 7 I took my first steps. Although I’ve never said his line to anyone before, I’ve sure thought it. When you’re born with the umbilical cord wrapped around your neck and barely live, you get used to people telling you what you can’t do.
Even before I could understand the words, doctors told my parents that if I did live I wouldn’t be active at all. I’d basically be a vegetable. They told my parents to put me in a home. I'm thankful they didn’t listen. “Don’t tell us what he can’t do!”
So, they took me home and it turned out that mentally, I was intact. I did have Cerebral Palsy and doctors said I’d never walk. Well, they were half right... for the first 7 years of my life I crawled around on my knees. I went through physical therapy multiple times a week and was quite determined for a kid.
At 7 years old, at my grandparents’ house, I took my first steps, to everyone’s amazement, including myself. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
As I got older, people urged me to get into the technical side of computers and get a good job. I hated that stuff. I wanted to be an entrepreneur. People warned me about this. It’s too risky. But I pursued ventures both online and offline, and I’ve made money in both. In fact, next month I’ll be selling a 4-acre piece of land. I’ll net $144,000 on the deal. Glad I took that risk. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
If I've been able to live my dreams, how about you?
I bet you've been ridiculed by your friends and family when you tell them about your Internet dreams. It’s very common. Do you know you why they do this almost automatically? The simple fact is that loved ones who do this to you have good intentions. They don’t want to see you get hurt, ripped off, or scammed. They just, quite honestly, have no idea what they’re talking about.
I’ve long since given up on trying to explain what I do online to friends and extended family. Even trying to explain simple concepts such as email marketing can lead to comments such as “Oh, so you spam people?” It’s frustrating, to say the least. It hurts because these are the people who you’d expect to be on your side.
Don’t let these people get you down. Ask yourself one question: Do I believe that what I’m doing will eventually lead to financial success? Whether it’s creating e-books, doing affiliate marketing, making content sites, writing articles, or whatever it may be. If you can honestly say yes, then keep plugging away and never give up.
The next time a loved one says you’re crazy for trying to make money online, don’t get mad. Don’t get defensive. You don’t have to defend anything. You know what you’re doing. They have no clue. Just think about Locke, getting up from that crash site and walking, and simply say “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”
Michael Murray is a 22-year old full-time Internet marketer and college student with Cerebral Palsy who lives in sunny Orlando Florida. His latest site is an information center on how to remove Adware & Spyware from your PC
Inspirational Stories About Never Giving Up
If You Can Dream It... - "Helen is a shining example of what one can achieve, in the face of adversity. Helen is proof that If You Can Dream It, You CAN Achieve It..."
To look at her, one would never know. With her red-gold hair and her sea-green eyes, one might never guess. With a smile so bright, she could shame the sun, and a laugh that rolls out like the breaking dawn, and a caring spirit that warms all who know her, one might miss her struggle. She is beautiful, brilliant, and funny. Her small, perfect hands are lovely, and to see them folded in her lap, or softly touching a child's cheek, one might never comprehend her great effort, just to sign her name. Her name is Helen. The Greek name, meaning "light," is a perfect reflection of her personality and character. Her name could also be "courage," for courageous she is.
We first knew that something was happening, as Helen entered puberty, and her voice began to change. A slight quaver at first, in time became a tremor. A gifted singer at four years of age, her beautiful Irish soprano began to disappear by the time she was ten. By fifteen, she was unable to "speak-up" in her classes, and her voice would often disappear as she struggled just to make herself understood, word by word.
I had been a trained singer, and I remembered a similar struggle as I entered puberty, so I began to work with Helen, especially with her singing, training her to depend upon her diaphragm, rather than her vocal chords. However, the tremor in her speaking voice never completely recovered, and it would be aggravated under extreme stress.
We noticed that Helen held her pen with extreme tightness, when she wrote, and we tried to encourage her to keep a light touch, so that she would not tire her hand. All this was to no avail. We took her from specialist to specialist, and there seemed no answer to her ever increasing struggle. By the time Helen was twenty, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong. She could not write, yet she kept going. She would contort her hand, just to sign her name. Her voice became faint, and she could not pronounce certain letters, but nothing could stop her sense of humor, or her courageous journey towards excellence.
She excelled in every job she ever had. She taught herself to write with her other hand. She finally found a doctor who was able to give a name to her condition, "dystonia." Although there seemed no reasonable course of treatment, she absolutely refused to give up on her life! She went back to college, at twenty-five, and she was just amazing in her engineering classes, making 4.0s in subjects that I could neither pronounce nor spell. Throughout these incredible achievements, Helen was the first to laugh at herself, and to make light of her struggles, as she both worked and went to school.
During all this time, Helen's faith in God, and in herself, seldom wavered. She knew that she was in the hands of a loving God, and with the love and support of her family, Helen continued to succeed in every endeavor. However, time and the course of her disease, finally made it impossible for Helen to continue without assistance. We are fortunate to live in a country where no one need be left behind, unless one chooses to give up. Assistance in funding for school, and the tools to succeed were more than available, and now Helen is part of a research program through the National Institute of Health (NIH). There is, now, hope for treatment.
Helen is disabled, but she is not handicapped. Being "handicapped" is an indictment one gives to oneself. When one is DISabled, one can still be ENabled. The only thing holding a person back is oneself. Helen is proving that one can achieve under extreme difficulty.
As Helen's mother, I will soon be involved in the NIH Dystonia Research Program, along with her, to see if I am a carrier of the gene which causes dystonia. Helen will soon be 29, and, of course, 30 years ago, there was no such thing as genetic testing. I'm glad it did not exist. If I knew that I carried a genetic defect, perhaps I would have made the "proper" decision to not pass on my defective genes. We didn't know in those days. We didn't have those choices.
Would I have chosen not to have this child, had I been given that choice, knowing her as I do now? I think I would have chosen to give her life. For I would not have missed a moment of this precious life. I would not have missed a single breath, nor a smile, nor a laugh. For a life without Helen would be a poor life indeed. She is my precious, beautiful daughter, a bright, shooting star, who has enriched my husband's and my life, beyond our wildest dreams.
It is true that Helen has a disability, hidden from view, at first glance. But don't we all have hidden disabilities? Don't we all have that "cannot achieve" disability that we nurture deep inside the dark reaches of ourselves, because of the unkind judgments we collect through life, from teachers, peers, or even, sadly, sometimes our parents?
When life seems impossible to me. When dreams seem unachievable to me. I like to look at Helen, and I think, my-my, how pale my life would have been without her. How inspiring is her courage and strength. Helen is my youngest child, and as her name means "light," perhaps her story will light up your life.
Helen is a shining example of what one can achieve, in the face of adversity. Helen is proof that IF YOU CAN DREAM IT, YOU CAN ACHIEVE IT. So, strive for excellence. Reach beyond your grasp. Who knows what dreams will become reality, if you only reach for them?
Jaye Lewis
Jaye Lewis is a writer and poet, who lives with her family in the Appalachian Mountains of southwestern Virginia. This story will be included in Jaye's forthcoming book, entitled Entertaining Angels. Jaye can be emailed at jlewis@smyth.net
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Never Quit - "A winner is not one who never fails, but one who never quits!..."
In 1962, four nervous young musicians played their first record audition for the executives of the Decca Recording company. The executives were not impressed. While turning down this group of musicians, one executive said, “We don’t like their sound. Groups of guitars are on the way out.” The group was called The Beatles.
In 1944, Emmeline Snively, director of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, told modeling hopeful Norma Jean Baker, “You’d better learn secretarial work or else get married.” She went on and became Marilyn Monroe.
In 1954, Jimmy Denny, manager of the Grand Ole Opry fired a singer after one performance. He told him, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere son. You ought to go back to drivin’ a truck.” He went on to become the most popular singer in America, named Elvis Presley.
When Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone in 1876, it did not ring off the hook with calls from potential backers. After making a demonstration call, President Rutherford Hayes said, “That’s an amazing invention, but who would ever want to use one of them?”
When Thomas Edison invented the light bulb, he tried over 2000 experiments before he got it to work. A young reporter asked him how it felt to fail so many times. He said, “I never failed once. I invented the light bulb. It just happened to be a 2000-step process.”
In the 1940’s, another young inventor named Chester Carlson took his idea to 20 corporations, including some of the biggest in the country. They all turned him down. In 1947 – after seven long years of rejections! He finally got a tiny company in Rochester, New York, the Haloid Company, to purchase the rights to his invention, an electrostatic paper-copying process. Haloid became Xerox Corporation we know today.
Wilma Rudolph was the 20th of 22 children. She was born prematurely and her survival was doubtful. When she was 4 years old, she contacted double pneumonia and scarlet fever, which left her with a paralyzed left leg. At age 9, she removed the metal leg brace she had been dependent on and began to walk without it. By 13 she had developed rhythmic walk, which doctors said was a miracle. That same year she decided to become a runner. She entered a race and came in last. For the next few years every race she entered, she came in last. Everyone told her to quit, but she kept on running. One day she actually won a race. And then another. From then on she won every race she entered. Eventually this little girl, who was told she would never walk again, went on to win three Olympic gold medals.
The moral of the above Stories:
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved. You gain strength, experience and confidence by every experience where you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing you cannot do. And remember, the finest steel gets sent through the hottest furnace. A winner is not one who never fails, but one who NEVER QUITS!
In LIFE, remember that you pass this way only once! Let’s live life to the fullest and give it our best.
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A D- - "I remember my Landon Junior High School seventh grade, math teacher's name very well. It was Mr. Young. He stood out because the kids made fun of him."
I remember my Landon Junior High School seventh grade, math teacher's name very well. It was Mr. Young. He stood out because the kids made fun of him. He was missing one of his fingers, and always pointed at students with his middle finger.
For some reason I was not very good in school. English and Math were my worst two subjects. There was just something wrong with me, inside my head. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not figure out why I did not understand what all the other kids found so easy to learn. I don't think there was ever a day I went to school that I was not afraid.
One day, I was told by Mrs. Winters, the head matron of the Children's Home Society Orphanage, that if I got one more E on my report card, I would be taken to the Juvenile Court in downtown Jacksonville, Florida. She would tell the judge to send me away to the ‘big prison for kids’.
I tried really hard for weeks to learn how to multiply, do fractions, and compound things. I just couldn't understand how to make different parts of numbers into whole things, but my brain just couldn't do it, no matter how hard I tried.
The day before report cards were to come out, I knew that Mr. Young would give me an E, just like he always did.
After class ended, I went to Mr. Young and told him that the orphanage was going to send me to the big prison if I got another E on my report card. He told me there was nothing he could do; it would be unfair to the other kids if he gave me a better grade than I had actually earned.
I smiled at him, turned and walked towards the door, then I stopped. I looked at the teacher and said, "Mr. Young, you know how all the kids make fun of you because you're missing your finger?"
He looked at me, moved his mouth to one side, like he was biting the inside of his gum, and said nothing.
"They shouldn't do that to you because you can't help not having a finger, Mr. Young. Just like I can't help not being able to learn numbers and stuff like that," I said.
Again, he said nothing as he looked down at his desk, and began grading papers.
The next day, when I got my report card, I tucked it into one of my books. While on the school bus, I opened the report card envelope and looked at my grades: Geography; B+, Mechanical Drawing; C-, English; D-, History; C-, Gym; B+, Art; C, Math; D-.
That math grade was the most favorite one I ever received in my whole life. Not because I didn't get sent to the big prison for kids, but because I knew that someone in the world finally understood what it was like for me to be missing a finger inside my head.
Inspirational Stories About Doing Good
Just a Typical Teenage Boy - "Courage is a matter of the heart. I wish that every person in the whole world had the courage of this one 'typical' teenager..."
I remember my Landon Junior High School seventh grade, math teacher's name very well. It was Mr. Young. He stood out because the kids made fun of him. He was missing one of his fingers, and always pointed at students with his middle finger.
For some reason I was not very good in school. English and Math were my worst two subjects. There was just something wrong with me, inside my head. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not figure out why I did not understand what all the other kids found so easy to learn. I don't think there was ever a day I went to school that I was not afraid.
One day, I was told by Mrs. Winters, the head matron of the Children's Home Society Orphanage, that if I got one more E on my report card, I would be taken to the Juvenile Court in downtown Jacksonville, Florida. She would tell the judge to send me away to the ‘big prison for kids’.
I tried really hard for weeks to learn how to multiply, do fractions, and compound things. I just couldn't understand how to make different parts of numbers into whole things, but my brain just couldn't do it, no matter how hard I tried.
The day before report cards were to come out, I knew that Mr. Young would give me an E, just like he always did.
After class ended, I went to Mr. Young and told him that the orphanage was going to send me to the big prison if I got another E on my report card. He told me there was nothing he could do; it would be unfair to the other kids if he gave me a better grade than I had actually earned.
I smiled at him, turned and walked towards the door, then I stopped. I looked at the teacher and said, "Mr. Young, you know how all the kids make fun of you because you're missing your finger?"
He looked at me, moved his mouth to one side, like he was biting the inside of his gum, and said nothing.
"They shouldn't do that to you because you can't help not having a finger, Mr. Young. Just like I can't help not being able to learn numbers and stuff like that," I said.
Again, he said nothing as he looked down at his desk, and began grading papers.
The next day, when I got my report card, I tucked it into one of my books. While on the school bus, I opened the report card envelope and looked at my grades: Geography; B+, Mechanical Drawing; C-, English; D-, History; C-, Gym; B+, Art; C, Math; D-.
That math grade was the most favorite one I ever received in my whole life. Not because I didn't get sent to the big prison for kids, but because I knew that someone in the world finally understood what it was like for me to be missing a finger inside my head.
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Brian Grant - Companion in Courage - "Professional athletes do a lot of good in their communities, and I wish that they got more publicity for their efforts. The bad stuff always gets in the newspapers or on TV, but the hours spent helping others just don't seem to make a good story..."
Professional athletes do a lot of good in their communities, and I wish that they got more publicity for their efforts. The bad stuff always gets in the newspapers or on TV, but the hours spent helping others just don't seem to make a good story.
At least that's the way the media seems to look at it. I see it, quite naturally, from the athlete's side. And while I think players should be acknowledged for their positive contributions, I know that's not their motivation. They get plenty of cheers and applause elsewhere.
They do it to do good. The giving of their time and compassion comes back tenfold in emotional payoffs. And while I heartily support all the wonderful programs athletes conceive and execute, I'm most thrilled and moved when athletes dedicate themselves to children. That's how I learned about Brian Grant and why I'm proud to include him as a Companion in Courage.
Dash Thomas, a twelve-year-old boy suffering from cancer, first introduced me to Brian. During the NBA lockout in 1998 I heard Dash say that Brian, a forward for the Portland Trail Blazers, was his best friend. Because so many of the children that I met at Buffalo General's cancer ward numbered among my best friends, I decided I needed to know more about Brian Grant.
During the lockout Brian started driving to Sublimity, Oregon, a one-hour ride from Portland, to visit Dash, who had been diagnosed with brain cancer. Dash, a young white kid, and Brian, a black NBA power forward who wore dreadlocks, forged a firm friendship. They became each other's heroes.
When the lockout ended, Brian wanted to get Dash to a game. Unfortunately, that never happened. His young friend died in February. Brian dedicated his season to Dash Thomas.
The NBA lockout will be remembered as a labor dispute, a fight between millionaire players and billionaire owners. Brian Grant got something entirely different from it. "Because of the lockout, Dash died before he could come to a game. On the other hand, without the lockout, I wouldn't have had as much time to get to know him," he said. "There was something about the way he carried himself. He wasn't like a twelve-year-old kid. It was like he was older. His courage - everything about him - was amazing. He was an inspiration. My relationship with Dash changed my life."
During the playoffs, Grant battled the best power forward in the league, Karl Malone, to a standoff. During their epic struggle one of Malone's famous elbows caught Brian in the right eye, opening a gash that took six stitches to close. It also opened a window into his psyche.
While many of Brian's fellow NBA players played Amateur Athletic Union basketball and in the much-touted summer camps before being drafted, Brian was cutting tobacco and baling hay back in Georgetown, Ohio. He watched his dad and uncles weld boxcars - hard, nasty, physical labor. He saw them, with no first-aid kits available and no time to waste, slice potatoes in half and put them on their cuts to ease the pain from their burns. One night Grant's father came home with a bandage over his eye. He had been hit by a piece of hot metal.
So a six-stitch gash? What should that mean next to the struggles of Brian's father, his uncles, and a frail twelve-year-old named Dash, hospitalized in Sublimity, Oregon? Brian's attitude? "Stitch it up and let's play!"
Brian continues to excel in the NBA, though he now plays with the Miami Heat, but he also stands out in his work with children.
Brian has many young friends and a growing list of community leaders who respect him. His future holds so much promise. But he is never, ever far from his past, never really removed from family in Georgetown, Ohio, or separated from the memory of a boy named Dash.
Pat LaFontaine
Former Professional Hockey Player
Excerpted from his book, "Companions in Courage"
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Where is God's Perfection? - "Shaya's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging..."
In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning disabled children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school career, while others can be mainstreamed into conventional schools.
At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended.
After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, "Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection?"
The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father's anguish, stilled by the piercing query.
" I believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child."
He then told the following story about his son Shaya:
One afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball.
Shaya asked, "Do you think they will let me play?"
Shaya's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.
Shaya's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said "We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning."
Shaya's father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field.
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shaya's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surpassingly, Shaya was given the bat.
Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be able to make contact.
The first pitch came in and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya's teammates came up to Shaya and together the held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his teammate swung at the bat and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.
The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.
Everyone started yelling,"Shaya, run to first. Run to first." Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out Shaya, who was still running. But the right fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second." Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third." As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, "Shaya run home."
Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a "grand slam" and won the game for his team.
"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "those 18 boys reached their level of God's perfection."
General Inspirational Stories
Installing Love - A call to computer tech support: "After much consideration, I've decided to install Love. Can you guide me through the process?"
Tech Support: Yes, .. how can I help you?
Customer: Well, after much consideration, I've decided to install Love. Can you guide me through the process?
Tech Support: Yes. I can help you. Are you ready to proceed?
Customer: Well, I'm not very technical, but I think I'm ready. What do I do first?
Tech Support: The first step is to open your Heart. Have you located your Heart?
Customer: Yes, but there are several other programs running now. Is it okay to install Love while they are running?
Tech Support: What programs are running?
Customer: Let's see, I have Past-Hurt.exe, Low-Self-Esteem.exe, Grudge.exe and Resentment.exe running right now.
Tech Support: No problem, Love will gradually erase Past-Hurt.exe from your current operating system. It may remain in your permanent memory but it will no longer disrupt other programs. Love will eventually override Low-Self-Esteem.exe with a module of its own called High-Self-Esteem.exe. However, you have to completely turn off Grudge.exe and Resentment.exe. Those programs prevent Love from being properly installed. Can you turn those off?
Customer: I don't know how to turn them off. Can you tell me how?
Tech Support: With pleasure. Go to your start menu and invoke Forgiveness.exe. Do this as many times as necessary until Grudge.exe and Resentment.exe have been completely erased.
Customer: Okay, done! Love has started installing itself. Is that normal?
Tech Support: Yes, but remember that you have only the base program. You need to begin connecting to other Hearts in order to get the upgrades.
Customer: Oops! I have an error message already. It says, "Error - Program not run on external components" What should I do?
Tech Support: Don't worry. It means that the Love program is set up to run on Internal Hearts, but has not yet been run on your Heart. In non-technical terms, it simply means you have to Love yourself before you can Love others.
Customer: So, what should I do?
Tech Support: Pull down Self-Acceptance.exe; then click on the following files: Forgive-Self.txt; Realize-Your-Worth.txt; and Acknowledge-Your-Limitations.txt.
Customer: Okay, done.
Tech Support: Now, copy them to the "My Heart" directory. The system will overwrite any conflicting files and begin patching faulty programming. Also, you need to delete Verbose-Self-Criticism.txt from all directories and empty your Recycle Bin to make sure it is completely gone and never comes back.
Customer: Got it. Hey! My heart is filling up with new files. Smile.mpg is playing on my monitor and Peace.txt and Contentment.txt are copying themselves all over My Heart. Is this normal?
Tech Support: Sometimes. For others it takes awhile, but eventually everything gets it at the proper time. So Love is installed and running. One more thing before we hang up. Love is Freeware. Be sure to give it and its various modules to everyone you meet. They will in turn share it with others and return some cool modules back to you.
Customer: I will. Thank you for your help.
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Too Busy for a Friend... - "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it..."
One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers. That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much." were most of the comments. No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, one of the students was killed in Viet Nam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature. The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin. As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. She nodded: "yes." Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it." All of Mark's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."
Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said and without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think we all saved our lists."
That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again. The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
And One Way To Accomplish This Is: Forward this message on. If you do not send it, you will have, once again passed up the wonderful opportunity to do something nice and beautiful. If you've received this, it is because someone cares for you and it means there is probably at least someone for whom you care. If you're "too busy" to take those few minutes right now to forward this message on, would this be the VERY first time you didn't do that little thing that would make a difference in your relationships?
The more people that you send this to, the better you'll be at reaching out to those you care about. Remember, you reap what you sow. What you put into the lives of others comes back into your own.
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My Inspiration - "Even though the son was always on the bench, his mother was always in the stands cheering. She never missed a game..."
A teenager lived alone with his mother, and the two of them had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench, his mother was always in the stands cheering. She never missed a game.
This young man was still the smallest of the class when he entered high school. But his mother continued to encourage him but also made it very clear that he did not have to play football if he didn't want to.
He was determined to try his best at every practice, and perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior. All through high school he never missed a practice nor a game, but remained a bench warmer all four years. His faithful mother was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.
When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team as a "walk-on." Everyone was sure he could never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul into every practice, and at the same time provided other members with the spirit and hustle they badly needed.
The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his mother. His mother shared his excitement and was sent season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in any game. It was the end of his senior football season and as he trotted onto the practice field shortly before the big playoff game, the coach met him with a telegram. The young man read the telegram and he became deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he mumbled, "My Mother died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today"?
The coach put his arm gently around his shoulder and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday.
Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well.
In the third quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful teammate back so soon. "Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "All right," he said. "You can go in."
Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied. In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fans broke Loose. His teammates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard! Finally after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you? How did you do it?"
He looked at the coach with tears in his eyes, and said, "Well, you know my mom died, but did you know she was blind?" The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Mom came to all my games, but today was the first time she could see me play, and I wanted to show her I could do it!"
SO-REMEMBER RIGHT NOW:
Somebody is very proud of you.
Somebody is thinking of you.
Somebody is caring about you.
Somebody misses you.
Somebody wants to talk to you.
Somebody wants to be with you.
Somebody hopes you are not in trouble.
Somebody is thankful for the support you have provided.
Somebody wants to hold your hand.
Somebody hopes everything turns out all right.
Somebody wants you to be happy.
Somebody want you to find him/her.
Somebody wants to give you a gift.
Somebody wants to hug you.
Somebody thinks you ARE a gift.
Somebody admires your strength.
Somebody wants to protect you.
Somebody can't wait to see you.
Somebody loves you for who you are.
Somebody treasures your spirit.
Somebody is glad that you are their friend.
Somebody wants to get to know you better.
Somebody wants to be near you.
Somebody wants you to know they are there for you.
Somebody want to share their dreams with you.
Somebody is alive because of you.
Somebody needs your support.
Somebody will cry when they read this.
Somebody needs you to have faith in them.
Somebody trusts you.
Somebody hears a song that reminds them of you.
Somebody NEEDS YOU TO SEND THIS TO THEM
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Growing Up or Growing Old - "There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success..." and this young 87 year old woman will teach them to you...
The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know.
I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
She said, "Hi, handsome! My name is Rose. I'm 87 years old. Can I give you a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze.
"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked. She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, have a couple of children, and then retire and travel."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told me.
After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake. We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months we would leave class together and talk nonstop.
I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.
At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her 3x5 cards on the floor.
Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order, so let me just tell you what I know." As we laughed, she cleared her throat and began:
"We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor everyday. You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have so many people walking around who are dead, and they don't even know it!" she said.
"There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn 20 years old. If I am 87 years old, and stay in bed for a year, and never do anything, I will turn 88. Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability," she added.
"The idea is to grow up by always finding the opportunity in change. Have no regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose." She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.
At the years end, Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep. Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can possibly be.
-- Author Unknown
Lyrics To The Rose - By Bette Midler
Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower, and you it's only seed.
It's the heart, afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance.
It's the dream, afraid of waking, that never takes a chance.
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give.
And the soul, afraid of dyin', that never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long,
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong,
Just remember in the winter far beneath the bitter snows,
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose.
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Best and Favorite Teacher - "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference..."
There is a story many years ago of an elementary school teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of the 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and told them she loved them all the same.
But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would almost take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big “F” at the top of his papers.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise. Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners…he is a joy to be around.”
His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”
His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”
Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents that were wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper except for Teddy’s. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy brown paper he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume.
But she stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thomson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.”
After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer, the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.
The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”
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Keep Your Fork - "It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming... like velvety chocolate cake or deep dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!..."
There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things "in order," she contacted her Priest and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.
She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.
Everything was in order and the Priest was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.
"There's one more thing," she said excitedly.
"What' that?" came the Priest's reply.
"This is very important," the young woman continued. "I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand."
The Priest stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.
"That surprises you, doesn't it?" the young woman asked.
"Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the Priest.
The young woman explained. "My grandmother once told me this story, and from there on out, I have always done so. I have also, always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement."
"In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!' So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder "What's with the fork?" Then I want you to tell them: "Keep your fork ..The best is yet to come."
The Priest's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge.
She KNEW that something better was coming.
At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Priest heard the question: "What's with the fork?" And over and over he smiled.
During his message, the Priest told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. The pastor told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.
He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork, let it remind you ever so gently, that the best is yet to come. Friends are very rare jewels, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us. Show your friends how much you care. Remember to always be there for them, even when you need them more. For you never know when it may be their time to "Keep your fork."
Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share ... being friends with someone is not an opportunity but a sweet responsibility.
Send this to everyone you consider a FRIEND even if it means sending back to the person who sent it to you.
And keep your fork.
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Invisible Smile - "It's so easy to get caught up in everyday life that we forget how simple it can be to bring cheer to ourselves and others. Giving a smile away takes so little effort and time..."
Mr. Dawson was an old grouch, and everyone in town knew it. Kids knew not to go into his yard to pick a yummy apple, even off the ground, because old Daws, they said, would come after you with his BB gun.
One Friday, 12 year old Janet was going to stay all night with her friend Amy. They had to walk by Daws house on the way to Amy's house, but as they got close Janet saw him sitting on his front porch and suggested they cross over to the other side of the street. Like most of the children, she was scared of the old man because of the stories she'd heard about him.
Amy said not to worry, Mr. Dawson wouldn't hurt anyone. Still, Janet was growing more nervous with each step closer to the old man's house. When they got close enough, Daws looked up with his usual frown, but when he saw it was Amy, a broad smile changed his entire countenance as he said, "Hello Miss Amy. I see you've got a little friend with you today."
Amy smiled back and told him Janet was staying overnight and they were going to listen to music and play games. Daws told them that sounded fun, and offered them each a fresh picked apple off his tree. They gladly accepted, Daws had the best apples in town.
When they got out of Daws' earshot, Janet asked Amy, "Everyone says he's the meanest man in town. How come he was he so nice to us?"
Amy explained that when she first started walking past his house he wasn't very friendly and she was afraid of him, but she pretended he was wearing an invisible smile and so she always smiled back at him. It took a while, but one day he half-smiled back at her.
After some more time, he started smiling real smiles and then started talking to her. Just a "hello" at first, then more. She said he always offers her an apple now, and is always very kind.
"An invisible smile?" questioned Janet.
"Yes," answered Amy, "my grandma told me that if I pretended I wasn't afraid and pretended he was smiling an invisible smile at me and I smiled back at him, that sooner or later he really would smile. Grandma says smiles are contagious."
If we remember what Amy's grandma said, that everyone wears an invisible smile, we too will find that most people can't resist our smile after a while.
We're always on the go trying to accomplish so much, aren't we? Hauling the kids around, getting groceries, cleaning the house, mowing the yard - it's always something. It's so easy to get caught up in everyday life that we forget how simple it can be to bring cheer to ourselves and others. Giving a smile away takes so little effort and time, let's make sure that we're not the one that others have to pretend is wearing an invisible smile.
When you walk into a party or gathering where everyone is smiling and laughing, it's mighty easy to get into a good mood and get into the spirit of the occasion. On the other hand, just walk into a room where the gloom hangs heavily in the air and people are frowning, and it's equally as easy to start feeling a little lower in spirit.
It all starts somewhere, and if not with you and I, then where? All it takes to uplift the day is to remember to give that smile away! You can't save them, you can't store them, the only way they're any good is to share them. Start by giving yourself a nice, big smile when you're in the bathroom getting ready for the day. Look right in the mirror and smile at yourself and tell yourself it's going to be a great day as you do. You'll be surprised at how much more often you will have great days. To be sure, nothing unusual may happen other than you've improved your outlook. Attitude is everything.
"A smile is an inexpensive way to improve your looks."
- Charles Gordy
"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."
- Leo Buscaglia
"Smile at each other, smile at your wife, smile at your husband, smile at your children, smile at each other - it doesn't matter who it is - and that will help you to grow up in greater love for each other."
- Mother Teresa
"Smile first, smile big, smile often."
- Glenn Dromgoole
Inspirational Holiday Stories
White Envelopes - "It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription..."
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it, overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma, the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son, Kevin, who was 12 that year was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended, and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church.
These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in the spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids, all kids, and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.
That's when the idea of his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition, one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
--
This story was written by Nancy W. Gavin and was first published in Woman's Day Magazine in 1982. Her daughter contacted me since I had "author unknown" on this page. This story has become world famous and her Mom passed away in 1983 and never enjoyed the effect of her writing this wonderful story. Rest in peace Nancy and thanks for the great inspirational story.
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Santa Grandma - "That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well..."
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go." "Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through it's doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's. I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all the kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he had no coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!
I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.
Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby. Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95
A Sandpiper To Bring You Joy (True Story) - "Six Words... that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand - who taught me the gift of love..."
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She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach.
"Good-bye joy,"
I muttered to myself, "hello pain," and turned to walk on.
I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy." She giggled.
"You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater.
"I need a sandpiper," I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared....
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again.
"I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk." Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation." She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today."
She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt? " she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?" "Of course it hurt!!!!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies." "Not at all - she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly realizing that I meant it.
"Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. My breath caught.
"She loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." her voice faltered. "She left something for you ... if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope, with MR. P printed in bold, childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues - a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath was carefully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms.
"I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
Six Words - one for each year of her life - that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair the color of sand - who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: The above is based on and adapted from a story originally written by Mary Sherman Hilbert.
"The full-length version of Hilbert's story appeared in 1978 in a periodical produced by a religious order in Canada and was subsequently picked up by Reader's Digest and offered in condensed form to its readership in 1980. In that shortened version, which went on to become the widely-forwarded piece now part of online culture, the beach walker is identified as Ruth Peterson and the child as Windy." ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hospital Window - "Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window..."
Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window.
The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.
And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.
The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.
As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.
One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Days and weeks passed.
One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself.
He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.
It faced a blank wall. The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall.
She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."
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Unstoppable Women: Marion Luna Brem's Story - Two kinds of cancer, two surgeries, two children to support and given little but a death sentence by her doctors... this amazing women overcame the odds and won!
In 1984, Marion Luna Brem was 30 years old-and she was dying. Marion had cancer of the breast and cervix and had undergone two surgeries in 11 weeks-a mastectomy and hysterectomy. Now she was suffering the horrifying effects of chemotherapy. Adding to her pain, the disease had robbed her of her hair, her savings, and now her husband. He walked out saying he couldn't deal with the pressure any more. Marion was left with two small boys and no means to support them. Worse, her prognosis was a death sentence: Doctors told her she had 2 years to live, 5 if she was really lucky.
So, on a hot Texas morning in May, Marion laid with her cheek on the cold bathroom floor trying not to throw up-again. And despite her gut-wrenching pain and paralyzing fear, she knew she could not afford to lie there feeling sorry for herself. Instead, Marion had to focus on taking care of her kids. And that meant finding a job. But she had almost no experience and little formal education-not exactly a powerful résumé to launch a budding career. Plus, she was a woman-an Hispanic woman-which in many people's eyes meant she had two strikes against her. Marion thought only of survival. The words rich and successful didn't even enter her mind.
Deciding to Be Courageous
Where to begin? Susan, Marion's best friend, suggested she look for a job in sales, but Marion worried about her lack of experience. Susan reminded her that there was a lot of value in the job market for the skills she possessed as a housewife: time management, budgeting, not to mention the people skills she developed while being a room mother and a member of the PTA. So with all the resolve she could muster, Marion thought, "Why not?"
Of all the industries to pursue, Marion chose the male-dominated field of selling automobiles. One of Marion's past part-time jobs was a switchboard operator at a Dallas car dealership, so she knew there was good money in car sales. She had also seen firsthand how salesmen talked only to the male half of the couple, virtually ignoring the woman. Intuitively, she knew women were an important part of the decision-making process and believed this was an opportunity. Statistics now reveal that Marion was right. When couples purchase a car, the woman influences the decision 80 percent of the time. Marion recognized the need for car saleswomen, and she was determined to fill that need.
Armed only with her gut instinct and a funky blonde wig, Marion approached the first dealership. "Have you ever thought about hiring a woman?" she asked. "No!" was the curt reply. She heard the same response from 16 other sales managers around town. Yet Marion Brem didn't give up. She couldn't! "I think courage is something you decide upon," she says. "You wake up in the morning and have a meeting with the mirror and say, 'Today I'm going to be courageous."
But her approach clearly wasn't working. So on her 17th try, she modified her pitch and said, "Here's what I can do for you.." After telling the manager her angle on women car buyers, she was hired on the spot! Marion Luna Brem's career in car sales had begun.
From Rookie Saleswoman to Manager
At first, her all-male colleagues embraced the rookie saleswoman. "It really wasn't until I began competing with them, beating them, that I noticed a change of heart," Marion recalls. "But when they see that you're not going away, and not going to personalize their derogatory remarks, then a kind of respect is born."
Brem's first year out, she was named salesperson of the year. Of course, the plaque read "Salesman of the Year," and the award included a trip to the Super Bowl and a man's Rolex watch. Still, it was a great honor and a wonderful achievement. Meanwhile, her cancer went into remission and Marion was going strong.
For 2 more years, Marion was a top producer, but she wanted more. It was then that she approached her boss about a management position. Her proposal was flatly rejected. He said that he'd be "nuts" to take her out of sales with all the money she was making both of them. As difficult as it was for her to leave the security of the established clientele of repeat and referral business she had worked so hard to create, she moved on, believing she would find what she was looking for. That meant, once again, knocking on doors.
After several frustrating weeks of pounding the pavement, Marion was finally hired as an entry-level manager at a new dealership. She quickly climbed the management ladder. Two and a half years later, she was ready to start her own dealership. She envisioned an operation run by women for women. All she needed was a "measly" $800,000 and she was off to the races. To Marion, it might as well have been $800 million.
A Labor of Love
Once again, Marion rolled up her sleeves. "I put together a portfolio on myself. I literally went to the drugstore and got 50 of those school folders," she recalls. Inside, she put her certificates, press clippings, and a biography. Marion called it her "brag folder." On the advice of a trusted friend, she sent the package to 50 CPAs all over Texas-money managers who represented doctors looking for investment opportunities.
Two weeks later, Marion received a call from one of her contacts. It would change her life. The CPA had a client, a cardiologist, who had agreed to become her silent partner. The doctor helped arrange $800,000 in working capital as well as millions more in loans needed to lease, stock, and market her first dealership. Marion approached Chrysler Corporation-and quickly struck a deal.
Now all she needed was a name for her brand-new dealership. Marion wanted something distinctive-and it had to be feminine. She tried several "feel-good" names, but nothing stuck. Finally, it hit her: "Love." "It's the most positive word in the dictionary," she thought. "And it's the way I feel about this project, the way I'm going to treat my customers and employees."
So in 1989, just 5 years after selling her first car, "Love Chrysler" was born, complete with a heart logo on every car. Marion's motto: "It's not just the hearts on our cars, it's the hearts inside our people. We're spreading Love all over Texas!"
Marion's labor of love paid off handsomely. Today, she is cancer-free, is the owner of two car dealerships, and recently celebrated the 11th anniversary of Love Chrysler. Her company is 89th on the Hispanic Business 500 with revenues of more than $45 million.
At the age of 30, Marion Luna Brem had lost her breast, her womb, her marriage.and soon, the doctors said, she would lose her life. But Marion literally dragged herself off a cold tile floor, put on a cheap wig, and took on a world dominated by good ole boys. In the process, she raised two kids, beat a devastating illness, and turned steel into love.
You've gotta knock them down!"
-Marion Luna Brem
Don't Tell Me What I Can't Do! - Even before I could understand the words, doctors told my parents that if I did live I wouldn’t be active at all. I’d basically be a vegetable. They told my parents to put me in a home. I'm thankful they didn’t listen.
Have you ever watched ABC’s hit TV show Lost? My favorite episode was titled “Walkabout” because like the topic character, I too overcame paralsis.
In it, you learn that the mysterious outdoorsman Locke was paralyzed and the mysterious circumstances leading to his recovery.
Locke was actually planning to go on a Walkabout, which is a sacred outdoor adventure. But the leader, seeing Locke’s limitation, forbade him to go. Angrily Locke shouted “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
At that dramatic moment, you flash forward to the plane crash, and see Locke on the ground, slowly moving his legs. Then stand up. And walk.
I’ve had many “Locke Moments” in my life, including the time when at the age of 7 I took my first steps. Although I’ve never said his line to anyone before, I’ve sure thought it. When you’re born with the umbilical cord wrapped around your neck and barely live, you get used to people telling you what you can’t do.
Even before I could understand the words, doctors told my parents that if I did live I wouldn’t be active at all. I’d basically be a vegetable. They told my parents to put me in a home. I'm thankful they didn’t listen. “Don’t tell us what he can’t do!”
So, they took me home and it turned out that mentally, I was intact. I did have Cerebral Palsy and doctors said I’d never walk. Well, they were half right... for the first 7 years of my life I crawled around on my knees. I went through physical therapy multiple times a week and was quite determined for a kid.
At 7 years old, at my grandparents’ house, I took my first steps, to everyone’s amazement, including myself. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
As I got older, people urged me to get into the technical side of computers and get a good job. I hated that stuff. I wanted to be an entrepreneur. People warned me about this. It’s too risky. But I pursued ventures both online and offline, and I’ve made money in both. In fact, next month I’ll be selling a 4-acre piece of land. I’ll net $144,000 on the deal. Glad I took that risk. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
If I've been able to live my dreams, how about you?
I bet you've been ridiculed by your friends and family when you tell them about your Internet dreams. It’s very common. Do you know you why they do this almost automatically? The simple fact is that loved ones who do this to you have good intentions. They don’t want to see you get hurt, ripped off, or scammed. They just, quite honestly, have no idea what they’re talking about.
I’ve long since given up on trying to explain what I do online to friends and extended family. Even trying to explain simple concepts such as email marketing can lead to comments such as “Oh, so you spam people?” It’s frustrating, to say the least. It hurts because these are the people who you’d expect to be on your side.
Don’t let these people get you down. Ask yourself one question: Do I believe that what I’m doing will eventually lead to financial success? Whether it’s creating e-books, doing affiliate marketing, making content sites, writing articles, or whatever it may be. If you can honestly say yes, then keep plugging away and never give up.
The next time a loved one says you’re crazy for trying to make money online, don’t get mad. Don’t get defensive. You don’t have to defend anything. You know what you’re doing. They have no clue. Just think about Locke, getting up from that crash site and walking, and simply say “Don’t tell me what I can’t do.”
Michael Murray is a 22-year old full-time Internet marketer and college student with Cerebral Palsy who lives in sunny Orlando Florida. His latest site is an information center on how to remove Adware & Spyware from your PC
Inspirational Stories About Never Giving Up
If You Can Dream It... - "Helen is a shining example of what one can achieve, in the face of adversity. Helen is proof that If You Can Dream It, You CAN Achieve It..."
To look at her, one would never know. With her red-gold hair and her sea-green eyes, one might never guess. With a smile so bright, she could shame the sun, and a laugh that rolls out like the breaking dawn, and a caring spirit that warms all who know her, one might miss her struggle. She is beautiful, brilliant, and funny. Her small, perfect hands are lovely, and to see them folded in her lap, or softly touching a child's cheek, one might never comprehend her great effort, just to sign her name. Her name is Helen. The Greek name, meaning "light," is a perfect reflection of her personality and character. Her name could also be "courage," for courageous she is.
We first knew that something was happening, as Helen entered puberty, and her voice began to change. A slight quaver at first, in time became a tremor. A gifted singer at four years of age, her beautiful Irish soprano began to disappear by the time she was ten. By fifteen, she was unable to "speak-up" in her classes, and her voice would often disappear as she struggled just to make herself understood, word by word.
I had been a trained singer, and I remembered a similar struggle as I entered puberty, so I began to work with Helen, especially with her singing, training her to depend upon her diaphragm, rather than her vocal chords. However, the tremor in her speaking voice never completely recovered, and it would be aggravated under extreme stress.
We noticed that Helen held her pen with extreme tightness, when she wrote, and we tried to encourage her to keep a light touch, so that she would not tire her hand. All this was to no avail. We took her from specialist to specialist, and there seemed no answer to her ever increasing struggle. By the time Helen was twenty, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong. She could not write, yet she kept going. She would contort her hand, just to sign her name. Her voice became faint, and she could not pronounce certain letters, but nothing could stop her sense of humor, or her courageous journey towards excellence.
She excelled in every job she ever had. She taught herself to write with her other hand. She finally found a doctor who was able to give a name to her condition, "dystonia." Although there seemed no reasonable course of treatment, she absolutely refused to give up on her life! She went back to college, at twenty-five, and she was just amazing in her engineering classes, making 4.0s in subjects that I could neither pronounce nor spell. Throughout these incredible achievements, Helen was the first to laugh at herself, and to make light of her struggles, as she both worked and went to school.
During all this time, Helen's faith in God, and in herself, seldom wavered. She knew that she was in the hands of a loving God, and with the love and support of her family, Helen continued to succeed in every endeavor. However, time and the course of her disease, finally made it impossible for Helen to continue without assistance. We are fortunate to live in a country where no one need be left behind, unless one chooses to give up. Assistance in funding for school, and the tools to succeed were more than available, and now Helen is part of a research program through the National Institute of Health (NIH). There is, now, hope for treatment.
Helen is disabled, but she is not handicapped. Being "handicapped" is an indictment one gives to oneself. When one is DISabled, one can still be ENabled. The only thing holding a person back is oneself. Helen is proving that one can achieve under extreme difficulty.
As Helen's mother, I will soon be involved in the NIH Dystonia Research Program, along with her, to see if I am a carrier of the gene which causes dystonia. Helen will soon be 29, and, of course, 30 years ago, there was no such thing as genetic testing. I'm glad it did not exist. If I knew that I carried a genetic defect, perhaps I would have made the "proper" decision to not pass on my defective genes. We didn't know in those days. We didn't have those choices.
Would I have chosen not to have this child, had I been given that choice, knowing her as I do now? I think I would have chosen to give her life. For I would not have missed a moment of this precious life. I would not have missed a single breath, nor a smile, nor a laugh. For a life without Helen would be a poor life indeed. She is my precious, beautiful daughter, a bright, shooting star, who has enriched my husband's and my life, beyond our wildest dreams.
It is true that Helen has a disability, hidden from view, at first glance. But don't we all have hidden disabilities? Don't we all have that "cannot achieve" disability that we nurture deep inside the dark reaches of ourselves, because of the unkind judgments we collect through life, from teachers, peers, or even, sadly, sometimes our parents?
When life seems impossible to me. When dreams seem unachievable to me. I like to look at Helen, and I think, my-my, how pale my life would have been without her. How inspiring is her courage and strength. Helen is my youngest child, and as her name means "light," perhaps her story will light up your life.
Helen is a shining example of what one can achieve, in the face of adversity. Helen is proof that IF YOU CAN DREAM IT, YOU CAN ACHIEVE IT. So, strive for excellence. Reach beyond your grasp. Who knows what dreams will become reality, if you only reach for them?
Jaye Lewis
Jaye Lewis is a writer and poet, who lives with her family in the Appalachian Mountains of southwestern Virginia. This story will be included in Jaye's forthcoming book, entitled Entertaining Angels. Jaye can be emailed at jlewis@smyth.net
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Never Quit - "A winner is not one who never fails, but one who never quits!..."
In 1962, four nervous young musicians played their first record audition for the executives of the Decca Recording company. The executives were not impressed. While turning down this group of musicians, one executive said, “We don’t like their sound. Groups of guitars are on the way out.” The group was called The Beatles.
In 1944, Emmeline Snively, director of the Blue Book Modeling Agency, told modeling hopeful Norma Jean Baker, “You’d better learn secretarial work or else get married.” She went on and became Marilyn Monroe.
In 1954, Jimmy Denny, manager of the Grand Ole Opry fired a singer after one performance. He told him, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere son. You ought to go back to drivin’ a truck.” He went on to become the most popular singer in America, named Elvis Presley.
When Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone in 1876, it did not ring off the hook with calls from potential backers. After making a demonstration call, President Rutherford Hayes said, “That’s an amazing invention, but who would ever want to use one of them?”
When Thomas Edison invented the light bulb, he tried over 2000 experiments before he got it to work. A young reporter asked him how it felt to fail so many times. He said, “I never failed once. I invented the light bulb. It just happened to be a 2000-step process.”
In the 1940’s, another young inventor named Chester Carlson took his idea to 20 corporations, including some of the biggest in the country. They all turned him down. In 1947 – after seven long years of rejections! He finally got a tiny company in Rochester, New York, the Haloid Company, to purchase the rights to his invention, an electrostatic paper-copying process. Haloid became Xerox Corporation we know today.
Wilma Rudolph was the 20th of 22 children. She was born prematurely and her survival was doubtful. When she was 4 years old, she contacted double pneumonia and scarlet fever, which left her with a paralyzed left leg. At age 9, she removed the metal leg brace she had been dependent on and began to walk without it. By 13 she had developed rhythmic walk, which doctors said was a miracle. That same year she decided to become a runner. She entered a race and came in last. For the next few years every race she entered, she came in last. Everyone told her to quit, but she kept on running. One day she actually won a race. And then another. From then on she won every race she entered. Eventually this little girl, who was told she would never walk again, went on to win three Olympic gold medals.
The moral of the above Stories:
Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved. You gain strength, experience and confidence by every experience where you really stop to look fear in the face. You must do the thing you cannot do. And remember, the finest steel gets sent through the hottest furnace. A winner is not one who never fails, but one who NEVER QUITS!
In LIFE, remember that you pass this way only once! Let’s live life to the fullest and give it our best.
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A D- - "I remember my Landon Junior High School seventh grade, math teacher's name very well. It was Mr. Young. He stood out because the kids made fun of him."
I remember my Landon Junior High School seventh grade, math teacher's name very well. It was Mr. Young. He stood out because the kids made fun of him. He was missing one of his fingers, and always pointed at students with his middle finger.
For some reason I was not very good in school. English and Math were my worst two subjects. There was just something wrong with me, inside my head. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not figure out why I did not understand what all the other kids found so easy to learn. I don't think there was ever a day I went to school that I was not afraid.
One day, I was told by Mrs. Winters, the head matron of the Children's Home Society Orphanage, that if I got one more E on my report card, I would be taken to the Juvenile Court in downtown Jacksonville, Florida. She would tell the judge to send me away to the ‘big prison for kids’.
I tried really hard for weeks to learn how to multiply, do fractions, and compound things. I just couldn't understand how to make different parts of numbers into whole things, but my brain just couldn't do it, no matter how hard I tried.
The day before report cards were to come out, I knew that Mr. Young would give me an E, just like he always did.
After class ended, I went to Mr. Young and told him that the orphanage was going to send me to the big prison if I got another E on my report card. He told me there was nothing he could do; it would be unfair to the other kids if he gave me a better grade than I had actually earned.
I smiled at him, turned and walked towards the door, then I stopped. I looked at the teacher and said, "Mr. Young, you know how all the kids make fun of you because you're missing your finger?"
He looked at me, moved his mouth to one side, like he was biting the inside of his gum, and said nothing.
"They shouldn't do that to you because you can't help not having a finger, Mr. Young. Just like I can't help not being able to learn numbers and stuff like that," I said.
Again, he said nothing as he looked down at his desk, and began grading papers.
The next day, when I got my report card, I tucked it into one of my books. While on the school bus, I opened the report card envelope and looked at my grades: Geography; B+, Mechanical Drawing; C-, English; D-, History; C-, Gym; B+, Art; C, Math; D-.
That math grade was the most favorite one I ever received in my whole life. Not because I didn't get sent to the big prison for kids, but because I knew that someone in the world finally understood what it was like for me to be missing a finger inside my head.
Inspirational Stories About Doing Good
Just a Typical Teenage Boy - "Courage is a matter of the heart. I wish that every person in the whole world had the courage of this one 'typical' teenager..."
I remember my Landon Junior High School seventh grade, math teacher's name very well. It was Mr. Young. He stood out because the kids made fun of him. He was missing one of his fingers, and always pointed at students with his middle finger.
For some reason I was not very good in school. English and Math were my worst two subjects. There was just something wrong with me, inside my head. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not figure out why I did not understand what all the other kids found so easy to learn. I don't think there was ever a day I went to school that I was not afraid.
One day, I was told by Mrs. Winters, the head matron of the Children's Home Society Orphanage, that if I got one more E on my report card, I would be taken to the Juvenile Court in downtown Jacksonville, Florida. She would tell the judge to send me away to the ‘big prison for kids’.
I tried really hard for weeks to learn how to multiply, do fractions, and compound things. I just couldn't understand how to make different parts of numbers into whole things, but my brain just couldn't do it, no matter how hard I tried.
The day before report cards were to come out, I knew that Mr. Young would give me an E, just like he always did.
After class ended, I went to Mr. Young and told him that the orphanage was going to send me to the big prison if I got another E on my report card. He told me there was nothing he could do; it would be unfair to the other kids if he gave me a better grade than I had actually earned.
I smiled at him, turned and walked towards the door, then I stopped. I looked at the teacher and said, "Mr. Young, you know how all the kids make fun of you because you're missing your finger?"
He looked at me, moved his mouth to one side, like he was biting the inside of his gum, and said nothing.
"They shouldn't do that to you because you can't help not having a finger, Mr. Young. Just like I can't help not being able to learn numbers and stuff like that," I said.
Again, he said nothing as he looked down at his desk, and began grading papers.
The next day, when I got my report card, I tucked it into one of my books. While on the school bus, I opened the report card envelope and looked at my grades: Geography; B+, Mechanical Drawing; C-, English; D-, History; C-, Gym; B+, Art; C, Math; D-.
That math grade was the most favorite one I ever received in my whole life. Not because I didn't get sent to the big prison for kids, but because I knew that someone in the world finally understood what it was like for me to be missing a finger inside my head.
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Brian Grant - Companion in Courage - "Professional athletes do a lot of good in their communities, and I wish that they got more publicity for their efforts. The bad stuff always gets in the newspapers or on TV, but the hours spent helping others just don't seem to make a good story..."
Professional athletes do a lot of good in their communities, and I wish that they got more publicity for their efforts. The bad stuff always gets in the newspapers or on TV, but the hours spent helping others just don't seem to make a good story.
At least that's the way the media seems to look at it. I see it, quite naturally, from the athlete's side. And while I think players should be acknowledged for their positive contributions, I know that's not their motivation. They get plenty of cheers and applause elsewhere.
They do it to do good. The giving of their time and compassion comes back tenfold in emotional payoffs. And while I heartily support all the wonderful programs athletes conceive and execute, I'm most thrilled and moved when athletes dedicate themselves to children. That's how I learned about Brian Grant and why I'm proud to include him as a Companion in Courage.
Dash Thomas, a twelve-year-old boy suffering from cancer, first introduced me to Brian. During the NBA lockout in 1998 I heard Dash say that Brian, a forward for the Portland Trail Blazers, was his best friend. Because so many of the children that I met at Buffalo General's cancer ward numbered among my best friends, I decided I needed to know more about Brian Grant.
During the lockout Brian started driving to Sublimity, Oregon, a one-hour ride from Portland, to visit Dash, who had been diagnosed with brain cancer. Dash, a young white kid, and Brian, a black NBA power forward who wore dreadlocks, forged a firm friendship. They became each other's heroes.
When the lockout ended, Brian wanted to get Dash to a game. Unfortunately, that never happened. His young friend died in February. Brian dedicated his season to Dash Thomas.
The NBA lockout will be remembered as a labor dispute, a fight between millionaire players and billionaire owners. Brian Grant got something entirely different from it. "Because of the lockout, Dash died before he could come to a game. On the other hand, without the lockout, I wouldn't have had as much time to get to know him," he said. "There was something about the way he carried himself. He wasn't like a twelve-year-old kid. It was like he was older. His courage - everything about him - was amazing. He was an inspiration. My relationship with Dash changed my life."
During the playoffs, Grant battled the best power forward in the league, Karl Malone, to a standoff. During their epic struggle one of Malone's famous elbows caught Brian in the right eye, opening a gash that took six stitches to close. It also opened a window into his psyche.
While many of Brian's fellow NBA players played Amateur Athletic Union basketball and in the much-touted summer camps before being drafted, Brian was cutting tobacco and baling hay back in Georgetown, Ohio. He watched his dad and uncles weld boxcars - hard, nasty, physical labor. He saw them, with no first-aid kits available and no time to waste, slice potatoes in half and put them on their cuts to ease the pain from their burns. One night Grant's father came home with a bandage over his eye. He had been hit by a piece of hot metal.
So a six-stitch gash? What should that mean next to the struggles of Brian's father, his uncles, and a frail twelve-year-old named Dash, hospitalized in Sublimity, Oregon? Brian's attitude? "Stitch it up and let's play!"
Brian continues to excel in the NBA, though he now plays with the Miami Heat, but he also stands out in his work with children.
Brian has many young friends and a growing list of community leaders who respect him. His future holds so much promise. But he is never, ever far from his past, never really removed from family in Georgetown, Ohio, or separated from the memory of a boy named Dash.
Pat LaFontaine
Former Professional Hockey Player
Excerpted from his book, "Companions in Courage"
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Where is God's Perfection? - "Shaya's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging..."
In Brooklyn, New York, Chush is a school that caters to learning disabled children. Some children remain in Chush for their entire school career, while others can be mainstreamed into conventional schools.
At a Chush fund-raising dinner, the father of a Chush child delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended.
After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he cried out, "Where is the perfection in my son Shaya? Everything God does is done with perfection. But my child cannot understand things as other children do. My child cannot remember facts and figures as other children do. Where is God's perfection?"
The audience was shocked by the question, pained by the father's anguish, stilled by the piercing query.
" I believe," the father answered, "that when God brings a child like this into the world, the perfection that he seeks is in the way people react to this child."
He then told the following story about his son Shaya:
One afternoon Shaya and his father walked past a park where some boys Shaya knew were playing baseball.
Shaya asked, "Do you think they will let me play?"
Shaya's father knew that his son was not at all athletic and that most boys would not want him on their team. But Shaya's father understood that if his son was chosen to play it would give him a comfortable sense of belonging.
Shaya's father approached one of the boys in the field and asked if Shaya could play. The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates. Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said "We are losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning."
Shaya's father was ecstatic as Shaya smiled broadly. Shaya was told to put on a glove and go out to play short center field.
In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shaya's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shaya's team scored again and now with two outs and the bases loaded with the potential winning run on base, Shaya was scheduled to be up. Would the team actually let Shaya bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game? Surpassingly, Shaya was given the bat.
Everyone knew that it was all but impossible because Shaya didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, let alone hit with it. However as Shaya stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shaya should at least be able to make contact.
The first pitch came in and Shaya swung clumsily and missed. One of Shaya's teammates came up to Shaya and together the held the bat and faced the pitcher waiting for the next pitch. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shaya. As the pitch came in, Shaya and his teammate swung at the bat and together they hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.
The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shaya would have been out and that would have ended the game. Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.
Everyone started yelling,"Shaya, run to first. Run to first." Never in his life had Shaya run to first. He scampered down the baseline wide-eyed and startled. By the time he reached first base, the right fielder had the ball. He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman who would tag out Shaya, who was still running. But the right fielder understood what the pitcher's intentions were, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman's head. Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second." Shaya ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home. As Shaya reached second base, the opposing short stop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base and shouted, "Run to third." As Shaya rounded third, the boys from both teams ran behind him screaming, "Shaya run home."
Shaya ran home, stepped on home plate and all 18 boys lifted him on their shoulders and made him the hero, as he had just hit a "grand slam" and won the game for his team.
"That day," said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, "those 18 boys reached their level of God's perfection."
General Inspirational Stories
Installing Love - A call to computer tech support: "After much consideration, I've decided to install Love. Can you guide me through the process?"
Tech Support: Yes, .. how can I help you?
Customer: Well, after much consideration, I've decided to install Love. Can you guide me through the process?
Tech Support: Yes. I can help you. Are you ready to proceed?
Customer: Well, I'm not very technical, but I think I'm ready. What do I do first?
Tech Support: The first step is to open your Heart. Have you located your Heart?
Customer: Yes, but there are several other programs running now. Is it okay to install Love while they are running?
Tech Support: What programs are running?
Customer: Let's see, I have Past-Hurt.exe, Low-Self-Esteem.exe, Grudge.exe and Resentment.exe running right now.
Tech Support: No problem, Love will gradually erase Past-Hurt.exe from your current operating system. It may remain in your permanent memory but it will no longer disrupt other programs. Love will eventually override Low-Self-Esteem.exe with a module of its own called High-Self-Esteem.exe. However, you have to completely turn off Grudge.exe and Resentment.exe. Those programs prevent Love from being properly installed. Can you turn those off?
Customer: I don't know how to turn them off. Can you tell me how?
Tech Support: With pleasure. Go to your start menu and invoke Forgiveness.exe. Do this as many times as necessary until Grudge.exe and Resentment.exe have been completely erased.
Customer: Okay, done! Love has started installing itself. Is that normal?
Tech Support: Yes, but remember that you have only the base program. You need to begin connecting to other Hearts in order to get the upgrades.
Customer: Oops! I have an error message already. It says, "Error - Program not run on external components" What should I do?
Tech Support: Don't worry. It means that the Love program is set up to run on Internal Hearts, but has not yet been run on your Heart. In non-technical terms, it simply means you have to Love yourself before you can Love others.
Customer: So, what should I do?
Tech Support: Pull down Self-Acceptance.exe; then click on the following files: Forgive-Self.txt; Realize-Your-Worth.txt; and Acknowledge-Your-Limitations.txt.
Customer: Okay, done.
Tech Support: Now, copy them to the "My Heart" directory. The system will overwrite any conflicting files and begin patching faulty programming. Also, you need to delete Verbose-Self-Criticism.txt from all directories and empty your Recycle Bin to make sure it is completely gone and never comes back.
Customer: Got it. Hey! My heart is filling up with new files. Smile.mpg is playing on my monitor and Peace.txt and Contentment.txt are copying themselves all over My Heart. Is this normal?
Tech Support: Sometimes. For others it takes awhile, but eventually everything gets it at the proper time. So Love is installed and running. One more thing before we hang up. Love is Freeware. Be sure to give it and its various modules to everyone you meet. They will in turn share it with others and return some cool modules back to you.
Customer: I will. Thank you for your help.
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Too Busy for a Friend... - "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it..."
One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers. That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much." were most of the comments. No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, one of the students was killed in Viet Nam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature. The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin. As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. She nodded: "yes." Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it." All of Mark's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."
Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary." Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said and without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think we all saved our lists."
That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again. The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
And One Way To Accomplish This Is: Forward this message on. If you do not send it, you will have, once again passed up the wonderful opportunity to do something nice and beautiful. If you've received this, it is because someone cares for you and it means there is probably at least someone for whom you care. If you're "too busy" to take those few minutes right now to forward this message on, would this be the VERY first time you didn't do that little thing that would make a difference in your relationships?
The more people that you send this to, the better you'll be at reaching out to those you care about. Remember, you reap what you sow. What you put into the lives of others comes back into your own.
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My Inspiration - "Even though the son was always on the bench, his mother was always in the stands cheering. She never missed a game..."
A teenager lived alone with his mother, and the two of them had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench, his mother was always in the stands cheering. She never missed a game.
This young man was still the smallest of the class when he entered high school. But his mother continued to encourage him but also made it very clear that he did not have to play football if he didn't want to.
He was determined to try his best at every practice, and perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior. All through high school he never missed a practice nor a game, but remained a bench warmer all four years. His faithful mother was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.
When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team as a "walk-on." Everyone was sure he could never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul into every practice, and at the same time provided other members with the spirit and hustle they badly needed.
The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his mother. His mother shared his excitement and was sent season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in any game. It was the end of his senior football season and as he trotted onto the practice field shortly before the big playoff game, the coach met him with a telegram. The young man read the telegram and he became deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he mumbled, "My Mother died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today"?
The coach put his arm gently around his shoulder and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday.
Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well.
In the third quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful teammate back so soon. "Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. "All right," he said. "You can go in."
Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied. In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fans broke Loose. His teammates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you've never heard! Finally after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me what got into you? How did you do it?"
He looked at the coach with tears in his eyes, and said, "Well, you know my mom died, but did you know she was blind?" The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Mom came to all my games, but today was the first time she could see me play, and I wanted to show her I could do it!"
SO-REMEMBER RIGHT NOW:
Somebody is very proud of you.
Somebody is thinking of you.
Somebody is caring about you.
Somebody misses you.
Somebody wants to talk to you.
Somebody wants to be with you.
Somebody hopes you are not in trouble.
Somebody is thankful for the support you have provided.
Somebody wants to hold your hand.
Somebody hopes everything turns out all right.
Somebody wants you to be happy.
Somebody want you to find him/her.
Somebody wants to give you a gift.
Somebody wants to hug you.
Somebody thinks you ARE a gift.
Somebody admires your strength.
Somebody wants to protect you.
Somebody can't wait to see you.
Somebody loves you for who you are.
Somebody treasures your spirit.
Somebody is glad that you are their friend.
Somebody wants to get to know you better.
Somebody wants to be near you.
Somebody wants you to know they are there for you.
Somebody want to share their dreams with you.
Somebody is alive because of you.
Somebody needs your support.
Somebody will cry when they read this.
Somebody needs you to have faith in them.
Somebody trusts you.
Somebody hears a song that reminds them of you.
Somebody NEEDS YOU TO SEND THIS TO THEM
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Growing Up or Growing Old - "There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success..." and this young 87 year old woman will teach them to you...
The first day of school our professor introduced himself and challenged us to get to know someone we didn't already know.
I stood up to look around when a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to find a wrinkled, little old lady beaming up at me with a smile that lit up her entire being.
She said, "Hi, handsome! My name is Rose. I'm 87 years old. Can I give you a hug?"
I laughed and enthusiastically responded, "Of course you may!" and she gave me a giant squeeze.
"Why are you in college at such a young, innocent age?" I asked. She jokingly replied, "I'm here to meet a rich husband, get married, have a couple of children, and then retire and travel."
"No seriously," I asked. I was curious what may have motivated her to be taking on this challenge at her age.
"I always dreamed of having a college education and now I'm getting one!" she told me.
After class we walked to the student union building and shared a chocolate milkshake. We became instant friends. Every day for the next three months we would leave class together and talk nonstop.
I was always mesmerized listening to this "time machine" as she shared her wisdom and experience with me.
Over the course of the year, Rose became a campus icon and she easily made friends wherever she went. She loved to dress up and she reveled in the attention bestowed upon her from the other students. She was living it up.
At the end of the semester we invited Rose to speak at our football banquet. I'll never forget what she taught us. She was introduced and stepped up to the podium. As she began to deliver her prepared speech, she dropped her 3x5 cards on the floor.
Frustrated and a little embarrassed she leaned into the microphone and simply said, "I'm sorry I'm so jittery. I gave up beer for Lent and this whiskey is killing me! I'll never get my speech back in order, so let me just tell you what I know." As we laughed, she cleared her throat and began:
"We do not stop playing because we are old; we grow old because we stop playing. There are only four secrets to staying young, being happy, and achieving success. You have to laugh and find humor everyday. You've got to have a dream. When you lose your dreams, you die. We have so many people walking around who are dead, and they don't even know it!" she said.
"There is a huge difference between growing older and growing up. If you are nineteen years old and lie in bed for one full year and don't do one productive thing, you will turn 20 years old. If I am 87 years old, and stay in bed for a year, and never do anything, I will turn 88. Anybody can grow older. That doesn't take any talent or ability," she added.
"The idea is to grow up by always finding the opportunity in change. Have no regrets. The elderly usually don't have regrets for what we did, but rather for things we did not do. The only people who fear death are those with regrets."
She concluded her speech by courageously singing "The Rose." She challenged each of us to study the lyrics and live them out in our daily lives.
At the years end, Rose finished the college degree she had begun all those years ago. One week after graduation Rose died peacefully in her sleep. Over two thousand college students attended her funeral in tribute to the wonderful woman who taught by example that it's never too late to be all you can possibly be.
-- Author Unknown
Lyrics To The Rose - By Bette Midler
Some say love, it is a river that drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower, and you it's only seed.
It's the heart, afraid of breaking, that never learns to dance.
It's the dream, afraid of waking, that never takes a chance.
It's the one who won't be taken, who cannot seem to give.
And the soul, afraid of dyin', that never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely, and the road has been too long,
And you think that love is only for the lucky and the strong,
Just remember in the winter far beneath the bitter snows,
Lies the seed, that with the sun's love, in the spring becomes the rose.
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Best and Favorite Teacher - "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference..."
There is a story many years ago of an elementary school teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of the 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and told them she loved them all the same.
But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would almost take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X’s and then putting a big “F” at the top of his papers.
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise. Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners…he is a joy to be around.”
His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”
His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”
Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents that were wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper except for Teddy’s. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy brown paper he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume.
But she stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thomson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.”
After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer, the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.
The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”
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Keep Your Fork - "It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming... like velvety chocolate cake or deep dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!..."
There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things "in order," she contacted her Priest and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.
She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.
Everything was in order and the Priest was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.
"There's one more thing," she said excitedly.
"What' that?" came the Priest's reply.
"This is very important," the young woman continued. "I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand."
The Priest stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.
"That surprises you, doesn't it?" the young woman asked.
"Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the Priest.
The young woman explained. "My grandmother once told me this story, and from there on out, I have always done so. I have also, always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement."
"In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!' So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder "What's with the fork?" Then I want you to tell them: "Keep your fork ..The best is yet to come."
The Priest's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge.
She KNEW that something better was coming.
At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Priest heard the question: "What's with the fork?" And over and over he smiled.
During his message, the Priest told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. The pastor told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.
He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork, let it remind you ever so gently, that the best is yet to come. Friends are very rare jewels, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us. Show your friends how much you care. Remember to always be there for them, even when you need them more. For you never know when it may be their time to "Keep your fork."
Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share ... being friends with someone is not an opportunity but a sweet responsibility.
Send this to everyone you consider a FRIEND even if it means sending back to the person who sent it to you.
And keep your fork.
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Invisible Smile - "It's so easy to get caught up in everyday life that we forget how simple it can be to bring cheer to ourselves and others. Giving a smile away takes so little effort and time..."
Mr. Dawson was an old grouch, and everyone in town knew it. Kids knew not to go into his yard to pick a yummy apple, even off the ground, because old Daws, they said, would come after you with his BB gun.
One Friday, 12 year old Janet was going to stay all night with her friend Amy. They had to walk by Daws house on the way to Amy's house, but as they got close Janet saw him sitting on his front porch and suggested they cross over to the other side of the street. Like most of the children, she was scared of the old man because of the stories she'd heard about him.
Amy said not to worry, Mr. Dawson wouldn't hurt anyone. Still, Janet was growing more nervous with each step closer to the old man's house. When they got close enough, Daws looked up with his usual frown, but when he saw it was Amy, a broad smile changed his entire countenance as he said, "Hello Miss Amy. I see you've got a little friend with you today."
Amy smiled back and told him Janet was staying overnight and they were going to listen to music and play games. Daws told them that sounded fun, and offered them each a fresh picked apple off his tree. They gladly accepted, Daws had the best apples in town.
When they got out of Daws' earshot, Janet asked Amy, "Everyone says he's the meanest man in town. How come he was he so nice to us?"
Amy explained that when she first started walking past his house he wasn't very friendly and she was afraid of him, but she pretended he was wearing an invisible smile and so she always smiled back at him. It took a while, but one day he half-smiled back at her.
After some more time, he started smiling real smiles and then started talking to her. Just a "hello" at first, then more. She said he always offers her an apple now, and is always very kind.
"An invisible smile?" questioned Janet.
"Yes," answered Amy, "my grandma told me that if I pretended I wasn't afraid and pretended he was smiling an invisible smile at me and I smiled back at him, that sooner or later he really would smile. Grandma says smiles are contagious."
If we remember what Amy's grandma said, that everyone wears an invisible smile, we too will find that most people can't resist our smile after a while.
We're always on the go trying to accomplish so much, aren't we? Hauling the kids around, getting groceries, cleaning the house, mowing the yard - it's always something. It's so easy to get caught up in everyday life that we forget how simple it can be to bring cheer to ourselves and others. Giving a smile away takes so little effort and time, let's make sure that we're not the one that others have to pretend is wearing an invisible smile.
When you walk into a party or gathering where everyone is smiling and laughing, it's mighty easy to get into a good mood and get into the spirit of the occasion. On the other hand, just walk into a room where the gloom hangs heavily in the air and people are frowning, and it's equally as easy to start feeling a little lower in spirit.
It all starts somewhere, and if not with you and I, then where? All it takes to uplift the day is to remember to give that smile away! You can't save them, you can't store them, the only way they're any good is to share them. Start by giving yourself a nice, big smile when you're in the bathroom getting ready for the day. Look right in the mirror and smile at yourself and tell yourself it's going to be a great day as you do. You'll be surprised at how much more often you will have great days. To be sure, nothing unusual may happen other than you've improved your outlook. Attitude is everything.
"A smile is an inexpensive way to improve your looks."
- Charles Gordy
"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."
- Leo Buscaglia
"Smile at each other, smile at your wife, smile at your husband, smile at your children, smile at each other - it doesn't matter who it is - and that will help you to grow up in greater love for each other."
- Mother Teresa
"Smile first, smile big, smile often."
- Glenn Dromgoole
Inspirational Holiday Stories
White Envelopes - "It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription..."
It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. No name, no identification, no inscription. It has peeked through the branches of our tree for the past 10 years or so.
It all began because my husband Mike hated Christmas. Oh, not the true meaning of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it, overspending, the frantic running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for Grandma, the gifts given in desperation because you couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so forth. I reached for something special just for Mike. The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son, Kevin, who was 12 that year was wrestling at the junior level at the school he attended, and shortly before Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team sponsored by an inner-city church.
These youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented a sharp contrast to our boys in the spiffy blue and gold uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes. As the match began I was alarmed to see that the other team was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet designed to protect a wrestler's ears. It was a luxury the ragtag team obviously could not afford. Well, we ended up walloping them. We took every weight class. And as each of their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that couldn't acknowledge defeat. Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish one of them could have won," he said. "They have a lot of potential, but losing like this could take the heart right out of them." Mike loved kids, all kids, and he knew them, having coached little league football, baseball and lacrosse.
That's when the idea of his present came. That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and sent them anonymously to the inner-city church. On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was his gift from me. His smile was the brightest thing about Christmas that year and in succeeding years. For each Christmas, I followed the tradition, one year sending a group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game, another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas, and on and on. The envelope became the highlight of our Christmas. It was always the last thing opened on Christmas morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the envelope from the tree to reveal its contents. As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical presents, but the envelope never lost its allure. The story doesn't end there.
You see we lost Mike last year due to dreaded cancer. When Christmas rolled around, I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree up. But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more.
Each of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an envelope on the tree for their dad. The tradition has grown and someday will expand even further with our grandchildren standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation watching as their fathers take down the envelope. Mike's spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.
--
This story was written by Nancy W. Gavin and was first published in Woman's Day Magazine in 1982. Her daughter contacted me since I had "author unknown" on this page. This story has become world famous and her Mom passed away in 1983 and never enjoyed the effect of her writing this wonderful story. Rest in peace Nancy and thanks for the great inspirational story.
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Santa Grandma - "That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well..."
I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus?" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go." "Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through it's doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's. I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for. I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class. Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all the kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he had no coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!
I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it. Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers. Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.
Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby. Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team. I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95
