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Soup-like stories
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| posted by The Crone 886 days ago |
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Since I get all these heart-warming stories, I thought I'd start this thread for more of the same 
Ballerina Dog
By Jackie Tortoriello
One April afternoon a few days after my twenty-first birthday, my parents announced that they were ready to give me - their live-at-home, frazzled, college-student daughter - a belated birthday present.
Wheelchair-bound since birth, I propelled myself from my bedroom into the living room where my parents anxiously waited.
"Bring it on! Good things come to those who wait," I joked, as I closed my eyes and extended my hands waiting to feel the weight of a beautifully wrapped gift.
"Why are you holding out your hands?" my dad laughed. "Your gift isn't coming in a box this year."
"Huh?" I opened my eyes to study the glee stamped on both of their usually calm faces. "I know! It must be that handicapped-accessible van I've been praying for!"
"No, it's not a van, but it's almost as good," my mom chuckled. Then she said more seriously, "Jackie, we know you were devastated when Buck passed last year. We all were. He was a great dog. But we think our house has been void of doggy joy long enough. It's time to hear puppy noises again."
"So today, right now, in fact," my dad broke in, "we're going to a place where you'll be able to select the puppy of your choice."
"But," I stammered, but there was no time for protest as he scooped me out of my chair and into our car. My parents chatted to each other while I sat in the back, desperately trying to quell overwhelming waves of sadness.
Sadness because not so long ago, this trip would have seemed incomprehensible - a betrayal. After all, it had been only seven months since Buck lay on my cold bathroom floor drawing his last breaths. Seven months since I slid from my chair onto the floor, gently caressing his gray-streaked black-and-white fur, as his spirit passed from this world to the next. Sobbing, I vowed to him and to myself that I would never get another dog . . . but now here I was, about to break that promise.
Finally, my father turned to me and asked, "It'll be nice to hear the pitter-patter of paws again, won't it?"
"Yeah," I said flatly, trying to conjure up the excitement he'd expected. But I couldn't. Tears began to roll down my cheeks. I wiped them away quickly as my father, unaware of my tenuous emotional state, continued.
"When we get there, should we make a beeline to the shih tzu puppies? I know they're your favorites."
My favorite was Buck, I thought, not his breed. Buck, my constant companion, who climbed up on my lap and, like a salve, soothed my spastic, palsied muscles in a way that no drug ever could.
"Buck is irreplaceable!" I wanted to scream, but I held back, opting for something kinder. "Breeds don't really matter. It's their heart that counts. I'll look at them all." I paused, then continued as we pulled into the parking lot, "Who knows? I may not find any and walk out empty-handed." I wanted to prepare my parents for this possibility.
"I doubt that," Dad smiled at me, as he plopped me in my chair and headed toward the building, "but we'll see."
A chorus of barks and howls heralded our arrival, as a friendly employee offered to show us the available puppies. My parents accepted, but I lagged behind, gazing at the other dogs, shimmying and shaking, pleading to be released from their four-walled prisons. I smiled, but held myself in check, determined to keep my vow. Until .
Until I saw my father's face shining like the noonday sun. "Over here," he called to me.
Intrigued, my heart began to race, as I pushed toward the pen where my parents stood. Struggling to get a better look, I hoisted myself up, my legs tightening with the effort. There, nestled in the pen, were two angelic shih tzus. The male, a fluffy caramel and white pup, was gregarious and charged right at me. His smaller sister, a beautiful midnight-black-and-white puppy, was more demure, waiting for me to lean in a bit, before licking my nose. Aww, she looks like Buck, I said silently, my heart beginning to soften. Then suddenly, before I knew what was happening, my resolve toppled. I was hooked.
"Well, it looks like we won't be going home empty-handed," my mother said, as if voicing my thoughts.
"Wonderful." My father was pleased. "Which one?"
I was leaning toward the male; he was obviously the alpha and far more playful. Yet the girl was so tiny, her ebony eyes captivating and sweet.
I held them both, the male against the center of my chest, while the female lay curled in the warmth of my lap. It was nearly closing time as the male nibbled the ends of my hair, and the female slept serenely against my atrophied legs. Still, I was hopelessly undecided.
The employee, observing my deadlock, lowered his voice to a whisper and said, "Look, if I were you, I'd take the boy because the female's disabled. Her legs are deformed; she stands like a ballerina in first position."
Stunned at his insensitivity, my eyes widened. Hadn't he seen my legs or the wheelchair I sat in? I wondered.
Noticing my _expression, the employee continued, "I don't mean to upset you, but she'll need constant care. And the last thing you probably need is another pile of doctor bills."
Wanting to prove him wrong, I placed her on her feet. Instantly, her two bowed legs scissored, as she strained to keep her balance. Yet, despite her valiant effort, her tiny disabled legs faltered and she tumbled onto her side.
"See her legs cross?" he said quietly. "She's our little ballerina dog."
My eyes glistened as I listened to her tiny panting. I knew her struggle far too well. I recalled those times when I had used all my strength to stand upright - and that glorious second when I stood tall - only to come crashing down. I wanted to take her, but the employee was right: could I really afford her care?
"Okay . . . I'll take him," I said sadly.
As we were saying our good-byes to the little female, she struggled back up. Her eyes bursting with determination, she pushed her brother out of the way and then carefully placed one foot in front of the other, as she began her slow, steady ascent across my lap and up my shirt. She wobbled and stumbled but didn't stop until she rested against my heart.
Laughing and crying at the same time, I whispered, "I hear you, ballerina dog. You're coming home with me." Contented, she closed her eyes, knowing her mission was complete. We would manage whatever care she needed; it would all work out.
"Excuse me, sir," I announced loudly, "there's been a change of plans. I'm taking Ballerina Dog."
Reprinted by permission of Jackie Tortoriello (c) 2004 from Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marty Becker, D.V.M., Carol Kline and Amy D. Shojai. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
I dream again
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| posted by Lady G 886 days ago |
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OMG, Crone, I am a sucker for this kind of story!!! 
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| posted by The Crone 886 days ago |
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 I'll post more when I get them...
I dream again
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| posted by Lady G 886 days ago |
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Noooooooooooooooooooo!! I cannae tek it!! Too much blubbing!!
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| posted by The Crone 883 days ago |
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Gandalf, don't read this..it is sad, yet uplifting...
"Mr. Peterson"
She was six years old when I first met her on the
beach near where I
live. I
drive to this beach, a distance of three or four
miles, whenever the
world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand
castle or something
and
looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to
bother with a small
child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really
caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us
joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I
muttered to
myself,
hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed;
my life seemed
completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her
musical giggle
followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another
happy day."
The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy
Scouts, PTA
meetings,
and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning
as I took my
hands
out of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to
myself, gathering
up my
coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me.
The breeze was
chilly
but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I
needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of
annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't
know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her
face. "Where do
you
live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer
cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the
beach, but my mind
was
on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it
had been a happy
day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and
agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of
near panic. I
was in
no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her
mother on the porch
and
felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy
caught up with me,
"I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and
out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!"
and thought, My
God,
why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and
-- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with
myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding,
wrapped up in myself.
I
strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the
beach, she wasn't
there.
Feeling guilty, ashamed, and admitting to myself I
missed her, I went
up to
the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A
drawn looking
young
woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your
little girl today
and
wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of
you so much. I'm
afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a
nuisance, please,
accept
my apologies."
"Not at all -- she's a delightful child." I said,
suddenly realizing
that I
meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had
leukemia. Maybe she
didn't
tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my
breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we
couldn't say no.
She
seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she
called happy days.
But
the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice
faltered, "She
left
something for you, if only I can find it. Could you
wait a moment
while I
look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say
to this lovely
young
woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P"
printed in bold
childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright
crayon hues -- a
yellow
beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was
carefully
printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had
almost forgotten to
love
opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm
so sorry, I'm so
sorry,
I'm so sorry," I uttered over and over, and we wept
together. The
precious
little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
Six words -- one
for
each year of her life -- that speak to me of harmony,
courage, and
undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the
color of sand
-- who taught me the gift of love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert
Peterson. It happened
over 20
years ago and the incident changed his life forever.
I dream again
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| posted by bunthorne 883 days ago |
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Rather an incongruous story.
I'm afraid the days are long gone when a stranger can talk to a six-year old girl on a beach without fear of reprisal.
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| posted by The Crone 882 days ago |
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"Grandpa's Hands"
Grandpa, some ninety plus years, sat feebly on the
patio bench. He didn't move, just sat with his head
down staring at his hands. When I sat down beside him
he didn't acknowledge my presence and the longer I sat
I wondered if he was OK. Finally, not really wanting to
disturb him but wanting to check on him at the same
time, I asked him if he was OK.
He raised his head and looked at me and smiled.
"Yes, I'm fine, thank you for asking," he said in a
clear strong voice.
"I didn't mean to disturb you, Grandpa, but you were
just sitting here staring at your hands and I wanted
to make sure you were OK," I explained to him.
"Have you ever looked at your hands," he asked. "I
mean really looked at your hands?"
I slowly opened my hands and stared down
at them. I turned them over, palms up and then palms
down. No, I guess I had never really looked at my
hands as I tried to figure out the point he was
making.
Grandpa smiled and related this story: "Stop and think for a
moment about the hands you have, how they have
served you well throughout your years. These hands,
though wrinkled, shriveled and weak have been the
tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab
and embrace life. They braced and caught my fall when
as a toddler I crashed upon the floor. They put food
in my mouth and clothes on my back.
As a child my Mother taught me to fold them in prayer
They tied my shoes and pulled on my boots. They
held my rifle and wiped my tears when I went off to
war.
They have been dirty, scraped and raw, swollen and
bent.>They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold
my newborn son.Decorated with my wedding band they
showed the world that I was married and loved someone
special.
They wrote the letters home and trembled and shook
when I buried my Parents and Spouse and walked my
Daughter down the aisle. Yet, they were strong and
sure when I dug my buddy out of a foxhole and
lifted a plow off of my best friend's foot. They have
held children, consoled neighbors, and shook in fists
of anger when I didn't understand.
They have covered my face, combed my hair , and
washed and cleansed the rest of my body. They have
been sticky and wet, bent and broken, dried and
raw.And to this day when not much of anything else of
me works real well these hands hold me up, lay me
down, and again continue to fold in prayer. These
hands are the mark of where I've been and the
ruggedness of my life.
I will never look at my hands the same again. But I
remember God reached out and took my Grandpa's hands
and led him home. When my hands are hurt or sore or
when I stroke the face of my children and wife I think
of Grandpa.
I dream again
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| posted by The Crone 878 days ago |
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Just A Few More Minutes…
By Sara Henderson
Just a few more minutes… please, Mommy!”
Although my own children were grown, I found myself turning instinctively in the direction of the little voice.
He was trailing after his mother, looking reluctantly over his shoulder at a display of remote-control toys in the large department store.
He couldn’t have been more than four years old. With chubby cheeks and wispy blond hair, he trotted behind his mother down the main aisle of the department store. His boots caught my eye. They were green. Really green. Bright, shiny, Kermit-the-Frog green. Obviously new and a little too big, these were perfect boots for the rainy transition from summer to fall.
He stopped abruptly at a display of full-length mirrors, lifting one foot at a time, grinning and admiring his boots until his mother called for him to catch up to her.
I smiled at the picture he made clumping noisily behind his mother. I found myself wondering if she had just picked him up from daycare after a busy day in an office somewhere. I sighed as I selected an item and put it in my own cart. My days of trying to juggle a full-time job and two small children had been busy, sometimes even hectic, but I missed them.
Finishing my own shopping, I forgot about the little boy and his mother until I stepped outside the store. There a panorama unfolded before me. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, perforating the numerous puddles in the parking lot. Several mothers with their small children were hurrying in and out of the department store. The children were, of course, making beelines to the puddles that dotted their way from the cars to the store’s entrance. The mothers were right behind them, scolding.
“Get away from that puddle!”
“You’ll ruin your shoes!”
“What’s the matter with you? Are you deaf? I said, Get out of that puddle!”
And so it continued. The children were being pulled away from the puddles and hurried along.
All except for one…the little green-booted boy.
He and his mother were not rushing anywhere. The boy was happily splashing away in the largest puddle in the parking lot, oblivious to the rain and to the people coming and going. His wispy hair was plastered to his head and a huge smile was plastered on his face. And his mother? She put up her umbrella, adjusted her packages and waited. Not scolding, not rushing. Just watching.
As she fished her car keys out of her purse, the boy, hearing the familiar jingling, paused in mid-splash and looked up.
“Just a few more minutes? Please, Mommy?” he begged.
She hesitated, and then she smiled at him. “Okay!” she responded and adjusted her packages again.
By the time I got to my car, loaded my packages and was ready to ease out of my parking space, the green-booted boy and his mother were walking toward their car, smiling and talking.
How many times had my own children begged for “just a few more minutes”?
Had I smiled and waited like the mother of the green-booted boy? Or had I scolded?
Just a few more minutes of giggling and splashing in the bathtub. So what if bedtime got pushed back a little?
Just a few more minutes of rocking a sleepy toddler. So what if toys were strewn around the room, littering the floor?
Just a few more minutes of life with them before they were grown and gone. So what if my career goals didn’t fit my original timeline?
Just a few more minutes. Everything I have read about time management for working mothers can be summed up in the one picture of that young mother standing under her umbrella, arms full of packages, smiling at a wet, green-booted boy who had asked her the universal time-management question for working mothers everywhere, “Just a few more minutes?”
I dream again
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| posted by The Crone 878 days ago |
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There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson...and as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same...
But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn't play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath, and Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs.Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers....
At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise:
Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be around."
His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student. Well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death had been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest. And his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.
Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to." After the children left she cried for at least an hour. On that very day she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life. Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs.Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life. Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer-the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D.
The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he'd met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs.Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom. Of course Mrs.Thompson did.
And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestone missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together. They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs.Thompson's ear, "Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."
I dream again
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| posted by The Crone 877 days ago |
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"
RED MARBLES
Babs Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the ragged boy next to me.
"Hello Barry, how are you today?"
"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas . sure look good."
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like to take some home?"
"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"
"All I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it."
"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"
"Not zackley . but almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."
"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."
I left the stand smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering.
Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts ... all very professional looking.
They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size ... they came to pay their debt."
"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles. Moral: We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds.
Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.
Today . I wish you a day of ordinary miracles ... . A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself .. An unexpected phone call from an old friend .. Green stoplights on your way to work The fastest line at the grocery store . A good sing-along song on the radio . Your keys right where you left them.
They say it takes a minute to find a special person, An hour to appreciate them, A day to love them, But an entire life to forget them.
I dream again
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| posted by The Crone 875 days ago |
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Twinkies and Root Beer
A little boy wanted to meet God. He knew it was a long trip to where God lived, so he packed his suitcase with Twinkies and a six-pack of Root Beer and he started his journey.
When he had gone about three blocks, he met an elderly man. The man was sitting in the park just feeding some pigeons.
The boy sat down next to him and opened his suitcase. He was about to take a drink from his root beer when he noticed that the man looked hungry, so he offered him a Twinkie.
The man gratefully accepted it and smiled at boy. His smile was so pleasant that the boy wanted to see it again, so he offered him a root beer.
Again, the man smiled at him. The boy was delighted! They sat there all afternoon eating and smiling, but they never said a word.
As it grew dark, the boy realized how tired he was and he got up to leave, but before he had gone more than a few steps, he turned around, ran back to the man, and gave him a hug. The man gave him his biggest smile ever.
When the boy opened the door to his own house a short time later, his mother was surprised by the look of joy on his face. She asked him, "What did you do today that made you so happy?
"He replied, "I had lunch with God." But before his mother could respond, he added, "You know what? God's got the most beautiful smile I've ever seen!"
Meanwhile, the elderly man, also radiant with joy, returned to his home. His son was stunned by the look of peace on his face and he asked," Dad, what did you do today that made you so happy?"
He replied, "I ate Twinkies in the park with God." However, before his son responded, he added," You know, he's much younger than I expected."
Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around. People come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Embrace all equally!
~author unknown~
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| posted by The Crone 874 days ago |
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Dumbo
By Laura Vickery Hart
I was the nurse caring for the couple's newborn first child after his cesarean birth. Since the mother was asleep under general anesthesia, the pediatrician and I took our tiny charge directly to the newborn nursery where we introduced the minutes-old baby to his daddy. While cuddling his son for the first time, he immediately noticed the baby's ears conspicuously standing out from his head. He expressed his concern that some kids might taunt his child, calling him names like "Dumbo" after the fictional elephant with unusually large ears. The pediatrician examined the baby and reassured the new dad that his son was healthy - the ears presented only a minor cosmetic problem, which could be easily corrected during early childhood.
The father was finally optimistic about his child, but was still worried about his wife's reaction to those large protruding ears.
"She doesn't take things as easily as I do," he worried.
By this time, the new mother was settled in the recovery room and ready to meet her new baby. I went along with the dad to lend some support in case this inexperienced mother became upset about her baby's large ears. The infant was swaddled in a receiving blanket with the head covered for the short trip through the chilly air-conditioned corridor. I placed the tiny bundle in his mother's arms and eased the blanket back so that she could gaze upon her child for the first time.
She took one look at her baby's face and looked to her husband and gasped, "Oh, Honey! Look! He has your ears!"
Reprinted by permission of Laura Vickery Hart (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Nurse's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Nancy-Mitchell-Autio, R.N. and LeAnn Thieman, L.P.N. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
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| posted by The Crone 870 days ago |
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Several years ago a preacher moved to Houston, Texas. Some weeks after he arrived, he had occasion to ride the bus from his home to the downtown area. When he sat down, he discovered that the driver had accidentally given him a quarter too much change.
As he considered what to do, he thought to himself, you better give the quarter back. It would be wrong to keep it. Then he thought, "Oh, forget it, it's only a quarter. Who would worry about this little amount? Anyway the bus company already gets too much fare; they will never miss it. Accept it as a gift from God and keep quiet."
When his stop came, he paused momentarily at the door, then he handed the quarter to the driver and said, "Here, you gave me too much change."
The driver with a smile, replied, "Aren't you the new preacher in town?
I have been thinking lately about going to worship somewhere. I just wanted to see what you would do if I gave you too much change."
When my friend stepped off the bus, he literally grabbed the nearest light pole, and held on, and said, "O God, I almost sold your Son for a quarter."
Our lives are the only Bible some people will ever read.
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| posted by The Crone 860 days ago |
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Bad Hop
By Steve Smith
The ball pinged off the aluminum bat and headed toward the hole between shortstop and third base, the sort of one-hop screamer that the high-school junior shortstop, my son Chris, had backhanded a thousand times. Only this time, the ball hit a pebble and caromed weirdly toward his head. With a sickening crunch, the ball caught him flush in his left eye, and he went down in a heap. Bad hop, and a bad break.
The ambulance came onto the field, and he was taken away, something that just doesn't seem to happen in the pastoral world of high-school baseball. At the hospital, Chris was diagnosed with a blowout fracture of the bones in the orbit of his eye socket - a classic sports injury easily resolved by a simple surgical procedure.
Except that things went wrong, and when the surgeon finally screwed up his courage enough to tell my wife and me what happened - an undetected blood clot had cut off oxygen to the optic nerve - the long and short of it was that Chris would be blind in his left eye, probably for the rest of his life. In one instant, the college scholarships Chris had contemplated and the dreams of a professional baseball career vanished.
Chris was still groggy from the surgery when we went into his hospital room, his bandaged eye holding a secret we now had to share with him. We chatted about small things until he was alert enough to ask the inevitable, "Did everything go okay?"
My wife, Sue, gripped my hand as I told him that, no, it had not. That there had been complications. That the doctors had done their best, that medicine was still more art than science.
Halfway through my semiprepared speech, Chris interrupted me:
"Dad, am I blind?"
"Yeah, son. I'm afraid so."
"Will I be able to see out of it at all?"
"We don't know - the doctors don't know. Maybe a little. Someday. Not now." It was the toughest thing I've ever had to do.
Chris sort of nodded and looked away toward the window. Outside it was spring, and we listened for a time to a robin's territorial song from a nearby tree.
"Can I have a Coke?"
The duty nurse brought Chris a soft drink in a can with a cup and some ice. His mother poured the drink and he sat up and drank some of it through a straw, and then peered at the can on his bedside table.
"Dad, could you see if they have a pencil and paper I can use?"
I walked outside to the nurses' station and borrowed a notepad and a pencil and returned to Chris's room, where his mother was talking with him in hushed tones. I handed him the pad and pencil, and we elevated his bed. He raised his knees and propped the pad against them, looked at the soda can, and began to draw. Sue and I said nothing as long minutes passed. Finally, he tore off the sheet of paper and handed it to me. We looked at it - a photo-likeness of a Coca-Cola soft-drink can. Chris had always had an uncanny artistic ability: if his eyes could see it, his hand could draw it. We had thought of art as his second love - right behind baseball. In those brief moments, Chris took a bad hop, made a decision and changed forever the course of his life.
"I'm okay, you guys. I can still draw."
With that, he lowered his bed, turned onto his side and fell asleep.
That was eleven years ago. Since then, about 40 percent of the sight has returned to Chris's left eye. Even with this handicap, which severely affects depth perception, he went on to hit .385 and shortstop a state-championship baseball team the very next season, earning all-state honors in the process.
But his focus had changed. Chris took his college degree - with the help of an academic and not an athletic scholarship - in fisheries and wildlife management as a background for his career as a wildlife and sporting artist. Today, his paintings and pencil renderings grace the pages and covers of magazines and more than a dozen books, and they hang in galleries and museums in New York and Tennessee. The list of his clients awaiting oil and watercolor commissions is always at least a year long.
Human courage manifests itself in countless ways, countless times every day in every city and town and hamlet on every continent around the world. One bad hop, one routine ground ball, one instant of pain, and what could have been months of despair. But instead, that bad hop - and the courage to accept what could not be changed - altered the course of a life for the better.
In sports we call such things great comebacks. I suppose in Chris's case, there is no reason to call it anything else. Proving, I guess, that some bad hops can be fielded cleanly after all.
Reprinted by permission of Steve Smith (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Sports Fan's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark & Chrissy Donnelly and Jim Tunney. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
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| posted by The Crone 856 days ago |
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wish I had done this more..
Making Memories
After eating breakfast, my little girl says, "Mommy, will you watch this show with me?" I look at the breakfast dishes in the sink and then at her big brown eyes.
"Okay," I say, and we snuggle together on the couch and watch her favorite show.
After the show, we put together a puzzle and I head for the kitchen to wash those dirty dishes when the phone rings. "Hi," my friend says, "What have you been doing?"
"Well," I say, "watching my little one's favorite show with her and putting together a puzzle."
"Oh," she says, "so you're not busy today."
No, I think to myself, just busy making memories.
After lunch, Erica says, "Mommy, please play a game with me." Now I am looking at not only the breakfast dishes but also the lunch dishes piled in the sink. But again, I look at those big brown eyes and I remember how special it felt when my mom played games with me when I was a little girl.
"Sounds like fun," I answer, "but just one game." We play her favorite game, and I can tell she is delighting in every moment.
When the game ends, she says, "Please read me a story."
"Okay," I say, "but just one."
After reading her favorite story, I head for the kitchen to tackle those dishes. With the dishes now done, I start to fix supper. My willing little helper comes eagerly to the kitchen to help me with my task. I'm running behind and thinking about how much faster I could do this if my sweet little one would just go play or watch a video, but her willingness to help and her eagerness to learn how to do what her mommy is doing melts my heart, and I say, "Okay, you can help," knowing it will probably take twice as long.
As supper is about ready, my husband comes home from work and asks, "What did you do today?"
I answer, "Let's see, we watched her favorite show and we played a game and read a book. I did the dishes and vacuumed; then with my little helper, I fixed supper."
"Great," he says, "I'm glad you didn't have a busy day today."
But I was busy, I think to myself, busy making memories.
After supper, Erica says, "Let's bake cookies."
"Okay," I say, "let's bake cookies."
After baking cookies, once again I am staring at a mountain of dishes from supper and cookie baking, but with the smell of warm cookies consuming the house, I pour us a glass of cold milk and fill a plate with warm cookies and take them to the table. We gather around the table eating cookies, drinking milk, talking and making memories.
No sooner have I tackled those dishes than my little sweetie comes tugging at my shirt, saying, "Could we take a walk?"
"Okay," I say, "let's take a walk." The second time around the block I'm thinking about the mountain of laundry that I need to get started on and the dust encompassing our home; but I feel the warmth of her hand in mine and the sweetness of our conversation as she enjoys my undivided attention, and I decide at least once more around the block sounds like a good idea.
When we get home, my husband asks, "Where have you been?"
"We've been making memories," I say.
A load in the wash and, my little girl all bathed and in her gown, the tiredness begins to creep in as she says, "Let's fix each other's hair."
I'm so tired! my mind is saying, but I hear my mouth saying, "Okay, let's brush each other's hair." With that task complete, she jumps up excitedly, "Let's paint each other's nails! Please!" So she paints my toenails, and I paint her fingernails, and we read a book while waiting for our nails to dry. I have to turn the pages, of course, because her fingernails are still drying.
We put away the book and say our prayers. My husband peeks his head in the door, "What are my girls doing?" he asks.
"Making memories," I answer.
"Mommy," she says, "will you lay with me until I fall asleep?"
"Yes," I say, but inside I'm thinking, I hope she falls asleep quickly so I can get up; I have so much to do.
About that time, two precious little arms encircle my neck as she whispers, "Mommy, nobody but God loves you as much as I do." I feel the tears roll down my cheeks as I thank God for the day we spent making memories.
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| posted by The Crone 856 days ago (edited 856 days ago) |
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wrong thread
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| posted by Juno Watt 856 days ago |
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Nice stories.
Do you know the story of Bedd Gelert? My infants school teacher was Welsh and she often used to tell us this story. I would always be in tears!
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| posted by The Crone 856 days ago |
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no juno, please share
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| posted by Juno Watt 856 days ago |
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Here it is. The Tale of Bedd Gelert, the faithful hound.
Prince Llywelyn once received a greyhound from King John, and the hound soon became his favourite. Faithful as any hound had ever been, and gentle as a lamb, the hound was also a lion at the chase. One day, Llywelyn prepared to leave on the hunt, and gave call to his noble hound with his hunting horn. All his other hounds came at the call, but not his faithful Gelert. Llywelyn could wait no longer, and so left on his hunt.
When Llywelyn returned to his castle, who should be waiting to greet him but Gelert! As the hound bounded closer to greet him, Llywelyn was startled to notice that Gelert's lips and fangs were covered with blood. Now Price Llywelyn had a son, barely a year old, and as Llywelyn recalled how Gelert and his young son used to play together, a terrible thought came to his mind. He rushed to his son's nursery, only to find the cradle overturned and the sheets covered in blood. Llywelyn looked frantically for his son, but couldn't find him anywhere, only the evidence of much blood and a struggle within the nursery. Turning to Gelert, whose muzzle was still wet with blood, Llywelyn came into a great rage and cried, "Thou hast killed my only son!", and drew his sword and drove it into the side of the hound. Gelert yelped once and with a sorrowful look into Llywelyn's eyes, died at his master's feet.
At the sound of Gelert's last yelp, there was a small cry from beneath the overturned cradle. When Llywelyn righted it, who should he find beneath it but his small son, safe and unharmed, and as well the torn and bloodied body of a huge wolf. Too late Llywelyn discovered what had really happened while he was away. Gelert had stayed behind to guard the child, and had fought and slain the wolf that had crept into the nursery.
In vain was Llywelyn's grief, for he could not revive his faithful hound. He erected a tomb in the valley in honour of his friend, calling it 'Bedd Gelert' or the 'Grave of Gelert', the namesake of the town Beddgelert, in north Wales.
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| posted by The Crone 856 days ago |
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awww...goose bumps all over  Thank you for sharing hk-juno
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| posted by Juno Watt 856 days ago |
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It was very sad!
We even went on a school trip to see Bedd Gelert's grave.
Our school teachers also scared us with the tale of those two children cut off by the tide... I think it was from an opera by Edvard Grieg?
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