A Child Shall Teach You

One day, my four-year-old son, Sam, told me that he had seen his baby-sitter crying because she had broken up with her boyfriend.

"She was sad," Sam explained to me.

Then he sat back in his car seat and sighed. "I've never been sad," he said, dreamily, "Not ever." It was true. Sam's life was happy in no small part because of his special relationship with my father.

Last spring my father died, and everything changed for us. Pa Hood was more than just a grandfather to Sam. As Sam eagerly told everyone, they were best buddies. Long before my father became ill, Sam and I watched the movie Anne of Green Gables. In the scene when Anne wished aloud for a bosom friend, Sam sat straight up. "That's me and Pa," he declared. "Bosom friends forever and ever." My father described their relationship the same way.

When I went out of town to teach one night a week, it was Pa in his red picku p truck who met Sam at school and brought him back to his house, where they played pirates and knights and Robin Hood. They even dressed alike: pocket T-shirts, baseball caps, and jeans. Sam had over nights with Pa, where they'd cuddle until late at night and giggle when my mother ordered them to be quiet and go to sleep. The next morning they'd indulge in sugary cereals and cartoons, treats forbidden at home. They had special restaurants they frequented, playgrounds where they were regulars, and toy stores where Pa allowed Sam to race up and down the aisles on motorized cars.

When I'd arrive to take Sam home, he always cried. "Pa, I love you. I miss you already!" He memorized my father's phone number when he was 2 and called him every morning and every night. "Pa," Sam would ask, clutching the phone, "can I call you ten hundred more times?" Pa always said yes, and then answered the phone each time with equal delight.

In the months that my father was in the hospital with lung cancer, I worried about how Sam would react to Pa's condition the bruises, from needles, the oxygen tubes, his weakened body. When I explained to Sam that seeing Pa so sick might scare him, Sam was surprised. "He's my Pa," he said. "He could never scare me." And he never did. Sam would walk into the hospital room and climb right into bed with my father, undaunted by the changes in Pa's appearance or in the increasing amount of medical apparatus he acquired every day. I watched adults approach the bedside with great trepidation, unsure of what to say or do. But Sam seemed to know exactly what was right: hugs and jokes, just as always. "Are you coming home soon?" he'd ask. "I'm trying," Pa would tell him.

Since my father's death, I have kept my overwhelming sadness at bay. When well-meaning people approach me to ask how I'm doing, their brows furrowed in sympathy, I give them a short answer and swiftly change the subject. I'd rather not confront the questions and the feelings that my dad's death has raised. But Sam is different. He thinks that wondering aloud and sorting out together is the best way to understand.

"So," he says, settling into his car seat, "Pa's in space, right?" Or loudly in church, where he points upward to the stained-glass window: Is one of those angels Pa?" Right after my father died, I told Sam he was in heaven. "Where's heaven?" Sam asked. "No one knows exactly," I said, "but lots of people think it's in the sky." Sam thought about that and then shook his head. "No," he said, "it's very far away. Near Cambodia." "When you die," he said on another afternoon, "you disappear, right? And when you faint, you only disappear a little. Right?"

Each time he offers one of these possibilities he waits for me to confirm i t as true. He is sorting out the things he's certain of and the things he's trying to understand. I think his questions are good. The part I have trouble dealing with is what he always does after he asks: He looks me right in the eye with more hope than I can stand and waits for my approval or correction or wisdom. But in this matter, my own fear and ignorance are so large that I grow dumb in the face of his innocence. The truth is, I have no answer to the question we struggle hardest with: How can we find a way to be with my father when we don't know where or even if he is?

Remembering Sam's approach to my father's illness, I began to watch his approach to grief. At night, he would press his face against his bedroom window and cry, calling out into the darkness, "Pa, Pa, I love you! Sweet dreams!" Then, after his crying stopped, he would climb into bed, drained but satisfied somehow, and sleep. I, on the other hand, would wander the house all night, not knowing how to mourn. One day, in the supermarket parking lot, I caught sight of a red truck like my father's; for an instant I forgot he had died. My heart leaped as I thought, Dad's here shopping too! Then I remembered, and I succumbed to an onslaught of tears. Sam climbed into the front seat, jamming himself onto my lap between me and the steering wheel. "I know," he soothed, wiping my wet cheeks. "You miss Pa, don't you?" I managed to nod. "Me too," he said. "But you have to believe he's with us, Mommy. Watching and loving us. You have to believe that, or what will we ever do?" Too young to attach to a particular ideology, Sam had simply decided that the only way to deal with grief and loss was to believe that death does not really separate us from those we love. I couldn't show him heaven on a map or explain the course a soul might travel. But he found his own way to cope. I can't honestly say that I've fully accepted my father's death, even all these months later. But my son has taught me a lot about how to grieve.

Recently, while I was cooking dinner, Sam sat by himself at the kitchen table and quietly colored in his Spiderman coloring book.

"I love you too," he said.

I laughed and turned to face him.

"No," I told him. "You say, 'I love you too only after someone says, 'I love you first."

"I know that," Sam said. "Pa just said 'I love you, Sam' and I said 'I love you too. "

As he spoke, he kept coloring and smiling. "Pa just talked to you?" I asked.

"Oh, Mommy," Sam said, "he tells me he loves me every day. He tells you too. You're just not listening." Again, I have begun to take Sam's lead. I have begun to listen.


Unknown author

Moving Rocks

A little boy was spending his Saturday morning playing in his sandbox. He had with him his box of cars and trucks, his plastic pail, and a shiny, red plastic shovel. In the process of creating roads and tunnels in the soft sand, he discovered a large rock in the middle of the sandbox.

The boy dug around the rock, managing to dislodge it from the dirt. With a little bit of struggle, he pushed and nudged the rock across the sandbox by using his feet. (He was a very small boy, and the rock was very large.) When the boy got the rock to the edge of the sandbox however, he found that he couldn't roll it up and over the little wall.

Determined, the little boy shoved, pushed, and pried, but every time he thought he had made some progress, the rock tipped and then fell back into the sandbox. The little boy grunted, struggled, pushed, & shoved; but his only reward was to have the rock roll back, smashing his chubby fingers.

Finally he burst into tears of frustration. All this time the boy's father watched from his living room window as the drama unfolded. At the moment the tears fell, a large shadow fell across the boy and the sandbox. It was the boy's father. Gently but firmly he said,

"Son, why didn't you use all the strength that you had available?"

Defeated, the boy sobbed back,

"But I did, Daddy, I did! I used all the strength that I had!"

"No, son," corrected the father kindly.

"You didn't use all the strength you had. You didn't ask me."

With that the father reached down, picked up the rock and removed it from the sandbox.

Do you have "rocks" in your life that need to be removed? Are you discovering that you don't have what it takes to lift them? There is One who is always available to us and willing to give us the strength we need. Isn't it funny how we try so hard to do things oursel ves.


Unknown author †

Making a Difference

In his youth, Sandy Greenburg was a very good student, but he came from a poor family. And so he went to Columbia University on a scholarship, and there he met his roommate, who also was receiving financial aid.

Now while he was a sophomore at Columbia University, he contracted an eye disease that eventually proved to be glaucoma. But the trouble was, it wasn't detected early enough, and as a result he became legally blind, while still a student at Columbia. I ask you all to imagine for a moment having been sighted all your life, and then all of a sudden being faced, in a very competitive school, with losing so much sight you could no longer read. This is what happened to our trustee, Sandy Greenberg.

But something else happened to Sandy that may surprise you. Sandy said that when he lost his sight, his roommate began to read his textbooks to him, every night.

So I'm going to put you in that position, in a competitive school like Columbia, or Johns Hopkins. If your roommate had a serious disability, would you take the time to read textbooks to him every night, knowing the more you spend time reading textbooks to your roommate, perhaps the less well you might do with your other activities? That's not as easy a question as it first appears.

But luckily for Sandy, our trustee, his roommate did. And as a result, Sandy went on to graduate with honors. He got a Fulbright Scholarship, and he went off to study at Oxford. He was still quite poor, but he said he had managed to save about five hundred dollars as he went along.

His roommate, meanwhile, also went on to graduate school. One day, Sandy got a call from him at Oxford. And his former roommate said, "Sandy I'm really unhappy. I really don't like being in graduate school, and I don't want to do this."

So Sandy asked, "Well what do you want to do?"

And his roommate told him, "Sandy, I really love to sing. I have a high school friend who plays the guitar. And we would really like to try our hand in the music business. But we need to make a promo record, and in order to do that I need $500."

So Sandy Greenberg told me he took all his life savings and sent it to his roommate. He told me, "You know, what else could I do? He made my life; I needed to help make his life." So, I hope you'll remember the power of doing well by doing good. Each of you, in your own lives, will be faced with challenges, with roadblocks, with problems that you didn't anticipate or expect. How you are able to deal with adversity will be influenced, to no small extent, by how you deal with others along the way. What you get will depend a lot on what you give. And that's the end of the story of doing well, by doing good.

Ah! I almost forgot. You probably are wanting to know who Sandy's roommate was. I think you've heard of him. Sandy's roommate was a fellow by the name of Art Garfunkel, and he teamed up with another musician by the name of Paul Simon. That $500 helped them cut a record that eventually became "The Sounds of Silence." Recently, we had the pleasure of going to Sandy's daughter's wedding, and it was Art Garfunkel who sang as Sandy walked his daughter down the aisle.

William R. Brody

Gratefulness Against All Odds

Little is known of the external life of Etty Hillesum, a young Jewish woman who lived in Amsterdam during the Nazi occupation, one of the millions who suffered during the Holocaust. This obscurity is in contrast with her well-documented internal life. Etty Hillesum wrote in her diary: "Sometimes when I stand in some corner of the camp, my feet planted on earth, my eyes raised towards heaven, tears run down my face, tears of deep emotion and gratitude." Does this sound like a passage from a young girl's summer camp diary? Well, the camp she speaks of is a Nazi death camp. What Etty Hillesum stands for is gratefulness against all the odds. This makes her shine as an example for all of us, a witness to sheer enthusiasm for life

Charity Focus

Don't Miss this One!

Consider This

After Fred Astaire’s first screen test, the memo from the testing director of MGM, dated 1933, said, “can’t act! Slightly Bald! Can dance a little!” Astaire kept that memo over the fireplace in his Beverly Hills home.

An expert said of Vince Lombardi: “He possesses minimal football knowledge. Lacks Motivation.”

Socrates was called, “An immoral corrupter of youth.”

When Peter J. Daniel was in the fourth grade, his teacher, Mrs. Phillips, constantly said, “Peter J. Daniel, you’re no good, you’re a bad apple and you’re never going to amount to anything.” Peter was totally illiterate until he was 26. A friend stayed up with him all night and read him a copy of Think and Grow Rich. Now he owns the street corners he used to fight on and just published his latest book: Mrs. Phillips, You Were Wrong.

Louisa May Alcott, the author of Little Women, was encouraged to find work as a servant or seamstress by her family.

Beethoven handled the violin awkwardly and preferred playing his own compositions instead of improving his technique. His teacher called him hopeless as a composer.

The parents of the famous opera singer Enrico Caruso wanted him to be an engineer. His teachers said he had no voice at all and could not sing.

Charles Darwin, father of the Theory of Evolution, gave up a medical career and was told by his father, “You care for nothing but shooting, dogs, and rat catching.” In his autobiography, Darwin wrote, “I was considered by my father, a very ordinary boy, rather below the common standard in intellect."

Walt Disney was fired by a newspaper editor for lack of ideas. Walt Disney also went bankrupt several times before he built Disneyland.

Thomas Edison’s teachers said he was too stupid to learn anything.

Albert Einstein did not speak until he was four years old and didn’t read until he was seven. His teacher described him as “mentally slow, unsociable and adrift forever in his foolish dreams.” He was expelled and refused admittance to Zurich Polytechnic School.

Louis Pasteur was only a mediocre pupil in undergraduate studies and ranked 15 out of 22 in chemistry.

Isaac Newton did very poorly in grade school.

The sculptor Rodin’s father said, “I have an idiot for a son.” Described as the worst pupil in the school, Rodin failed three times to secure admittance to the school of art. His uncle called him uneducable.

Leo Tolstoy, author of War and Peace, flunked out of college. He was described as “both unable and unwilling to learn.”

Playwright Tennessee Williams was enraged when his play, "Me, Vasha" was not chosen in a class competition at Washington University where he was enrolled in English XVI. The teacher recalled that Williams denounced the judges’ choices and their intelligence.

F. W. Woolworth’s employers at the dry goods store said he had not enough sense to wait upon customers.

Henry Ford failed and went broke five times before he finally succeeded.

Babe Ruth, considered by sports historians to be the greatest athlete of all time and famous for setting the home run record, also holds the record for strikeouts.

Winston Churchill failed sixth grade. He did not become Prime Minister of England until he was 62, and then only after a lifetime of defeats and setbacks. His greatest contributions came when he was a “senior citizen.”

Eighteen publishers turned down Richard Bach’s Jonathan Livingston Seagull, before Macmillan finally published it in 1970. By 1975 it had sold more than seven million copies in the U.S. alone.

Richard Hooker worked for seven years on his humorous war novel, M*A*S*H, only to have it rejected by 21 publishers before Morrow decided to publish it. It became a runaway bestseller, spawning a blockbusting movie and highly successful television series.

By Jack Canfield and Mark V. Hansen
A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul

World's Youngest Surgeon

One must know not just how to accept a gift, but with what grace to share it. --Maya Angelou

Deemed by some to be "the cleverest boy in the world" a boy from a small village in India performed his first successful surgery at the age of seven! Akrit Jaspal speaks four languages, he is trying to find a cure for cancer and is studying for a bachelors in science. His hero is Spiderman, and Akrit is now twelve years old. Well aware of his special gifts, this ambitious young humanitarian says, "I feel I've a duty to stop all the suffering in the world. It would be a waste of my natural talent not to use it wisely." [ more ]

Compassionate Communication

"We are convinced that non-violence is more powerful than violence. If you use violence, you have to sell part of yourself for that violence. Then you are no longer a master of your own struggle."

Cesar Chavez

Around the summer of 1943 our family moved to Detroit, Michigan. The second week after we arrived, a race war erupted over an incident at a public park. More than forty people were killed in the next few days. Our neighborhood was situated in the center of the violence, and we spent three days locked in the house.

When the race riot ended and school began, I discovered that a name could be as dangerous as any skin color. When the teacher called my name during attendance, two boys glared at me and hissed, “Are you a kike?” I had never heard the word before and didn’t know it was used by some people in a derogatory way to refer to Jews. After school, the two were waiting for me: they threw me to the ground, kicked and beat me.

Since that summer in 1943, I have been examining the two questions I mentioned. What empowers us, for example, to stay connected to our compassionate nature even under the worst circumstances? I am thinking of people like Etty Hillesum, who remained compassionate even while subjected to the grotesque conditions of a German concentration camp. As she wrote in her journal at the time:

“I am not easily frightened. Not because I am brave but because I know that I am dealing with human beings, and that I must try as hard as I can to understand everything that anyone ever does. And that was the real import of this morning: not that a disgruntled young Gestapo officer yelled at me, but that I felt no indignation, rather a real compassion, and would have liked to ask, ‘Did you have a very unhappy childhood, has your girlfriend let you down?’ Yes, he looked harassed and driven, sullen and weak. I should have liked to start treating him there and then, for I know that pitiful young men like that are dangerous as soon as they are let loose on mankind.”
—Etty Hillesum: A Memoir

While studying the factors that affect our ability to stay compassionate, I was struck by the crucial role of language and our use of words. I have since identified a specific approach to communicating—speaking and listening—that leads us to give from the heart, connecting us with ourselves and with each other in a way that allows our natural compassion to flourish. I call this approach Nonviolent Communication, using the term “nonviolence” as Gandhi used it—to refer to our natural state of compassion when violence has subsided from the heart. While we may not consider the way we talk to be “violent,” our words often lead to hurt and
NVC: a way of communicating that leads us to give from the heart.
pain, whether for ourselves or others, a process called Compassionate Communication

Marshall Rosenburg

Volunteers

Researcher David Baker believes the key to an AIDS vaccine or a cure for cancer may be that old PC sitting in your closet or the one idling on your desk. Baker, 43, a professor of biochemistry at the University of Washington, realized that he didn't have access to the computing horsepower needed for his research — nor the money to buy time on supercomputers elsewhere. So he turned to the kindness — and the computers — of strangers. Using software made popular in a massive search for intelligent life beyond Earth, Baker's Rosetta@home project taps the computing power of tens of thousands of PCs whose owners are donating spare computer time to chop away at scientific problems over the internet. "We're getting these volunteer virtual communities popping up that are doing wonderful things," Baker said. "People like to get together for good causes."

Charity Focus

Unlocking Talent

Daniel Tammet lives with extraordinary ability and disability. He can't drive a car or tell right from left. But he can figure out cube roots quicker than a calculator and holds the European record for recalling pi to the furthest decimal point. Daniel is an "Autistic savant" -- a term that refers to individuals with autism who have extraordinary mental skills. But while most savants can't tell us how they do what they do -- Daniel can. He describes in detail what he sees in his head and some researchers believe he can help unlock some of the mysteries of autism. Tammet’s message to the world? "I memorized pi to 22,514 decimal places, and I am technically disabled. I just wanted to show people that disability needn't get in the way." Be sure to read this whole article through this link:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/weekend/story/0,,1409903,00.html#article_continue

Each of us has our own special talent. Maybe it’s baking cakes or fixing broken radios. Maybe it’s making people laugh. Take time today to reflect on ways in which you can better use your extra-ordinary abilities positively.

Charity Focus

A guy Named Bill

His name was Bill. He had wild hair, wore a T-shirt with holes in it, blue jeans and no shoes. In the entire time I knew him I never once saw Bill wear a pair of shoes. Rain, sleet or snow, Bill was barefoot. This was literally his wardrobe for his whole four years of college.

He was brilliant and looked like he was always pondering the esoteric. He became a Christian while attending college. Across the street from the campus was a church full of well-dressed, middle-class people. They wanted to develop a ministry to the college students, but they were not sure how to go about it.

One day, Bill decided to worship there. He walked into the church, complete with his wild hair, T-shirt, blue jeans and bare feet. The church was completely packed, and the service had already begun. Bill started down the aisle to find a place to sit. By now the people were looking a bit uncomfortable, but no one said anything.

As Bill moved closer and closer to the pulpit, he realized there were no empty seats. So he squatted and sat down on the carpet right up front. (Although such behavior would have been perfectly acceptable at the college fellowship, this was a scenario this particular congregation had never witnessed before!) By now, the people seemed uptight, and the tension in the air was thickening.

Right about the time Bill took his “seat,” a deacon began slowly making his way down the aisle from the back of the sanctuary. The deacon was in his eighties, had silver gray hair, a three-piece suit and a pocket watch. He was a godly man -- very elegant, dignified and courtly. He walked with a cane and, as he neared the boy, church members thought, “You can’t blame him for what he’s going to do. How can you expect a man of his age and background to understand some college kid on the floor?”

It took a long time for the man to reach the boy. The church was utterly silent except for the clicking of his cane. You couldn’t even hear anyone breathing. All eyes were on the deacon.

But then they saw the elderly man drop his cane on the floor. With great difficulty, he sat down on the floor next to Bill and worshipped with him. Everyone in the congregation choked up with emotion. When the minister gained control, he told the people, “What I am about to preach, you will never remember. What you’ve just seen, you will never forget.”

Rebecca Manley Pippert
Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul

Love Notes

From the time each of my children started school, I packed their lunches. And in each lunch I packed, I included a note. Often written on a napkin, the note might be a thank you for a special moment, a reminder of something we were happily anticipating, or a bit of encouragement for an upcoming test or sporting event.

In early grade school they loved their notes-they commented on them after school, and when I went back to teaching, they even put notes in my lunches. But as kids grow older they become self?conscious, and by the time he reached high school, my older son, Marc, informed me he no longer needed my daily missives. Informing him that they had been written as much for me as for him, and that he no longer needed to read them but I still needed to write them, I continued the tradition until the day he graduated.

Six years after high school graduation, Marc called and asked if he could move home for a couple of months. He had spent those years well, graduating Phi Beta Kappa magna cum laude from college, completing two congressional internships in Washington, D.C., winning the Jesse Marvin Unruh Fellowship to the California State Legislature, and finally, becoming a legislative assistant in Sacramento. Other than short vacation visits, however, he had lived away from home. With his younger sister leaving for college, I was especially thrilled to have Marc coming home.

A couple weeks after Marc arrived home to rest, regroup and write for a while, he was back at work-he had been recruited to do campaign work. Since I was still making lunch every day for his younger brother, I packed one for Marc, too. Imagine my surprise when I got a call from my 24?year?old son, complaining about his lunch.

"Did I do something wrong? Aren't I still your kid? Don't you love me any more, Mom?" were just a few of the queries he threw at me as I laughingly asked him what was wrong.

"My note, Mom," he answered. "Where's my note?"

This year my youngest son will be a senior in high school. He, too, has now announced that he is too old for notes. But like his older brother and sister before him, he will receive those notes till the day he graduates-and in whatever lunches I pack for him afterwards.

Antoinette Kuritz
As appeared in Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul

God's Plan

A psychologist applied to work in my spiritual psychotherapy center. I asked him why he would want to do that. He is already a licensed psychologist and could work anywhere he chooses. He told me of a dream he had had. In this dream he was walking down the street with a book under his arm. He met a holy man. The holy man said "I have a plan for your life." My friend pulled his book out from under his arm and said "I have plans for my own life." The holy man pulled a much larger book out from under his arm and said, "I understand, but God’s plan includes your plan!” My
friend awoke. His life changed. Sight had given way to Vision.
Powerlessness to Power. The ego will to the Greater Will.

Carroll J. Wright

I Choose

Each morning I wake up and say to myself, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or ... you can choose to be in a bad mood. I choose to be in a good mood."

Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or...I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it.

Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or... I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life.

"Yeah, right, it's not that easy," a friend protested.

"Yes, it is," I said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It's your choice how you live your life."

Soon hereafter, we lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it. Several years later, I heard that he was involved in a serious accident, falling some 60 feet from a communications tower. After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, he was released from the hospital with rods placed in his back. I saw him about six months after the accident and asked him what had gone through his mind as the accident took place.

"The first thing that went through my mind was the well-being of my soon-to-be born daughter," he replied. "Then, as I lay on the ground, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live or...I could choose to die. I chose to live."

"Weren't you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked. He continued, "...the paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the ER and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read 'he's a dead man'. I knew I needed to take action."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Well, there was a big burly nurse shouting questions at me," said John. "She asked if I was allergic to anything. 'Yes, I replied.' The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, 'Gravity'."
Over their laughter, I told them, "I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead."

He lived, thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude... I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully.
Attitude, after all, is everything.

Author Unknown

The Power of Giving

The 22 men in spangled baseballs caps don't much look like a choir. They don't stand up straight, they tend to wobble back and forth as they perform, and they're homeless! With a hastily prepared repertoire of four Christmas carols, this ragtag collection of 19-to-68 year old homeless choristers took their voices to the streets -- or under them: their debut was December 17, 1996, at the Berri-UQAM subway station in downtown Montreal, now the choir's unofficial home concert hall. Today, the 'Montreal Homeless Choir' has captivated audiences worldwide and turned their lives around. And what do they feel is the greatest benefit of belonging to the group? The opportunity to give.
Charity Focus

Lady, Are You Rich?

They huddled inside the storm door—two children in ragged outgrown coats.


"Any old papers, lady?”


I was busy. I wanted to say no—until I looked down at their feet. Thin little sandals, sopped with sleet.


"Come in and I'll make you a cup of hot cocoa.”


There was no conversation. Their soggy sandals left marks upon the hearthstone. I served them cocoa and toast with jam to fortify against the chill outside. Then I went back to the kitchen and started again on my household budget.


The silence in the front room struck through to me. I looked in. The girl held the empty cup in her hands, looking at it. The boy asked in a flat voice, "Lady . . . are you rich?"


“Am I rich? Mercy, no!"


I looked at my shabby slipcovers. The girl put her cup back in its saucer—carefully.


“Your cups match your saucers."


Her voice was old, with a hunger that was not of the stomach. They left then, holding their bundles of papers against the wind. They hadn't said thank you. They didn't need to. They had done more than that. Plain blue pottery cups and saucers. But they matched.


I tested the potatoes and stirred the gravy. Potatoes and brown gravy, a roof over our heads, my man with a good steady job—these things matched, too.


I moved the chairs back from the fire and tidied the living room. The muddy prints of small sandals were still wet upon my hearth. I let them be. I want them there in case I ever forget again how very rich I am

Marion Doolan
Chick Soup for the Soul 4

Scarecrow

“Hey, ‘Bones,’ ” my brother, Parker, asked me, "what are you going to be for Halloween?" The elementary school party started at 7:00 PM. The winner of the prize for the most original costume got two free tickets for the Sunday matinee. Parker was dressed and ready to go. I watched him parade in front of the mirror in his pirate costume. He's so handsome, I thought. All the girls in the fifth and sixth grades were madly in love with him. I'd spent the afternoon defending myself from his rubber dagger.

" I'm not going!" I replied.

" Why not?"

" No costume."

"That's dumb," he said. "You hardly need a costume. You're already a perfect scarecrow!" I was used to these observations. Furthermore, he spoke the truth. At twelve, I was already six feet tall and weighed eighty-nine pounds. Tack on red hair and freckles and it added up to one thing: I was a scarecrow.

School days were charged with searing taunts. "Down in front." "How's the weather up there?" "Are those skis or shoes?" It was hard to smile back, and even harder to make friends.

I tried plastering my hair down flat on the top of my head and prying the heels off my shoes. I took scalding hot baths, hoping I'd shrink. In bed at night, I put my feet against the footboard, hands against the headboard and pushed, hoping to press myself back together. Nothing worked. So I saved nickels and dimes in a cider jug to pay the future surgeon who would find fame in Ripley's Believe It or Not by cutting six inches of bone from the legs of the tallest girl in the world and making her the same height as everybody else.

"When I grow up," I told Parker, as he brandished his cutlass in front of the mirror, "I'm going to live on an island where there's no one to stare." My brother raised his eye patch and looked at me hard.

"Sounds awful," he said, and left for the party.

Alone, I listened to the cheerless night and pictured the costumes my classmates had bought. I had tried on a few, too, but nothing fit. I could picture my classmates in their costumes, having a wonderful time. As I wandered about the house, I remembered happier days-before Mommy and Daddy were separated. When Daddy lived with us, he always made me feel loved and wanted. Seeing him now for short visits wasn't the same. The more I brooded, the more my self-pity grew.

Then I spotted a broomstick standing in the kitchen corner. Maybe I could make a costume, I thought. Outside, a sheet and pillowcase billowed on the clothesline. I could be a witch or a ghost. Then my gaze fell on the back of the cellar door. My father's old plaid work shirt, faded overalls, jacket and cap were hanging right where he had left them.

"I could be a hobo," I murmured as I buried my face in the dusty clothes. But Parker's taunt kept coming back at me. "You're a scarecrow." As much as I hated to admit it, he was right. Well then, a scarecrow was what I'd be. The closer I got to the school, the louder the cheers and clapping became, and the more my fears grew. What if they laughed at me? Worse still, what if they didn't do anything? Hiding behind the tool shed next to the gym, I pulled everything out of the pillowcase and started to dress. Because I was so tall, I could peek through the high window and see everybody taking turns on the stage in quest of the coveted prize. Ghosts, princesses, monsters, cowboys, soldiers and brides-they were all there, clad in store-bought costumes, fragile dreams for one night. My teeth were chattering. Would they clap for me? Would they whistle and cheer? My stomach ached from anticipation.

I'll run home! I decided. No one would know I had been there. But Parker came on stage and glanced at the window. It was too late. He had seen me. If I left now, he'd call me chicken. I watched him bow to the audience and listened to the squeals from the girls as he leaped on chairs and tables and parried with his sword. Next, a small gorilla climbed on top of a ladder and ate a banana. Lincoln gave a brief address. Cleopatra danced with a rubber snake in her hands, and a soldier marched and twirled his gun. Only Tarzan remained.

Maneuvering carefully through the entrance, I went in, held my breath and prayed, Please, God, don't let me make a fool of myself. The applause was so loud for the King of the jungle when he gave his call and swung on a curtain rope that no one seemed to notice me walk slowly to the center of the stage. A pillowcase covered my head. With arms outstretched and hands clutching the broomstick inserted through the sleeves of an old plaid shirt, I wore a felt hat and faded overalls stuffed with straw. The room was suddenly still.
Nobody clapped. Nobody cheered. The only sound I heard was the hammering of my own heart. I'm going to die, I thought, right here in front of everybody. The world was tilting, and my ears were ringing when the hood slid down my nose, just enough so I could peer through the eyeholes. And that's when I saw my classmates for the first time, as they really were. Petite blonde fairies with golden wands-and steel braces on their teeth. A baseball hero with a bat and mitt-and bottle-thick eyeglasses. A boxer with fighting gloves-sitting in a wheelchair. Someone asked, "Hey, who is that?" "Parker's sister!" They looked at one another, surprise brightening their faces. Clapping and cheering filled the room.

The principal came up on stage. "The first prize for the most original costume goes to..." I never heard my name, only Parker, fear in his voice, saying, "I'll hold those tickets for her. She can't let go of that broomstick or her shirt will fall off." Later, classmates came over to talk with me. "How'd you ever get such a good idea?" "Parker," I said. "Where did you get the costume?" "My daddy." And in that single moment, I recaptured a memory that had almost slipped away. I was sitting on Daddy's lap and I heard him say, "I love you, sweetheart, just the way God made you." I felt his fingers riffling my hair, and I smiled inside, glad that God had made me a scarecrow.

I left the party early, but not before Nancy had said, "You'll come over to my house sometime, won't you?" and Elaine had confided, "I get goosebumps every time Mr. Allen is our substitute teacher. Don't you?" I didn't want to stay and dance-the boys' heads came only to the middle of my chest. But on my way home, I decided that Parker was right. A deserted island would be pretty awful. I waited up for Parker that night. I wanted to hear about the fun I'd missed. "Did you dance a lot?" I asked. "Sort of," he said. "If you think it's any fun for a fifthgrade guy to dance with a bunch of puny third- and fourth-graders!" He kicked at the fringe on the rug and started up the stairs.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he said. "Here's your two tickets." "Thanks." "It's going to be a double feature. One's The Wizard o f Oz. Ray Bolger plays a scarecrow." He had reached the fourth step. We stood eye to eye.

"And the other's The Sea Hawk," I said. "Can you believe it? Errol Flynn plays a pirate!"

"Are you taking anyone special?" Parker asked. "Yes," I said. "Wanna go?"

Penny Porter

Teasing Others Hurts You

Mary Lou

It was my first day as newcomer to Miss Hargrove’s seventh grade. Past “newcomer” experiences had been difficult, so I was very anxious to fit in. After being introduced to the class, I bravely put on a smile and took my seat, expecting to be shunned.

Lunchtime was a pleasant surprise when the girls all crowded around my table. Their chatter was friendly, so I began to relax. My new classmates filled me in on the school, the teachers and the other kids. It wasn’t long before the class nerd was pointed out to me: Mary Lou English. Actually she called herself Mary Louise. A prim, prissy young girl with a stern visage and old-fashioned clothes, she wasn’t ugly -- not even funny looking. I thought she was quite pretty, but I had sense enough not to say so. Dark-eyed and olive-skinned, she had long, silky black hair, but -- she had pipe curls! Practical shoes, long wool skirt and a starched, frilly blouse completed the image of a complete dork. The girls’ whispers and giggles got louder and louder. Mary Lou made eye contact with no one as she strode past our table, chin held high with iron determination. She ate alone.

After school, the girls invited me to join them in front of the school. I was thrilled to be a member of the club, however tentative. We waited. For what, I didn’t yet know. Oh, how I wish I had gone home, but I had a lesson to learn.

Arms wrapped around her backpack, Mary Lou came down the school steps. The taunting began - rude, biting comments and jeering from the girls. I paused, then joined right in. My momentum began to pick up as I approached her. Nasty, mean remarks fell unabated from my lips. No one could tell I’d never done this before. The other girls stepped back and became my cheerleaders. Emboldened, I yanked the strap of her backpack and then pushed her. The strap broke, Mary Lou fell and I backed off. Everyone was laughing and patting me. I fit in. I was a leader.

I was not proud. Something inside me hurt. If you’ve ever picked a wing off a butterfly, you know how I felt.

Mary Lou got up, gathered her books and -- without a tear shed or retort given -- off she went. She held her head high as a small trickle of blood ran down from her bruised knee. I watched her limp away down the street.

I turned to leave with my laughing friends and noticed a man standing beside his car. His olive skin, dark hair and handsome features told me this was her father. Respectful of Mary Lou’s proud spirit, he remained still and watched the lonely girl walk toward him. Only his eyes -- shining with both grief and pride -- followed. As I passed, he looked at me in silence with burning tears that spoke to my shame and scalded my heart. He didn’t speak a word.

No scolding from a teacher or preaching from a parent could linger as much as that hurt in my heart from the day a father’s eyes taught me kindness and strength and dignity. I never again joined the cruel herds. I never again hurt someone for my own gain.

By Lynne Zielinski
from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III

The Giving Trees

I was a single parent of four small children, working at a minimum-wage job. Money was always tight, but we had a roof over our heads, food on the table, clothes on our backs, and if not a lot, always enough. My kids told me that in those days they didn't know we were poor. They just thought Mom was cheap. I've always been glad about that.

It was Christmas time, and although there wasn't' money for a lot of gifts, we planned to celebrate with church and family, parties and friends, drives downtown to see the Christmas lights, special dinners, and by decorating our home.

But the big excitement for the kids was the fun of Christmas shopping at the mall. They talked and planned for weeks ahead of time, asking each other and their grandparents what they wanted for Christmas. I dreaded it. I had saved $120 for presents to be shared by all five of us.

The big day arrived and we started out early. I gave each of the four kids a twenty dollar bill and reminded them to look for gifts about four dollars each. Then everyone scattered. We had two hours to shop; then we would meet back at the "Santa's workshop" display.

Back in the car driving home, everyone was in high Christmas spirits, laughing and teasing each other with hints and clues about what they had bought. My younger daughter, Ginger, who was about eight years old, was unusually quiet. I noted she had only one small, flat bag with her after her shopping spree. I could see enough through the plastic bag to tell that she had bought candy bars - fifty-cent candy bars! I was so angry. What did you do with that twenty dollar bill I gave you? I wanted to yell at her, but I didn't say anything until we got home. I called her into my bedroom and closed the door, ready to be angry again when I asked her what she had done with the money. This is what she told me:

"I was looking around, thinking of what to buy, and I stopped to read the little cards on one of the Salvation Army's 'Giving Trees.' One of the cards was for a little girl, four years old, and all she wanted for Christmas was a doll with clothes and a hairbrush. So I took the card off the tree and bought the doll and hairbrush for her and took it to the Salvation Army booth.

"I only had enough money left to buy candy bars for us," Ginger continued. "But we have so much and she doesn't have anything."

I never felt so rich as I did that day.

By Kathleen Dixon,
Chicken Soup for the Soul

The Little Girl Who Dared to Wish

As Amy Hagadorn rounded the corner across the hall from her classroom, she collided with a tall boy from the fifth grade running in the opposite direction.

"Watch it , squirt." The boy yelled as he dodged around the little third-grader. Then, with a smirk on his face, the boy took hold of his right leg and mimicked the way Amy limped when she walked.

Amy closed her eyes. Ignore him, she told herself as she headed for her classroom.

But at the end of the day, Amy was still thinking about the tall boy's mean teasing. It wasn't as if her were the only one. It seemed that ever since Amy started the third grade, someone teased her every single day. Kids teased her about her speech or her limping. Amy was tired of it. Sometimes, even in a classroom full of other students, the teasing made her feel all alone.

Back home at the dinner table that evening, Amy was quiet. Her mother knew that things were not going well at school. That's why Patti Hagadorn was happy to have some exciting news to share with her daughter.

"There's a Christmas wish contest on the radio station," Amy's mom announced. "Write a letter to Santa, and you might win a prize. I think someone at this table with blonde curly hair should enter."

Amy giggled. The contest sounded like fun. She started thinking about what she wanted most for Christmas.

A smile took hold of Amy when the idea first came to her. Out came pencil and paper, and Amy went to work on her letter. "Dear Santa Claus," she began.

While Amy worked away at her best printing, the rest of the family tried to guess what she might ask from Santa. Amy's sister, Jamie, and Amy's mom both thought a three-foot Barbie doll would top Amy's wish list. Amy's dad guessed a picture book. But Amy wasn't ready to reveal her secret Christmas wish just then. Here is Amy's letter to Santa, just as she wrote it that night:

Dear Santa Claus,

My name is Amy. I am nine years old. I have a problem at school. Can you help me Santa? Kids laugh at me because of the way I walk and run and talk. I have cerebral palsy. I just want one day where no one laughs at me or makes fun of me.

Love, Amy

At radio station WJLT in Fort Wayne, Indiana, letter poured in for the Christmas wish contest. The workers had fun reading about all the different presents that boys and girls from across the city wanted for Christmas.

When Amy's letter arrived at the radio station, manager Lee Tobin read it carefully. He knew cerebral palsy was a muscle disorder that might confuse the schoolmates of Amy's who didn't understand her disability. He thought it would be good for the people in Fort Wayne to hear about this special third-grader and her unusual wish. Mr. Tobin called up the local newspaper.

The next day, a picture of Amy and her letter to Santa made the front page of the News Sentinel. The story spread quickly. All across the country, newspapers and radio and television stations reported the story of the little girl in Fort Wayne, Indiana, who asked for such a simple yet remarkable Christmas gift -- just one day without teasing.

Suddenly the postman was a regular at the Hagadorn house. Envelopes of all sizes addressed to Amy arrived daily from children and adults all across the nation. They came filled with holiday greetings and words of encouragement.

During that unforgettable Christmas season, over two thousand people from all over the world sent Amy letters of friendship and support. Amy and her family read every single one. Some of the writers had disabilities; some had been teased as children. Each writer had a special message for Amy. Through the cards and letters from strangers, Amy glimpsed a world full of people who truly cared about each other. She realized that no amount or form of teasing could ever make her feel lonely again.

Many people thanked Amy for being brave enough to speak up. Others encouraged her to ignore teasing and to carry her head high. Lynn, a sixth-grader from Texas, sent this message:

"I would like to be your friend," she wrote, "and if you want to visit me, we could have fun. No one would make fun of us, 'cause if they do, we will not even hear them."

Amy did get her wish of a special day without teasing at South Wayne Elementary School. Additionally, everyone at school got another bonus. Teachers and students talked together about how bad teasing can make others feel.

That year the Fort Wayne mayor officially proclaimed December 21 as Amy Jo Hagadorn Day throughout the city. The mayor explained that by daring to make such a simple wish, Amy taught a universal lesson.

"Everyone," said the mayor, "wants and deserves to be treated with respect, dignity and warmth."

By Alan D. Shultz,
Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul

The Magic Bat

You may be disappointed if you fail, but you are doomed if you don't try. — Beverly Sills


Harry is every coach's dream kid: He shows up for every practice early, stays late and is enthusiastic. Harry is also every coach's nightmare: He has neither the instinct nor the physical talent for the game.


I stepped in as a stand-in coach for my son's Little League team when the regular coach got married. Somehow he thought a honeymoon took precedence over next Tuesday's game. How can you blame him? Our team hadn't won in more than two years.


As I accepted the fill-in spot, I promised myself that I would show no disappointment if we lost. That was the least I could do. The best I could do was give a good heart to the effort.


I met Harry at the first practice. A small, thin, awkward kid his best throw was about five feet, which made the choice of fielding position difficult. And he was scared. Every time he came to bat, he would glance at the pitcher, lean the bat on his shoulder, close his eyes and wait until the misery of three pitches was over. Then he'd trudge back to the dugout. It was painful to watch.


I met Harry before Tuesday's game, took him aside and worked with him on keeping his eyes open. He tried, but it's tough to overcome the habit of fear. We were about to play a team that had beat us 22-1 the last time. It didn't seem a fortunate moment for a breakthrough. Then I thought, Why not?


I went to the dugout, got a different bat and returned to our practice area. "Harry," I said, "I want you to use this bat. It's the one for you. It's a magic bat. All you have to do is swing and it will hit the ball."


Harry seemed skeptical, but he said he would try. I hoped I wasn't complicating an already tough problem for Harry, but I wanted to try to help.


Our team was trailing from the first inning. No surprise in that, but we had some loyal parents in the stands to give constant encouragement to the kids.


On Harry's first at bat, I noticed he wasn't using his special bat, but I didn't step in. He struck out, as usual, and I decided to let it ride.


We were able to score from time to time. In the last inning, we were behind by only three runs. I was thinking about a "respectable outcome" speech to give the kids while packing up the gear. As the home team, we were last up. We alternated for five batters between singles with players safely on base and strikeouts. We had bases loaded and two outs. Only then did I notice that Harry was our last chance.


Surveying the field from my spot by first base, I saw the left fielder sprawl on the grass as Harry came from the dugout. He obviously expected no action. The right fielder was bothering some butterfly that was flitting about. The shortstop had moved well in, I suppose anticipating the possibility of a miraculous bunt. Clearly, the opposing players were already tasting the double-scoop ice cream cones they would go for after the victory.


Harry limped up to the batter's box. I noticed he had his usual bat. I called a time out, ran up to him and whispered, "Harry, this is the time for the magic bat. Give it a try. Just keep your eyes open and swing."


He looked at me in disbelief, but he said he'd try. He walked off for the special bat as I trotted back to first base.


First pitch, strike one. Harry didn't swing, but he kept his eyes open. I pumped my fist and gave it a little swing, encouraging him to swing. He smiled, got into his awkward stance and waited. He swung, eyes open, but missed. Strike two. That was the first real swing Harry had ever taken. Who cared if we won the game? I considered Harry a winner already.


The other coach yelled to his pitcher, "Fire one past him and end this thing!" I grimaced.


The pitcher threw a straight fastball and Harry swung. The magic bat did its trick. It found the ball, which flew over the shortstop's head.


Pandemonium erupted in the stands, in the dugouts, on the bases. I was cheering Harry to run to first as fast as he could. It seemed like an eternity. The left fielder called to the center fielder to get it. "You're closer!


I kept cheering the runners. We had one in at home and three guys pouring it on from first to second, second to third, third to home. The second baseman yelled for the center fielder to get the ball to him. Excitedly, he obeyed, but the ball skipped across the grass and passed by the second baseman toward the right-field line. My job as coach was simple at this point. "Run, guys, run," I yelled.


Another guy scored. By this time, the entire team had joined the cheering, "Go, Harry, go Harry!" This was surely the longest distance Harry had ever run. He was panting as he headed for third and another guy crossed home. The right fielder's throw was critical, and it was pretty good, but the third baseman muffed it. The ball scooted past him out of play. The rule: one base on an overthrow that goes out of play. Harry, exhausted, kept the push on as best he could.


About then, the first cry of a Grand Slam!" hit the air. Everyone joined in. When Harry reached home plate, about to collapse, his teammates lifted him as high as they could and chanted, "Harry, Harry, Harry!"


I ran over to the team to hug the proudest kid in America. Tears streaming, Harry looked up at me and said, "The bat, Coach, the bat."


I smiled and said, "No, Harry. It was you who hit the ball, not the bat."

David Meanor, Submitted by Don "Ollie" Olivett
As appeared in Chicken Soup for the Sports Fan's Soul

Make a Small Change Today

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that has. --Margaret Mead

Inspiration of the Day:
We Are What We Do -- it's not just a catchy phrase: it's a web movement that inspires people to use their everyday actions to change the world, whoever they are, and wherever they are. They’ve created 50 simple, everyday actions that can improve our environment, our health, and our communities, making our planet and the people on it happier. To date, over 330,000 small actions (and counting!) have been completed by everyday people. And the origins of this ripple effect?

Eugenie Harvey had been working in financial PR for nearly two years when she decided she wanted more from her job. "I became frustrated and unfulfilled in my work. I wasn't miserable, but it wasn't enough," she says. "Don't get me wrong, I had no problem with the Brunswick Group [for which the 35-year-old Australian was working in London] but I was in my early 30s, and I didn't have any ties, no partner, no financial commitments. My sister was married and had just had her third baby, and the difference between us just struck me. And I also realised that I wanted to make a difference to my community. I just didn't know how."
Then, 18 months ago, her boss held a staff meeting at which a man called David Robinson gave a talk. Robinson turned out to be the head of an east London charity called Community Links: "He was talking about the causes and consequences of community exclusion and it really struck a chord with me." He pointed out that our parents were eight times more likely to join a community association than we are today. Voter turnout has dropped by 20%, membership of political parties is down by two-thirds. Satisfaction with life was higher during postwar rationing than it is now. Our soaring personal consumption has not made us happier. We have more communications devices than ever before, yet communities are crumbling and more people live alone.

"It was very timely," says Harvey. "I knew he was right and I was desperately looking for a more meaningful way of contributing, but I couldn't quite see how my skills would be any use. I've never done any volunteering before."

Then Robinson launched into a polemic about the power of the brand in advertising and capitalism and he imagined just how that power could be harnessed to reverse the decline in community involvement - especially among the young and upwardly mobile. "What he was saying was that if strong branding can create a market for things that we didn't know we needed and then exploit it, then we could - maybe - apply the same approach to the need for strong communities and neighbourliness," says Harvey. "Think of how Nike was just a manufacturer of sports shoes and now it's so much more than that."

So the idea was to be a charity version of Nike or Coca-Cola? "Kind of. Except we wanted to be consciousness-raising and not fund-raising. The questions were, could we apply that sort of thinking to something we need - to social change and social involvement? Could we create a brand rooted in the belief that we can make the world a better place simply and practically? These were the questions that really inspired me. I suddenly saw I could make a difference - I could use my PR skills for something I could be really proud of."

Harvey quit her job and spent four months volunteering for Community Links. "I was sharing a desk in Canning Town, trying to devise this brand, and come up with a plan to make sure it wouldn't just be a flash in the plan, but a sustainable movement." The brand that she, along with branding consultants Innocence and ArthurSteenAdamson and Robinson devised was called We Are What We Do, and the idea behind it was to help people incarnate Mahatma Gandhi's remark: "We must be the change we want to see in the world."

The idea was to use the different media - internet,television, books, exhibition spaces - to launch and sustain this brand, in order to encourage alienated people to come together to do good things. Harvey and what is now a four-strong team working in a basement provided by her former employer in central London spent much of the past year wooing potential business partners to help support the brand gratis. "I work 70 hours a week on this. It's very fulfilling."

What is the point of the brand, or movement, or "new kind of community", as Harvey calls it? "We are not trying to raise money. We are trying to show the power of a simple shift in attitudes and day-to-day behaviour. We invite you to be part of a new kind of community; not of joiners but of independent doers following the same banner and answering the questions that we all want answered."

These quotes come from the preface to a book just published for We Are What We Do. Called Change the World for a Fiver - 50 Simple Actions to Change the World and Make You Feel Good, it is the linchpin of the "movement". It's a giddily utopian, if sometimes mawkish volume, to which some of the leading brains in British advertising applied their creative skills free of charge. It consists of illustrations and short captions for 50 actions that each of us might do to make society better, such as giving blood, sharing a bath with someone you love, throwing chewing gum away properly, writing a note to someone who inspired you.

The book is filled with cute devices. On one page, for example, there is a packet of five Scots Pine seeds alongside the injunction to plant them in order to create your very own Christmas trees for 2012. "Each tree will provide oxygen for two people for the rest of their lives," says the caption. Nice.

Here are some more actions suggested in the book:

·Decline plastic bags wherever possible.

· Learn basic first aid.

·Smile and smile back. ("It takes half as many muscles to smile as to frown.")

·Spend some time with someone from a different generation.

·Find out how your money is invested.

·Do something you think you can't.

· Join something.

· Hug someone.

·Give your phone number to five people in your street, along with the message, "Please call me if I can help".

· Do something for nothing.

The book has already captured the imagination of many of Britain's corporate movers and shakers only three weeks after publication, and is set to be be one of the publishing triumphs of the autumn, leaping up the amazon.co.uk rankings with a velocity unseen since Schott's Miscellany hove into view last year. The initial print run of 10,000 has been expanded to 50,000, following Richard and Judy's all-important imprimatur, and corporate interest from other companies: Hutchinson 3G, Channel 4 and Coca-Cola are among companies buying copies of the book for their staff.

A lot of the business support was attracted at a breakfast hosted by Gordon Brown at 11 Downing Street earlier this month. It was there that Justin King, Sainsbury's chief executive, placed an order for 28,000 copies, and other assembled entrepreneurs hailed the book as "a work of genius". For the record, it bears no important similarities to, say, War and Peace, but it is an ingeniously executed book aimed at galvanising alienated Britons to do something for a society devoid of fellow feeling and good neighbourliness.

Spinning off from the book is a website (www.wearewhatwedo.org) where people can register which actions from the book they have completed, promotional partnerships with magazines such as Time Out, and a forthcoming season of short films on Channel 4 on the theme of the actions in the book (one of these films, intriguingly, will be about action 17: try watching less TV). Today has been designated We Are What We Do day and to mark it several companies have organised buckets to collect loose change for charity (action 16), while other have adopted action 11 (get fitter, feel better) by organising at-desk exercises and gym sessions.

Throughout, Harvey has been helped by businesses which have carried out action 50 (do something for nothing) on behalf of the project, supplying goods, services and expertise free of charge. Other long-term projects are in development, says Harvey: a young people's programme, international editions of the book, and another day of action next year. "We are building a movement which will reinvent itself, evolve and grow with the aim of building a network, not an empire," says We Are What We Do's statement, bafflingly.

Do one of the 50 simple everyday actions suggested by We Are What We Do, and take fifteen seconds to check it off and update it on their website here:

http://www.wearewhatwedo.org/do_something/actionlisting.php?PHPSESSID=227b8036e797d29da2b3da82d843bb8e

Charity Focus
Guardian Unlimited © Guardian Newspapers Limited 2006

Special?

The All-Leather, NFL Regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-Inscribed Football

The year was 1964. The place was Chicago. A man I worked with had acquired a couple of all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed footballs and was selling them at a real good price. My first son was on the way. I bought the football. I had my son's "coming home from the hospital" gift, and it was something truly special.

Several years later, young Tom was rummaging around in the garage as only a five- or six-year-old can rummage when he came across the all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football. He asked if he could play with it. With as much logic as I felt he could understand, I explained to him that he was still a bit too young to play carefully with such a special ball. We had the same conversation several more times in the next few months, and soon the requests faded away.

The next fall, after watching a football game on television, Tom asked, "Dad, remember that football you have in the garage? Can I use it to play with the guys now?"

Eyes rolling up in my head, I replied, "Tom, you don't understand. You don't just go out and casually throw around an all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago bears-inscribed football. I told you before; it's special."

Eventually Tom stopped asking altogether. But he did remember, and a few years later he told his younger brother, Dave, about the all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football that was special and kept somewhere in the garage. Dave came to me one day and asked if he could take that special football and throw it around for awhile. It seemed like I'd been through this before, but I patiently explained, once again, that you don't just go out and throw around an all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football.

But it wasn't special anymore.

I stood alone in the garage. The boys had long since moved away from home, and suddenly I realized that the football had never been so special at all. Children playing with it when it was their time to play is what would have made it special. I had blown those precious, present moments that can never be reclaimed, and I had saved a football. For what?

I took the football across the street and gave it to a family with young kids. A couple of hours later I looked out the window. They were throwing, catching, kicking and letting skid across the cement my all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football.

Now it was special!

By Tom Payne,
from Chicken Soup for the Sports Fan's Soul © 1998

Cyber Step-Mother

I've often felt that "step-parent" is a label we attach to men and women who marry into families where children already exist, for the simple reason that we need to call them something. It is most certainly an enormous "step", but one doesn't often feel as if the term "parent" truly applies. At least that's how I used to feel about being a step-mother to my husband's four children.

My husband and I had been together for six years, and with him I had watched as his young children became young teenagers. Although they lived primarily with their mother, they spent a lot of time with us as well. Over the years, we all learned to adjust, to become more comfortable with each other, and to adapt to our new family arrangement. We enjoyed vacations together, ate family meals, worked on homework, played baseball, rented videos. However, I continued to feel somewhat like an outsider, infringing upon foreign territory. There was a definite boundary line that could not be crossed, an inner family circle which excluded me. Since I had no children of my own, my experience of parenting was limited to my husband's four, and often I lamented that I would never know the special bond that exists between a parent and a child.

When the children moved to a town five hours away, my husband was understandably devastated. In order to maintain regular communication with the kids, we contacted Cyberspace and promptly set up an e-mail and chat-line service. This technology, combined with the telephone, would enable us to reach them on a daily basis by sending frequent notes and messages, and even chatting together when we were all on-line.

Ironically, these modern tools of communication can also be tools of alienation, making us feel so out of touch, so much more in need of real human contact. If a computer message came addressed to "Dad", I'd feel forgotten and neglected. If my name appeared along with his, it would brighten my day and make me feel like I was part of their family unit after all. Yet always there was some distance to be crossed, not just over the telephone wires.

Late one evening, as my husband snoozed in front of the television and I was catching up on my e-mail, an "instant message" appeared on the screen. It was Margo, my oldest step-daughter, also up late and sitting in front of her computer five hours away. As we had done in the past, we sent several messages back and forth, exchanging the latest news. When we would "chat" like that, she wouldn't necessarily know if it was me or her dad on the other end of the keyboard--that is unless she asked. That night she didn't ask and I didn't identify myself either. After hearing the latest volleyball scores, the details about an upcoming dance at her school, and a history project that was in the works, I commented that it was late and I should get to sleep. Her return message read, "Okay, talk to you later! Love you!"

As I read this message, a wave of sadness ran through me and I realized that she must have thought she was writing to her father the whole time. She and I would never have openly exchanged such words of affection. Feeling guilty for not clarifying, yet not wanting to embarrass her, I simply responded, "Love you too! Have a good sleep!"

I thought again of their family circle, that self-contained, private space where I was an intruder. I felt again the sharp ache of emptiness and otherness. Then, just as my fingers reached for the keys, just as I was about to return the screen to black, Margo's final message appeared. It read, "Tell Dad good night for me too." With tear-filled, blurry eyes, I turned the machine off.

By Judy E. Carter,
from Chicken Soup for the Parent's Soul

The Fortune Cookie Prophecy

There is no surprise more magical than the surprise of being loved; it is God's finger on man's shoulder.

--Charles Morgan


I was married three times before I was seven years old.

My older brother Gary performed the ceremonies in our basement. Gary was good at entertaining the family and neighborhood kids with his creative ideas. Since I was the youngest boy in our group, I was often on the receiving end of his creativity.

What I remember most about those weddings is that all the girls were at least five years older than I was, and they all had beautiful eyes that sparkled when they laughed. Those weddings taught me to imagine what it would be like to find my soul mate one day and to be sure that I would know her by her beautiful eyes.

Puberty hit me late. I was still afraid of the opposite sex when I was fifteen, and yet I prayed every night for the girl I would marry. I asked God to help her do well in school and to be happy and full of energy-wherever and whoever she was.

I first kissed a girl when I was twenty-one. From that time forward, I dated many beautiful and talented young ladies, searching for the girl I had prayed for in my youth and still certain that I would know her by her eyes.

One day, my phone rang. "Don," it was my mother. "You know I told you about the Addisons, who moved in next door to us. Well, Clara Addison keeps asking me to invite you over for cards some night."

"Sorry, Mom, I've got a date that night."

"How could you? I haven't even told you what night it is?" my mother responded with exasperation.

"It doesn't matter when. I'm sure the Addisons are nice people, but I'm not going to waste an evening socializing with people who don't have any eligible daughters."

That's how stubborn I was-I was positive that there was no reason for me to go to visit the Addisons.

Years passed. I was twenty-six, and my friends were getting nervous about my prospects. They kept lining up blind dates for me. Many of these dates were fiascoes, and they were interfering with my social life. So I made up a few rules about blind dates:

1. No dates recommended by my mother (moms don't understand the sex-appeal factor).

2. No dates recommended by a female (they're too easy on each other).

3. No dates recommended by a single guy friend (if she's so awesome, how come he hasn't asked her out?).

In three simple steps, I eliminated 90 percent of all my blind dates, including one recommended by my old friend Karen. She called one evening to tell me that she had become good friends with a beautiful girl who reminded her of me. She said she knew we would hit it off. "Sorry," I said, "you're ruled out by rule number two."

"Don," she said, "You're crazy, and your silly rules are eliminating the girl you've been waiting for. But have it your way. Just take her name and phone number, and when you change your mind, call her."

To get Karen to stop bothering me about it, I said I would. The girl's name was Susan Maready. I never called her.

Just a couple of weeks later, I ran into my old buddy Ted in the university cafeteria. "Ted," I said. "You look like you're walking on air."

"Can you see stars under my feet?" he said, laughing. "The fact is, I just got engaged last night."

"Hey, congratulations!"

"Yeah," he said, "at thirty-two, I was beginning to wonder if any woman was going to have me." He pulled his wallet out of his pocket. "Here," he said, suddenly serious, "look at this.

It was a thin strip of paper from a fortune cookie. "You will be married within a year," it said.

"That's wild," I said. "They usually say something that would fit anyone, like 'You have a magnetic personality. They were really taking a chance with that one."

"No kidding," he said. "And look at me now."

A few weeks later, my roommate Charlie and I were eating dinner at a Chinese restaurant. I shared this story about Ted's fortune cookie prediction, and his subsequent engagement. Just then, the waiter brought over our postmeal fortune cookies. Charlie laughed at the coincidence as we opened our cookies. Mine said, "You have a magnetic personality." His said, "You or a close friend will be married within a year." A chill ran up my spine. This was really strange. Something told me to ask Charlie if I could keep his fortune, and he handed it to me with a smile.

Not long afterward, my classmate Brian said he wanted to introduce me to a young woman named Susan Maready. I was sure I'd heard that name before, but couldn't remember how or where. Since Brian was married, and therefore I wouldn't be breaking my "rules" about being fixed up by single guys, I accepted his offer to meet Susan.

Susan and I spoke on the phone, and planned a bike ride and a cookout. Then, the meeting-and as soon as I saw her, my heart started beating hard and wouldn't stop. Her large green eyes did something to me I couldn't explain. But somewhere in me, I knew that it was love at first sight.

After that wonderful evening, I remembered that this hadn't been the first time someone tried to fix me up with Susan. It all came back to me. Her name had been popping up all over the place for a long time. So the next time I had a chance to talk to Brian alone, I asked him about it.

He squirmed and tried to change the subject.

"What is it, Brian?" I asked.

"You'll have to ask Susan," was all he'd say.

So I did.

"I was going to tell you," she said. "I was going to tell you.

"Come on, Susan," I said. "Tell me what? I can't stand the suspense."

"I've been in love with you for years," she said, "since the first time I saw you from the Addisons' living room window. Yes-it was me they wanted you to meet. But you wouldn't let anyone introduce us. You wouldn't let the Addisons set us up; you wouldn't take Karen's word for it that we would like each other. I thought I was never going to meet you."

My heart swelled with love, and I laughed at myself. "Karen was right," I said. "My rules were crazy."

"You're not mad?" she asked.

"Are you kidding?" I said. "I'm impressed. I've got only one rule for blind dating now."

She gave me a strange look. "What's that?"

"Never again," I said and kissed her.

We were married seven months later.

Susan and I are convinced that we are true soul mates. When I was fifteen and praying for my future wife, she was fourteen and praying for her future husband.

After we had been married a couple of months, Susan said to me, "Do you want to hear something really strange?"

"Sure," I said. "I love to hear strange things."

"Well, about ten months ago, before I'd met you, my friends and I were at this Chinese restaurant, and…" She pulled a slip of paper from a fortune cookie out of her wallet:

"You will be married within a year…."

Don Buehner

Angels Among Us

Bare foot and dirty, the girl just sat and watched the people go by.

She never tried to speak, she never said a word. Many people passed, but never did one person stop.

It just so happens the next day I decided to go back to the park, curious if the little girl would still be there.

Right in the very spot as she was yesterday she sat perched on high, with the saddest look in her eyes.

Today I was to make my own move and walk over to the little girl. As we all know a park full of strange people is not a place for young children to play alone.

As I began walking towards her I could see the back of the little girl's dress indicated a deformity. I figured that was the reason the people just passed by and made no effort to help.

As I got closer, the little girl slightly lowered her eyes to avoid my intent stare. I could see the shape of her back more clearly. It was grotesquely shaped in a humped over form. I smiled to let her know it was ok, I was there to help, to talk.

I sat down beside her and opened with a simple Hello. The little girl acted shocked and stammered a hi after a long stare into my eyes. I smiled and she shyly smiled back. We talked 'til darkness fell and the park was completely empty. Everyone was gone and we at once were alone.

I asked the girl why she was so sad. The little girl looked at me and with a sad face and said "Because I'm different." I immediately said "that you are!" and smiled.

The little girl acted even sadder, she said, "I know."

"Little girl," I said, "you remind me of an angel, sweet and innocent." She looked at me and smiled, slowly she stood to her feet, and said, "Really?" "Yes, ma'am, you're like a little guardian angel sent to watch over all those people walking by."

She nodded her head yes and smiled, and with that she spread her wings and said, "I am. I'm your guardian angel," with a twinkle in her eye.

I was speechless, sure I was seeing things.

She said, "For once you thought of someone other than yourself, my job here is done."

Immediately I stood to my feet and said, "Wait, so why did no one stop to help an angel?" She looked at me and smiled, "You're the only one who could see me, and you believe it in your heart." And She was gone.

And with that my life was changed dramatically. So, when you think you're all you have, remember, your angel is always watching over you.


Unknown author

A Perfect Mistake

Grandpa Nybakken loved life -- especially when he could play a trick on somebody. At those times, his large Norwegian frame shook with laughter while he feigned innocent surprise, exclaiming, “Oh, forevermore!” But on a cold Saturday in downtown Chicago, Grandpa felt that God played a trick on him, and Grandpa wasn’t laughing.

Mother’s father worked as a carpenter. On this particular day, he was building some crates for the clothes his church was sending to an orphanage in China. On his way home, he reached into his shirt pocket to find his glasses, but they were gone. He remembered putting them there that morning, so he drove back to the church. His search proved fruitless.

When he mentally replayed his earlier actions, he realized what happened. The glasses had slipped out of his pocket unnoticed and fallen into one of the crates, which he had nailed shut. His brand new glasses were heading for China!

The Great Depression was at its height, and Grandpa had six children. He had spent twenty dollars for those glasses that very morning.

“It’s not fair,” he told God as he drove home in frustration. “I’ve been very faithful in giving of my time and money to your work, and now this.”

Several months later, the director of the orphanage was on furlough in the United States. He wanted to visit all the churches that supported him in China, so he came to speak on Sunday night at my grandfather’s small church in Chicago. Grandpa and his family sat in their customary seats among the sparse congregation.

“But most of all,” he said, “I must thank you for the glasses you sent last year. You see, the Communists had just swept through the orphanage, destroying everything, including my glasses. I was desperate.”

“Even if I had the money, there was simply no way of replacing those glasses. Along with not being able to see well, I experienced headaches every day, so my coworkers and I were much in prayer about this. Then your crates arrived. When my staffed removed the covers, they found a pair of glasses lying on top.”

The missionary paused long enough to let his words sink in. Then, still gripped with the wonder of it all, he continued: “Folks, when I tried on the glasses, it was as thought they had been custom-made just for me! I want to thank you for being a part of that!”

The people listened, happy for the miraculous glasses. But the missionary surely must have confused their church with another, they thought. There were no glasses on their list of items to be sent overseas.

But sitting quietly in the back, with tears streaming down his face, an ordinary carpenter realized the Master Carpenter had used him in an extraordinary way.

By Cheryl Walterman Stewart

Thelma

Even at the age of 75, Thelma was very vivacious and full of life. When her husband passed away, her children suggested that she move to a "senior living community." A gregarious and life-loving person, Thelma decided to do so.

Shortly after moving in, Thelma became a self-appointed activities director, coordinating all sorts of things for the people in the community to do and quickly became very popular and made many friends.

When Thelma turned 80, her newfound friends showed their appreciation by throwing a surprise birthday party for her. When Thelma entered the dining room for dinner that night, she was greeted by a standing ovation and one of the coordinators led her to the head table. The night was filled with laughter and entertainment, but throughout the evening, Thelma could not take her eyes off a gentleman sitting at the other end of the table.

When the festivities ended, Thelma quickly rose from her seat and rushed over to the man. "Pardon me," Thelma said. "Please forgive me if I made you feel uncomfortable by staring at you all night. I just couldn't help myself from looking your way. You see, you look just like my fifth husband."

"Your fifth husband!" replied the gentleman. "Forgive me for asking, but how many times have you been married?"

With that, a smile came across Thelma's face as she responded, "Four."

They were married shortly after.

Thelma
by Shari Smith