-
Chicken Soup for the Soul
----Changing the World One Story at a
Time
Be Still With God
By Nancy B.
Gibbs
All
day
long
I
had
been
very
busy;
picking
up
trash,
cleaning
bathrooms
and
scrubbing
floors.
My
grown
children
were
coming
home
for
the
weekend.
I
went
grocery
shopping
and
prepared
for
a
barbecue
supper,
complete
with
ribs
and
chicken.
I wanted everything to be perfect.
Suddenly, it dawned on me
that I was dog-tired. I simply couldn't work as
long as I
could when I was younger.
I collapsed into my favorite rocking
chair. Music was playing, my dog and cat were
chasing each other and the telephone
rang.
A
scripture
from
Psalm
46
popped
into
my
mind.
still,
and
know
that
I
am
God.
even utter
a simple word of thanks to God? Suddenly, the
thought of my beautiful
patio came to
mind. I can be quiet out there, I thought. I
longed for a few minutes
alone with
God.
Roy and I
had invested a great deal of time and work in the
patio that spring. The
flowers and
hanging baskets were breathtaking. It was
definitely a heavenly place of
rest and
tranquility. If I can't be still with God in that
environment, I can't be
still
with Him anywhere, I thought. While Roy
was talking on the telephone, I slipped
out
the
backdoor
and
sat
down
on
my
favorite
patio
chair.
I
closed
my
eyes
and
began to pray, counting
my many blessings.
A bird flew by me, chirping and
singing. It interrupted my thoughts. It landed on
the
bird feeder and began eating dinner
as I watched. After a few minutes it flew away,
singing another song.
I
closed
my
eyes
again.
A
gust
of
wind
blew,
which
caused
my
wind
chimes
to
dance.
They
made
a
joyful
sound,
but
again
I
lost
my
concentration
on
God.
I
squirmed
and
wiggled
in
my
chair.
I
looked
up
toward
the
blue
sky
and
saw
the
clouds
moving slowly toward the horizon. The wind died
down. My wind chimes
finally became
quiet.
Again, I bowed in
prayer.
neighbor was driving down the
street. He waved at me and smiled. I waved back,
happy that he cared. I quickly tried
once again to settle down, repeating the familiar
verse in my mind. Be still and know
that I am God.
The
backdoor
opened.
My
husband
walked
outside.
love
you,
he
said.
was
wondering
where you were.
around and went back
inside.
beat that interrupted me yet
again. This is impossible, I thought. There's no
time to
be still and to know that God
is with me. There's too much going on in the world
and entirely too much activity all
around me.
Then
it
suddenly
dawned
on
me.
God
was
speaking
to
me
the
entire
time
I
was
attempting to be still.
I remembered the music playing as I'd begun my
quiet time.
He sent a sparrow to
lighten my life with song. He sent a gentle
breeze. He sent a
neighbor to let me
know that I had a friend. He sent my sweetheart to
offer sincere
sentiments of love. He
caused my heart to flutter to remind me of life.
While I was
trying to count my
blessings, God was busy multiplying them.
I laughed to realize that
the
blessings He'd sent to show me He
was with me the entire time.
Plant a Row for the Hungry
By Jeff Lowenfels
It
was a cold night in Washington, D.C., and I was
heading back to the hotel when a
man
approached
me.
He
asked
if
I
would
give
him
some
money
so
he
could
get
something to eat. I'd read the signs:
1
my head and kept walking.
I wasn't
prepared for a reply, but with resignation, he
said,
I
really
am
hungry!
You
can
come
with
me
and
watch
me
eat!
But
I
kept
on
walking.
The incident
bothered me for the rest of the week. I had money
in my pocket and it
wouldn't have
killed me to hand over a buck or two even if he
had been lying. On a
frigid, cold
night, no less, I assumed the worst of a fellow
human being.
Flying back to
Anchorage, I couldn't help thinking of him. I
tried to rationalize my
failure to help
by assuming government agencies, churches and
charities were there
to feed him.
Besides, you're not supposed to give money to
panhandlers.
Somewhere
over
Seattle,
I
started
to
write
my
weekly
garden
column
for
The
Anchorage Daily News. Out of the blue,
I came up with an idea. Bean's Cafe, the
soup kitchen in Anchorage, feeds
hundreds of hungry Alaskans every day. Why not
try
to
get
all
my
readers
to
plant
one
row
in
their
gardens
dedicated
to
Bean's?
Dedicate a row and take it down to
Bean's. Clean and simple.
We didn't keep records back then, but
the idea began to take off. Folks would fax me
or call when they took something in.
Those who only grew flowers donated them.
Food for the spirit. And salve for my
conscience.
In
1995, the Garden Writers Association of America
held their annual convention in
Anchorage
and
after
learning
of
Anchorage's
program,
Plant
a
Row
for
Bean's
became
Plant a Row For The Hungry. The original idea was
to have every member
of the Garden
Writers Association of America write or talk about
planting a row for
the hungry sometime
during the month of April.
As
more
and
more
people
started
working
with
the
Plant
a
Row
concept,
new
variations cropped up,
if you will pardon the pun. Many companies gave
free seed
to
customers
and
displayed
the
logo,
which
also
appeared
in
national
gardening
publications.
Row markers with the Plant a Row logo
were distributed to gardeners to set apart
their
Garden editor Joan Jackson,
backed by The San Jose Mercury News and
California's
nearly
year-
round
growing
season,
raised
more
than
30,000
pounds
of
fruits
and
vegetables her first year, and showed
GW
AA how the program could really work.
Texas fruit farms donated food to their
local food bank after being inspired by Plant
a Row. Today the program continues to
thrive and grow.
I am stunned that millions of Americans
are threatened by hunger. If every gardener
in America - and we're seventy million
strong - plants one row for the hungry, we
can
make
quite
a
dent
in
the
number
of
neighbors
who
don't
have
enough
to
eat.
Maybe
then I will stop feeling guilty about abandoning a
hungry man I could have
helped.
Beyond Expectations
By Milt Garrett
It seems a car dealership
in my hometown of Albuquerque was selling, on
average,
six to eight new cars a day,
six days a week.
I was also
told that 72 percent of this
dealership's
first-time
visitors
returned
for
a
second
visit.
(At
that
time,
the
average for all dealerships in
Albuquerque for second-time visitors was 8
percent.)
I
was
curious
and
intrigued.
How
does
a
car
dealership
get
72
percent
of
its
first-time
visitors
to
return?
And
how
can
they
sell
six
to
eight
cars
a
day
in
a
slumping
car
market?
When
I
walked
into
Saturn
of
Albuquerque
that
Friday four years ago, the staff there
didn't know me from Adam; yet they shared
with
me
their
pricing
policy,
the
profit
margin
on
every
model,
and
staff
income.
They
even
opened
their
training
manuals
for
my
review
and
invited
me
back
on
Saturday if I wanted more
information (an invitation I heartily accepted).
I
learned
that
this
dealership
(like
all
Saturn
dealerships)
has
a
sticker
policy;
that
is,
the
price
on the
window
is
the
price
you
pay
for
the
car.
Period.
You
can't even negotiate for a free set of floor mats.
Saturn abides by its
premise
of
selling
high-quality
automobiles
for
a
reasonable
price.
Furthermore,
Saturn
sales
consultants
(their
term
for
customer-contact
people)
aren't
paid
a
2
commission
-
they're
salaried.
This
means
when
you
walk
onto
the
showroom
put
it
in
the
showroom.
Wednesday
came
and
went.
Unexpectedly,
floor
you're
not
bombarded
with
what
I
refer
to
as
eager
sales
people.
someone
in
our
family
was
admitted
to
the
hospital.
So,
it
wasn't
until
9:30
I
expanded
my
research
to
other
dealerships
in
Albuquerque.
It
turned
out
that
Ford Escorts, LTDs and
Thunderbirds, as well as the Mercury Marquis, were
also
sold
as
sticker
cars.
As
Bruce
Sutherland
at
Richardson
Ford
said,
He
also
said,
we
all
did
what
Saturn
was
doing,
we'd
not
only
make
a
decent
living,
but we'd also enjoy a better
reputation.
On
Sunday, the day after my
second
visit
to
the
Saturn
store
(their
term,
not
mine),
my
wife,
Jane,
and
I
were
walking as we
frequently do.
On this
particular June morning, Jane gently slipped
her hand in mine and said tenderly,
fifth anniversary of being cancer-
free.
She was diagnosed with
breast cancer five
years
ago
and
had
undergone
surgery.
I
was
stunned,
partially
because
I
was
embarrassed
that I had forgotten, and, partially,
because...well, it seems we spend all
of our time earning a living and never
stop to live our earnings.
I mean, isn't this
what it's
really all about?
I didn't know what to do with Jane's
information.
I
spoke
to
her
tenderly.
All
day.
I
took
her
to
lunch.
I
bought
the
lunch.
It
was
a
nice,
intimate
day.
The
next
day,
Monday,
Jane
went
off
to
work
teaching school.
Still beside myself not knowing what to
do to mark this special
occasion, I did
the most impetuous thing I've ever done in my
life: I bought a new
Saturn.
I bought every accessory
they produce in Springhill, Tennessee, to hang on
that car.
There
wasn't an accessory made that I didn't buy.
I didn't pick the color
and
I
didn't
pick
the
model,
but
I
paid
cash
and
told
them
I'd
bring
Jane
in
on
Wednesday at 4:30 to make those two
decisions.
I told them why
I was buying the
car,
and
that
it
was
my
secret
and
they
were
not
to
reveal
anything
to
her.
Tuesday morning, it dawned
on me that Jane always wanted a white car.
I called
our
sales consultant at Saturn, and I asked him if he
had anything white in the store.
He said he had one left but he couldn't
guarantee it'd still be available Wednesday at
4:30 because they were selling so fast.
I said I'd take my chances
and asked him to
Saturday
morning when, after telling Jane the biggest lie
to get her out of the house,
we finally
made our way to the Saturn store.
I quickly turned into the parking lot
and Jane
angrily
asked,
are
you
doing?
You
promised
me
we'd
get
home
right away.
I
said,
I forgot I have to pick up
something here for my
Kiwanis speech
next week.
Jane had never been in a Saturn store.
When
we went
through the front door, the Lord took control of
her feet and her mouth. She
saw
that
little
white
Saturn
coupe
all
the
way
across
the
showroom
floor.
She
quickly passed a multi-colored sea of
automobiles, sat in the little white Saturn and
said,
Can I have
a new car?
I said,
Not until
Charlie graduates from
college.
Our son, Charlie,
was attending the University of
New
South
Wales
in
Sydney,
Australia
(we
call
that
of
state
tuition).
She
said,
sick
and
tired
of driving
that
old Dodge,
I
want
a new
car.
I
said,
promise,
just
three
more
semesters
and
he'll
be
out.
Next,
Jane
walked
around
to
the
front
of
the
car.
As
she
looked
it
over,
she
let
out
the
most
blood-curdling,
shrill
scream
I'd
ever
heard
in
29
years
of
marriage.
Now,
before I tell you why
Jane screamed, let me tell you what our sales
consultant had
done.
He had ordered a large, professionally
engraved sign (white letters on blue)
and affixed the Saturn company logo on
it.
The sign stood alone on
the hood of the
little white Saturn
coupe.
It said
This car is yours. Five
years
cancer-free.
Let's
celebrate
life.
From
Milt,
Billy
and
Team
Saturn
Every
employee at Saturn of Albuquerque had endorsed the
back of that sign. Jane
saw
it,
screamed,
collapsed
in
my
arms
and
bawled
her
eyes
out.
I
didn't
know
what
to
do.
I
was
in
tears.
I
took
out
my
invoice
from
the
previous
Monday,
unfolded it and,
pointing to the white coupe, said,
I
bought you this one.
I
tapped the invoice with my index finger.
Jane said,
I
want this one right here.
Charlie, who was home from college and
with us, said,
3
on the lot here.
Jane said,
While
Margie
always
looked
forward
to
the
arrival
of
Christmas,
and
this
year
was
no
this conversation was
going on, I looked around and discovered that
there was no
different as winter began
to settle like a warm blanket around Colby Point.
Everyone
one in the store.
Our sales consultant had arranged it so
that we could share the
was in a
flurry, for at the church Margie and her family
attended, the congregation
moment
alone.
The
mechanics,
the
clerical
staff,
the
front-desk
receptionist,
was preparing
to share their Christmas wishes with each other.
Since Cleo couldn't
management and all
sales consultants had left the store for the
sanctity of our event.
make it to
church, and Bill didn't like to leave her alone
for too long, he was in the
Even so, it's impossible to
have a lot of privacy when so many people are
standing
outside the showroom windows
looking in.
When Jane
screamed and collapsed in
my arms, I
saw everybody outside applaud and begin to cry.
Every new customer
that came to the store in those minutes
was not allowed to enter; instead, the staff
took
them
aside
and
explained
what
was
happening.
Jane
never
drove
the
car
until
she
took
it
through
the
showroom
door
that
day
to
drive
it
home.
Over the years, I've told
this story in the United States, Australia and
Indonesia as an
example
of
legendary
service.
A
woman
in
my
audience
in
San
Francisco
from
Anchorage, Alaska,
heard the story; she called Saturn of Albuquerque
long distance
and bought a new car.
It's like Ken Blanchard
says,
us that differentiate us in the
market place.
Just One Wish
By Margaret E. Mack
Fox
River gave life to the country town of Colby
Point, for the road and the river
ran
alongside
one
another.
Colby
Point
was
really
the
name
of
a
road
that
crept
between the hills and
valleys of McHenry, Illinois. Homes were scattered
here and
there
-
mostly
summer
homes
and
retirement
homes.
At
the
very
end
of
the
road
three houses all faced
one another. Three sisters - all single, all
seniors - lived in one
of the homes.
Across the way their widowed first cousin lived in
a
yellow house.
Next to her
lived their brother, Bill, and his wife Cleo.
Cleo had
multiple sclerosis, so the pair had moved to Colby
Point seeking a quiet,
relaxed life.
Little did they know when they relocated to this
serene area that they
would
end
up
rearing
their
granddaughter,
Margie.
Before
long,
the
once
quiet
neighborhood became
active with the sounds of a child.
habit of dropping Margie
off at church early on Sunday mornings; the aunts
would
bring her home.
As Margie sat in church
that morning, she rehearsed in her mind over and
over what
she would say. She wasn't
afraid, for she knew what an important wish this
was. The
service seemed to drag on and
on. Finally the pastor uttered the words Margie
had
been anticipating all
morning,
the
world celebrates peace and goodwill toward our
fellow man. This year, here at St.
John's, we want to hear your Christmas
wishes. We cannot fill everyone's wish, but
we would like to try and fill a few. As
I call your name, please come forward and tell
us about your Christmas
wish.
One after another, the
church members shared their wishes, large and
small. Margie
was the last and the
youngest to speak. As she looked out at the
congregation, she
spoke confidently,
and she and my grandpa have to stay at
home. They miss coming so much. So that is
what I wish for. And please don't tell
them, for it needs to be a surprise.
Riding
home
with
her
aunts,
Margie
could
tell
they
were
speaking
in
low
tones
about
her wish. She hoped that they would keep her
secret. As the next Sunday came
around,
Margie was getting ready for church when Grandma
asked,
so fidgety? You haven't sat
still all morning.
course
it
will,
said
her
grandma
with
a
chuckle.
almost
Christmas,
you
know.
Grandpa was
getting on his coat when he happened to look out
the front window. He
saw some cars
coming down the dirt road one after another. Now
at this time of year
4
there
wasn't
too
much
traffic,
so
this
was
really
amazing.
Margie
pushed
her
grandma to the window so that she could
see all the cars. Pretty soon the cars were
parked all up and down the road as far
as a person could see.
Grandpa looked at Grandma, and they
both looked at Margie. Grandpa asked,
what did you wish for,
Margie?
come
true.
Look!
There's
the
pastor,
and
everyone
from
church
is
coming
up
the
walk.
The
congregation
arrived
with
coffee
and
cookies
and
cups
and
gifts.
They
sang
Christmas carols and
listened to the pastor speak on giving to others
the gifts that
God gives. Later that
night, Margie slipped out the back door and walked
outside to
look
up
at
the
stars.
you,
she
whispered,
you
for
giving
me
my
wish.
That
was
just
one
of
the
many
wishes
granted
for
Margie
as
she
grew
up.
Her
childhood overflowed with the love of
her grandparents, four great aunts, and many
wise, caring neighbors. Margie was
truly a blessed little girl.
I should know - I was that little girl.
Working Christmas Day
By Victoria Schlintz
It
was
an
unusually
quiet
day
in
the
emergency
room
on
December
twenty-fifth.
Quiet,
that
is,
except
for
the
nurses
who
were
standing
around
the
nurses'
station
grumbling about having to work
Christmas Day.
I was triage nurse that day and had
just been out to the waiting room to clean up.
Since
there
were
no
patients
waiting
to
be
seen
at
the
time,
I
came
back
to
the
nurses' station for a cup of hot cider
from the crockpot someone had brought in for
Christmas. Just then an admitting clerk
came back and told me I had five patients
waiting to be evaluated.
I
whined,
how
did
I
get
five;
I
was
just
out
there
and
no
one
was
in
the
waiting room.
bodies showed up at my
triage desk, a pale petite woman and four small
children in
somewhat rumpled clothing.
I
replied,
unconvinced,
first?
One
by
one
they
sat
down,
and
I
asked
the
usual
preliminary
questions.
When
it
came
to
descriptions
of
their
presenting problems,
things got a little vague. Two of the children had
headaches,
but the headaches weren't
accompanied by the normal body language of holding
the
head or trying to keep it still or
squinting or grimacing. Two children had earaches,
but
only
one
could
tell
me
which
ear
was
affected.
The
mother
complained
of
a
cough, but
seemed to work to produce it.
Something
was
wrong
with
the
picture.
Our
hospital
policy,
however,
was
not
to
turn away any patient, so
we would see them. When I explained to the mother
that it
might
be
a
little
while
before
a
doctor
saw
her
because,
even
though
the
waiting
room was empty,
ambulances had brought in several, more critical
patients, in the
back,
she
responded,
your
time,
it's
warm
in
here.
She
turned
and,
with
a
smile, guided her brood
into the waiting room.
On a
hunch (call it nursing judgment), I checked the
chart after the admitting clerk
had
finished registering the family. No address - they
were homeless. The waiting
room was
warm.
I
looked
out
at
the
family
huddled
by
the
Christmas
tree.
The
littlest
one
was
pointing at the television and
exclaiming something to her mother. The oldest one
was looking at her reflection in an
ornament on the Christmas tree.
I went back to the nurses station and
mentioned we had a homeless family in the
waiting room - a mother and four
children between four and ten years of age. The
nurses, grumbling about working
Christmas, turned to compassion for a family just
trying to get warm on Christmas. The
team went into action, much as we do when
5
there's a medical
emergency. But this one was a Christmas emergency.
We were all offered a free
meal in the hospital cafeteria on Christmas Day,
so we
claimed that meal and prepared a
banquet for our Christmas guests.
We
needed
presents.
We
put
together
oranges
and
apples
in
a
basket
one
of
our
vendors
had brought the department for Christmas. We made
little goodie bags of
stickers we
borrowed from the X-ray department, candy that one
of the doctors had
brought
the
nurses,
crayons
the hospital
had
from
a
recent
coloring
contest,
nurse
bear buttons the hospital had given the
nurses at annual training day and little fuzzy
bears that nurses clipped onto their
stethoscopes. We also found a mug, a package of
powdered
cocoa,
and
a
few
other
odds
and
ends.
We pulled
ribbon
and
wrapping
paper and bells off
the department's decorations that we had all
contributed to. As
seriously as we met
physical needs of the patients that came to us
that day, our team
worked to meet the
needs, and exceed the expectations, of a family
who just wanted
to be warm on Christmas
Day.
We took turns joining
the Christmas party in the waiting room. Each
nurse took his
or
her
lunch
break
with
the
family,
choosing
to
spend
their
duty
time
with
these people whose
laughter and delightful chatter became quite
contagious.
When it was my
turn, I sat with them at the little banquet table
we had created in the
waiting room. We
talked for a while about dreams. The four children
were telling
me about what they would
like to be when they grow up. The six-year-old
started
the conversation.
After the four children had shared
their dreams, I looked at the Mom. She smiled
and said,
my family to be
safe, warm and content
- just like they
are
right now.
The
lasted
most
of
the
shift,
before
we
were
able
to
locate
a
shelter
that
would take the family
in on Christmas Day. The mother had asked that
their charts
be pulled, so these
patients were not seen that day in the emergency
department. But
they were treated.
As they walked to the door
to leave, the four-year-old came running back,
gave me a
hug and
whispered,
family, they all waved one
more time before the door closed. I turned around
slowly
to
get
back
to
work,
a
little
embarrassed
for
the
tears
in
my
eyes.
There
stood
a
group of
my coworkers, one with a box of tissues, which she
passed around to each
nurse who worked
a Christmas Day she will never forget.
Light in the Window
By Eileen Goltz
It
was
the
first
night
of
Chanukah
and
the
night
before
Ellie's
last
final.
As
a
freshman she was more than
ready to go home for the first time since August.
She'd
packed
every
thing
she
needed
to
take
home
except
the
books
she
was
cramming
with and her menorah, the 8 branch
candelabra that's lit every night of Chanukah.
Ellie had been so tempted to pack the
menorah earlier that night. However, just as
she was getting ready to justify to
herself why it was OK to
lighting - (A)
she'd have to wait for the candles to burn out
before she could leave
for the library
and (B) she had no clue as to where her candles
were hiding
- her
conscience
(and common sense) kicked in. The voice coming
from that special place
in her body
where
already.
said the
blessings, placed the menorah on her window sill
and spent the rest of the
evening in
her room studying.
Ellie's first winter break was
uneventful, and when she returned to her dorm on
the
day before classes started she was
surprised to find a small note taped to her door.
was dated the
day that Ellie
had left after finals.
Ellie was totally perplexed. She didn't know a
Susan. Convinced
that the letter had
been delivered to her by mistake, Ellie put the
note on her desk
and forgot about it.
About a half an hour before
she was getting ready to head out for dinner,
there was a
knock at Ellie's door.
There, standing in the hall was a woman Ellie
didn't recognize.
6
I finished my
finals.
you
sure
it's
me
you're
looking
for?
asked
Ellie.
Susan
asked
if
she
could
come in
and explain.
It seemed that
Susan had been facing the same dilemma that Ellie
had been that first
night of Chanukah.
She really didn't want to light her menorah
either. Not because
she
was
packing,
or
was
heading
home,
couldn't
find
the
candles
or
because
she
busy
studying but because her older sister Hannah had
been killed by a drunk driver
ten
months earlier, and this was the first year that
she'd have to light the menorah
candles
alone. The sisters had always taken turns lighting
the first candle and this
wasn't
Susan's year. She just couldn't bring herself to
take her sister's place. Susan
said
that whenever it was Hannah's turn to light the
first candle, she'd always tease
Susan
that the candles she lit would burn longer and
brighter than when Susan lit
them. One
year she even went so far as to get a timer out.
It had always annoyed
Susan that Hannah
would say something so stupid but still, it was
part of the family
tradition.
Susan
said
that
it
was
just
too
painful
to
even
think
about
Chanukah
without Hannah and
she had decided on skipping the entire holiday.
Susan said that she had
just finished studying and was closing her drapes
when she
happened to glance across the
courtyard of the quad and saw the candles shining
in
Ellie's window.
Hannah
had
taken
her
turn
and
put
the
menorah
in
your
window
for
me
to
see.
Susan said that when she
stopped crying she said the blessings, turned off
the lights
in her room and watched the
candles across the quad until they burned out.
Susan told Ellie that it
was as she was lying in bed that night thinking
about how
close
she
felt
to
Hannah
when
she
saw
the
menorah,
that
it
dawned
on
her
that
Hannah
had
been
right.
Hannah's
last
turn
always
would
have
candles
that
would
burn
longer
and
brighter
than
any
of
Susan's
because
for
Susan,
Hannah's
lights
would never go out.
They would always be there, in her heart for Susan
to see when
she needed to reconnect
with Hannah.
All Susan had to do was close her eyes
and remember the candles in the window, the
one's that Hannah had lit the last time
it was her turn.
Silent Angel
By Duane Shaw
Christmas Day, 1967. I'm a
patient at the Ninety-Third Medical Evacuation
Hospital
near
Saigon,
Vietnam.
Today
I'm
semi-alert,
but
unable
to
sleep
and
agonizingly
scared.
The
constant
aching
pain
in
my
arms
and
a
pounding
headache
make
me
tense. I feel helpless. My spirit feels
empty, and my body feels broken. I want to be
back home.
It's impossible to get in a comfortable
resting position. I'm forced to try and sleep on
my back. Needles, IV tubing and
surgical tape are partially covered by
bloodstained
bandages on my arms.
Two days earlier,
my squad's mission was to secure the
perimeter of Saigon for a
Christmas
Day
celebration
featuring
Bob
Hope
and
Hollywood's
Raquel
Welch.
While on a search-
and-destroy patrol, near the village Di An, we
were ambushed on
a jungle trail by a
small band of Vietcong guerillas. My right thumb
was ripped from
my body by AK-47
assault-rifle fire and fragments from a claymore
mine grazed my
face and neck.
This medical ward has
twenty-one sick and injured GIs, and one recently
captured,
young-looking Cambodian.
Restrained, he lays severely wounded in the bed
next to
mine. I'm filled with anger and
hostility. As an infantry combat veteran, I've
been
brainwashed to despise the
Communists and everything they represent.
The first hours are
emotionally difficult.
I don't want to
be next to him. I want to
have an
American GI to talk with. As time passes my
attitude changes; my hatred
vanishes.
We never utter a word to each other, but we glance
into one another's eyes
and
smile.
We're
communicating.
I
feel
compassion
for
him,
knowing
both
of
us
have lost control of our destiny. We
are equals.
7
The survival of the twenty-two soldiers
in the ward is dependent on the attentiveness
and
medical
care
from
our
nurses.
Apparently,
they
never
leave
our
ward
or
take
time off. The nationality, country or
cause we were fighting for never interferes with
the loving care and nourishment
necessary to sustain us. They are our life-
keepers,
our
guardians,
our
safety
net,
our
hope
of
returning
home.
It's
nice
to
just
hear
a
woman's voice. Their presence is our
motivation to get well so we can go home to
our wives, children, moms, dads,
brothers, sisters and friends.
Christmas
is
a
special
day,
even
in
a
hospital
bed
thousands
of
miles
from
home.
Today the nurses are especially loving
and gracious. Red Cross volunteers help us
write
letters
to
our
families.
All
of
us
still
need
special
attention
plus
our
routine
shots, IVs, blood work and I swallow
twenty-two pills three times a day. Even on
Christmas,
life
goes
on
in
our
little
community,
like
clockwork,
thanks
to
the
dedication
of our nurses. They never miss a beat, always
friendly and caring.
There's
a
rumor
that
General
Westmorland
and
Raquel
Welch
will
visit
our
ward
today and award Purple Hearts to the
combat wounded. I'm especially hopeful it's
true
because
I
would
receive
the
commendation.
The
thought
of
meeting
Raquel
Welch and General Westmoreland gives me
an adrenaline boost that lasts throughout
the day.
By
early
evening
we
realize
they
aren't
coming.
Everyone
is
very
disappointed,
especially
me.
The
day's
activities
cease
quickly
after
a
yummy
Christmas
dinner
and most of my ward
mates slip off to sleep by seven or eight o'clock.
It's impossible to sleep.
The IVs in my arms continue collapsing my veins
one by
one.
I'm
pricked
and
probed
by
what
feels
like
knives,
not
needles.
My
arms
are
black
and
blue
after
many
failed
attempts
to
locate
a
vein
for
IV
fluids.
I
occasionally
doze
off,
only
to
be
awakened
by
the
agonizing
pain
of
another
collapsed vein and infiltrating fluids.
My arms are swollen to twice their normal size.
This pain is worse than my gunshot
wound.
It's 11 o'clock
Christmas night. The ward is silent. My comrades
and the Cambodian
warrior sleep. I'm
tense and suffering.
To avoid waking anyone, I silently
signal a nurse. She comes to my side and gazes
into
my
tearing
eyes.
Quietly,
she
sits
on
the
side
of
my
bed,
embraces
my
arm,
removes
the IV, then lightly massages my swollen, painful
arms.
Gently, she leans
over and whispers in my ear,
long,
tender
hug. As
she
withdraws,
our
eyes
connect
momentarily.
She
has
tears
running
down
her
cheeks.
She
felt
my
pain.
She
turns
and
moves
away,
ever
so
slowly
back to her workstation.
The next morning I wake slowly. I have
slept throughout the night and feel rested. I
see while I slept a new IV was inserted
in my arm. The swelling is gone. Suddenly, I
remember the nurse coming to my side in
the night and my Christmas present. I'm
thankful and think of her kindness. I
look towards the nurses' workstation to see if I
can see my angel nurse but she's gone.
I never see her again, but
I will forever honor her compassion
toward me on that
lonely Christmas
night.
Big Red
By Linda Gabris
The first time we set eyes
on
the freshly fallen snow on
our way to Hubble's Hardware store on
Main Street
in
Huntsville,
Ontario. We planned to enter our name in the
annual Christmas drawing
for a chance
to win a hamper filled with fancy tinned cookies,
tea, fruit and candy.
As we passed the
Eaton's Department store's window, we stopped as
usual to gaze,
and do our bit of
dreaming.
The
gaily
decorated
window
display
held
the
best
toys
ever.
I
took
an
instant
hankering
for
a
huge
green
wagon.
It
was
big
enough
to
haul
three
armloads
of
firewood,
two
buckets
of
swill
or
a
whole
summer's
worth
of
pop
bottles
picked
from
along
the
highway.
There
were
skates
that
would
make
Millar's
Pond
well
worth shoveling and
dolls much too pretty to play with. And they were
all nestled
snugly beneath the
breathtakingly flounced skirt of Big Red.
8
Mother's eyes
were glued to the massive flare of red shimmering
satin, dotted with
twinkling sequin-
centered black velvet stars.
trancelike
wonder.
mother
twirled
one
spin
of
a
waltz
on
the
slippery
sidewalk.
Beneath
the
heavy,
wooden-buttoned, grey wool coat she had
worn every winter for as long as I could
remember, mother lost her balance and
tumbled. Father quickly caught her.
Her cheeks redder than usual, mother
swatted dad for laughing.
ordered,
shooing his fluttering hands as he swept the snow
from her coat.
silly dress to be
perched up there in the window of
Eaton's!
disgust.
As
we
continued
down
the
street,
mother
turned
back
for
one
more
look.
goodness! You'd think they'd
display something a person could use!
Christmas was nearing and the red dress
was soon forgotten. Mother, of all people,
was not one to wish for, or spend money
on, items that were not practical.
are
things we need more than this,
more than
that.
Father, on the other
hand, liked to indulge whenever the budget
allowed. Of course,
he'd
get
a
scolding
for
his
occasional
splurging,
but
it
was
all
done
with
the
best
intention.
Like
the time he brought home the electric range. In
our old Muskoka farmhouse on
Oxtongue
Lake,
Mother
was
still
cooking
year-round
on
a
wood
stove.
In
the
summer, the kitchen
would be so hot even the houseflies wouldn't come
inside. Yet
there would be Mother -
roasting - right along with the pork and turnips.
One day, Dad surprised her
with a fancy new electric range. She protested, of
course,
saying that the wood stove
cooked just dandy, that the electric stove was too
dear
and
that
it
would
cost
too
much
hydro
to
run
it.
All
the
while,
however,
she
was
polishing its already shiny chrome
knobs. In spite of her objections, Dad and I knew
that she cherished that new stove.
There were many other
modern things that old farm needed, like indoor
plumbing
and a clothes
dryer, but Mom insisted that those things would
have to wait until we
could
afford
them.
Mom
was
forever
doing
chores
-
washing
laundry
by
hand,
tending
the
pigs,
or
working
in
our
huge
garden
-
so
she
always
wore
mended,
cotton-print
housedresses and an apron to protect the front.
She did have one or two
dresses
saved
for
Church on
Sundays.
And
amongst
everything
else
she
did, she
still managed to make almost all of our clothes.
They weren't fancy, but they
did wear
well.
That Christmas
I bought Dad a handful of fishing lures
from
the
Five to a Dollar
store, wrapped them individually in
matchboxes so he'd have plenty of gifts to open
from me. Choosing something for Mother
was much harder. When Dad and I asked,
she
thought
carefully
then
hinted
modestly
for
some
tea
towels,
face
clothes
or
a
new dishpan.
On
our
last
trip
to
town
before
Christmas,
we
were
driving
up
Main
Street
when
mother suddenly exclaimed in surprise:
excitedly as Dad drove past Eaton's.
her
head. I quickly stole a glance at Dad. His blue
eyes were twinkling as he nudged
me
with his elbow. Mother craned her neck for another
glimpse out the rear window
as we rode
on up the street.
detected a trace of
yearning in her voice.
I'll
never forget that Christmas morning. I watched as
Mother peeled the tissue paper
off a
large box that read,
grin on his face.
a
fool
wouldn't
give
a
priceless
wife
like
mine
exactly
what
she
wants
for
Christmas,
Dad winked at me,
confirming his secret, and my heart filled with
more love for my
9
father
than I thought it could hold!
Mother
opened
the
box
to
find
a
big
white
enamel
dishpan
-
overflowing
with
crimson satin that spilled out across
her lap. With trembling hands she touched the
elegant material of Big Red.
Her face was as
bright as the star that twinkled on our tree in
the corner of the small
room.
slip the
marvelous dress over her shoulders. As the
shimmering red satin fell around
her,
it gracefully hid the patched and faded floral
housedress underneath.
I
watched,
my
mouth
agape,
captivated
by
a
radiance
in
my
parents
I
had
never
noticed before. As they waltzed around
the room, Big Red swirled its magic deep
into my heart.
River Baptism
By Garth Gilchrist
The
summer
I
turned
thirteen,
my
family's
summer
vacation
was
a
visit
to
our
relatives in the mountains of North
Carolina. My cousin Jim, who was my age, took
me down to his favorite swimming hole
along the river. It was a deep pool under a
high canopy of leaves. From the top of
a twenty-five-foot cliff we looked down into
the shimmering water and across to a
sandy beach.
Standing beside us on the edge of that
cliff grew a big white oak tree, with its roots
sunk deep down into the rock. And
hanging from a limb that stretched out at just the
right height and angle, was a rope
swing.
you do
it. You got to get a running start.
Then you grab the rope and swing out
and up as high as you can, and then you let go
and fall to the water. Here, I'll show
you.
Jim made it look easy,
and when his head surfaced in the bubbling water
he hollered
up,
I
was
certain
I
was
going
to
die,
but
at
thirteen
dying
is
better
than
looking
bad.
When
I came up sputtering, Jim smiled approvingly and
we swam a few strokes to
the beach, lay
on the hot sand for awhile, and then swam back
across the pool to do
it again.
Jim and all of his friends
always wore the proper North Carolina swimming
attire,
for
skinny-dipping
was
a
time
honored
tradition
among
boys
throughout
the
mountain states. Sometimes I felt like
I was a wild boy, or a beaver sliding through
the water. Jim said he felt like an
otter, since he loved to turn and twist in the
deep
pools and could swim under water a
long ways.
Jim's
family
was
Baptists.
On
Sunday,
Jim's
mom
made
us
dress
up
in
straight-
jacket
white
shirts
and
strangle-hold
ties,
marched
us
down
the
street
and
filed us into church.
must
be
baptized,
by
water
and
by
the
Spirit
the
preacher
thundered.
That
water baptism sounded
mighty good. I sat there dreaming of the river and
waiting
for the wonderful moment when
the sermon would be over and Jim and I could go
running down the path to the river.
On the tails of the closing
prayer, Jim and I flew out into the sunny day and
home
for a quick sandwich. Then we
plunged down the trail into the woods alive with
the
hum of cicadas hanging thick in the
branches of the burr oaks and hickories.
When we got within a
hundred yards of the rope swing, Jim said,
We
dropped our clothes right there and tore down the
trail to see who could get to
the rope
swing first. I was a fast runner, but Jim was
faster. He pulled ahead of me
and dove
for the rope. With a shriek of victory, Jim swung
out over the water and up,
to the very
top of the arc. In perfect form, Jim let go of the
rope and looked down to
see where he
was going to land.
But
there - not twenty yards away on the beach - stood
the preacher and two dozen
of the
faithful, performing a baptism. I could see they
were looking straight up at
10
Jim with their mouths wide open.
As
fervently
as
Jim
prayed
to
fly,
he
quickly
descended
from
the
heavens.
Jim
abandoned
his
plans
for
a
graceful
swan
dive
and
instinctively
assumed
the
cannonball position -
known for its magnificent splash.
The whole congregation got baptized
that day. But Jim never saw it. He broke his
record for underwater swimming and was
around the bend and out of sight while the
congregation stood stunned and
speechless on the shore.
angel,
and
besides,
it
turned
out
fine.
You
got
the
river
dunking
you
wanted,
and
those
folks will never forget that baptism.
Thinking about it now, I don't think
there's much difference, anyway, between wild
boys and angels, or between heaven and
a rope swing on the river.
The Greatest of These
By Nanette Thorsen-Snipes
My
day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my
six-year-old wrestling with a
limb of
my azalea bush. By the time I got outside, he'd
broken it.
school today?
With a wave of my hand, I
sent him off. I turned my back so he wouldn't see
the
tears gathering in my eyes. I loved
that azalea bush. I touched the broken limb as if
to say silently,
I
wished
I
could
have
said
that
to
my
husband
earlier,
but
I'd
been
angry.
The
washing machine had leaked on my brand-
new linoleum. If he'd just taken the time
to fix it the night before when I asked
him instead of playing checkers with Jonathan.
What are his priorities anyway? I
wondered. I was still mopping up the mess when
Jonathan walked into the kitchen.
I opened the empty
refrigerator.
drop.
him. Why
was I so angry? I tossed my husband's dishes into
the sudsy water.
It
was
days
like
this
that
made
me
want
to
quit.
I
just
wanted
to
drive
up
to
the
mountains, hide in a
cave, and never come out.
Somehow I managed to lug the wet
clothes to the laundromat. I spent most of the
day washing and drying clothes and
thinking how love had disappeared from my life.
Staring
at
the
graffiti
on
the
walls,
I
felt
as
wrung-out
as
the
clothes
left
in
the
washers.
As I finished hanging up
the last of my husband's shirts, I looked at the
clock. 2:30.
I was late. Jonathan's
class let out at 2:15. I dumped the clothes in the
back seat and
hurriedly drove to the
school.
I was out of breath
by the time I knocked on the teacher's door and
peered through
the
glass.
With
one
finger,
she
motioned
for
me
to
wait.
She
said
something
to
Jonathan and handed him and two other
children crayons and a sheet of paper.
What now? I thought, as she rustled
through the door and took me aside.
talk to you about Jonathan,
I prepared myself for the worst.
Nothing would have surprised me.
I nodded,
thinking about my favorite bush and trying to hide
the hurt in my eyes. I
glanced at my
son busily coloring a picture. His wavy hair was
too long and flopped
just beneath his
brow. He brushed it away with the back of his
hand. His eyes burst
with blue as he
admired his handiwork.
I
watched
the
bright-eyed
child
laugh
and
point
to
a
colorful
picture
taped
to
the
wall. I nodded.
a
nasty
divorce.
She
told
me
she
didn't
want
to
live,
she
wished
she
could
die.
I
watched
that little girl bury her face in her hands and
say loud enough for the class
to hear,
'Nobody
loves
me.'
I
did all
I could
to console her, but it only seemed to
make matters worse.
11
over to that child. I
watched him hand her some pretty pink flowers and
whisper, 'I
love you.'
I felt my heart swell with pride for
what my son had done. I smiled at the teacher.
Later that
evening, I began pulling weeds from around my
lopsided azalea bush. As
my mind
wandered back to the love Jonathan showed the
little girl, a biblical verse
came to
me:
love.
I
heard
the
familiar
squeak
of
my
husband's
brakes
as
he
pulled
into
the
drive.
I
snapped
a small limb bristling with hot pink azaleas off
the bush. I felt the seed of
love
that
God
planted
in
my
family
beginning
to
bloom
once
again
in
me.
My
husband's eyes widened in surprise as I
handed him the flowers.
The Marks of Life
By Diana Golden
My teammates on
the United States Disabled Ski Team used to tease
me about the
size
of
my
chest,
joking
that
my
greatest
handicap
wasn't
my
missing
leg
but
my
missing
cleavage. Little did they know how true that would
become. This past year,
I found out
that for the second time in my life I had cancer,
this time in both breasts.
I had
bilateral mastectomies.
When I heard I'd need the surgery, I
didn't think it would be a big deal. I even told
my friends playfully,
leg
to
my
first
go-round
with
cancer
at
age
12,
then
gone
on
to
become
a
world-champion ski racer.
All of us on the Disabled Ski Team were missing
one set
of body parts or another. I saw
that a man in a wheelchair can be utterly sexy.
That a
woman who has no hands can
appear not to be missing anything. That wholeness
has nothing to do with missing parts
and everything to do with spirit. Yet although I
knew this, I was surprised to discover
how difficult it was to adjust to my new scars.
When they brought me back
to consciousness after the surgery, I started to
sob and
hyperventilate. Suddenly I
found that I didn't want to face the loss of more
of my
body. I didn't want chemotherapy
again. I didn't want to be brave and tough and put
on a perpetual smiling face. I didn't
ever want to wake up again. My breathing grew
so shaky that the anesthesiologist gave
me oxygen and then, thankfully, put me back
to sleep.
When I
was doing hill sprints to prepare for my ski
racing - my heart and lungs and
leg
muscles all on fire - I'd often be hit by the
sensation that there were no resources
left inside me with which to keep
going. Then I'd think about the races ahead - my
dream
of
pushing
my
potential
as
far
as
it
could
go,
the
satisfaction
of
breaking
through
my
own
barriers
-
and
that
would
get
me
through
the
sprints.
The
same
tenacity that served me so well in ski
racing helped me survive my second bout with
cancer.
After
the mastectomies, I knew that one way to get
myself going would be to start
exercising again, so I headed for the
local pool. In the communal shower, I found
myself noticing other women's breasts
for the first time in my life. Size-D breasts
and size-A breasts, sagging breasts and
perky breasts. Suddenly and for the first time,
after all these years of missing a leg,
I felt acutely self-conscious. I couldn't bring
myself to undress.
I
decided
it
was
time
to
confront
myself.
That
night
at
home,
I
took
off
all
my
clothes and had a long look at the
woman in the mirror. She was androgynous. Take
my face
- without
makeup, it was a cute
young
boy's face. My shoulder muscles,
arms
and
hands
were
powerful
and
muscular
from
the
crutches.
I
had
no
breasts;
instead, there were two prominent scars
on my chest. I had a sexy flat stomach, a
bubble butt and a well-developed thigh
from years of ski racing. My right leg ended
in another long scar just above the
knee.
I discovered that I
liked my androgynous body. It fit my personality -
my aggressive
male side that loves
getting dressed in a helmet, arm guards and shin
protectors to
do
battle
with
the
slalom
gates,
and
my
gentle
female
side
that
longs
to
have
12
children
one
day
and
wants
to
dress
up
in
a
beautiful
silk
dress,
go
out
to
dinner
with a lover and then lie back and be
slowly undressed by him.
I
found that the scars on my chest and my leg were a
big deal. They were my marks
of
life.
All
of
us
are
scarred
by
life;
it's
just
that
some
of
those
scars
show
more
clearly
than
others.
Our
scars
do
matter.
They
tell
us
that
we
have
lived,
that
we
haven't hidden from life. When we see
our scars plainly, we can find in them, as I
did that day, our own unique beauty.
The next time I went to the
pool I showered naked.
Burroville
By John
Soennichsen
Back in 1974, when I was in my early
twenties, I befriended a group of hikers who
were mapping a desert trail from the
Mexican to the Canadian border. Offering to
try a few routes for them through Death
Valley, I made the drive to a base camp near
Ulida Flat, where I camped for the
night.
At
first
light,
I
started
my
trek
up
an
alluvial
fan
into
an
unnamed
canyon
in
the
Cottonwood Mountains.
After about an hour of hiking through the rock-
strewn wash,
I
made my way
deeper into the shadows and the bray of a burro
told me I wasn't
alone. With slow,
careful steps, I rounded a bend and found myself
in Burroville -
Population:
100.
I
looked
around
and
saw
that
the
majority
stood
in
little
groups
along
the
slopes
while
several
others
were
perched
atop
the
perpendicular
cliff
walls.
I
continued
walking
and
was
soon
met
by
an
imposing
welcoming
committee-a
dozen big Jacks with massive heads,
standing shoulder to shoulder and daring me to
approach.
Though
they
stood
a
good
thirty
feet
away,
their
resolute
stance
and
effective blockade of
the canyon ahead made me pause a while to consider
my next
move. I'd never heard of anyone
being killed by a burro, but it was clear they had
no
plans to let me pass.
Several moments went by until one of
the big Jacks pawed at the ground with his
hooves and another looked
behind him, as if to check the rear for a surprise
attack.
That's when I saw what the
burro was actually looking at - a Jenny and
nursing foal
standing close beside the
canyon wall about twenty feet back. Our eyes met
and the
female's flanks shuddered as
she watched me with a wariness that only a true
wild
thing can display.
When I lifted
my gaze to
scan the slopes behind her, I was surprised to see
other
females and their young, planted
in groups of two and three all around me. Suddenly
I realized it was the time of year for
foals to drop, and the big males were merely
protecting
their
mates
and
babies.
I
must
have
let
out
a
big
sigh,
because
one
of
them
pricked up his ears and raised his head as if
waiting for me to speak.
No
response,
just
a
flutter
of
flanks
and
a
few
ear
twitches.
Clearly,
the
subtle
approach wasn't
working, so I picked up a rock and lobbed it near
the biggest Jack.
It fell at his feet
and he lowered his head to sniff it.
Clearly the burro had no intention of
moving, so I reluctantly turned and began to
make my way back down the wash in
defeat. That was when a loud bray made me
about-face once more.
To my surprise, the big jacks were
lumbering out of the wash and making their way
toward the northern walls of the
canyon. Now, only the biggest of them remained at
the
edge
of
the
bank,
staring
at
me.
Suddenly,
the
way
was
clear;
I'd
won
the
standoff.
I
started
up
the
canyon
but
was
stopped
by
the
look
in
the
burro's
great
brown eyes. As we stood there staring
at each other, a shudder passed through me.
In that instant the message
he sent me became clear: he was asking me to leave
the
canyon.
Politely,
and
with
some
measure
of
supplication,
but
plain
as
day.
And
I
knew then I
couldn't go on, couldn't violate his trust. So I
turned and headed back
down the canyon.
As I retreated, I
considered my role in creating a desert trail that
hundreds of hikers
would
traverse
each
year.
Today's
unknown
route
through
a
rugged
canyon
might
well
become a dotted red line on some future map. Was
it so important that people
13
knew about this place? I began to think
it wasn't.
Maybe
what
this
earth
really
needed
was
a
few
more
unnamed
canyons.
Maybe
there's some intrinsic
value in knowing that some mountains will never be
climbed,
that a handful of jungles will
remain unexplored. Must we really clamber up every
alluvial fan, map every desert canyon,
and slap a name on every dry lake and rocky
outcropping?
Perhaps, in the end, it's enough just
knowing they're out there somewhere.
The Diary
By Martine Klaassen
Armed with two over-packed suitcases,
we arrived at the airport just in time for my
flight.
unload my luggage, I
could see the sadness in her eyes. This was not
easy on her
either. We had both been
dreading this moment for the past week. One last
hug and a
final good-bye and I would be
on my way to a new life abroad, leaving my beloved
sister behind.
All my life I had loved airports. To me
they were some kind of magic gateway to the
world,
a
place
from
which
to
start
great
holidays
and
adventures.
But
today
it
seemed
like a cold and heartless place.
As we made our way to the gate we
passed through a busload of frustrated holiday
goers and their screaming children. I
looked at my sister and even though her eyes
were filled with tears, she was trying
to keep a brave face.
miss your
flight,
hard.
As I held her one last time she
whispered,
look
back, but by the time I reached the custom's
office I was sobbing.
love,
know.
While boarding the plane I was still
crying. I did not have the energy to put my bag
in the overhead locker, so I stuffed it
on the empty seat next to mine. As I settled
into my chair, a feeling of sadness
overwhelmed me. I felt like my best friend had
just been taken away from me.
Growing
up,
my
sister
and
I
would
do
everything
together.
Born
barely
fifteen
months apart we not
only looked alike, we were alike. We both had that
same mix of
curiosity and fear of all
things unknown to us. One sunny summer day I was
playing
outside on the grass when she
came up to me and said,
We both knew
that the answer to that question was always 'Yes.'
We were frightened
of the attic but
also fascinated by its smells and sounds. Whenever
one of us needed
something, the other
one would come along. Together we would fight the
life-size
spiders and battle through
the numerous boxes until we found what we needed.
Over
time
the
visits
to
the
attic
became
less
scary.
Eventually
there
came
a
time
when we would go by ourselves, but my
sister and I stayed as close as ever. When
the time came for us to go to college,
what better way than for us to go together. My
parents were pleased because that way
we could 'keep an eye on each other' and of
course report back on what the other
one was up to. But now that our college days
were over and I was off to a foreign
country, all I had left were my memories.
The plane shook
heavily and the bag that I had shoved onto the
seat next to me fell
on the floor. My
aspirin, hairbrush and a copy of the book I
planned to read were
spread on the
floor. I bent over to gather them up when I saw an
unfamiliar
little
book in
the middle of my belongings. It was not until I
picked it up that I realized
that it
was a diary. The key had been carefully placed in
the lock so I opened it.
Immediately I recognized my sister's
handwriting.
today. First you let me
know that you are moving abroad and then my
boss...
then did I realize that my
sister had been keeping a diary for the past month
and that
she was now passing it on to
me. She had been scheming to start the diary for
the
14
past year but now the
time seemed right. I was to write in it for the
next couple of
months and then send it
back to her.
I spent the
rest of the flight reading about my sister's
comings and goings. And even
though a
large ocean separated us, at some point it felt
like she was actually there. It
was
only when I thought that I had lost my best friend
that I realized that she was
going to
be around forever.
Ramona's Touch
By Betty Aboussie Ellis
It
was
only
a
few
weeks
after
my
surgery,
and
I
went
to
Dr.
Belt's
office
for
a
checkup. It
was just after my first chemotherapy treatment.
My
scar
was
still
very
tender.
My
arm
was
numb
underneath.
This
whole
set
of
unique
and
weird
sensations
was
like
having
a
new
roommate
to
share
the
two-
bedroom
apartment
formerly
known
as
my
breasts
-
now
lovingly
known
as
As usual, I was
taken to an examination room to have my blood
drawn, again
- a
terrifying
process for me, since I'm so frightened of
needles.
I lay down on the
examining table. I'd worn a big plaid flannel
shirt and a camisole
underneath. It was
a carefully thought out costume that I hoped
others would regard
as
a
casual
wardrobe
choice.
The
plaid
camouflaged
my
new
chest,
the
camisole
protected it and
the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical
access.
Ramona entered the
room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, and
stood out in
contrast to my fears. I'd
first seen her in the office a few weeks earlier.
She wasn't
my nurse on that day, but I
remember her because she was laughing. She laughed
in
deep, round and rich tones. I
remember wondering what could be so funny behind
that medical door. What could she
possibly find to laugh about at a time like this?
So I decided she wasn't serious enough
about the whole thing and that I would try to
find a nurse who was. But I was wrong.
This
day
was
different.
Ramona
had
taken
my
blood
before.
She
knew
about
my
fear of
needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernalia
under a magazine with a bright
blue
picture of a kitchen being remodeled. As we opened
the blouse and dropped the
camisole,
the
catheter
on
my
breast
was
exposed
and
the
fresh
scar
on
my
chest
could be
seen.
She said,
I said,
shower water hitting
my numb chest flashed across my face.
She gently reached over and ran her
hand across the scar, examining the smoothness
of
the
healing
skin
and
looking
for
any
irregularities.
I
began
to
cry
gently
and
quietly. She brought her warm eyes to
mine and said,
have you?
So this wonderful, warm woman laid the
palm of her golden brown hand on my pale
chest and she gently held it there. For
a long time. I continued to cry quietly. In soft
tones she said,
couldn't. So
she touched it for me. The scar. The healing
wound. And beneath it, she
touched my
heart.
Then Ramona said,
next to mine, and we both were quiet.
That was the gift that Ramona gave me.
That night as I lay down to sleep, I
gently placed my hand on my chest and I left it
there
until
I
dozed
off.
I
knew
I
wasn't
alone.
We
were
all
in
bed
together,
metaphorically
speaking, my breast, my chest, Ramona's gift and
me.
As a Man Soweth
By Mike Buetelle
When I was in junior high, the eighth-
grade bully punched me in the stomach. Not
only
did
it
hurt
and
make me
angry,
but
the
embarrassment
and
humiliation
were
almost intolerable. I wanted
desperately to even the score! I planned to meet
him by
the bike racks the next day and
let him have it.
For some reason, I told my plan to
Nana, my grandmother - big mistake. She gave
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