Read Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Kim was racing against two other athletes with cerebral palsy. They were in wheelchairs; Kim was the lone runner. As the gun sounded, Kim moved quickly ahead of the other two. Twenty yards ahead and 10 yards from the finish line, he turned to see how the others were coming. The girl had turned her wheelchair around and was stuck against the wall. The other boy was pushing his wheelchair backward with his feet. Kim stopped, went back and pushed the little girl across the finish line. The boy in the wheelchair going backward won the race. The girl took second. Kim lost.
Or did he? The crowd that gave Kim a standing ovation didn’t think so.
Dan Clark
I was already nervous. There I was, standing in line at a White House state dinner—yes, that White House— about to shake hands with President and Mrs. Bush, trying to hold my smile in place and think of something intelligent to say. Lost in my thoughts, I heard my husband’s voice. “Oh, Christine would love to make her a pair.” I looked up just in time to see the president staring down at my husband’s shoes. The dark, hand-painted tennis shoes were not what most people would expect to find as the accompanying foot gear for a tuxedo. Over the years, while my husband, Wally Amos, was out promoting his “famous” chocolate chip cookies, I’d created unique works of art on his clothes, including my most recent venture into footwear.
The next few seconds remain a blur to this day, but the upshot is that Wally volunteered me to paint a pair of sneakers for the president’s wife, Barbara. My first reaction was, “Thanks, honey. Maybe you’d like to handle all the household chores for a week while I create executive sneakers,” followed by the assumption that it was all small talk, and wasn’t it nice that the president of the United States had noticed my husband’s sneakers. Nevertheless, a week later a special delivery package from the White House arrived with a pair of the first lady’s sneakers for me to paint on and a “knock yourself out” note.
Oh well,
I thought to myself,
it is for the first lady.
Of course, once I realized that this was real, I completely got into it. I painted pictures of Millie the dog, the grandkids, books (for Mrs. Bush’s support of literacy), rainbows, suns, palm trees—on the tongues, the sides, the laces. Those shoes were truly works of art by the time they winged their way back to Washington, and I was proud of them.
Suddenly, I found myself checking the mail on a regular basis to see what the response was. A few weeks later, I got a very warm, handwritten note from the first lady, thanking me profusely and telling me how wonderful the shoes were.
But it didn’t end there. Months later, my husband was back at the White House for a library luncheon at which Mrs. Bush was to speak. Just before the luncheon, when she found out that Wally was to be in attendance, Mrs. Bush had an aide get the magic tennies. She put them on, had pictures taken with Wally—of course he had his on— and then kept them on for the luncheon. There stood Mrs. Bush, with her dignified first lady attire, and her newly painted tennis shoes. I was thrilled again.
My outgoing husband is always seizing an opportunity. This time, he gets my thanks for making a lasting memory for me. I hope those bright and cheery sneakers are still in the Bush closet somewhere—that is, if Millie hasn’t used them for chew toys by now.
Christine Harris-Amos with Cliff Marsh
A
nd all the loveliest things there be come simply, so it seems to me.
Edna St.Vincent Millay
In fifth grade I sat at a desk third row from the left, second seat in front, with my hands folded and my feet on the floor. Pastor Beikman served up the commandments every morning and we learned to chew them, swallow them and fear them. This was the essence of my early education: study, memorize, recite. Parochial school grounded me in uniforms and conventions, in a world of curriculum where men were cherished and women were invisible. Men discovered new lands, explained the laws of the universe and wrote the Bible. But it was a woman who quickened my soul and invited me to look deeply at life, to love sincerely and to see God in everything.
One morning the pastor announced he was changing duties and leaving the school staff. He introduced us to our replacement teacher, Miss Newhart, and a ripple of excitement filled the room. A tall woman with a beehive hairdo, platform shoes and a skirt that almost showed her knees, Miss Newhart was powerful and light all at once. Her hands, big and freckled like a robin’s breast, spoke with gestures large enough to fill the air around us. From a sack the size of a suitcase, she handed a feather to each student and told us they were gifts from their original owners—birds who’d cast off their excess plumage and left behind the things they no longer needed to carry. That morning our world changed, and soon, so too would we.
In history class that day, Miss Newhart told the story of Christopher Columbus. Having been at sea too long, the sailors on his ship became restive and demanded a port. There was talk of mutiny, and Columbus was said to have feared for his life. Then one morning, a feather floated down from the sky above, a sign that land was near. Miss Newhart said the sailors spied more gulls, screeching and whirling in the air, then quite dramatically she flung out her arms and the plump, freckled skin of her triceps quivered just a bit. She turned quick circles so that her skirt flung out flapping at her thighs and her feet went round fast. I thought she, too, might lift up and fly. She helped me see what those sailors must have seen: there is hope even in the smallest of things.
The next morning, Miss Newhart’s sack was bulging at the seams. Inside it there was a poster of
The Last Supper,
a paintbrush, a compass and a long cylindrical tube. From the tube she pulled out a black and white drawing and tacked it on the particle board. It was a circle with a man inside, his arms stretched wide against the circumference, feet splayed at the bottom; dimensions, figures, designs and numbers were scrawled across the sheet. “Da Vinci,” she said in a whisper, “was more than a painter. He studied subjects until he knew them well: man, nature, science, math...”
“Did he know anything about feathers?” I asked. The woman with the beehive hairdo loved that question.
A pioneer in the science of aerodynamics, Leonardo da Vinci studied feathers. When viewed from the top, a feather appears convex, arched delicately up and out, allowing the air to flow over it without resistance. When feathers are put together, as a wing, they create an airfoil, something that provides just the right resistance against the air as it moves through the feathers. Miss Newhart, who was more than a teacher, and da Vinci, who was more than a painter, showed me how to see the extraordinary in a small thing.
Later that day, Miss Newhart took us beyond the confines of the school walls to a nearby field, wide and high with weeds. There we lay among the blonde grasses and covered our bodies with sticks, leaves and stalks. These became our nests, windows to the sky. Hidden there we learned to be quiet, to rest and watch, to let the bugs crawl over and beyond us, to listen for the birds and study their movements.
In the afternoon, Miss Newhart stood at the door as we were leaving, touched each of us on the shoulder and said “Good-bye” or “God bless.” I remember how warm and light her hands were. She often asked me to stay awhile, to straighten the chairs, put away ruffled papers, and dust chalk from the board. During one of those grace-filled afternoons, I shared a troubled thought I had been keeping secret. I told Miss Newhart that I might love birds more than I loved God, a sin according to the commandments. My teacher rummaged through her cluttered desk, found her Bible, flipped it open to the Psalms and read, “He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.” She wrote down the little verse and handed it to me. I have it still. I didn’t know what rampart meant—it didn’t really matter—but something deep inside of me awakened: I was given full permission to love things deeply, for God was in all things and had given them to me. On the way home that afternoon I imagined I could fly. I ran full speed, arms outstretched and legs behind me, skimming the sidewalks as though I were a bird.
Around my neck I wear a gold charm—a bird, given to me when I was younger. That bird’s wings have become my symbol. They remind me of those sidewalks I flew over all those years before, and of the roads I’ve traveled since. And I have become more of a feather myself as the years have flown by: I am less resistant to what life offers up, and the pressures flow over me much more easily. As a teacher, I’ve guided children through the sometimes rough waters of fractions, spelling lessons and self-doubt. I have led them to safe shores when they were lost. I’ve learned to rest in quiet places now and then, and to leave behind the things I no longer need to carry, like grudges, sorrows and regrets. I have an inner strength, a gentle state of being, and I believe with all my heart no rampart will thwart me.
Melody Arnett
According to my friends and associates, I’m secure, educated, modestly intelligent, organized and creative. But for most of my adult life, for 14 days out of each year, I felt exactly the opposite of those attributes. What brought this on, you ask? Not PMS, but worse—my parents’ annual visit. Being separated from them by 1,600 miles for 351 days a year, I got on with my life quite well, being wife, mother, volunteer and businesswoman. But my parents’ annual visits were excruciating for me.
The story is an old one—the first-born child who could never live up to her father’s expectations. In the eyes of others I was pleasantly successful in my endeavors, but not to Dad. And I spent most of my life resenting him for that, and deep in my psyche, resenting myself.
Not only did I suffer during my parents’ visits, but so did everyone around me. Certainly my sweet husband of 32 years, Dave, suffered along with me. For weeks before the visit, I’d scour the house, nag my husband to do little fix-up jobs, buy new drapes, pillows, sheets—and generally turn our household budget on its ear. I’d plan gourmet meals, bake till the freezer was full and hound my children about rooms, etiquette and raising their voices. During the visit, an ever-present aura of tension surrounded me like a gossamer veil. (Maybe it was more like a wet, wool blanket!) After the visit, nights of discussions with my hubby ensued. I would try to decipher what was, and wasn’t, said by my father. And I would cry myself to sleep, inconsolable, the child of rejection and exhaustion. Thirty-two years of marriage can have its ups and downs, but the one
real
test of Dave’s love was helping me survive those visits!
When I reached my 40s, immortality (or the lack of it) began to rear its nagging little head. I’d been into the study of spirituality for several years, sort of a peripheral investigation of ideas. I was a closet psychic, not about to acknowledge it publicly. However, every year for 14 days, my spirituality deserted me, and I was left as naked, defenseless and vulnerable as a five-year-old child.
Then one year Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. In a short time he turned from the vital, intelligent, athletic god of my childhood into a stumbling, gaunt, confused old man. With the clock ticking faster than ever for both of us, I came to the realization that before Dad left this life, I had to mend our broken relationship and let go of my feelings about never living up to his expectations. But how? I’d tried everything I could think of. The only thing left was to forgive him.
So I did. Just saying aloud, “I forgive you,” changed my whole inner experience from self-doubt to peacefulness. I let go of “should have,” “could have” and “I wish.” In the process I forgave me, too.
I never told my dad that I had forgiven him, but it must have been apparent to him on some level because our entire relationship changed.
The summer before Dad died, he came alone to stay with us for two weeks in August. On my part, there was no maniacal cleaning or sheet buying or tension. Because I had forgiven him, I could now talk with him as a friend and a companion—not as a resentful, disappointed, wounded daughter. We talked about his life, marriage and war experiences, and about his love of trees and animals. For the first time in our lives, he told me he admired my intuitiveness and intelligence, and how he loved the feel of our home and the beautiful gardens we grew. Together we explored some alternative healing techniques and he shared some startling psychic events that had occurred in his life. Most stunning of all, he told me for the first time that he loved me.
My father never came to my home again. After he died, my mother had a video shot with pictures of Dad’s lifetime, complete with music. I see the video case now, as I look up from my writing, tucked into the bookshelf. I’ve never watched it. My life with my father was two weeks in August. My memories are of Dad, sitting in the wicker chair on the porch, amidst streams of sunshine and overflowing flowerpots, joking, talking, sharing—and loving me.
Complete and unconditional forgiveness brought me soul-soothing peace and opened the door to a life I never dreamed possible.
Now, in addition to being wife, mother, gram my and psychic counselor, I’m a
whole person
365 days a year.
Rosemarie Giessinger
“Honey, someone left a coat in your mother’s closet,” I called to my husband. The faux-leopard jacket was tucked in the back of the closet against the wall, out of place among the dark coats and sweaters. I wondered who would hide clothes in my mother-in-law’s closet. We were there to get a winter coat for her because she was coming home from the hospital, a week after being rushed to the emergency room.