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ÐÄÁ鼦ÌÀ<BR>evelyn<BR>Be Still With God<BR>By Nancy B. Gibbs<BR>All day long I had been very busy; picking up trash, cleaning bathrooms and<BR>scrubbing floors. My grown children were coming home for the weekend. I went<BR>grocery shopping and prepared for a barbecue supper, complete with ribs and<BR>chicken. I wanted everything to be perfect.<BR>Suddenly, it dawned on me that I was dog-tired. I simply couldn't work as long as<BR>I could when I was younger. "I've got to rest for a minute," I told my husband,<BR>Roy, as I collapsed into my favorite rocking chair. Music was playing, my dog and<BR>cat were chasing each other and the telephone rang.<BR>A scripture from Psalm 46 popped into my mind. "Be still, and know that I am<BR>God." I realized that I hadn't spent much time in prayer that day. Was I too busy<BR>to even utter a simple word of thanks to God? Suddenly, the thought of my<BR>beautiful patio came to mind. I can be quiet out there, I thought. I longed for a<BR>few minutes alone with God.<BR>Roy and I had invested a great deal of time and work in the patio that spring. The<BR>flowers and hanging baskets were breathtaking. It was definitely a heavenly place<BR>of rest and tranquility. If I can't be still with God in that environment, I can't be<BR>still with Him anywhere, I thought. While Roy was talking on the telephone, I<BR>slipped out the backdoor and sat down on my favorite patio chair. I closed my<BR>eyes and began to pray, counting my many blessings.<BR>A bird flew by me, chirping and singing. It interrupted my thoughts. It landed on<BR>the bird feeder and began eating dinner as I watched. After a few minutes it flew<BR>away, singing another song.<BR>I closed my eyes again. A gust of wind blew, which caused my wind chimes to<BR>dance. They made a joyful sound, but again I lost my concentration on God. I<BR>squirmed and wiggled in my chair. I looked up toward the blue sky and saw the<BR>clouds moving slowly toward the horizon. The wind died down. My wind chimes<BR>finally became quiet.<BR>Again, I bowed in prayer. "Honk, honk," I heard. I almost jumped out of my skin.<BR>A neighbor was driving down the street. He waved at me and smiled. I waved<BR>back, happy that he cared. I quickly tried once again to settle down, repeating<BR>the familiar verse in my mind. Be still and know that I am God.<BR>"I'm trying God. I really am," I whispered. "But you've got to help me here."<BR>The backdoor opened. My husband walked outside. "I love you," he said. "I was<BR>wondering where you were." I chuckled, as he came over and kissed me, then<BR>turned around and went back inside.<BR>"Where's the quiet time?" I asked God. My heart fluttered. There was no pain,<BR>only a beat that interrupted me yet again. This is impossible, I thought. There's<BR>no time to be still and to know that God is with me. There's too much going on in<BR>the world and entirely too much activity all around me.<BR>Then it suddenly dawned on me. God was speaking to me the entire time I was<BR>attempting to be still. I remembered the music playing as I'd begun my quiet<BR>time. He sent a sparrow to lighten my life with song. He sent a gentle breeze. He<BR>sent a neighbor to let me know that I had a friend. He sent my sweetheart to<BR>offer sincere sentiments of love. He caused my heart to flutter to remind me of<BR>life. While I was trying to count my blessings, God was busy multiplying them.<BR>I laughed to realize that the "interruptions" of my quiet time with God were<BR>special blessings He'd sent to show me He was with me the entire time.<BR>Plant a Row for the Hungry<BR>By Jeff Lowenfels<BR>It was a cold night in Washington, D.C., and I was heading back to the hotel<BR>when a man approached me. He asked if I would give him some money so he<BR>could get something to eat. I'd read the signs: "Don't give money to<BR>panhandlers." So I shook my head and kept walking.<BR>I wasn't prepared for a reply, but with resignation, he said, "I really am homeless<BR>and I really am hungry! You can come with me and watch me eat!" But I kept on<BR>walking.<BR>The incident bothered me for the rest of the week. I had money in my pocket and<BR>it wouldn't have killed me to hand over a buck or two even if he had been lying.<BR>On a frigid, cold night, no less, I assumed the worst of a fellow human being.<BR>Flying back to Anchorage, I couldn't help thinking of him. I tried to rationalize my<BR>failure to help by assuming government agencies, churches and charities were<BR>there to feed him. Besides, you're not supposed to give money to panhandlers.<BR>Somewhere over Seattle, I started to write my weekly garden column for The<BR>Anchorage Daily News. Out of the blue, I came up with an idea. Bean's Cafe, the<BR>soup kitchen in Anchorage, feeds hundreds of hungry Alaskans every day. Why<BR>not try to get all my readers to plant one row in their gardens dedicated to<BR>Bean's? Dedicate a row and take it down to Bean's. Clean and simple.<BR>We didn't keep records back then, but the idea began to take off. Folks would fax<BR>me or call when they took something in. Those who only grew flowers donated<BR>them. Food for the spirit. And salve for my conscience.<BR>In 1995, the Garden Writers Association of America held their annual convention<BR>in Anchorage and after learning of Anchorage's program, Plant a Row for Bean's<BR>became Plant a Row For The Hungry. The original idea was to have every<BR>member of the Garden Writers Association of America write or talk about planting<BR>a row for the hungry sometime during the month of April.<BR>As more and more people started working with the Plant a Row concept, new<BR>variations cropped up, if you will pardon the pun. Many companies gave free seed<BR>to customers and displayed the logo, which also appeared in national gardening<BR>publications.<BR>Row markers with the Plant a Row logo were distributed to gardeners to set apart<BR>their "Row for the Hungry."<BR>Garden editor Joan Jackson, backed by The San Jose Mercury News and<BR>California's nearly year-round growing season, raised more than 30,000 pounds<BR>of fruits and vegetables her first year, and showed GWAA how the program could<BR>really work. Texas fruit farms donated food to their local food bank after being<BR>inspired by Plant a Row. Today the program continues to thrive and grow.<BR>I am stunned that millions of Americans are threatened by hunger. If every<BR>gardener in America - and we're seventy million strong - plants one row for the<BR>hungry, we can make quite a dent in the number of neighbors who don't have<BR>enough to eat. Maybe then I will stop feeling guilty about abandoning a hungry<BR>man I could have helped.<BR>Beyond Expectations<BR>By Milt Garrett<BR>It seems a car dealership in my hometown of Albuquerque was selling, on<BR>average, six to eight new cars a day, six days a week. I was also told that 72<BR>percent of this dealership's first-time visitors returned for a second visit. (At that<BR>time, the average for all dealerships in Albuquerque for second-time visitors was<BR>8 percent.)<BR>I was curious and intrigued. How does a car dealership get 72 percent of its<BR>first-time visitors to return? And how can they sell six to eight cars a day in a<BR>slumping car market?<BR>When I walked into Saturn of Albuquerque that Friday four years ago, the<BR>staff there didn't know me from Adam; yet they shared with me their pricing<BR>policy, the profit margin on every model, and staff income. They even opened<BR>their training manuals for my review and invited me back on Saturday if I wanted<BR>more information (an invitation I heartily accepted).<BR>I learned that this dealership (like all Saturn dealerships) has a "no-dicker<BR>sticker" policy; that is, the price on the window is the price you pay for the<BR>car. Period. You can't even negotiate for a free set of floor mats. Saturn abides<BR>by its premise of selling high-quality automobiles for a reasonable price.<BR>Furthermore, Saturn sales consultants (their term for customer-contact people)<BR>aren't paid a commission - they're salaried. This means when you walk onto the<BR>showroom floor you're not bombarded with what I refer to as "beyond eager"<BR>sales people.<BR>I expanded my research to other dealerships in Albuquerque. It turned out<BR>that Ford Escorts, LTDs and Thunderbirds, as well as the Mercury Marquis, were<BR>also sold as "no-dicker sticker" cars. As Bruce Sutherland at Richardson Ford said,<BR>"We were losing our market to Saturn because of their pricing and salary<BR>policies." He also said, "If we all did what Saturn was doing, we'd not only make<BR>a decent living, but we'd also enjoy a better reputation."<BR>On Sunday, the day after my second visit to the Saturn store (their term, not<BR>mine), my wife, Jane, and I were walking as we frequently do. On this particular<BR>June morning, Jane gently slipped her hand in mine and said tenderly, "I don't<BR>know if you remember, but today's my fifth anniversary of being cancerfree." She was diagnosed with breast cancer five years ago and had undergone<BR>surgery. I was stunned, partially because I was embarrassed that I had forgotten,<BR>and, partially, because...well, it seems we spend all of our time earning a living<BR>and never stop to live our earnings. I mean, isn't this what it's really all about?<BR>I didn't know what to do with Jane's information. I spoke to her tenderly. All<BR>day. I took her to lunch. I bought the lunch. It was a nice, intimate day.<BR>The next day, Monday, Jane went off to work teaching school. Still beside<BR>myself not knowing what to do to mark this special occasion, I did the most<BR>impetuous thing I've ever done in my life: I bought a new Saturn. I bought every<BR>accessory they produce in Springhill, Tennessee, to hang on that car. There<BR>wasn't an accessory made that I didn't buy. I didn't pick the color and I didn't<BR>pick the model, but I paid cash and told them I'd bring Jane in on Wednesday at<BR>4:30 to make those two decisions. I told them why I was buying the car, and<BR>that it was my secret and they were not to reveal anything to her.<BR>Tuesday morning, it dawned on me that Jane always wanted a white car. I<BR>called our sales consultant at Saturn, and I asked him if he had anything white in<BR>the store. He said he had one left but he couldn't guarantee it'd still be available<BR>Wednesday at 4:30 because they were selling so fast. I said I'd take my chances<BR>and asked him to put it in the showroom.<BR>Wednesday came and went. Unexpectedly, someone in our family was<BR>admitted to the hospital. So, it wasn't until 9:30 Saturday morning when, after<BR>telling Jane the biggest lie to get her out of the house, we finally made our way to<BR>the Saturn store. I quickly turned into the parking lot and Jane angrily asked,<BR>"What are you doing? You promised me we'd get home right away." I said, "I'm<BR>sorry, I forgot I have to pick up something here for my Kiwanis speech next<BR>week."<BR>Jane had never been in a Saturn store. When we went through the front door,<BR>the Lord took control of her feet and her mouth. She saw that little white Saturn<BR>coupe all the way across the showroom floor. She quickly passed a multi-colored<BR>sea of automobiles, sat in the little white Saturn and said, "Oh, what a pretty little<BR>car. Can I have a new car?" I said, "No. Not until Charlie graduates from<BR>college." Our son, Charlie, was attending the University of New South Wales in<BR>Sydney, Australia (we call that "out of state" tuition). She said, "I'm sick and<BR>tired of driving that old Dodge, I want a new car." I said, "I promise, just three<BR>more semesters and he'll be out."<BR>Next, Jane walked around to the front of the car. As she looked it over, she<BR>let out the most blood-curdling, shrill scream I'd ever heard in 29 years of<BR>marriage.<BR>Now, before I tell you why Jane screamed, let me tell you what our sales<BR>consultant had done. He had ordered a large, professionally engraved sign (white<BR>letters on blue) and affixed the Saturn company logo on it. The sign stood alone<BR>on the hood of the little white Saturn coupe. It said "Congratulations, Jane. This<BR>car is yours. Five years cancer-free. Let's celebrate life. From Milt, Billy and<BR>Team Saturn"<BR>Every employee at Saturn of Albuquerque had endorsed the back of that sign.<BR>Jane saw it, screamed, collapsed in my arms and bawled her eyes out. I didn't<BR>know what to do. I was in tears. I took out my invoice from the previous<BR>Monday, unfolded it and, pointing to the white coupe, said, "No, honey, this car<BR>isn't yours. I bought you this one." I tapped the invoice with my index<BR>finger. Jane said, "No, I want this one right here." Charlie, who was home from<BR>college and with us, said, "No, Mom. Dad bought you anything you want in<BR>Springhill, Tennessee or anything on the lot here." Jane said, "You don't<BR>understand, I want this one."<BR>While this conversation was going on, I looked around and discovered that<BR>there was no one in the store. Our sales consultant had arranged it so that we<BR>could share the moment alone. The mechanics, the clerical staff, the front-desk<BR>receptionist, management and all sales consultants had left the store for the<BR>sanctity of our event.<BR>Even so, it's impossible to have a lot of privacy when so many people are<BR>standing outside the showroom windows looking in. When Jane screamed and<BR>collapsed in my arms, I saw everybody outside applaud and begin to cry. Every<BR>new customer that came to the store in those minutes was not allowed to enter;<BR>instead, the staff took them aside and explained what was happening.<BR>Jane never drove the car until she took it through the showroom door that day<BR>to drive it home.<BR>Over the years, I've told this story in the United States, Australia and<BR>Indonesia as an example of legendary service. A woman in my audience in San<BR>Francisco from Anchorage, Alaska, heard the story; she called Saturn of<BR>Albuquerque long distance and bought a new car. It's like Ken Blanchard says,<BR>"It's only the stories told about us that differentiate us in the market place."<BR>Just One Wish<BR>By Margaret E. Mack<BR>Fox River gave life to the country town of Colby Point, for the road and the river<BR>ran alongside one another. Colby Point was really the name of a road that crept<BR>between the hills and valleys of McHenry, Illinois. Homes were scattered here and<BR>there - mostly summer homes and retirement homes. At the very end of the road<BR>three houses all faced one another. Three sisters - all single, all seniors - lived in<BR>one of the homes. Across the way their widowed first cousin lived in a yellow<BR>house. Next to her lived their brother, Bill, and his wife Cleo.<BR>Cleo had multiple sclerosis, so the pair had moved to Colby Point seeking a quiet,<BR>relaxed life. Little did they know when they relocated to this serene area that<BR>they would end up rearing their granddaughter, Margie. Before long, the once<BR>quiet neighborhood became active with the sounds of a child.<BR>Margie always looked forward to the arrival of Christmas, and this year was no<BR>different as winter began to settle like a warm blanket around Colby Point.<BR>Everyone was in a flurry, for at the church Margie and her family attended, the<BR>congregation was preparing to share their Christmas wishes with each other.<BR>Since Cleo couldn't make it to church, and Bill didn't like to leave her alone for<BR>too long, he was in the habit of dropping Margie off at church early on Sunday<BR>mornings; the aunts would bring her home.<BR>As Margie sat in church that morning, she rehearsed in her mind over and over<BR>what she would say. She wasn't afraid, for she knew what an important wish this<BR>was. The service seemed to drag on and on. Finally the pastor uttered the words<BR>Margie had been anticipating all morning, "This is a special time of year when<BR>everyone around the world celebrates peace and goodwill toward our fellow man.<BR>This year, here at St. John's, we want to hear your Christmas wishes. We cannot<BR>fill everyone's wish, but we would like to try and fill a few. As I call your name,<BR>please come forward and tell us about your Christmas wish."<BR>One after another, the church members shared their wishes, large and small.<BR>Margie was the last and the youngest to speak. As she looked out at the<BR>congregation, she spoke confidently, "I would like for my grandma to have<BR>church. She cannot walk, and she and my grandpa have to stay at home. They<BR>miss coming so much. So that is what I wish for. And please don't tell them, for it<BR>needs to be a surprise."<BR>Riding home with her aunts, Margie could tell they were speaking in low tones<BR>about her wish. She hoped that they would keep her secret. As the next Sunday<BR>came around, Margie was getting ready for church when Grandma asked, "Why<BR>are you so fidgety? You haven't sat still all morning."<BR>"I just know that something wonderful is going to happen today!"<BR>"Of course it will," said her grandma with a chuckle. "It's almost Christmas, you<BR>know."<BR>Grandpa was getting on his coat when he happened to look out the front window.<BR>He saw some cars coming down the dirt road one after another. Now at this time<BR>of year there wasn't too much traffic, so this was really amazing. Margie pushed<BR>her grandma to the window so that she could see all the cars. Pretty soon the<BR>cars were parked all up and down the road as far as a person could see.<BR>Grandpa looked at Grandma, and they both looked at Margie. Grandpa asked,<BR>"Just what did you wish for, Margie?"<BR>"I wished that you and Grandma could have church. And I just knew that it would<BR>come true. Look! There's the pastor, and everyone from church is coming up the<BR>walk."<BR>The congregation arrived with coffee and cookies and cups and gifts. They sang<BR>Christmas carols and listened to the pastor speak on giving to others the gifts<BR>that God gives. Later that night, Margie slipped out the back door and walked<BR>outside to look up at the stars. "Thank you," she whispered, "thank you for giving<BR>me my wish."<BR>That was just one of the many wishes granted for Margie as she grew up. Her<BR>childhood overflowed with the love of her grandparents, four great aunts, and<BR>many wise, caring neighbors. Margie was truly a blessed little girl.<BR>I should know - I was that little girl.<BR>Working Christmas Day<BR>By Victoria Schlintz<BR>It was an unusually quiet day in the emergency room on December twenty-fifth.<BR>Quiet, that is, except for the nurses who were standing around the nurses' station<BR>grumbling about having to work Christmas Day.<BR>I was triage nurse that day and had just been out to the waiting room to clean<BR>up. Since there were no patients waiting to be seen at the time, I came back to<BR>the nurses' station for a cup of hot cider from the crockpot someone had brought<BR>in for Christmas. Just then an admitting clerk came back and told me I had five<BR>patients waiting to be evaluated.<BR>I whined, "Five, how did I get five; I was just out there and no one was in the<BR>waiting room."<BR>"Well, there are five signed in." So I went straight out and called the first name.<BR>Five bodies showed up at my triage desk, a pale petite woman and four small<BR>children in somewhat rumpled clothing.<BR>"Are you all sick?" I asked suspiciously.<BR>"Yes," she said weakly, and lowered her head.<BR>"Okay," I replied, unconvinced, "who's first?" One by one they sat down, and I<BR>asked the usual preliminary questions. When it came to descriptions of their<BR>presenting problems, things got a little vague. Two of the children had<BR>headaches, but the headaches weren't accompanied by the normal body language<BR>of holding the head or trying to keep it still or squinting or grimacing. Two<BR>children had earaches, but only one could tell me which ear was affected. The<BR>mother complained of a cough, but seemed to work to produce it.<BR>Something was wrong with the picture. Our hospital policy, however, was not to<BR>turn away any patient, so we would see them. When I explained to the mother<BR>that it might be a little while before a doctor saw her because, even though the<BR>waiting room was empty, ambulances had brought in several, more critical<BR>patients, in the back, she responded, "Take your time, it's warm in here." She<BR>turned and, with a smile, guided her brood into the waiting room.<BR>On a hunch (call it nursing judgment), I checked the chart after the admitting<BR>clerk had finished registering the family. No address - they were homeless. The<BR>waiting room was warm.<BR>I looked out at the family huddled by the Christmas tree. The littlest one was<BR>pointing at the television and exclaiming something to her mother. The oldest one<BR>was looking at her reflection in an ornament on the Christmas tree.<BR>I went back to the nurses station and mentioned we had a homeless family in the<BR>waiting room - a mother and four children between four and ten years of age. The<BR>nurses, grumbling about working Christmas, turned to compassion for a family<BR>just trying to get warm on Christmas. The team went into action, much as we do<BR>when there's a medical emergency. But this one was a Christmas emergency.<BR>We were all offered a free meal in the hospital cafeteria on Christmas Day, so we<BR>claimed that meal and prepared a banquet for our Christmas guests.<BR>We needed presents. We put together oranges and apples in a basket one of our<BR>vendors had brought the department for Christmas. We made little goodie bags of<BR>stickers we borrowed from the X-ray department, candy that one of the doctors<BR>had brought the nurses, crayons the hospital had from a recent coloring contest,<BR>nurse bear buttons the hospital had given the nurses at annual training day and<BR>little fuzzy bears that nurses clipped onto their stethoscopes. We also found a<BR>mug, a package of powdered cocoa, and a few other odds and ends. We pulled<BR>ribbon and wrapping paper and bells off the department's decorations that we<BR>had all contributed to. As seriously as we met physical needs of the patients that<BR>came to us that day, our team worked to meet the needs, and exceed the<BR>expectations, of a family who just wanted to be warm on Christmas Day.<BR>We took turns joining the Christmas party in the waiting room. Each nurse took<BR>his or her lunch break with the family, choosing to spend their "off duty" time<BR>with these people whose laughter and delightful chatter became quite contagious.<BR>When it was my turn, I sat with them at the little banquet table we had created in<BR>the waiting room. We talked for a while about dreams. The four children were<BR>telling me about what they would like to be when they grow up. The six-year-old<BR>started the conversation. "I want to be a nurse and help people," she declared.<BR>After the four children had shared their dreams, I looked at the Mom. She smiled<BR>and said, "I just want my family to be safe, warm and content - just like they are<BR>right now."<BR>The "party" lasted most of the shift, before we were able to locate a shelter that<BR>would take the family in on Christmas Day. The mother had asked that their<BR>charts be pulled, so these patients were not seen that day in the emergency<BR>department. But they were treated.<BR>As they walked to the door to leave, the four-year-old came running back, gave<BR>me a hug and whispered, "Thanks for being our angels today." As she ran back to<BR>join her family, they all waved one more time before the door closed. I turned<BR>around slowly to get back to work, a little embarrassed for the tears in my eyes.<BR>There stood a group of my coworkers, one with a box of tissues, which she<BR>passed around to each nurse who worked a Christmas Day she will never forget.<BR>Light in the Window<BR>By Eileen Goltz<BR>It was the first night of Chanukah and the night before Ellie's last final. As a<BR>freshman she was more than ready to go home for the first time since August.<BR>She'd packed every thing she needed to take home except the books she was<BR>cramming with and her menorah, the 8 branch candelabra that's lit every night of<BR>Chanukah. Ellie had been so tempted to pack the menorah earlier that night.<BR>However, just as she was getting ready to justify to herself why it was OK to<BR>"skip" the first night's lighting - (A) she'd have to wait for the candles to burn out<BR>before she could leave for the library and (B) she had no clue as to where her<BR>candles were hiding - her conscience (and common sense) kicked in. The voice<BR>coming from that special place in her body where "mother guilt" resides said,<BR>"You have the menorah out, so light it already." Never one to ignore her mother's<BR>advice, Ellie dug up the candles, lit them, said the blessings, placed the menorah<BR>on her window sill and spent the rest of the evening in her room studying.<BR>Ellie's first winter break was uneventful, and when she returned to her dorm on<BR>the day before classes started she was surprised to find a small note taped to her<BR>door.<BR>"Thank you," the note said. It was signed "Susan." It was dated the day that Ellie<BR>had left after finals. Ellie was totally perplexed. She didn't know a Susan.<BR>Convinced that the letter had been delivered to her by mistake, Ellie put the note<BR>on her desk and forgot about it.<BR>About a half an hour before she was getting ready to head out for dinner, there<BR>was a knock at Ellie's door. There, standing in the hall was a woman Ellie didn't<BR>recognize. "I'm Susan," she said. "I wanted to thank you in person but you'd<BR>already left before I finished my finals."<BR>"Are you sure it's me you're looking for?" asked Ellie. Susan asked if she could<BR>come in and explain.<BR>It seemed that Susan had been facing the same dilemma that Ellie had been that<BR>first night of Chanukah. She really didn't want to light her menorah either. Not<BR>because she was packing, or was heading home, couldn't find the candles or<BR>because she busy studying but because her older sister Hannah had been killed<BR>by a drunk driver ten months earlier, and this was the first year that she'd have<BR>to light the menorah candles alone. The sisters had always taken turns lighting<BR>the first candle and this wasn't Susan's year. She just couldn't bring herself to<BR>take her sister's place. Susan said that whenever it was Hannah's turn to light the<BR>first candle, she'd always tease Susan that the candles she lit would burn longer<BR>and brighter than when Susan lit them. One year she even went so far as to get a<BR>timer out. It had always annoyed Susan that Hannah would say something so<BR>stupid but still, it was part of the family tradition. Susan said that it was just too<BR>painful to even think about Chanukah without Hannah and she had decided on<BR>skipping the entire holiday.<BR>Susan said that she had just finished studying and was closing her drapes when<BR>she happened to glance across the courtyard of the quad and saw the candles<BR>shining in Ellie's window. "I saw that menorah in your window and I started to<BR>cry. It was if Hannah had taken her turn and put the menorah in your window for<BR>me to see." Susan said that when she stopped crying she said the blessings,<BR>turned off the lights in her room and watched the candles across the quad until<BR>they burned out.<BR>Susan told Ellie that it was as she was lying in bed that night thinking about how<BR>close she felt to Hannah when she saw the menorah, that it dawned on her that<BR>Hannah had been right. Hannah's last turn always would have candles that would<BR>burn longer and brighter than any of Susan's because for Susan, Hannah's lights<BR>would never go out. They would always be there, in her heart for Susan to see<BR>when she needed to reconnect with Hannah.<BR>All Susan had to do was close her eyes and remember the candles in the window,<BR>the one's that Hannah had lit the last time it was her turn.<BR>Silent Angel<BR>By Duane Shaw<BR>Christmas Day, 1967. I'm a patient at the Ninety-Third Medical Evacuation<BR>Hospital near Saigon, Vietnam. Today I'm semi-alert, but unable to sleep and<BR>agonizingly scared. The constant aching pain in my arms and a pounding<BR>headache make me tense. I feel helpless. My spirit feels empty, and my body<BR>feels broken. I want to be back home.<BR>It's impossible to get in a comfortable resting position. I'm forced to try and sleep<BR>on my back. Needles, IV tubing and surgical tape are partially covered by<BR>bloodstained bandages on my arms.<BR>Two days earlier, my squad's mission was to secure the perimeter of Saigon for a<BR>Christmas Day celebration featuring Bob Hope and Hollywood's Raquel Welch.<BR>While on a search-and-destroy patrol, near the village Di An, we were ambushed<BR>on a jungle trail by a small band of Vietcong guerillas. My right thumb was ripped<BR>from my body by AK-47 assault-rifle fire and fragments from a claymore mine<BR>grazed my face and neck.<BR>This medical ward has twenty-one sick and injured GIs, and one recently<BR>captured, young-looking Cambodian. Restrained, he lays severely wounded in the<BR>bed next to mine. I'm filled with anger and hostility. As an infantry combat<BR>veteran, I've been brainwashed to despise the Communists and everything they<BR>represent.<BR>The first hours are emotionally difficult. I don't want to be next to him. I want to<BR>have an American GI to talk with. As time passes my attitude changes; my<BR>hatred vanishes. We never utter a word to each other, but we glance into one<BR>another's eyes and smile. We're communicating. I feel compassion for him,<BR>knowing both of us have lost control of our destiny. We are equals.<BR>The survival of the twenty-two soldiers in the ward is dependent on the<BR>attentiveness and medical care from our nurses. Apparently, they never leave our<BR>ward or take time off. The nationality, country or cause we were fighting for<BR>never interferes with the loving care and nourishment necessary to sustain us.<BR>They are our life-keepers, our guardians, our safety net, our hope of returning<BR>home. It's nice to just hear a woman's voice. Their presence is our motivation to<BR>get well so we can go home to our wives, children, moms, dads, brothers, sisters<BR>and friends.<BR>Christmas is a special day, even in a hospital bed thousands of miles from home.<BR>Today the nurses are especially loving and gracious. Red Cross volunteers help us<BR>write letters to our families. All of us still need special attention plus our routine<BR>shots, IVs, blood work and I swallow twenty-two pills three times a day. Even on<BR>Christmas, life goes on in our little community, like clockwork, thanks to the<BR>dedication of our nurses. They never miss a beat, always friendly and caring.<BR>There's a rumor that General Westmorland and Raquel Welch will visit our ward<BR>today and award Purple Hearts to the combat wounded. I'm especially hopeful it's<BR>true because I would receive the commendation. The thought of meeting Raquel<BR>Welch and General Westmoreland gives me an adrenaline boost that lasts<BR>throughout the day.<BR>By early evening we realize they aren't coming. Everyone is very disappointed,<BR>especially me. The day's activities cease quickly after a yummy Christmas dinner<BR>and most of my ward mates slip off to sleep by seven or eight o'clock.<BR>It's impossible to sleep. The IVs in my arms continue collapsing my veins one by<BR>one. I'm pricked and probed by what feels like knives, not needles. My arms are<BR>black and blue after many failed attempts to locate a vein for IV fluids. I<BR>occasionally doze off, only to be awakened by the agonizing pain of another<BR>collapsed vein and infiltrating fluids. My arms are swollen to twice their normal<BR>size. This pain is worse than my gunshot wound.<BR>It's 11 o'clock Christmas night. The ward is silent. My comrades and the<BR>Cambodian warrior sleep. I'm tense and suffering.<BR>To avoid waking anyone, I silently signal a nurse. She comes to my side and<BR>gazes into my tearing eyes. Quietly, she sits on the side of my bed, embraces my<BR>arm, removes the IV, then lightly massages my swollen, painful arms.<BR>Gently, she leans over and whispers in my ear, "Merry Christmas," and gives me<BR>a long, tender hug. As she withdraws, our eyes connect momentarily. She has<BR>tears running down her cheeks. She felt my pain. She turns and moves away,<BR>ever so slowly back to her workstation.<BR>The next morning I wake slowly. I have slept throughout the night and feel<BR>rested. I see while I slept a new IV was inserted in my arm. The swelling is gone.<BR>Suddenly, I remember the nurse coming to my side in the night and my<BR>Christmas present. I'm thankful and think of her kindness. I look towards the<BR>nurses' workstation to see if I can see my angel nurse but she's gone.<BR>I never see her again, but I will forever honor her compassion toward me on that<BR>lonely Christmas night.<BR>Big Red<BR>By Linda Gabris<BR>The first time we set eyes on "Big Red," father, mother and I were trudging<BR>through the freshly fallen snow on our way to Hubble's Hardware store on Main<BR>Street in Huntsville, Ontario. We planned to enter our name in the annual<BR>Christmas drawing for a chance to win a hamper filled with fancy tinned cookies,<BR>tea, fruit and candy. As we passed the Eaton's Department store's window, we<BR>stopped as usual to gaze, and do our bit of dreaming.<BR>The gaily decorated window display held the best toys ever. I took an instant<BR>hankering for a huge green wagon. It was big enough to haul three armloads of<BR>firewood, two buckets of swill or a whole summer's worth of pop bottles picked<BR>from along the highway. There were skates that would make Millar's Pond well<BR>worth shoveling and dolls much too pretty to play with. And they were all nestled<BR>snugly beneath the breathtakingly flounced skirt of Big Red.<BR>Mother's eyes were glued to the massive flare of red shimmering satin, dotted<BR>with twinkling sequin-centered black velvet stars. "My goodness," she managed<BR>to say in trancelike wonder. "Would you just look at that dress!" Then, totally out<BR>of character, mother twirled one spin of a waltz on the slippery sidewalk. Beneath<BR>the heavy, wooden-buttoned, grey wool coat she had worn every winter for as<BR>long as I could remember, mother lost her balance and tumbled. Father quickly<BR>caught her.<BR>Her cheeks redder than usual, mother swatted dad for laughing. "Oh, stop that!"<BR>she ordered, shooing his fluttering hands as he swept the snow from her coat.<BR>"What a silly dress to be perched up there in the window of Eaton's!" she shook<BR>her head in disgust. "Who on earth would want such a splashy dress?"<BR>As we continued down the street, mother turned back for one more look. "My<BR>goodness! You'd think they'd display something a person could use!"<BR>Christmas was nearing and the red dress was soon forgotten. Mother, of all<BR>people, was not one to wish for, or spend money on, items that were not<BR>practical. "There are things we need more than this," she'd always say, or, "There<BR>are things we need more than that."<BR>Father, on the other hand, liked to indulge whenever the budget allowed. Of<BR>course, he'd get a scolding for his occasional splurging, but it was all done with<BR>the best intention.<BR>Like the time he brought home the electric range. In our old Muskoka farmhouse<BR>on Oxtongue Lake, Mother was still cooking year-round on a wood stove. In the<BR>summer, the kitchen would be so hot even the houseflies wouldn't come inside.<BR>Yet there would be Mother - roasting - right along with the pork and turnips.<BR>One day, Dad surprised her with a fancy new electric range. She protested, of<BR>course, saying that the wood stove cooked just dandy, that the electric stove was<BR>too dear and that it would cost too much hydro to run it. All the while, however,<BR>she was polishing its already shiny chrome knobs. In spite of her objections, Dad<BR>and I knew that she cherished that new stove.<BR>There were many other modern things that old farm needed, like indoor plumbing<BR>and a clothes dryer, but Mom insisted that those things would have to wait until<BR>we could afford them. Mom was forever doing chores - washing laundry by hand,<BR>tending the pigs, or working in our huge garden - so she always wore mended,<BR>cotton-print housedresses and an apron to protect the front. She did have one or<BR>two "special" dresses saved for Church on Sundays. And amongst everything else<BR>she did, she still managed to make almost all of our clothes. They weren't fancy,<BR>but they did wear well.<BR>That Christmas I bought Dad a handful of fishing lures from the Five to a Dollar<BR>store, wrapped them individually in matchboxes so he'd have plenty of gifts to<BR>open from me. Choosing something for Mother was much harder. When Dad and<BR>I asked, she thought carefully then hinted modestly for some tea towels, face<BR>clothes or a new dishpan.<BR>On our last trip to town before Christmas, we were driving up Main Street when<BR>mother suddenly exclaimed in surprise: "Would you just look at that!" She<BR>pointed excitedly as Dad drove past Eaton's.<BR>"That big red dress is gone," she said in disbelief. "It's actually gone."<BR>"Well...I'll be!" Dad chuckled. "By golly, it is!"<BR>"Who'd be fool enough to buy such a frivolous dress?" Mother questioned,<BR>shaking her head. I quickly stole a glance at Dad. His blue eyes were twinkling as<BR>he nudged me with his elbow. Mother craned her neck for another glimpse out<BR>the rear window as we rode on up the street. "It's gone..." she whispered. I was<BR>almost certain that I detected a trace of yearning in her voice.<BR>I'll never forget that Christmas morning. I watched as Mother peeled the tissue<BR>paper off a large box that read, "Eaton's Finest Enamel Dishpan" on its lid.<BR>"Oh Frank," she praised, "just what I wanted!" Dad was sitting in his rocker, a<BR>huge grin on his face.<BR>"Only a fool wouldn't give a priceless wife like mine exactly what she wants for<BR>Christmas," he laughed. "Go ahead, open it up and make sure there are no<BR>chips." Dad winked at me, confirming his secret, and my heart filled with more<BR>love for my father than I thought it could hold!<BR>Mother opened the box to find a big white enamel dishpan - overflowing with<BR>crimson satin that spilled out across her lap. With trembling hands she touched<BR>the elegant material of Big Red.<BR>"Oh my goodness!" she managed to utter, her eyes filled with tears. "Oh Frank..."<BR>Her face was as bright as the star that twinkled on our tree in the corner of the<BR>small room. "You shouldn't have..." came her faint attempt at scolding.<BR>"Oh now, never mind that!" Dad said. "Let's see if it fits," he laughed, helping her<BR>slip the marvelous dress over her shoulders. As the shimmering red satin fell<BR>around her, it gracefully hid the patched and faded floral housedress underneath.<BR>I watched, my mouth agape, captivated by a radiance in my parents I had never<BR>noticed before. As they waltzed around the room, Big Red swirled its magic deep<BR>into my heart.<BR>"You look beautiful," my dad whispered to my mom - and she surely did!<BR>River Baptism<BR>By Garth Gilchrist<BR>The summer I turned thirteen, my family's summer vacation was a visit to our<BR>relatives in the mountains of North Carolina. My cousin Jim, who was my age,<BR>took me down to his favorite swimming hole along the river. It was a deep pool<BR>under a high canopy of leaves. From the top of a twenty-five-foot cliff we looked<BR>down into the shimmering water and across to a sandy beach.<BR>Standing beside us on the edge of that cliff grew a big white oak tree, with its<BR>roots sunk deep down into the rock. And hanging from a limb that stretched out<BR>at just the right height and angle, was a rope swing.<BR>"Look here," said Jim. "This is the way you do it. You got to get a running start.<BR>Then you grab the rope and swing out and up as high as you can, and then you<BR>let go and fall to the water. Here, I'll show you."<BR>Jim made it look easy, and when his head surfaced in the bubbling water he<BR>hollered up, "Now it's your turn!"<BR>I was certain I was going to die, but at thirteen dying is better than looking bad.<BR>When I came up sputtering, Jim smiled approvingly and we swam a few strokes<BR>to the beach, lay on the hot sand for awhile, and then swam back across the pool<BR>to do it again.<BR>Jim and all of his friends always wore the proper North Carolina swimming attire,<BR>for skinny-dipping was a time honored tradition among boys throughout the<BR>mountain states. Sometimes I felt like I was a wild boy, or a beaver sliding<BR>through the water. Jim said he felt like an otter, since he loved to turn and twist<BR>in the deep pools and could swim under water a long ways.<BR>Jim's family was Baptists. On Sunday, Jim's mom made us dress up in straightjacket white shirts and strangle-hold ties, marched us down the street and filed<BR>us into church.<BR>"You must be baptized, by water and by the Spirit" the preacher thundered. That<BR>water baptism sounded mighty good. I sat there dreaming of the river and<BR>waiting for the wonderful moment when the sermon would be over and Jim and I<BR>could go running down the path to the river.<BR>On the tails of the closing prayer, Jim and I flew out into the sunny day and home<BR>for a quick sandwich. Then we plunged down the trail into the woods alive with<BR>the hum of cicadas hanging thick in the branches of the burr oaks and hickories.<BR>When we got within a hundred yards of the rope swing, Jim said, "I'll race you!"<BR>"You got it!" I replied.<BR>We dropped our clothes right there and tore down the trail to see who could get<BR>to the rope swing first. I was a fast runner, but Jim was faster. He pulled ahead of<BR>me and dove for the rope. With a shriek of victory, Jim swung out over the water<BR>and up, to the very top of the arc. In perfect form, Jim let go of the rope and<BR>looked down to see where he was going to land.<BR>But there - not twenty yards away on the beach - stood the preacher and two<BR>dozen of the faithful, performing a baptism. I could see they were looking straight<BR>up at Jim with their mouths wide open.<BR>As fervently as Jim prayed to fly, he quickly descended from the heavens. Jim<BR>abandoned his plans for a graceful swan dive and instinctively assumed the<BR>cannonball position - known for its magnificent splash.<BR>The whole congregation got baptized that day. But Jim never saw it. He broke his<BR>record for underwater swimming and was around the bend and out of sight while<BR>the congregation stood stunned and speechless on the shore.<BR>"Don't worry, Jim," I consoled him later. "I'm sure everybody thought you were<BR>an angel, and besides, it turned out fine. You got the river dunking you wanted,<BR>and those folks will never forget that baptism."<BR>Thinking about it now, I don't think there's much difference, anyway, between<BR>wild boys and angels, or between heaven and a rope swing on the river.<BR>The Greatest of These<BR>By Nanette Thorsen-Snipes<BR>My day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my six-year-old wrestling with<BR>a limb of my azalea bush. By the time I got outside, he'd broken it. "Can I take<BR>this to school today?" he asked.<BR>With a wave of my hand, I sent him off. I turned my back so he wouldn't see the<BR>tears gathering in my eyes. I loved that azalea bush. I touched the broken limb<BR>as if to say silently, "I'm sorry."<BR>I wished I could have said that to my husband earlier, but I'd been angry. The<BR>washing machine had leaked on my brand-new linoleum. If he'd just taken the<BR>time to fix it the night before when I asked him instead of playing checkers with<BR>Jonathan. What are his priorities anyway? I wondered. I was still mopping up the<BR>mess when Jonathan walked into the kitchen. "What's for breakfast, Mom?"<BR>I opened the empty refrigerator. "Not cereal," I said, watching the sides of his<BR>mouth drop. "How about toast and jelly?" I smeared the toast with jelly and set it<BR>in front of him. Why was I so angry? I tossed my husband's dishes into the sudsy<BR>water.<BR>It was days like this that made me want to quit. I just wanted to drive up to the<BR>mountains, hide in a cave, and never come out.<BR>Somehow I managed to lug the wet clothes to the laundromat. I spent most of<BR>the day washing and drying clothes and thinking how love had disappeared from<BR>my life. Staring at the graffiti on the walls, I felt as wrung-out as the clothes left<BR>in the washers.<BR>As I finished hanging up the last of my husband's shirts, I looked at the clock.<BR>2:30. I was late. Jonathan's class let out at 2:15. I dumped the clothes in the<BR>back seat and hurriedly drove to the school.<BR>I was out of breath by the time I knocked on the teacher's door and peered<BR>through the glass. With one finger, she motioned for me to wait. She said<BR>something to Jonathan and handed him and two other children crayons and a<BR>sheet of paper.<BR>What now? I thought, as she rustled through the door and took me aside. "I want<BR>to talk to you about Jonathan," she said.<BR>I prepared myself for the worst. Nothing would have surprised me.<BR>"Did you know Jonathan brought flowers to school today?" she asked.<BR>I nodded, thinking about my favorite bush and trying to hide the hurt in my eyes.<BR>I glanced at my son busily coloring a picture. His wavy hair was too long and<BR>flopped just beneath his brow. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. His<BR>eyes burst with blue as he admired his handiwork.<BR>"Let me tell you about yesterday," the teacher insisted. "See that little girl?"<BR>I watched the bright-eyed child laugh and point to a colorful picture taped to the<BR>wall. I nodded.<BR>"Well, yesterday she was almost hysterical. Her mother and father are going<BR>through a nasty divorce. She told me she didn't want to live, she wished she<BR>could die. I watched that little girl bury her face in her hands and say loud<BR>enough for the class to hear, 'Nobody loves me.' I did all I could to console her,<BR>but it only seemed to make matters worse."<BR>"I thought you wanted to talk to me about Jonathan," I said.<BR>"I do," she said, touching the sleeve of my blouse. "Today your son walked<BR>straight over to that child. I watched him hand her some pretty pink flowers and<BR>whisper, 'I love you.'"<BR>I felt my heart swell with pride for what my son had done. I smiled at the<BR>teacher. "Thank you," I said, reaching for Jonathan's hand, "you've made my<BR>day."<BR>Later that evening, I began pulling weeds from around my lopsided azalea bush.<BR>As my mind wandered back to the love Jonathan showed the little girl, a biblical<BR>verse came to me: "...these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest<BR>of these is love." While my son had put love into practice, I had only felt anger.<BR>I heard the familiar squeak of my husband's brakes as he pulled into the drive. I<BR>snapped a small limb bristling with hot pink azaleas off the bush. I felt the seed of<BR>love that God planted in my family beginning to bloom once again in me. My<BR>husband's eyes widened in surprise as I handed him the flowers. "I love you," I<BR>said.<BR>The Marks of Life<BR>By Diana Golden<BR>My teammates on the United States Disabled Ski Team used to tease me about<BR>the size of my chest, joking that my greatest handicap wasn't my missing leg but<BR>my missing cleavage. Little did they know how true that would become. This past<BR>year, I found out that for the second time in my life I had cancer, this time in<BR>both breasts. I had bilateral mastectomies.<BR>When I heard I'd need the surgery, I didn't think it would be a big deal. I even<BR>told my friends playfully, "I'll keep you abreast of the situation." After all, I had<BR>lost my leg to my first go-round with cancer at age 12, then gone on to become a<BR>world-champion ski racer. All of us on the Disabled Ski Team were missing one<BR>set of body parts or another. I saw that a man in a wheelchair can be utterly<BR>sexy. That a woman who has no hands can appear not to be missing anything.<BR>That wholeness has nothing to do with missing parts and everything to do with<BR>spirit. Yet although I knew this, I was surprised to discover how difficult it was to<BR>adjust to my new scars.<BR>When they brought me back to consciousness after the surgery, I started to sob<BR>and hyperventilate. Suddenly I found that I didn't want to face the loss of more of<BR>my body. I didn't want chemotherapy again. I didn't want to be brave and tough<BR>and put on a perpetual smiling face. I didn't ever want to wake up again. My<BR>breathing grew so shaky that the anesthesiologist gave me oxygen and then,<BR>thankfully, put me back to sleep.<BR>When I was doing hill sprints to prepare for my ski racing - my heart and lungs<BR>and leg muscles all on fire - I'd often be hit by the sensation that there were no<BR>resources left inside me with which to keep going. Then I'd think about the races<BR>ahead - my dream of pushing my potential as far as it could go, the satisfaction<BR>of breaking through my own barriers - and that would get me through the sprints.<BR>The same tenacity that served me so well in ski racing helped me survive my<BR>second bout with cancer.<BR>After the mastectomies, I knew that one way to get myself going would be to<BR>start exercising again, so I headed for the local pool. In the communal shower, I<BR>found myself noticing other women's breasts for the first time in my life. Size-D<BR>breasts and size-A breasts, sagging breasts and perky breasts. Suddenly and for<BR>the first time, after all these years of missing a leg, I felt acutely self-conscious. I<BR>couldn't bring myself to undress.<BR>I decided it was time to confront myself. That night at home, I took off all my<BR>clothes and had a long look at the woman in the mirror. She was androgynous.<BR>Take my face - without makeup, it was a cute young boy's face. My shoulder<BR>muscles, arms and hands were powerful and muscular from the crutches. I had<BR>no breasts; instead, there were two prominent scars on my chest. I had a sexy<BR>flat stomach, a bubble butt and a well-developed thigh from years of ski racing.<BR>My right leg ended in another long scar just above the knee.<BR>I discovered that I liked my androgynous body. It fit my personality - my<BR>aggressive male side that loves getting dressed in a helmet, arm guards and shin<BR>protectors to do battle with the slalom gates, and my gentle female side that<BR>longs to have children one day and wants to dress up in a beautiful silk dress, go<BR>out to dinner with a lover and then lie back and be slowly undressed by him.<BR>I found that the scars on my chest and my leg were a big deal. They were my<BR>marks of life. All of us are scarred by life; it's just that some of those scars show<BR>more clearly than others. Our scars do matter. They tell us that we have lived,<BR>that we haven't hidden from life. When we see our scars plainly, we can find in<BR>them, as I did that day, our own unique beauty.<BR>The next time I went to the pool I showered naked.<BR>Burroville<BR>By John Soennichsen<BR>Back in 1974, when I was in my early twenties, I befriended a group of hikers<BR>who were mapping a desert trail from the Mexican to the Canadian border.<BR>Offering to try a few routes for them through Death Valley, I made the drive to a<BR>base camp near Ulida Flat, where I camped for the night.<BR>At first light, I started my trek up an alluvial fan into an unnamed canyon in the<BR>Cottonwood Mountains. After about an hour of hiking through the rock-strewn<BR>wash, I made my way deeper into the shadows and the bray of a burro told me I<BR>wasn't alone. With slow, careful steps, I rounded a bend and found myself in<BR>Burroville - Population: 100. I looked around and saw that the majority stood in<BR>little groups along the slopes while several others were perched atop the<BR>perpendicular cliff walls.<BR>I continued walking and was soon met by an imposing welcoming committee-a<BR>dozen big Jacks with massive heads, standing shoulder to shoulder and daring me<BR>to approach. Though they stood a good thirty feet away, their resolute stance and<BR>effective blockade of the canyon ahead made me pause a while to consider my<BR>next move. I'd never heard of anyone being killed by a burro, but it was clear<BR>they had no plans to let me pass.<BR>Several moments went by until one of the big Jacks pawed at the ground with his<BR>hooves and another looked behind him, as if to check the rear for a surprise<BR>attack. That's when I saw what the burro was actually looking at - a Jenny and<BR>nursing foal standing close beside the canyon wall about twenty feet back. Our<BR>eyes met and the female's flanks shuddered as she watched me with a wariness<BR>that only a true wild thing can display.<BR>When I lifted my gaze to scan the slopes behind her, I was surprised to see other<BR>females and their young, planted in groups of two and three all around me.<BR>Suddenly I realized it was the time of year for foals to drop, and the big males<BR>were merely protecting their mates and babies. I must have let out a big sigh,<BR>because one of them pricked up his ears and raised his head as if waiting for me<BR>to speak.<BR>"Don't worry, guys, I'm just passing through," I called gently.<BR>No response, just a flutter of flanks and a few ear twitches. Clearly, the subtle<BR>approach wasn't working, so I picked up a rock and lobbed it near the biggest<BR>Jack. It fell at his feet and he lowered his head to sniff it.<BR>Clearly the burro had no intention of moving, so I reluctantly turned and began to<BR>make my way back down the wash in defeat. That was when a loud bray made<BR>me about-face once more.<BR>To my surprise, the big jacks were lumbering out of the wash and making their<BR>way toward the northern walls of the canyon. Now, only the biggest of them<BR>remained at the edge of the bank, staring at me. Suddenly, the way was clear;<BR>I'd won the standoff. I started up the canyon but was stopped by the look in the<BR>burro's great brown eyes. As we stood there staring at each other, a shudder<BR>passed through me.<BR>In that instant the message he sent me became clear: he was asking me to leave<BR>the canyon. Politely, and with some measure of supplication, but plain as day.<BR>And I knew then I couldn't go on, couldn't violate his trust. So I turned and<BR>headed back down the canyon.<BR>As I retreated, I considered my role in creating a desert trail that hundreds of<BR>hikers would traverse each year. Today's unknown route through a rugged<BR>canyon might well become a dotted red line on some future map. Was it so<BR>important that people knew about this place?<BR>I began to think it wasn't.<BR>Maybe what this earth really needed was a few more unnamed canyons. Maybe<BR>there's some intrinsic value in knowing that some mountains will never be<BR>climbed, that a handful of jungles will remain unexplored. Must we really clamber<BR>up every alluvial fan, map every desert canyon, and slap a name on every dry<BR>lake and rocky outcropping?<BR>Perhaps, in the end, it's enough just knowing they're out there -<BR>somewhere.<BR>The Diary<BR>By Martine Klaassen<BR>Armed with two over-packed suitcases, we arrived at the airport just in time for<BR>my flight. "Well, here we are, the airport," my sister said with a sigh. As I<BR>watched her unload my luggage, I could see the sadness in her eyes. This was<BR>not easy on her either. We had both been dreading this moment for the past<BR>week. One last hug and a final good-bye and I would be on my way to a new life<BR>abroad, leaving my beloved sister behind.<BR>All my life I had loved airports. To me they were some kind of magic gateway to<BR>the world, a place from which to start great holidays and adventures. But today it<BR>seemed like a cold and heartless place.<BR>As we made our way to the gate we passed through a busload of frustrated<BR>holiday goers and their screaming children. I looked at my sister and even though<BR>her eyes were filled with tears, she was trying to keep a brave face. "You better<BR>go or you'll miss your flight," she said.<BR>"I am just going to walk away and not look back," I said, "that would just be too<BR>hard."<BR>As I held her one last time she whispered, "Don't worry about me, I'll be just<BR>fine."<BR>"I'll miss you," I replied, and with those last words I was off. As promised, I did<BR>not look back, but by the time I reached the custom's office I was sobbing.<BR>"Cheer up, love," the tall customs officer said with a smile. "It's not the end of the<BR>world, you know." But to me it was the end of the world, as I had known it.<BR>While boarding the plane I was still crying. I did not have the energy to put my<BR>bag in the overhead locker, so I stuffed it on the empty seat next to mine. As I<BR>settled into my chair, a feeling of sadness overwhelmed me. I felt like my best<BR>friend had just been taken away from me.<BR>Growing up, my sister and I would do everything together. Born barely fifteen<BR>months apart we not only looked alike, we were alike. We both had that same<BR>mix of curiosity and fear of all things unknown to us. One sunny summer day I<BR>was playing outside on the grass when she came up to me and said, "Want to<BR>come to the attic?" We both knew that the answer to that question was always<BR>'Yes.' We were frightened of the attic but also fascinated by its smells and<BR>sounds. Whenever one of us needed something, the other one would come along.<BR>Together we would fight the life-size spiders and battle through the numerous<BR>boxes until we found what we needed.<BR>Over time the visits to the attic became less scary. Eventually there came a time<BR>when we would go by ourselves, but my sister and I stayed as close as ever.<BR>When the time came for us to go to college, what better way than for us to go<BR>together. My parents were pleased because that way we could 'keep an eye on<BR>each other' and of course report back on what the other one was up to. But now<BR>that our college days were over and I was off to a foreign country, all I had left<BR>were my memories.<BR>The plane shook heavily and the bag that I had shoved onto the seat next to me<BR>fell on the floor. My aspirin, hairbrush and a copy of the book I planned to read<BR>were spread on the floor. I bent over to gather them up when I saw an unfamiliar<BR>little book in the middle of my belongings. It was not until I picked it up that I<BR>realized that it was a diary. The key had been carefully placed in the lock so I<BR>opened it.<BR>Immediately I recognized my sister's handwriting. "Hi Sis, What a day it has been<BR>today. First you let me know that you are moving abroad and then my boss..."<BR>Only then did I realize that my sister had been keeping a diary for the past month<BR>and that she was now passing it on to me. She had been scheming to start the<BR>diary for the past year but now the time seemed right. I was to write in it for the<BR>next couple of months and then send it back to her.<BR>I spent the rest of the flight reading about my sister's comings and goings. And<BR>even though a large ocean separated us, at some point it felt like she was<BR>actually there. It was only when I thought that I had lost my best friend that I<BR>realized that she was going to be around forever.<BR>Ramona's Touch<BR>By Betty Aboussie Ellis<BR>It was only a few weeks after my surgery, and I went to Dr. Belt's office for a<BR>checkup. It was just after my first chemotherapy treatment.<BR>My scar was still very tender. My arm was numb underneath. This whole set of<BR>unique and weird sensations was like having a new roommate to share the twobedroom apartment formerly known as my breasts - now lovingly known as "the<BR>breast and the chest."<BR>As usual, I was taken to an examination room to have my blood drawn, again - a<BR>terrifying process for me, since I'm so frightened of needles.<BR>I lay down on the examining table. I'd worn a big plaid flannel shirt and a<BR>camisole underneath. It was a carefully thought out costume that I hoped others<BR>would regard as a casual wardrobe choice. The plaid camouflaged my new chest,<BR>the camisole protected it and the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical<BR>access.<BR>Ramona entered the room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, and stood out<BR>in contrast to my fears. I'd first seen her in the office a few weeks earlier. She<BR>wasn't my nurse on that day, but I remember her because she was laughing. She<BR>laughed in deep, round and rich tones. I remember wondering what could be so<BR>funny behind that medical door. What could she possibly find to laugh about at a<BR>time like this? So I decided she wasn't serious enough about the whole thing and<BR>that I would try to find a nurse who was. But I was wrong.<BR>This day was different. Ramona had taken my blood before. She knew about my<BR>fear of needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernalia under a magazine with a<BR>bright blue picture of a kitchen being remodeled. As we opened the blouse and<BR>dropped the camisole, the catheter on my breast was exposed and the fresh scar<BR>on my chest could be seen.<BR>She said, "How is your scar healing?"<BR>I said, "I think pretty well. I wash around it gently each day." The memory of the<BR>shower water hitting my numb chest flashed across my face.<BR>She gently reached over and ran her hand across the scar, examining the<BR>smoothness of the healing skin and looking for any irregularities. I began to cry<BR>gently and quietly. She brought her warm eyes to mine and said, "You haven't<BR>touched it yet, have you?" And I said, "No."<BR>So this wonderful, warm woman laid the palm of her golden brown hand on my<BR>pale chest and she gently held it there. For a long time. I continued to cry quietly.<BR>In soft tones she said, "This is part of your body. This is you. It's okay to touch<BR>it." But I couldn't. So she touched it for me. The scar. The healing wound. And<BR>beneath it, she touched my heart.<BR>Then Ramona said, "I'll hold your hand while you touch it." So she placed her<BR>hand next to mine, and we both were quiet. That was the gift that Ramona gave<BR>me.<BR>That night as I lay down to sleep, I gently placed my hand on my chest and I left<BR>it there until I dozed off. I knew I wasn't alone. We were all in bed together,<BR>metaphorically speaking, my breast, my chest, Ramona's gift and me.<BR>As a Man Soweth<BR>By Mike Buetelle<BR>When I was in junior high, the eighth-grade bully punched me in the stomach.<BR>Not only did it hurt and make me angry, but the embarrassment and humiliation<BR>were almost intolerable. I wanted desperately to even the score! I planned to<BR>meet him by the bike racks the next day and let him have it.<BR>For some reason, I told my plan to Nana, my grandmother - big mistake. She<BR>gave me one of her hour-long lectures (that woman could really talk). The lecture<BR>was a total drag, but among other things, I vaguely remember her telling me that<BR>I didn't need to worry about him. She said, "Good deeds beget good results, and<BR>evil deeds beget bad results." I told her, in a nice way, of course, that I thought<BR>she was full of it. I told her that I did good things all the time, and all I got in<BR>return was "baloney!" (I didn't use that word.) She stuck to her guns, though.<BR>She said, "Every good deed will come back to you someday, and every bad thing<BR>you do will come back to you."<BR>It took me 30 years to understand the wisdom of her words. Nana was living in a<BR>board-and-care home in Laguna Hills, California. Each Tuesday, I came by and<BR>took her out to dinner. I would always find her neatly dressed sitting in a chair<BR>right by the front door. I vividly remember our very last dinner together before<BR>she went into the convalescent hospital. We drove to a nearby simple little<BR>family-owned restaurant. I ordered pot roast for Nana and a hamburger for<BR>myself. The food arrived and as I dug in, I noticed that Nana wasn't eating. She<BR>was just staring at the food on her plate. Moving my plate aside, I took Nana's<BR>plate, placed it in front of me, and cut her meat into small pieces. I then placed<BR>the plate back in front of her. As she very weakly, and with great difficulty, forked<BR>the meat into her mouth, I was struck with a memory that brought instant tears<BR>to my eyes. Forty years previously, as a little boy sitting at the table, Nana had<BR>always taken the meat on my plate and cut it into small pieces so I could eat it.<BR>It had taken 40 years, but the good deed had been repaid. Nana was right. We<BR>reap exactly what we sow. "Every good deed you do will someday come back to<BR>you."<BR>What about the eighth-grade bully?<BR>He ran into the ninth-grade bully.<BR>Disaster on a Mountain<BR>By Patricia Lorenz<BR>When Ruth Hagan was seventy-eight years old, she visited her daughter Judy and<BR>teenage granddaughter Marcy in California. They headed for their cabin,<BR>zigzagging forty miles up and down the mountains in their Bronco, from<BR>pavement to gravel to a narrow one-lane road of brittle shale and powdery dirt<BR>that wound terrifyingly close to cliffs.<BR>After dinner Marcy announced the water tank was low and that she would take<BR>the Bronco down to the pump and get water. Ruth was nervous about her young<BR>granddaughter driving down the narrow dirt road by herself, but Judy reminded<BR>her that Marcy had been driving vehicles up there on the ranch roads since she<BR>was twelve.<BR>"Just be careful, Marcy," her mother warned. "They've had a dry spell up here<BR>and the cliff side is pretty shaky. Be sure to hug the mountain side."<BR>Ruth said a quick prayer as she and Judy watched Marcy from the big window<BR>where they could see the road winding down the mountainside. Fifteen minutes<BR>later Judy was still watching when suddenly she screamed, "Oh no! God help us!<BR>She went over the cliff, Momma! The Bronco and Marcy - they went over! We<BR>have to help her! Come on!"<BR>The cabin door slammed and Judy took off running. Ruth ran behind her, but Judy<BR>was quickly out of sight after the first turn in the road. Ruth raced down the steep<BR>hill, breathing hard. She ran on and on, down the hill, up the next, trying to catch<BR>up with her daughter. It was getting harder and harder to see anything at dusk.<BR>Ruth stopped cold and looked around.<BR>She screamed into the darkness "Judy, where are you?" Off to her immediate<BR>right and down the cliff she heard, "Down here, Mother! Don't come near the<BR>edge! I slipped on loose rocks and fell over. I'm down about twenty feet."<BR>"Oh dear God, Judy, what can I do?"<BR>"Just stay back, Momma! The road is giving out all over! I think I can crawl back<BR>up. I saw the white roof of the Bronco when I was falling, Momma, and I heard<BR>Marcy calling for help. She's alive! But she's way down there in the ravine. You<BR>have to go back to the cabin and phone for help. Tell them to send a helicopter.<BR>We have to get Marcy out!"<BR>Ruth resisted looking over the edge to make sure Judy was really okay. She<BR>turned around and started running back up the hill she'd just stumbled down. Up<BR>one hill, down the next. She had one hill left to climb when she stumbled on loose<BR>dirt and rocks and fell on her face. Chest pains took her breath away. She started<BR>to sob. "Dear God," she prayed, "please help me get back to the cabin so I can<BR>call for help!"<BR>At that moment something went through Ruth. It was like a powerful energy and<BR>she knew for certain that somebody was there to help her. She heard the words,<BR>"I am here." She stood up, completely relaxed and rested. A surge of pain-free<BR>energy propelled her forward.<BR>Ruth ran on confidently, faster than she had before, and up that last big hill. She<BR>turned into the cabin driveway, pushed through the front door and dialed 911.<BR>She sputtered out the details of the disaster but unfortunately, she had no idea<BR>where she was. The dispatcher was totally confused. Ruth had to get Judy up to<BR>the phone so she could give directions. Ruth stepped out of the cabin into total<BR>darkness. She grabbed a three-foot-long walking stick propped against the cabin<BR>door and started running back down the switchback road.<BR>She continued to run with energy and determination through the darkness. Up<BR>the hill, down the hill, up the second hill. Suddenly she stopped, not knowing<BR>where she was. "Marcy! Judy!" she shouted.<BR>A faint voice cried from directly below. "I'm here, Grandma."<BR>Another voice. "Momma!" It was Judy.<BR>Ruth dropped to her knees, then lay flat on her belly as she scooted herself closer<BR>and closer to the edge of the cliff. She held the walking stick over the edge and<BR>asked Judy if she could see it.<BR>"I see it, Momma, I'm almost there."<BR>Ruth heard gravel rolling around where Judy was climbing. Within minutes, Judy<BR>grabbed the other end of the stick and Ruth pulled her 140-pound daughter up<BR>and over that cliff. Judy crawled into her mother's lap, shaking and sweating and<BR>immediately passed out.<BR>Ruth held her close and stroked her wet forehead. "Judy, Judy, wake up. We have<BR>to get help for Marcy!" Ruth kept talking and rubbing her daughter's head.<BR>Finally, Judy came to. Ruth pulled her to her feet, and the two women started<BR>walking. Dazed and bleeding, Judy fell three times as they worked their way back<BR>to the cabin in the darkness.<BR>When they reached the cabin they heard the phone ringing. It was the volunteer<BR>emergency crew on the other end. Judy sputtered out directions to where Marcy<BR>was. As soon as she hung up, she and her mother started down the mountain<BR>again to meet and guide the rescuers. They trudged up the hill, down the hill. Still<BR>full of energy, calm and confident, Ruth held on to Judy, for Judy's sake, not hers.<BR>An hour later, the fire trucks, ambulance, paramedics and, finally, the Flight for<BR>Life helicopter arrived. It took three-and-a-half hours to cut Marcy free from the<BR>wreckage at the bottom of the cliff. At last the sheriff pulled her out of the back<BR>end of the Bronco and carried her to the waiting ambulance. She was rushed to<BR>the hospital for treatment of a crushed ankle and severely broken leg, foot and<BR>finger.<BR>The next day, when the sheriff came to visit Marcy in the hospital, he shook his<BR>head and said, "That mountain didn't beat you."<BR>Ruth Hagan knew the mountain didn't beat them because God was there that<BR>night, protecting her, guiding her, breathing strength into her frail body. Ruth,<BR>Judy and Marcy all have their lives to prove it.<BR>Manatee Meeting<BR>By Linda Ballou<BR>Walking alone on a remote beach in southwest Florida, I was startled to hear<BR>splashes and a deep sigh coming from the water just offshore.<BR>As I squinted in the direction of the sounds, the rounded gray back of a sea<BR>creature rose amid a red froth, rolled turbulently at the surface, then sank back<BR>into the Gulf. Moments later a broad nose emerged and exhaled in a great<BR>snuffling breath. It was a manatee, and by the looks of the reddish-colored water<BR>and the way it was thrashing, it was in trouble.<BR>I had often watched manatees in these warm coastal waters, but I'd never seen<BR>one act like this before. Usually just their big nostrils appeared for a gulp of air as<BR>they foraged on sea grasses or swam slowly to greener underwater pastures. But<BR>I also knew how common it was for these lumbering giants to be gashed by boat<BR>propellers or entangled in crab traps.<BR>I wanted to help, but what could I do? There was no one else on the beach, and<BR>the nearest phone to call the Marine Patrol was miles away.<BR>Tossing my beach bag onto the sand, I began wading toward the animal, who<BR>continued to writhe as if in distress. I was still only waist deep when I came close<BR>enough to make out the bristly whiskers on the manatee's muzzle as it thrust up<BR>out of the sea. Then, to my surprise, a second muzzle, much smaller, poked up<BR>beside it.<BR>I pushed on through the shoal water, but now the manatees were also moving<BR>toward me. Before I knew what was happening, I was in chest-deep water<BR>encircled by not one or two, but at least three blimplike bodies. I felt elated and<BR>slightly dizzy like the kid who is 'it' in a schoolyard game.<BR>A bulbous snout emerged next to me. In the translucent water, I could clearly see<BR>the rest of the huge mammal, and there, nestled close behind her, a smaller<BR>version of her massive body.<BR>Then, with incredible gentleness for such an enormous creature, the larger<BR>manatee nudged the little one with her paddle-shaped flipper and pushed it to the<BR>surface beside me. I wanted to reach out and touch the pudgy sea baby, but I<BR>hesitated, not knowing the rules of this inter-species encounter.<BR>As the two slipped back underwater, two other manatees moved in from behind<BR>and slid by, one on either side, rubbing gently against my body as they swam<BR>past. They circled and repeated the action, this time followed by the mother and<BR>her calf. Emboldened by their overtures, I let my hand graze the side of the small<BR>manatee, now clinging to the mother's back, as they made their pass. Its skin felt<BR>rubbery and firm like an old fashioned hot water bottle.<BR>The group completed several more circuits. Since they obviously enjoyed<BR>touching me, I began stroking each of them as they sidled by. When one of them<BR>rolled over for a scratch, I knew I had made the right move.<BR>Eventually my new friends made their way off towards deeper water. I stood<BR>anchored to the spot, not wishing to break the spell, until finally the rising tide<BR>forced me back to shore.<BR>I suppose I will never know exactly what took place that morning. I like to think<BR>that the manatees included me in their celebration of a birth; that I was<BR>welcomed to meet the newest member of their tribe. But over time I have come<BR>to cherish the experience without questions.<BR>During that unexpected rendezvous, I felt more in tune with the rhythms of life<BR>on this vast planet than I ever have. The memory has become a song I sing to<BR>myself when I have the blues, a dance I do to celebrate joy.<BR>And each year, during the last week of May, I pack a lunch and head for that<BR>isolated stretch of beach for a quiet little birthday picnic on the shore. After all,<BR>you never know who might show up for the party.<BR>Remember, We're Raising Children, Not Flowers!<BR>By Jack Canfield<BR>I recently heard a story from Stephen Glenn about a famous research scientist<BR>who had made several very important medical breakthroughs. He was being<BR>interviewed by a newspaper reporter who asked him why he thought he was able<BR>to be so much more creative than the average person. What set him so far apart<BR>from others?<BR>He responded that, in his opinion, it all came from an experience with his mother<BR>that occurred when he was about two years old. He had been trying to remove a<BR>bottle of milk from the refrigerator when he lost his grip on the slippery bottle<BR>and it fell, spilling its contents all over the kitchen floor - a veritable sea of milk!<BR>When his mother came into the kitchen, instead of yelling at him, giving him a<BR>lecture or punishing him, she said, "Robert, what a great and wonderful mess you<BR>have made! I have rarely seen such a huge puddle of milk. Well, the damage has<BR>already been done. Would you like to get down and play in the milk for a few<BR>minutes before we clean it up?"<BR>Indeed, he did. After a few minutes, his mother said, "You know, Robert,<BR>whenever you make a mess like this, eventually you have to clean it up and<BR>restore everything to its proper order. So, how would you like to do that? We<BR>could use a sponge, a towel or a mop. Which do you prefer?" He chose the<BR>sponge and together they cleaned up the spilled milk.<BR>His mother then said, "You know, what we have here is a failed experiment in<BR>how to effectively carry a big milk bottle with two tiny hands. Let's go out in the<BR>back yard and fill the bottle with water and see if you can discover a way to carry<BR>it without dropping it." The little boy learned that if he grasped the bottle at the<BR>top near the lip with both hands, he could carry it without dropping it. What a<BR>wonderful lesson!<BR>This renowned scientist then remarked that it was at that moment that he knew<BR>he didn't need to be afraid to make mistakes. Instead, he learned that mistakes<BR>were just opportunities for learning something new, which is, after all, what<BR>scientific experiments are all about. Even if the experiment "doesn't work," we<BR>usually learn something valuable from it.<BR>Wouldn't it be great if all parents would respond the way Robert's mother<BR>responded to him?<BR>Magic Snowball Time<BR>By Colleen Madonna Flood Williams<BR>Every fall, when the frost first played freeze tag with the grass, Papa would come<BR>to our house. He would shuffle in, his soft, shiny leather shoes dancing across<BR>Momma's sunflower-yellow-tiled kitchen floor. All six of us kids knew why he was<BR>there. First frost meant magic snowball time.<BR>Papa only came to our house once a year. He and Granny lived in an apartment<BR>upstairs from an old neighborhood corner store in the big city. Papa said they<BR>lived there to be close to the old-fashioned penny candy counter in the store.<BR>We went to see Papa, Granny and that penny candy counter every Saturday.<BR>Unless, of course, the first frost fell on a Saturday. The first frost always meant<BR>that Papa was coming to see us.<BR>Papa would bring an old battered coal shovel and an old-fashioned ice chest with<BR>him. He'd hustle all six of us kids out to the backyard. Then, he'd start digging<BR>and talking. He always worked as he talked.<BR>Papa would tell us how he'd lived with the gypsies before he'd met Granny. He'd<BR>tell us about life on the road with the carnival. He'd show us magic tricks and tell<BR>us strange but true tales of gypsy powers. Then, Papa would start talking about<BR>the importance of the magic snowbank.<BR>We'd gather around him and listen like we were supposed to, but never did, in<BR>church. He would tell us how some folks believed that if you wanted a good<BR>snowy winter, you always had to save a little snow from the winter before and<BR>put it into the magic snowbank. Then, he'd let us each have a turn digging.<BR>The dirt would fly, as we steadily took turns digging down into the earth. We<BR>could smell the last barbequed breezes of summer, and the newly fallen leaves of<BR>autumn. Sometimes, we'd all swear that we'd smelled the peppermint, candy<BR>cane, gingerbread house and poinsettia fragrances of Christmas wafting out of<BR>that hole.<BR>Papa would tell us how some folks believed that you have to give to the earth if<BR>you want it to give to you. He'd talk about how any good farmer knows that you<BR>can't expect to reap a harvest without planting seeds. Our snow seeds were in his<BR>old ice chest.<BR>Soon enough, Papa would open that old ice chest. We'd crowd around it with the<BR>same amount of wonder every year. Inside, Papa would have seven perfect magic<BR>snowballs. There was always one for him, and one for each of us kids.<BR>We'd wait politely, but impatiently as he passed them out. We could never hold<BR>them for long, as Papa said it wouldn't work if we were selfish. We didn't want to<BR>melt the snow and have nothing to offer the earth.<BR>We would solemnly place our snowballs into the hole, quickly, if still a bit<BR>reluctantly. There's not a child I've ever known that didn't want to throw a<BR>snowball once it was placed into his or her hands. We weren't any different. We<BR>just knew that we had to give our snowballs to the earth. Our snowballs were<BR>magic. Our snowballs were the seeds for the magic snowbank.<BR>Papa would cover our magic snowbank with the dirt that we'd shoveled out of the<BR>hole. We'd all hold hands and sing Christmas carols, as Papa buried our magic<BR>snowballs.<BR>Then, Papa would wipe his hands on his pants and smile.<BR>"Well, we've planted our magic snowballs on the day of the first frost, kids. It's up<BR>to the magic snowbank now," he'd say.<BR>When the first snow came, as it did every winter, all six of us would run out into<BR>the yard and catch snowflakes on our tongues and in our mittens. We'd taste the<BR>tickly, shivery delight of falling ice stars. We'd examine the crystal beauty of<BR>bright white, frosty flakes on dark, warm mittens.<BR>It was all Papa's magic, and we were a part of it. We would dance and hug and<BR>giggle and grin and sing, all six of us together. We never quarreled or argued on<BR>the day the first snow fell. We were too pleased with ourselves.<BR>We knew we were magic. The first snow reminded us of Papa, the first frost and<BR>our magic snowbank deep within the earth. We knew we had a secret all our own.<BR>We had helped the snow to fall once again. We were snow farmers, and to us,<BR>first frost meant magic snowball time.<BR>I'm all grown up now. Still, I'll tell you a secret. My family carries on Papa's<BR>magic. We have a magic snowbank in our backyard. Think of us when the first<BR>snow flies...as I think of my Papa and hope that someday my grandchildren will<BR>think of me.<BR>The Power of a Blue Box<BR>By Hanna Bandes Geshelin<BR>When I worked in a Jewish nursing home, I learned the true meaning of the<BR>Jewish national Fund Blue Box. A Blue Box is not just a pushke into which coins<BR>are put. It is the repository of dreams, prayers and efforts of generations of Jews.<BR>I learned this one day at a storytelling activity at my nursing home.<BR>One day, to stimulate memories among the participants in my group, I brought a<BR>tray of objects. I set out a small pair of small candlesticks, a couple of seashells,<BR>a lace-edged, monogrammed handkerchief, a Blue Box, and other odds and ends<BR>on the tray and passed it around. The residents would finger the objects, then<BR>pass the tray on. When their turn came, they'd share a personal anecdote that<BR>one of the objects had brought to mind.<BR>That day, an aide had brought Clara to the group. Clara had suffered a stroke<BR>that left her paralyzed on one side and somewhat aphasic: She understood<BR>language but had trouble finding the correct words when she wanted to speak.<BR>Clara did not take her disabilities with grace. She was angry, hostile and<BR>disruptive. Storytelling was the most inappropriate activity of all, for it focused<BR>attention on her language disability. But there she was, and I was too busy with<BR>the rest of the group to wheel Clara back into the hall. I just hoped that Clara<BR>wouldn't raise too much of a ruckus.<BR>When the tray went around the room, Clara grabbed the Blue Box in her good<BR>hand and clasped it to her chest, refusing to relinquish it. Although no one else<BR>took an object off the tray, there were grumbles from the other participants.<BR>"Anyone can tell a story about any object - these or any others," I said. The<BR>grumbles died down. Then the stories began. One woman told how the seashells<BR>reminded her of going to the beach every summer Sunday as a child. Another<BR>described the lacy handkerchief she carried when she eloped with a soldier on the<BR>eve of World War II. The next person was Clara, but the person beyond her,<BR>knowing Clara never participated in a group, cleared her throat. Clara waved the<BR>Blue Box and said, "Mine, mine." Another old woman, a former social worker,<BR>said, "Clara wants to speak!" Clara nodded, and the room became silent.<BR>Slowly, haltingly, Clara began her story. Often she said something that made no<BR>sense, and I would suggest words that fit better. Clara would shake her head<BR>until I hit the right word, then she'd nod. I then repeated the story up to that<BR>point, and Clara would continue. Other old ladies had told their memories in two<BR>or three sentences, but in spite of her laborious method of storytelling, Clara told<BR>her story in detail.<BR>Her son was six, she said, when World War II was over and the news of<BR>concentration camps became public. Clara, a young Boston housewife, was<BR>devastated, although all her family was already in America. Her heart ached for<BR>the survivors, crammed into Displaced Persons camps, and she wanted to help.<BR>After much thought, she made a plan. Every afternoon, when her son came home<BR>from school, she would take him by one hand with her Blue Box in the other<BR>hand, and she would collect money for Israel. Clara went door to door through<BR>the Jewish neighborhoods, and everyone gave. But she couldn't just stop, so she<BR>started going through other neighborhoods. "Everyone gave," she told the group.<BR>"The Irish and the Italians and the Greeks, everyone gave.<BR>"They said, 'I feel so bad for your people. Thank you for giving me a chance to<BR>help.'" Clara told the group that for two years, until the birth of her second child<BR>was imminent, she and her son went out almost every day to collect money for<BR>Israel, money to bring the survivors home to their new land.<BR>When Clara finished, the room was silent. Her painfully told, detailed account had<BR>brought those days back clearly in everyone's mind. They had also peeled back<BR>the curtain of time to show this woman when she had been vitally alive. Suddenly<BR>one old woman began to clap, and then applause filled the room. Clara nodded at<BR>the group, and the side of her mouth that could move curved into a smile. Slowly<BR>the room returned to normal, and the next person told her story.<BR>That night, Clara had another stroke, one that left her completely unable to<BR>speak. But in my eyes and those of the other people who had been in that room<BR>that day, Clara never again looked like the mere wreck of a woman. Instead, we<BR>saw past the wreckage of age to the vibrant soul of a woman who cared.<BR>The Day I Became a Mom<BR>By Linda Jones<BR>The day I became a mom was not the day my daughter was born, but seven<BR>years later. Up until that day, I had been too busy trying to survive my abusive<BR>marriage. I had spent all my energy trying to run a "perfect" home that would<BR>pass inspection each evening, and I didn't see that my baby girl had become a<BR>toddler. I'd tried endlessly to please someone who could never be pleased and<BR>suddenly realized that the years had slipped by and could never be recaptured.<BR>Oh, I had done the normal "motherly" things, like making sure my daughter got<BR>to ballet and tap and gym lessons. I went to all of her recitals and school<BR>concerts, parent-teacher conferences and open houses - alone. I ran interference<BR>during my husband's rages when something was spilled at the dinner table,<BR>telling her, "It will be okay, Honey. Daddy's not really mad at you." I did all I<BR>could to protect her from hearing the awful shouting and accusations after he<BR>returned from a night of drinking. Finally I did the best thing I could do for my<BR>daughter and myself: I removed us from the home that wasn't really a home at<BR>all.<BR>That day I became a mom was the day my daughter and I were sitting in our new<BR>home having a calm, quiet dinner just as I had always wanted for her. We were<BR>talking about what she had done in school and suddenly her little hand knocked<BR>over the full glass of chocolate milk by her plate. As I watched the white<BR>tablecloth and freshly painted white wall become dark brown, I looked at her<BR>small face. It was filled with fear, knowing what the outcome of the event would<BR>have meant only a week before in her father's presence. When I saw that look on<BR>her face and looked at the chocolate milk running down the wall, I simply started<BR>laughing. I am sure she thought I was crazy, but then she must have realized<BR>that I was thinking, "It's a good thing your father isn't here!" She started<BR>laughing with me, and we laughed until we cried. They were tears of joy and<BR>peace and were the first of many tears that we cried together. That was the day<BR>we knew that we were going to be okay.<BR>Whenever either of us spills something, even now, seventeen years later, she<BR>says, "Remember the day I spilled the chocolate milk? I knew that day that you<BR>had done the right thing for us, and I will never forget it."<BR>That was the day I really became a mom. I discovered that being a mom isn't<BR>only going to ballet, and tap and gym recitals, and attending every school concert<BR>and open house. It isn't keeping a spotless house and preparing perfect meals. It<BR>certainly isn't pretending things are normal when they are not. For me, being a<BR>mom started when I could laugh over spilled milk.<BR>The Gift of Music<BR>By Brandon Lagana<BR>I had been inside the prison called Gander Hill several times already by the time I<BR>met Ray in the spring of 1993. My father worked there with a group teaching<BR>inmates to improve their communication and speaking skills. I was a senior in<BR>college, majoring in speech communications, and eventually I started my own<BR>volunteer student group at Gander Hill.<BR>Teaching communication means getting people to tell their stories, but Ray could<BR>tell you how much he missed playing his guitar without speaking. Sometimes he<BR>moved his hands across the air as if he were playing his favorite blues scale. He<BR>always gave me a slight nod when he saw me come into the chapel for the<BR>meeting. He loved sharing his guitar stories. Although he had been an inmate at<BR>Gander Hill for over a decade, he always had a song in his head, in particular one<BR>that he said he had been writing in his mind since his arrival. He looked forward<BR>to playing again the way a child counts the days until summer vacation.<BR>When my group formally established itself at Gander Hill, the men were allowed a<BR>night of celebration to which they could invite one or two family members. The<BR>night of the celebration was just like Christmas for them. They huddled with their<BR>loved ones, whom they had not seen or touched in several months or longer.<BR>Since his family lived in Texas, no one came to the celebration as Ray's guest,<BR>but he waited patiently for me to arrive. As he rehearsed his song in his head, I<BR>walked into the prison with a guitar.<BR>Ray tuned that guitar as if he were putting his life back into harmony. I have<BR>never heard a guitar tuned like that before or since. He looked at me over his<BR>shoulder and nodded a thank-you before bringing his song to life on the guitar. I<BR>watched Ray's fingers dance across the strings as if they were himself, running<BR>free. And for those moments, he was.<BR>A Change of Heart<BR>By George Mapson<BR>It was the tail end of the depression, and things were tough. Mum had a hard<BR>time raising us kids on her own in our small community of New Westminster, BC.<BR>My Dad had drowned in Pitt Lake, five years earlier - I still remember it like it was<BR>yesterday. Because Dad had no pension, or benefits, there was not much money<BR>so we went on relief, now called social assistance. We relied on the Salvation<BR>Army to keep us clothed, and although our clothes were second hand, we thought<BR>they were beautiful.<BR>Looking back, I realize what Mum went through sending us kids to school. Every<BR>morning she would tuck a new piece of cardboard in our shoes, because our soles<BR>were worn out. When we got home, Mum would have "French Toast" ready for us.<BR>This was bread deep-fried in lard. Constant moving was typical for my family in<BR>these times. Rent was twenty-five dollars a month, but Mum couldn't pay it, and<BR>we knew we would be evicted right after Christmas on the first of January. These<BR>were hard and sad years, but we never complained.<BR>Christmas was approaching, and we were entitled to a twenty-five dollar<BR>Christmas fund for social services. The Inspector came to our house, and<BR>searched it from top to bottom to be sure we didn't have any food hidden away.<BR>When he didn't find any, he issued the cheque for Mum. It was four days before<BR>Christmas, and Mum said that instead of buying food, she would use the money<BR>to pay back rent, assuring us all of a roof over our heads for a little while longer.<BR>She told us then there would be nothing for Christmas.<BR>Unknown to Mum, I had been selling Christmas trees, shoveling snow, and doing<BR>odd jobs to earn enough money to buy a new pair of boots. Boots that weren't<BR>patched, boots with no cardboard in the soles. I knew exactly which boots I<BR>wanted. They were ten-inch Top Genuine Pierre Paris and they had a price of<BR>twenty-three dollars.<BR>Well, the big day came on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was very excited, as<BR>I hurried up the road to catch the bus. It was only half a mile walk, but on the<BR>way I noticed a house with Christmas lights and decorations. It was then I<BR>realized that at our house, we had no lights, no decorations, nor any money for<BR>Christmas goodies.<BR>I knew then that we would have no turkey or ham for Christmas, and I felt sad.<BR>But I knew for certain that we would have French toast.<BR>As I continued walking I began to feel bewildered. I was eleven years old, and I<BR>was feeling a strange sense of guilt. Here I was going to buy a new pair of boots<BR>while Mum was home in tears. She would be trying to explain to us why there<BR>were no presents. As I arrived at the bus stop, the driver opened his big manual<BR>hinged door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, until eventually the<BR>driver asked, "Son, are you getting on this bus or not?" I finally blurted out, "No<BR>thanks Sir, I've changed my mind."<BR>The bus drove off without me, and I stood alone in a daze, but feeling as if a<BR>weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My mind was made up and I realized<BR>what I had to do.<BR>Across the street from the bus stop was a big grocery store called the Piggly<BR>Wiggley. Into the store I went, brimming with happiness and excitement. I<BR>realized that the twenty-five dollars I had worked so hard for went a long way for<BR>groceries. I bought a turkey, ham, oranges and all the Christmas treats. I spent<BR>every dime of my hard-earned money. The owner of the grocery store said, "Son,<BR>you can't pack all those groceries and carry them home yourself." So I asked two<BR>boys with carriers on their bicycles to run them the half-mile down to our house.<BR>As I walked behind the delivery boys, I whispered for them to quietly unload the<BR>groceries on the porch and pile them against the door. Once they had done this,<BR>with great excitement and tears in my eyes, I knocked on the door. I could hardly<BR>wait to see my mother's face! When Mum opened the door, some of the groceries<BR>fell inside onto the floor, and she just stood there dumbfounded. Holding back the<BR>tears, I hollered, "Merry Christmas Mother!! There really is a Santa Claus!"<BR>I had a lot of explaining to do as we unpacked all the food and put it away. That<BR>day I got enough hugs and kisses from Mum to last two lifetimes. To see my<BR>Mother's prayers answered more than made up for the boots I never got. It was a<BR>Merry Christmas for us after all!<BR>Speaking<BR>By Cynthia Laughlin<BR>I was no different from any other mother.<BR>When my little boy, Skyler, was born, I longed for the day he would talk to me.<BR>My husband and I dreamed about the first sweet "Mama" or "Dada." Every cry or<BR>coo was a small glimpse into my son's mind.<BR>My baby's noises were even more precious to me because Skyler had been born<BR>with several health problems. At first, the problems had delayed his development,<BR>but once they were safely behind us, I looked forward to my son's first words.<BR>They didn't come.<BR>At age three, Skyler was diagnosed autistic, a developmental disability destined<BR>to affect his social and emotional well-being his entire life. Skyler couldn't talk -<BR>wouldn't talk. I would probably never hear any words from him at all. In a store, I<BR>would hear a child calling "Mommy," and I would wonder if that were what my<BR>little boy might sound like. I wondered how it would feel to hear my child call out<BR>for me.<BR>But I could have learned to live with his silence if it weren't for another hallmark<BR>characteristic of autism: Skyler formed no attachments. He didn't want to be<BR>held, much preferring to lie in his bed or sit in his car seat. He wouldn't look at<BR>me; sometimes, he even looked through me.<BR>Once, when I took him to the doctor, we talked to a specialist who was my size,<BR>age and who had the same hair color. When it was time to go, Skyler went to her<BR>instead of me - he couldn't tell us apart. When Skyler was three, he spent three<BR>days at Camp Courageous for disabled children in Iowa, and when he returned he<BR>didn't even recognize me.<BR>The pain was almost unbearable. My own son didn't even know I was his mother.<BR>I hid the pain, and we did the best we could for Skyler. We enrolled him in our<BR>local area educational agency preschool, where the teachers and speech<BR>pathologist worked hard to help Skyler connect with the world around him. They<BR>used pictures and computer voice-machines that spoke for him, and sign<BR>language. These devices gave me little glimpses of who Skyler was, even if he<BR>didn't understand who I was. "He will talk," the speech pathologist insisted, but<BR>inside, I had given up hope.<BR>The one dream I couldn't let go was to have Skyler understand that I was his<BR>mom. Even if I never heard him say, "Mom," I wanted to see the recognition in<BR>his eyes.<BR>The summer of Skyler's fourth year was when it started. A smoldering ember of<BR>understanding in him sparked, and fanned by our efforts, steadily flamed. His first<BR>words were hardly recognizable, often out of context, never spontaneous. Then,<BR>slowly, he could point to an item and say a word. Then two words together as a<BR>request. Then spontaneous words. Each day, he added more and more<BR>recognizable words, using them to identify pictures and ask questions. We could<BR>see his understanding increase, till his eyes would seek out mine, wanting to<BR>comprehend.<BR>"You Mom?" he said one day.<BR>"Yes, Skyler, I'm Mom."<BR>He asked his teachers and caregivers: "You Mom?"<BR>"No, Skyler, not Mom."<BR>"You my Mom?" he said back to me.<BR>"Yes, Skyler, I'm your Mom."<BR>And finally, a rush of understanding in his eyes: "You my Mom."<BR>"Yes, Skyler, I'm your Mom."<BR>If those had been Skyler's only words ever, they would have been enough for<BR>me: My son knew I was his mother.<BR>But Skyler wasn't done.<BR>One evening I leaned against the headboard on Skyler's bed, my arms wrapped<BR>around him. He was cozily tucked between my legs, our bodies warm and snug as<BR>I read to him from one of his favorite books - a typical affectionate scene<BR>between mother and son, but because of Skyler's autism, one that I could never<BR>take for granted.<BR>I stopped reading. Skyler had interrupted me, leaning back his head so he could<BR>look me in the eye.<BR>"Yes, Skyler?"<BR>And then the voice of an angel, the voice of my son: "I love you, Mom."<BR>Flying A Kite<BR>By Vicki L. Kitchner<BR>Her skin was the color of rich, hot chocolate and her brown eyes twinkled with<BR>intelligence and humor. Her name was Michelle and she spent her days in a<BR>purple wheelchair because she had been born with Cerebral Palsy. She rolled into<BR>my classroom - and my heart - when she was just three years old. Her courage<BR>was an inspiration to me and her spirit touched my heart.<BR>Michelle and her mother once gave me a figurine of a beautiful black child sitting<BR>in a wheelchair. I displayed the cherished gift on a shelf in my den at home. It<BR>always reminded me of the little girl I loved so much.<BR>When Michelle was seven, she was to undergo open-heart surgery for the third<BR>time. The night before surgery, I sat in the chair beside her bed and held her<BR>hand.<BR>"I'm tired, Bicki," she said weakly.<BR>"Why don't you close your eyes and try to get some sleep?"<BR>"No, not sleepy. Tired."<BR>I thought of the tiny, imperfect heart that had to work so hard, the grand mal<BR>seizures, terrible headaches and tight, spastic muscles that made her every move<BR>difficult and painful. I was heart-broken at the wisdom of the little soul who<BR>understood the difference between sleepy and tired at such a young age.<BR>"Will I go to Heaven soon?"<BR>I placed my hand on her forehead, "I don't know, that's up to God."<BR>She glanced at the stars through the window of her room. "How will I get all the<BR>way up there? An airplane?"<BR>"No, God will send a special angel to show you the way. You won't have to take<BR>your wheelchair or your leg braces or any of your medicine because you won't<BR>need any of that in Heaven. You'll be able to run and play just like your brother."<BR>Her eyes filled with hope. "Do you think I could fly a kite?"<BR>I swallowed a tear and smiled, "I'm sure if you ask God for a kite, he would find<BR>one for you."<BR>"Oh, I hope so Bicki!"<BR>It was very early in the morning while I was doing my prayer time when the<BR>figurine of Michelle, for no apparent reason, fell from my bookshelf to the floor.<BR>The impact of the fall separated the figure of the girl from the wheelchair. I was<BR>devastated and vowed to have it repaired. Later that same day, Michelle's mother<BR>called to tell me that her daughter's heart had simply stopped beating and she<BR>had peacefully slipped away in the early hours before dawn.<BR>I have since thrown the ceramic wheelchair away and the little girl sits on the<BR>edge of the shelf with her legs dangling over the side. She's smiling toward the<BR>sky. I always think of Michelle on warm, windy days. I imagine her running<BR>through the clouds with a kite dancing above her!<BR>Grandfather's Clock<BR>by Kathy Fasiq<BR>In the dining room of my grandfather's house stood a massive grandfather clock.<BR>Meals in that dining room were a time for four generations to become one. The<BR>table was always spread with food from wonderful family recipes all containing<BR>love as the main ingredient. And always that grandfather clock stood like a<BR>trusted old family friend, watching over the laughter and story swapping and<BR>gentle kidding that were a part of our lives.<BR>As a child, the old clock fascinated me. I watched and listened to it during meals.<BR>I marveled at how at different times of the day, that clock would chime three<BR>times, six times or more, with a wonderful resonant sound that echoed<BR>throughout the house. I found the clock comforting. Familiar. Year after year, the<BR>clock chimed, a part of my memories, a part of my heart.<BR>Even more wonderful to me was my grandfather's ritual. He meticulously wound<BR>that clock with a special key each day. That key was magic to me. It kept our<BR>family's magnificent clock ticking and chiming, a part of every holiday and every<BR>tradition, as solid as the wood from which it was made. I remember watching as<BR>my grand-father took the key from his pocket and opened the hidden door in the<BR>massive old clock. He inserted the key and wound-not too much, never overwind,<BR>he'd tell me solemnly. Nor too little. He never let that clock wind down and stop.<BR>When we grandkids got a little older, he showed us how to open the door to the<BR>grandfather clock and let us each take a turn winding the key. I remember the<BR>first time I did, I trembled with anticipation. To be part of this family ritual was<BR>sacred.<BR>After my beloved grandfather died, it was several days after the funeral before I<BR>remembered the clock!<BR>"Mama! The clock! We've let it wind down."<BR>The tears flowed freely when I entered the dining room. The clock stood forlornly<BR>quiet. As quiet as the funeral parlor had been. Hushed. The clock even seemed<BR>smaller. Not quite as magnificent without my grandfather's special touch. I<BR>couldn't bear to look at it.<BR>Sometime later, years later, my grandmother gave me the clock and the key. The<BR>old house was quiet. No bowls clanging, no laughter over the dinner table, no<BR>ticking or chiming of the clock-all was still. The hands on the clock were frozen, a<BR>reminder of time slipping away, stopped at the precise moment when my<BR>grandfather had ceased winding it. I took the key in my shaking hand and opened<BR>the clock door. All of a sudden, I was a child again, watching my grandfather with<BR>his silver-white hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was there, winking at me, at the<BR>secret of the clock's magic, at the key that held so much power. I stood, lost in<BR>the moment for a long time. Then slowly, reverently, I inserted the key and<BR>wound the clock. It sprang to life. Tick-tock, tick-tock, life and chimes were<BR>breathed into the dining room, into the house and into my heart. In the<BR>movement of the hands of the clock, my grandfather lived again.<BR>The First Day of Middle School<BR>By Patty Hansen<BR>My stomach tied in knots, and I could feel the sweat soaking through my T-shirt.<BR>My hands were clammy as I spun the face of my combination lock. I tried and<BR>tried to remember the numbers, and every time I thought I had it, the lock<BR>wouldn't open. Around and around went the numbers, left, right, right,<BR>left...which way was it supposed to go? I couldn't make it work. I gave up and<BR>started to run down the hallway. As I ran, the hall seemed to get longer and<BR>longer...the door I trying to reach was farther away than when I had started. I<BR>began to sweat even worse, then I could feel the tears forming. I was late, late,<BR>late for my first class on my first day of middle school. As I ran, people were<BR>watching me and they were laughing...laughing...laughing...then the bell rang! In<BR>my dream, it was the school bell. But as I sat up in bed, I realized that it was my<BR>alarm clock jarring me awake.<BR>I was having the dream again. I started having the dream around the end of the<BR>sixth grade, and as the start of seventh grade grew closer, the more I had the<BR>dream. This time the dream was even more real, because today was the first day<BR>of seventh grade.<BR>In my heart, I knew I never would make it. Everything was too different. School,<BR>friends - even my own body.<BR>I was used to walking to school, and now I had to walk six blocks to the bus stop<BR>so that I could take the bus to and from school. I hated buses. They made me<BR>carsick from the jiggling and the smell of the fuel.<BR>I had to get up for school earlier than in the past, partly because of having to be<BR>bussed to school and partly because I had to take better care of myself now that<BR>I was in my preteen years. My mom told me I would have to shower every<BR>morning since my hormones were kicking in - that's why I perspired so easily.<BR>I was totally uncomfortable with my body. My feet didn't want to respond to my<BR>own directions, and I tripped a lot. I constantly had a sprained ankle, wet armpits<BR>and things stuck in my braces. I felt awkward, smelly, insecure and like I had bad<BR>breath on a full-time basis.<BR>In middle school, I would have to learn the rules and personalities of six different<BR>teachers instead of just one. There would be different kids in all my classes, kids I<BR>didn't even know. I had never made friends very easily, and now I would have to<BR>start all over again.<BR>I would have to run to my locker between classes, remembering my combination,<BR>open it, put in the books from the last class and take out different books...and<BR>make it to the next class all within five minutes!<BR>I was also scared because of some stories I had heard about the first day of<BR>middle school, like being canned by the eighth-graders. That's when a bunch of<BR>eighth-graders pick you up and put you in a trash can. I had also heard that<BR>when eighth-grade girls catch a new seventh-grader in the girls' bathroom alone,<BR>they smear her with lipstick. Neither one of these first-day activities sounded like<BR>something I wanted to take part in.<BR>No one had ever told me that growing up was going to be so hard, so scary, so<BR>unwelcome, so...unexpected. I was the oldest kid in my family - in fact, in my<BR>entire neighborhood - and no one had been there before me, to help lead me<BR>through the challenges of middle school.<BR>I was on my own.<BR>The first day of school was almost everything I feared. I didn't remember my<BR>combination. I wrote the combination on my hand, but my hand was so sweaty it<BR>came off. I was late to every class. I didn't have enough time to finish my lunch;<BR>I had just sat down to eat when the bell rang to go back to class. I almost choked<BR>on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich as I ran down the dreaded hallway. The<BR>classrooms and the teachers were a blur. I wasn't sure what teacher went with<BR>which subject and they had all assigned homework...on the very first day of<BR>school! I couldn't believe it.<BR>But the first day wasn't like my dream in another way. In my dream, all the other<BR>kids had it together and I was the only one who was the nerd. In real life, I<BR>wasn't the only one who was late for classes. Everyone else was late, too. No one<BR>could remember their combination either, except Ted Milliken, the kid who carried<BR>a briefcase to school. After most of the kids realized that everyone else was going<BR>through the same thing they were going through, we all started cracking up. We<BR>were bumping into each other in our rush to get to the next class, and books<BR>were flying everywhere. No one got canned or smeared - at least no one I knew.<BR>I still didn't go into the girls' bathroom alone, just in case. Yeah, there was<BR>laughter in the hallway, but most of it was the laughter of kids sharing a common<BR>experience: complete hysteria!<BR>As the weeks went by, it became easier and easier. Pretty soon I could twirl my<BR>combination without even looking at it. I hung posters in my locker, and finally<BR>felt like I was at home. I learned all my teacher's names and decided who I liked<BR>the best. Friendships from elementary school were renewed and made stronger,<BR>and new friends were made. I learned how to change into a gym suit in front of<BR>other girls. It never felt comfortable, but I did it - just like everyone else did. I<BR>don't think any of us felt very comfortable.<BR>I still didn't like the bus; it did make me carsick. I even threw up on the bus<BR>once. (At least it was on the way home, not on the way to school.) I went to<BR>dances and parties, and I started to wonder what it would feel like to be kissed by<BR>a boy. The school had track tryouts, and I made the team and learned how to<BR>jump the low hurdles. I got pretty good at it, too.<BR>First semester turned into second, and then third. Before I knew it, eighth grade<BR>was just around the corner. I had made it through.<BR>Next year, on the first day of school, I would be watching the new seventhgraders sweating it out just like I did - just like everyone does. I decided that I<BR>would feel sorry for them...but only for the FIRST day of seventh grade. After<BR>that, it's a breeze.<BR>Something Special<BR>By Pam Bumpus<BR>"I would do something special for her. Not take out the trash without being<BR>reminded. Something special, something I wouldn't ordinarily do." With tears<BR>streaming down his face, the gentleman had just answered the reporter's<BR>question, "What would you do differently if you had known you might not see<BR>your wife again?"<BR>Now, I personally think this is a pretty crappy question to ask anyone, much less<BR>the husband of a victim of a terrorist attack. The reporter seemed to have no<BR>compassion for this man whose wife's plane had been flown into the World Trade<BR>Center.<BR>"I'm just glad I kissed her good-bye and told her I loved her this morning," he<BR>managed to choke out.<BR>Of course, we would all act differently if we knew time together with our spouse<BR>was running out. My anger at the insensitive reporter simmered along with the<BR>disbelief and fear that had become part of my life since watching the results of<BR>the attack on America. "Stupid guy," I muttered to myself, switching off the<BR>television. Maybe I needed a break. I have that luxury. I can turn off the pictures<BR>of the devastated buildings, despondent relatives and harried rescue workers.<BR>But could I turn off my feelings? My husband Alan and I farm. He was cutting a<BR>field of soybeans that afternoon. I decided to go take pictures of the American<BR>flag he had mounted on the back of our combine. With terrorists trying to cripple<BR>our nation, we wanted to show our support: The American farmer was still hard<BR>at work.<BR>Back at the house, starting a load of laundry, I found myself thinking about that<BR>interview. 'I would do something special,' played over and over in my mind. That<BR>gentleman would never have that opportunity now, but I did. I hope Alan and I<BR>have another forty years together. But there are no guarantees. Tomorrows are<BR>not guaranteed.<BR>'Something I wouldn't ordinarily do.' Well, his pickup could sure use a good<BR>cleaning. So I got to it. After about thirty minutes of vacuuming and scrubbing<BR>the interior, I was ready to wash the outside. I had one little problem: Starting<BR>the power washer was a bit tricky. You had to choke the motor just enough, and<BR>the idle had to be set just so. The possibility of getting jerked on the recoil was<BR>significant. 'Something special...'Grabbing the rope pull I tackled it head on.<BR>Suddenly it was very important to me to accomplish this surprise for Alan.<BR>Several attempts later, with no success and an aching arm, I thought I might not<BR>succeed. 'Lord,' I prayed silently, 'I could sure use your help. I want to get this<BR>started so I can finish this for Alan. I really want to do this for him.'<BR>The guilt hit immediately. How could I bother our Lord at a time like this?<BR>Thousands were praying for their loved ones. Much more important prayers<BR>needed his attention right now. "I'm sorry, Lord," I whispered. How could I be so<BR>selfish? I had spent a lot of time in prayer over the past three days, asking for<BR>comfort for the victims' families, strength for our nation's leaders and healing for<BR>all of us. My request for help now was automatic. I always ask for help when<BR>facing a difficult task. But it just didn't seem right to do so today.<BR>Defeat didn't seem an option either, so I pulled the rope one more time. The<BR>motor sputtered to life.<BR>Yes, Alan was surprised and grateful when he saw his pickup. And I was surprised<BR>and grateful for the important lessons I learned that day. First of all, despite his<BR>tactless approach, the reporter brought home a very important point. Through his<BR>pain, the man who lost his spouse taught me to cherish mine. I will look for those<BR>"special" things to do for Alan.<BR>Secondly, and maybe more importantly, God does care about us, all of us. He<BR>hears the prayers of those whose suffering seems unbearable. He cares. And he<BR>hears those of us who need a little boost when we have set out to do something<BR>special for someone we love.<BR>Hungry for Your Love<BR>by Herman and Roma Rosenblat<BR>As told to Barbara DeAngelis, Ph.D.<BR>It is cold, so bitter cold, on this dark, winter day in 1942. But it is no different<BR>from any other day in this Nazi concentration camp. I stand shivering in my thin<BR>rags, still in disbelief that this nightmare is happening. I am just a young boy. I<BR>should be playing with friends; I should be going to school; I should be looking<BR>forward to a future, to growing up and marrying, and having a family of my own.<BR>But those dreams are for the living, and I am no longer one of them. Instead, I<BR>am almost dead, surviving from day to day, from hour to hour, ever since I was<BR>taken from my home and brought here with tens of thousands other Jews. Will I<BR>still be alive tomorrow? Will I be taken to the gas chamber tonight?<BR>Back and forth I walk next to the barbed wire fence, trying to keep my emaciated<BR>body warm. I am hungry, but I have been hungry for longer than I want to<BR>remember. I am always hungry. Edible food seems like a dream. Each day as<BR>more of us disappear, the happy past seems like a mere dream, and I sink<BR>deeper and deeper into despair. Suddenly, I notice a young girl walking past on<BR>the other side of the barbed wire. She stops and looks at me with sad eyes, eyes<BR>that seem to say that she understands, that she, too, cannot fathom why I am<BR>here. I want to look away, oddly ashamed for this stranger to see me like this,<BR>but I cannot tear my eyes from hers.<BR>Then she reaches into her pocket, and pulls out a red apple. A beautiful, shiny red<BR>apple. Oh, how long has it been since I have seen one! She looks cautiously to<BR>the left and to the right, and then with a smile of triumph, quickly throws the<BR>apple over the fence. I run to pick it up, holding it in my trembling, frozen fingers.<BR>In my world of death, this apple is an expression of life, of love. I glance up in<BR>time to see the girl disappearing into the distance.<BR>The next day, I cannot help myself-I am drawn at the same time to that spot<BR>near the fence. Am I crazy for hoping she will come again? Of course. But in here,<BR>I cling to any tiny scrap of hope. She has given me hope and I must hold tightly<BR>to it.<BR>And again, she comes. And again, she brings me an apple, flinging it over the<BR>fence with that same sweet smile.<BR>This time I catch it, and hold it up for her to see. Her eyes twinkle. Does she pity<BR>me? Perhaps. I do not care, though. I am just so happy to gaze at her. And for<BR>the first time in so long, I feel my heart move with emotion.<BR>For seven months, we meet like this. Sometimes we exchange a few words.<BR>Sometimes, just an apple. But she is feeding more than my belly, this angel from<BR>heaven. She is feeding my soul. And somehow, I know I am feeding hers as well.<BR>One day, I hear frightening news: we are being shipped to another camp. This<BR>could mean the end for me. And it definitely means the end for me and my friend.<BR>The next day when I greet her, my heart is breaking, and I can barely speak as I<BR>say what must be said: "Do not bring me an apple tomorrow," I tell her. "I am<BR>being sent to another camp. We will never see each other again." Turning before<BR>I lose all control, I run away from the fence. I cannot bear to look back. If I did, I<BR>know she would see me standing there, with tears streaming down my face.<BR>Months pass and the nightmare continues. But the memory of this girl sustains<BR>me through the terror, the pain, the hopelessness. Over and over in my mind, I<BR>see her face, her kind eyes, I hear her gentle words, I taste those apples.<BR>And then one day, just like that, the nightmare is over. The war has ended. Those<BR>of us who are still alive are freed. I have lost everything that was precious to me,<BR>including my family. But I still have the memory of this girl, a memory I carry in<BR>my heart and gives me the will to go on as I move to America to start a new life.<BR>Years pass. It is 1957. I am living in New York City. A friend convinces me to go<BR>on a blind date with a lady friend of his. Reluctantly, I agree. But she is nice, this<BR>woman named Roma. And like me, she is an immigrant, so we have at least that<BR>in common.<BR>"Where were you during the war?" Roma asks me gently, in that delicate way<BR>immigrants ask one another questions about those years.<BR>"I was in a concentration camp in Germany," I reply.<BR>Roma gets a far away look in her eyes, as if she is remembering something<BR>painful yet sweet.<BR>"What is it?" I ask.<BR>"I am just thinking about something from my past, Herman," Roma explains in a<BR>voice suddenly very soft. "You see, when I was a young girl, I lived near a<BR>concentration camp. There was a boy there, a prisoner, and for a long while, I<BR>used to visit him every day. I remember I used to bring him apples. I would<BR>throw the apple over the fence, and he would be so happy."<BR>Roma sighs heavily and continues. "It is hard to describe how we felt about each<BR>other-after all, we were young, and we only exchanged a few words when we<BR>could-but I can tell you, there was much love there. I assume he was killed like<BR>so many others. But I cannot bear to think that, and so I try to remember him as<BR>he was for those months we were given together."<BR>With my heart pounding so loudly I think it wil1 explode, I look directly at Roma<BR>and ask, "And did that boy say to you one day, 'Do not bring me an apple<BR>tomorrow. I am being sent to another camp'?"<BR>"Why, yes," Roma responds, her voice trembling.<BR>"But, Herman, how on earth could you possibly know that?"<BR>I take her hands in mine and answer, "Because I was that young boy, Roma."<BR>For many moments, there is only silence. We cannot take our eyes from each<BR>other, and as the veils of time lift, we recognize the soul behind the eyes, the<BR>dear friend we once loved so much, whom we have never stopped loving, whom<BR>we have never stopped remembering.<BR>Finally, I speak: "Look, Roma, I was separated from you once, and I don't ever<BR>want to be separated from you again. Now, I am free, and I want to be together<BR>with you forever. Dear, will you marry me?"<BR>I see that same twinkle in her eye that I used to see as Roma says, "Yes, I will<BR>marry you," and we embrace, the embrace we longed to share for so many<BR>months, but barbed wire came between us. Now, nothing ever will again.<BR>Almost forty years have passed since that day when I found my Roma again.<BR>Destiny brought us together the first time during the war to show me a promise<BR>of hope and now it had reunited us to fulfill that promise.<BR>Valentine's Day, 1996. I bring Roma to the Oprah Winfrey Show to honor her on<BR>national television. I want to tell her in front of millions of people what I feel in<BR>my heart every day:<BR>"Darling, you fed me in the concentration camp when I was hungry. And I am still<BR>hungry, for something I will never get enough of: I am only hungry for your<BR>love."<BR>
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