Chicken Soup for the Soul

[biggie9385]

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The 11th Box
by Pastor Bill Simpson
Submitted by M'Shel Bowen

What is your most memorable Thanksgiving? For me, it was on the eve of the day. The church had the names of 10 families scheduled to receive food baskets. A local merchant donated hams, and groceries were purchased from the food bank. As we packed the boxes in the fellowship hall, these families were excited over the food they were taking home. It would be the best meal many had enjoyed in months. As they were picking up their boxes, another family arrived. Father, mother and three children piled out of an old pickup truck and came inside the hall. This was a new family, not on our list. They had just heard there was food being distributed by a church.

I explained that we did not have enough for an extra family. As I tried to assure them that I would do what I could, an amazing thing happened. With no prompting, a woman put down the box she was carrying and quickly found an empty box to place beside it. She began removing items from her box to share. Soon others followed her lead, and these poor people created an 11th box for the new family.

[biggie9385]

A Thanksgiving Story
by Andrea Nannette Mejia

It was the day before Thanksgiving - the first one my three children and I would be spending without their father, who had left several months before. Now the two older children were very sick with the flu, and the eldest had just been prescribed bed rest for a week.

It was a cool, gray day outside, and a light rain was falling. I grew wearier as I scurried around, trying to care for each child: thermometers, juice, diapers. And I was fast running out of liquids for the children. But when I checked my purse, all I found was about $2.50 - and this was supposed to last me until the end of the month. That's when I heard the phone ring.

It was the secretary from our former church, and she told me that they had been thinking about us and had something to give us from the congregation. I told her that I was going out to pick up some more juice and soup for the children, and I would drop by the church on my way to the market.

I arrived at the church just before lunch. The church secretary met me at the door and handed me a special gift envelope. “We think of you and the kids often,” she said, “and you are in our hearts and prayers. We love you.” When I opened the envelope, I found two grocery certificates inside. Each was worth $20. I was so touched and moved, I broke down and cried.

“Thank you very much,” I said, as we hugged each other. “Please give our love and thanks to the church.” Then I drove to a store near our home and purchased some much-needed items for the children.

At the check-out counter I had a little over $14.00 worth of groceries, and I handed the cashier one of the gift certificates. She took it, then turned her back for what seemed like a very long time. I thought something might be wrong. Finally I said, “This gift certificate is a real blessing. Our former church gave it to our family, knowing I'm a single parent trying to make ends meet.”

The cashier then turned around, with tears in her loving eyes, and replied, “Honey, that's wonderful! Do you have a turkey?”

“No. It's okay because my children are sick anyway.”

She then asked, “Do you have anything else for Thanksgiving dinner?”

Again I replied, “No.”

After handing me the change from the certificate, she looked at my face and said, “Honey, I can't tell you exactly why right now, but I want you to go back into the store and buy a turkey, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie or anything else you need for a Thanksgiving dinner.”

I was shocked, and humbled to tears. “Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes! Get whatever you want. And get some Gatorade for the kids.”

I felt awkward as I went back to do more shopping, but I selected a fresh turkey, a few yams and potatoes, and some juices for the children. Then I wheeled the shopping cart up to the same cashier as before. As I placed my groceries on the counter, she looked at me once more with giant tears in her kind eyes and began to speak.

“Now I can tell you. This morning I prayed that I could help someone today, and you walked through my line.” She reached under the counter for her purse and took out a $20 bill. She paid for my groceries and then handed me the change. Once more I was moved to tears.

The sweet cashier then said, “I am a Christian. Here is my phone number if you ever need anything.” She then took my head in her hands, kissed my cheek and said, “God bless you, honey.”

As I walked to my car, I was overwhelmed by this stranger's love and by the realization that God loves my family too, and shows us his love through this stranger's and my church's kind deeds.

The children were supposed to have spent Thanksgiving with their father that year, but because of the flu they were home with me, for a very special Thanksgiving Day. They were feeling better, and we all ate the goodness of the Lord's bounty - and our community's love. Our hearts were truly filled with thanks.

[biggie9385]

The Sandwich Man
by Meladee McCarty

What would you do if you wanted to make a difference in the world, leave a mark or put a deposit on a ticket into heaven? Would you think big and pick the flashiest or most grandiose of acts? Or would you quietly persevere every day, doing one personal deed at a time?

Michael Christiano, a New York City court officer, rises every morning at 4 a.m., in good and bad weather, workday or holiday, and walks into his sandwich shop. No, he doesn't own a deli, it's really his personal kitchen. In it are the fixings of his famous sandwiches, famous only to those who desperately need them to stave off hunger for the day. By 5:50 a.m., he's making the rounds of the makeshift homeless shelters on Centre and Lafayette Streets, near New York's City Hall. In a short time, he gives out 200 sandwiches to as many homeless people as he can, before beginning his work day in the courthouse.

It started 20 years ago with a cup of coffee and a roll for a homeless man named John. Day after day, Michael brought John sandwiches, tea, clothes, and when it was really cold, a resting place in his car while he worked. In the beginning, Michael just wanted to do a good deed.

But one day a voice in his head compelled him to do more. On this cold, winter morning, he asked John if he would like to get cleaned up. It was an empty offer, because Michael was sure John would refuse. Unexpectedly, John said, “Are you gonna wash me?”

Michael heard an inner voice say, 'Put your money where your mouth is.' Looking at this poor man, covered in ragged and smelly clothes, unkempt, hairy and wild looking, Michael was afraid. But he also knew that he was looking at a big test of his commitment. So he helped John upstairs to the locker room of the courthouse to begin the work.

John's body was a mass of cuts and sores, the result of years of pain and neglect. His right hand had been amputated, and Michael pushed through his own fears and revulsion. He helped John wash, cut his hair, shaved him and shared breakfast with him. “It was at that moment,” Michael remembers, “that I knew I had a calling, and I believed that I had it within me to do anything.”

With the idea for his sandwiches born, Michael began his calling. He receives no corporate sponsorship, saying, “I'm not looking for an act of charity that goes in the record books or gets media attention. I just want to do good, day by day, in my small way. Sometimes it comes out of my pocket, sometimes I get help. But this is really something that I can do, one day and one person at a time.

“There are days when it's snowing,” he says, “and I have a hard time leaving my warm bed and the comfort of my family to go downtown with sandwiches. But then that voice in me starts chattering, and I get to it.”

And get to it he does. Michael has made 200 sandwiches every day for the past 20 years. “When I give out sandwiches,” Michael explains, “I don't simply lay them on a table for folks to pick up. I look everyone in the eye, shake their hands, and I offer them my wishes for a good and hopeful day. Each person is important to me. I don't see them as 'the homeless,' but as people who need food, an encouraging smile and some positive human contact.

“Once Mayor Koch turned up to make the rounds with me. He didn't invite the media, it was just us,” says Michael. But of all Michael's memories, working side by side with the Mayor was not as important as working next to someone else...

A man had disappeared from the ranks of the sandwich takers, and Michael thought about him from time to time. He hoped the man had moved on to more comfortable conditions. One day, the man showed up, transformed, greeting Michael clean, warmly clothed, shaven and carrying sandwiches of his own to hand out. Michael's daily dose of fresh food, warm handshakes, eye contact and well wishes had given this man the hope and encouragement he so desperately needed. Being seen every day as a person, not as a category, had turned this man's life around.

The moment needed no dialogue. The two men worked silently, side by side, handing out their sandwiches. It was another day on the streets of New York, but a day with just a little more hope.

[biggie9385]

No Small Act of Kindness
by Donna Wick

The day was Thankful Thursday, our “designated day” of service. It's a weekly tradition that my two little girls and I began years ago. Thursday has become our day to go out in the world and make a positive contribution. On this particular Thursday, we had no idea exactly what we were going to do, but we knew that something would present itself.

Driving along a busy Houston road, praying for guidance in our quest to fulfill our weekly Act of Kindness, the noon hour appropriately triggered hunger pangs in my two little ones. They wasted no time in letting me know, chanting, “McDonald's, McDonald's, McDonald's” as we drove along. I relented and began searching earnestly for the nearest McDonald's. Suddenly I realized that almost every intersection I passed through was occupied by a panhandler. And then it hit me! If my two little ones were hungry, then all these panhandlers must be hungry, too. Perfect! Our Act of Kindness had presented itself. We were going to buy lunch for the panhandlers.

After finding a McDonald's and ordering two Happy Meals for my girls, I ordered an additional 15 lunches and we set out to deliver them. It was exhilarating. We would pull alongside a panhandler, make a contribution, and tell him or her that we hoped things got better. Then we'd say, “Oh, by the way... here's lunch.” And then we would varoom off to the next intersection.

It was the best way to give. There wasn't enough time for us to introduce ourselves or explain what we were going to do, nor was there time for them to say anything back to us. The Act of Kindness was anonymous and empowering for each of us, and we loved what we saw in the rear view mirror: a surprised and delighted person holding up his lunch bag and just looking at us as we drove off. It was wonderful!
We had come to the end of our “route” and there was a small woman standing there, asking for change. We handed her our final contribution and lunch bag, and then immediately made a U-turn to head back in the opposite direction for home. Unfortunately, the light caught us again and we were stopped at the same intersection where this little woman stood. I was embarrassed and didn't know quite how to behave. I didn't want her to feel obligated to say or do anything.

She made her way to our car, so I put the window down just as she started to speak. “No one has ever done anything like this for me before,” she said with amazement. I replied, “Well, I'm glad that we were the first.” Feeling uneasy, and wanting to move the conversation along, I asked, “So, when do you think you'll eat your lunch?”

She just looked at me with her huge, tired brown eyes and said, “Oh honey, I'm not going to eat this lunch.” I was confused, but before I could say anything, she continued. “You see, I have a little girl of my own at home and she just loves McDonald's, but I can never buy it for her because I just don't have the money. But you know what...tonight she is going to have McDonald's!”

I don't know if the kids noticed the tears in my eyes. So many times I had questioned whether our Acts of Kindness were too small or insignificant to really effect change. Yet in that moment, I recognized the truth of Mother Teresa's words: “We cannot do great things - only small things with great love.”

[biggie9385]

Encouraging Words
by Barbara Johnson

Someone said that encouragement is simply reminding a person of the “shoulders” he's standing on, the heritage he's been given. That's what happened when a young man, the son of a star baseball player, was drafted by one of the minor league teams. As hard as he tried, his first season was disappointing, and by midseason he expected to be released any day.

The coaches were bewildered by his failure because he possessed all the characteristics of a superb athlete, but he couldn't seem to incorporate those advantages into a coordinated effort. He seemed to have become disconnected from his potential.

His future seemed darkest one day when he had already struck out his first time at bat. Then he stepped up to the batter's box again and quickly ran up two strikes. The catcher called a time-out and trotted to the pitcher's mound for a conference. While they were busy the umpire, standing behind the plate, spoke casually to the boy.

Then play resumed, the next pitch was thrown - and the young man knocked it out of the park. That was the turning point. From then on, he played the game with a new confidence and power that quickly drew the attention of the parent team, and he was called up to the majors.

On the day he was leaving for the city, one of his coaches asked him what had caused such a turnaround. The young man replied it was the encouraging remark the umpire had made that day when his baseball career had seemed doomed.

“He told me I reminded him of all the times he had stood behind my dad in the batter's box,” the boy explained. “He said I was holding the bat just the way Dad had held it. And he told me, 'I can see his genes in you; you have your father's arms.' After that, whenever I swung the bat, I just imagined I was using Dad's arms instead of my own.”

[biggie9385]

Mary Lou
by Lynne Zielinski

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

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

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

Arms wrapped around her backpack, Mary Lou came down the school steps. The taunting began - rude, biting comments and jeering from the girls. I paused, then joined right in. My momentum began to pick up as I approached her. Nasty, mean remarks fell unabated from my lips. No one could tell I'd never done this before. The other girls stepped back and became my cheerleaders. Emboldened, I yanked the strap of her backpack and then pushed her. The strap broke, Mary Lou fell, and I backed off. Everyone was laughing and patting me. I fit in. I was a leader.
I was not proud. Something inside me hurt. If you've ever picked a wing off a butterfly, you know how I felt.

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

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

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

[biggie9385]

The Special Gift
by Adel Guzzo

Sean was just a little kid, about eight years old. When I first met him one summer day he wore a Chicago Bulls cap and baggy shorts that needed a belt. He carried a bag stocked with four clubs and plenty of balls. Once when he took off his cap, I noticed he had no hair. He was a lot smaller than other kids his age. Still, he always seemed to be smiling whenever I would see him with his pals, trying his darndest to hit as far as they did.

I played with Sean once in a while. He told me that he always had the best chance when playing a par-3 because he could usually make it to the green.

A year or so passed and I hadn't seen Sean around the course. I had heard that his cancer was getting the best of him. Still, his friends said he was going to try to get out and play a few times before fall.

Sure enough, he was there the following week. My group went out just ahead of him. I noticed that one of his buddies was carrying Sean's bag. “Watch out!” I heard Sean tell his pals. “I feel kinda lucky today!”

Despite his words, Sean was having an awful time trying to drive the ball. He and his friends arrived at the last par-3. His friends had all hit, and Sean was up on the tee. He brought his club back and hit the ball as hard as his fragile body would allow. It flew up to the green and out of sight. One of his friends helped Sean walk up to the green. It was a tough walk because the green was higher than the tee. I could see Sean searching for his ball as he stopped to catch his breath.

Sean's buddies were looking for their balls behind the green. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of his friends pick up Sean's ball and drop it in the hole. Then he ran and pretended to look for his own ball. He caught me staring at him and winked.

When Sean finally got to the green he was disappointed because he thought he hit over. Then he glanced in the hole. What a smile lit up his face! The boys looked at each other and said, “You can't tell me it's a hole-in-one!” “No way, Sean, that you put it in there!”

“No, really! Look!” he said. They all acted surprised and as I watched, I thought Sean looked like the happiest guy I had ever seen. I never saw Sean or his friends after that day. But it was then that I learned just what golf should be.

It's not about what score you get or how far you drive. It is about caring for the friends you play with and enjoying the time you have with them.

[biggie9385]

Just Ben
by Adrian Wagner
Submitted by Judy Noble

It was late August and quite chilly outside. I was coaching a soccer team for kindergarteners and first-graders, and it was the day of our first practice.

It was cold enough for the kids to be bundled up in extra sweatshirts, jackets, gloves and mittens.

I sat the kids down on the dugout bench - soccer in Austin is played on the outfield grass at the softball complex. As was normally the case any time I was coaching a new team, we took the first few minutes to get to know one another. We went up and down the row a few times, each kid saying his or her name and the names of all the kids sitting to the left.

After a few minutes of this, I decided to put the kids to the ultimate test. I asked for a volunteer who thought he or she knew the names of all eleven kids on the team and could prove it to all of us right then. There was one brave six-year-old who felt up to the challenge. He was to start at the far left end of the bench, go up to each kid, say that kid's name and then shake his or her right hand.

Alex started off and was doing very well. While I stood behind him, he went down the row - Dylan, Micah, Sara, Beau and Danny - until he reached Ben, by far the smallest kid on the team. He stammered out Ben's name without much trouble and extended his right hand, but Ben would not extend his. I looked at Ben for a second, as did Alex and the rest of the kids on the bench, but he just sat there, his right hand hidden under the cuff of his jacket.

“Ben, why don't you let Alex shake your hand?” I asked. But Ben just sat there, looking first at Alex and then at me, and then at Alex once again.

“Ben, what's the matter?” I asked.

Finally Ben stood up, looked at me and said, “But coach, I don't have a hand.” He unzipped his jacket, pulling it away from his right shoulder.

Sure enough, Ben's arm ran from his right shoulder just like every other kid on the team, but unlike the rest of his teammates, his arm stopped at the elbow. No fingers, no hand, no forearm.

I'll have to admit, I was taken aback a bit and couldn't think of anything to say or how to react, but thank God for little kids - and their unwillingness to be tactful.

“Look at that,” said Alex.

“Hey, what happened to your arm?” another asked.

“Does it hurt?”

Before I knew it, a crowd of ten players and a bewildered coach encircled a small child who was now taking off his jacket to show all those around him what they all wanted to see.

In the next few minutes, a calm and collected six-year-old explained to all those present that he had always been that way and that there was nothing special about him because of it. What he meant was that he wanted to be treated like everybody else.

And he was from that day on.

From that day on, he was never the kid with one arm. He was just Ben, one of the players on the team.

[biggie9385]

Rhymes and Reasons
by Antionette Ishmael

As I sang to my newborn son, I contemplated my decision. The tune soothed us both.

When I think about Patrick, my firstborn, I remember how difficult those first few months were. Whenever he got restless, I'd draw from my teaching days and sing a rhyme or two.

Patrick's first cry had been in late August - and so was the first day of school for my former students. I missed the cheerful faces of the schoolchildren and the musty smell of a classroom that had been closed up all summer. Had I made the right choice? Should I have continued teaching after having the baby? Would I lose contact with my teaching peers and fade into lost volumes of aging yearbooks?

As conflicted as I was, I knew seeing my young baby mature into a toddler and then a little boy was something I did not want to miss. On snowy mornings past, I'd be scraping my windshield before work. Now I was cuddling my son under warm blankets and watching the snow fall. An afternoon at the museum, or a visit to the library story hour, or a walk around the block was very special for both of us. While most of my focus was on mother-child activities, I also found time to sew and read, luxuries that were virtually nonexistent before. I enjoyed making Patrick's pumpkin costume for Halloween and felt proud of his Christmas stocking, with the sequins I had worked so hard to apply, hanging on the fireplace mantel.

Unfortunately, we at-home moms are often misunderstood. I am asked, “Why are you wasting your life and career staying at home?” My reply is simple: “I can always go back to teaching, but never to those wonderful days of motherhood.” What a sad commentary on society when the most important job in the world must be defended. It has been six years since I made this decision. It is just as special to see two more stockings above our fireplace (yes, with sequins, too!) and the costume gallery I have created since that first October.

I walked near my sons' room last night and listened to Anthony corral his imaginary puppies and Dominic wail for attention. I started to enter to comfort my little one, only to be pleasantly surprised by my oldest son singing those same rhymes from my teaching days to calm his littlest brother.

As I leaned against the door, a new song filled my heart. It was then I realized I hadn't given up teaching at all!

[biggie9385]

My Father's Tears
by Robin Clifton

My dad was always the strong silent type. Growing up, I rarely saw him angry, or even raise his voice in debate. He was often miserable with allergies, but didn't take it out on us. He never told me he loved me, that just was not his way. This was difficult for me growing up.

I remember one time I cried and cried. Finally my mother reached out and comforted me. Then my father said “the words.” When you have to put up a fuss to hear someone say “I love you,” it makes the words feel empty and of little consolation.
Yet deeply buried and hidden inside me was the knowledge that he loved me. Even though he was hard to get to know, I remember finding the key to opening him up a little. Only when working next to him, would he talk more freely. Through all these growing up years, I never saw him cry.

Years later, my first son, his first grandson was born. He was born in the dark, cold, early morning hours of a winter blizzard.
Still exhausted and scared, I called my parents. With the storm still raging, they could only “try to make it” the next day.

My husband and I were both students and very poor. We had no means to pay the hospital, so I had a very limited stay. Exhausted and numb from the emotional waves of ecstasy and despair, I longed to stay longer.

Late in the afternoon of the next day, my roommate left for a walk and snack. I had the sleeping baby with me. I tried to sleep, but could not. I startled at the sound of light knocking. The nurse peeked in.

“I know it isn't visiting hours,” she said, “but, this is a special visitor,” then she disappeared.

There was my dad, standing in the doorway and looking terribly out of place. He had a blue carnation in a small white vase tied with a blue ribbon. I guessed he picked it up at the hospital gift shop. He was still in his dirty old work coat. The dirt on his hands and face told me he came straight from work.

He looked at me sheepishly as he crept a little way into the room. My eyes met his.

I saw a tear in his eye. It welled up, and gently rolled down his cheek. And then another. And another.

I never saw my father cry before - the silent emotion was overwhelming. “See your grandson?” I blurted out trying to hide my own feeling of awkwardness. But it was useless. Tears glazed over my eyes as well.

Then we were both in tears, as he gingerly made his way closer and handed me the carnation. He slowly stretched to peek at the baby - keeping his distance. He stayed only briefly. Then he was gone.

Although few words were spoken that visit, it touched me deeply. I knew beyond any doubt that my father loved me, and was proud of me. Those tears will forever be in my heart.