Chicken Soup for the Soul

[biggie9385]

---

The Lesson Plan
by Sister Carleen Brennan

It was just an ordinary day. The children came to school on buses; there was the usual hubbub of excitement as they greeted each other. I looked over my plan book and I never felt better prepared to face the day. It would be a good day, I knew, and we would accomplish a lot. We took our places around the reading table and settled in for a good reading class. The first thing on my agenda was to check workbooks to see that the necessary work had been completed.

When I came to Troy, he had his head down as he shoved his unfinished assignment in front of me. He tried to pull himself back out of my sight as he sat on my right-hand side. Naturally, I looked at the incomplete work and said, “Troy, this is not finished.”

He looked up at me with the most pleading eyes I have seen in a child and said, “I couldn't do it last night 'cuz my mother is dying.”

The sobs that followed startled the entire class. How glad I was that he was sitting next to me. Yes, I took him in my arms and his head rested against my chest. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Troy was hurting, hurting so much that I was afraid his little heart would break. His sobs echoed through the room and tears flowed copiously. The children sat with tear-filled eyes in dead silence. Only Troy's sobs broke the stillness of that morning class. One child raced for the Kleenex box while I just pressed his little body closer to my heart. I could feel my blouse being soaked by those precious tears. Helplessly, my tears fell upon his head.

The question that confronted me was, “What do I do for a child who is losing his mother?” The only thought that came to my mind was, “Love him...show him you care...cry with him.” It seemed as though the whole bottom was coming out of his young life, and I could do little to help him. Choking back my tears, I said to the group, “Let us say a prayer for Troy and his mother.” A more fervent prayer never floated to heaven. After some time, Troy looked up at me and said, “I think I will be okay now.” He had exhausted his supply of tears; he released the burden in his heart. Later that afternoon, Troy's mother died.

When I went to the funeral parlor, Troy rushed to greet me. It was as though he had been waiting for me, that he expected I would come. He fell into my arms and just rested there awhile. He seemed to gain strength and courage, and then he led me to the coffin. There he was able to look into the face of his mother, to face death even though he might never be able to understand the mystery of it.

That night I went to bed thanking God that he had given me the good sense to set aside my reading plan and to hold the broken heart of a child in my own heart.

[biggie9385]

The Smell of Rain
by Nancy Miller

A cold March wind danced around Dallas as the doctor walked into Diana Blessing's small hospital room. It was the dead of night and she was still groggy from surgery. Her husband, David, held her as they braced themselves for the latest news.

That rainy afternoon, March 10, 1991, complications had forced Diana, only twenty-four weeks pregnant, to undergo emergency surgery. At twelve inches long and weighing only one pound, nine ounces, Danae Lu arrived by cesarean delivery.

They already knew she was perilously premature. Still, the doctor's soft words dropped like bombs. “I don't think she's going to make it,” he said as kindly as he could. “There's only a 10 percent chance she will live through the night. If by some slim chance she does make it, her future could be a very cruel one.” Numb with disbelief, David and Diana listened as the doctor described the devastating problems Danae could face if she survived.

She would probably never walk, or talk, or see. She would be prone to other catastrophic conditions from cerebral palsy to complete mental retardation, and on and on. Through the dark hours of morning as Danae held onto life by the thinnest thread, Diana slipped in and out of drugged sleep. But she was determined that their daughter would live to be a happy, healthy young girl. David, fully awake, knew he must confront his wife with the inevitable.

David told Diana that they needed to talk about funeral arrangements. But Diana said, “No, that is not going to happen. No way! I don't care what the doctors say, Danae is not going to die. One day she will be just fine and she will be home with us.”

As if willed to live by Diana's determination, Danae clung to life hour after hour. But as those first rainy days passed, a new agony set in for David and Diana. Because Danae's underdeveloped nervous system was essentially “raw,” the least kiss or caress only intensified her discomfort, so they couldn't even cradle their tiny baby. All they could do, as Danae struggled beneath the ultraviolet light, was to pray that God would stay close to their precious little girl.

At last, when Danae was two months old, her parents were able to hold her for the first time. Two months later, she went home from the hospital just as her mother predicted, even though doctors grimly warned that her chances of leading a normal life were almost zero.

Today, five years later, Danae is a petite but feisty young girl with glittering gray eyes and an unquenchable zest for life. She shows no sign of any mental or physical impairment. But that happy ending is not the end of the story.

One blistering summer afternoon in 1996 in Irving, Texas, Danae was sitting in her mother's lap at the ball park where her brother's baseball team was practicing. As always, Danae was busy chattering when she suddenly fell silent. Hugging her arms across her chest, Danae asked her mom, “Do you smell that?”

Smelling the air and detecting a thunderstorm approaching, Diana replied, “Yes, it smells like rain.”

Danae closed her eyes again and asked, “Do you smell that?”

Once again her mother replied, “Yes, I think we're about to get wet, it smells like rain.”

Caught in the moment, Danae shook her head, patted her thin shoulder and loudly announced, “No, it smells like Him. It smells like God when you lay your head on His chest.”

Tears blurred Diana's eyes as Danae happily hopped down to play with the other children before the rain came. Her daughter's words confirmed what Diana and the rest of the Blessing family had known all along. During those long days and nights of the first two months of her life, when her nerves were too sensitive to be touched, God was holding Danae on His chest, and it is His scent that she remembers so well.

[biggie9385]

Ready to Roll
by Betsy Hall Hutchinson

My eyes froze on the “age” blank of the form I was filling out to rent the in-line skates. Was recording the number that labeled me a senior citizen really required? On paper, the number did not look age-appropriate to the activity. Was there a “correct” age? What number should I write down?

In spite of this slight mental detour, I couldn't resist the golden opportunity: after more than forty years since graduation, six high school girlfriends reunited for a weekend house party in San Diego at Mission Beach, surrounded by smooth, wide, curving sidewalks.

Dorothy had brought along her in-line skates. While some of us were eager to join her in this activity, others hesitated. Excuses were forthcoming: hadn't skated since high school; a bad knee; fear of injury; in-line skates were not the same as roller skates.

The excitement mounted as one by one we tried on Dorothy's knee pads, skates and wrist guards (in that order). With her gentle coaching, each decided to take a tentative turn close to the security of a wall. It helped that some of us had learned to ski, as the stopping motion felt similar.

When we began to share our socks with the skater-of-the-moment and to squabble like children over whose turn it was, we knew we were ready to roll. We all were ready to commit to renting skating equipment.

There was no question about my enthusiasm! The feeling in the soles of my feet took me back to my childhood. I can still remember the satisfying click-click-click of racing full speed over the cracks of the cement sidewalk squares that lined the streets of my Midwestern home.

Back then, the streets, sidewalks and empty lots in the neighborhood were our playground. Shaded by a canopy of stately elm trees, the varying group of neighbor kids roller-skated, jumped rope, played hopscotch and rode bikes all summer long. The bigger kids organized more ambitious projects: carnivals, theatrical productions, dog shows and parades. Their little brothers and sisters were willing lackeys.
At twilight we'd gather under the elms to play “I Will Draw the Frying Pan,” “Red Light Green Light” or “Ghosts.”

But any summer day would find me on my roller skates, the skate key dangling on a grubby cotton string around my neck, scabs on my knees.

We regularly performed our most daring roller-skating feat on the steep hill leading down to the next street at the end of our block. Lickety-split my friends and I would roar down the hill and stop ourselves with a quick jerk to the left at the bottom of the hill. We'd slam with a resounding bang into a conveniently located garage door. The door (much to the owner's displeasure) was permanently imprinted with a row of child-sized handprints.

So now, some five decades later, I gleefully suited up with knee pads and wrist guards, buckled up the rented skates and followed Dorothy (my friend since fourth grade) down the alley to the wide, smooth pavement, where we could really take off. Turning her head, she grinned at me and said, “We're eight years old!”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. That was the number I'd been searching for.

[biggie9385]

Ronny's Book
by Judith A. Chance

At first glance, Ronny looked like every other kid in the first-grade classroom where I volunteered as the Reading Mom. Wind-blown hair, scuffed shoes, a little bit of dirt behind his ears, some kind of sandwich smear around his mouth.

On closer inspection, though, the layer of dirt on Ronny's face, the crusty nose, and the packed grime under his fingernails told me he didn't get dirty at school. He arrived that way.

His clothes were ragged and mismatched, his sneakers had string for laces, and his backpack was no more than a plastic shopping bag.

Along with his outward appearance, Ronny stood apart from his classmates in other ways, too. He had a speech impediment, wasn't reading or writing at grade-level, and had already been held back a year, making him eight years old in the first grade. His home life was a shambles with transient parents who uprooted him at their whim. He had yet to live a full year in any one place.

I quickly learned that beneath his grungy exterior, Ronny possessed a spark, a resilience that I'd never seen in a child who faced such tremendous odds.

I worked with all the students in Ronny's class on a one-on-one basis to improve their reading skills. Each day, Ronny's head twisted around as I came into the classroom, and his eyes followed me as I set up in a corner, imploring, “Pick me! Pick me!” Of course I couldn't pick him every day. Other kids needed my help, too.

On the days when it was Ronny's turn, I'd give him a silent nod, and he'd fly out of his chair and bound across the room in a blink. He sat awfully close - too close for me in the beginning, I must admit - and opened the book we were tackling as if he were unearthing a treasure the world had never seen.

I watched his dirt-caked fingers move slowly under each letter as he struggled to sound out “Bud the Sub.” It sounded more like “Baw Daw Saw” when he said it because of his speech impediment and his difficulty with the alphabet.

Each word offered a challenge and a triumph wrapped as one; Ronny painstakingly sounded out each letter, then tried to put them together to form a word. Regardless if “ball” ended up as “Bah-lah” or “bow,” the biggest grin would spread across his face, and his eyes would twinkle and overflow with pride. It broke my heart each and every time. I just wanted to whisk him out of his life, take him home, clean him up and love him.

Many nights, after I'd tucked my own children into bed, I'd sit and think about Ronny. Where was he? Was he safe? Was he reading a book by flashlight under the blankets? Did he even have blankets?

The year passed quickly and Ronny had made some progress but hardly enough to bring him up to grade level. He was the only one who didn't know that, though. As far as he knew, he read just fine.

A few weeks before the school year ended, I held an awards ceremony. I had treats, gifts and certificates of achievement for everyone: Best Sounder-Outer, Most Expressive, Loudest Reader, Fastest Page-Turner.

It took me awhile to figure out where Ronny fit; I needed something positive, but there wasn't really much. I finally decided on “Most Improved Reader” - quite a stretch, but I thought it would do him a world of good to hear.

I presented Ronny with his certificate and a book - one of those Little Golden Books that cost forty-nine cents at the grocery store checkout. Tears rolled down his cheeks, streaking the ever-permanent layer of dirt as he clutched the book to his chest and floated back to his seat. I choked back the lump that rose in my throat.
I stayed with the class for most of the day; Ronny never let go of the book, not once. It never left his hands.

A few days later, I returned to the school to visit. I noticed Ronny on a bench near the playground, the book open in his lap. I could see his lips move as he read to himself.

His teacher appeared beside me. “He hasn't put that book down since you gave it to him. He wears it like a shirt, close to his heart. Did you know that's the first book he's ever actually owned?”

Fighting back tears, I approached Ronny and watched over his shoulder as his grimy finger moved slowly across the page. I placed my hand on his shoulder and asked, “Will you read me your book, Ronny?” He glanced up, squinted into the sun, and scooted over on the bench to make room for me.

And then, for the next few minutes, he read to me with more expression, clarity, and ease than I'd ever thought possible from him. The pages were already dog-eared, like the book had been read thousands of times already.

When he finished reading, Ronny closed his book, stroked the cover with his grubby hand and said with great satisfaction, “Good book.”

A quiet pride settled over us as we sat on that playground bench, Ronny's hand now in mine. I at once wept and marveled at the young boy beside me. What a powerful contribution the author of that Little Golden Book had made in the life of a disadvantaged child.

At that moment, I knew I would get serious about my own writing career and do what that author had done, and probably still does - care enough to write a story that changes a child's life, care enough to make a difference.

I strive to be that author.

[biggie9385]

Dolly
by Renee Sunday

When my son was small, we purchased a lovely pearl cockatiel as a pet. We named her Dolly because she had large orange dots on each side of her face like a doll. (Also, she liked to puff out her chest, which reminded me of another Dolly.)

Dolly grew in our hearts with her endearing and loving ways. She loved to sing and whistle and always looked for someone to scratch her little head. Dolly and I were especially close, and each time she heard my voice she let out a long, shrill wolf-whistle. It was our own special greeting. Although we loved her very much and knew she was special, we did not yet realize quite how special she was.

One day, we were saddened when we found out that our friends' little daughter, Shayna, was stricken with leukemia. Shayna's parents were devastated; she was just four years old. Wanting to help my friend, I began to visit Shayna at the local children's hospital each time she underwent her chemotherapy. There was little I could do other than cheer her up and be by her mother's side. Each night, I prayed for Shayna's cure.

Several weeks later, my family lost our beloved Dolly when her cage was left open and she got outside. We searched the neighborhood diligently but to no avail. Our pet was gone, and we had to face the fact that such a delicate little bird could not possibly survive the wild for very long.

Five days passed with no sign of Dolly. We lost hope of ever finding her, and we missed her so very much.

That evening I received a phone call from Shayna's mother.

“I think we've found Dolly,” she said.

“You've found Dolly?” I could hardly believe it. “Where? Are you sure it's her?”

“Orange dots either side of her face, right?”

“That's Dolly!”

“I'll tell you the story when I see you. Come over now.”

Their house was five miles away, and I drove over immediately, hoping with all my heart that it really was Dolly.

When I arrived, if I couldn't believe my eyes, I certainly believed my ears because when the bird heard my voice she let out a long wolf-whistle...It was my sweet little bird!

My friend explained what had happened.

“I've been out most of the day, but our baby-sitter told us that Shayna was in the backyard. She was just sitting quietly, since she doesn't have much energy these days, when she saw a small bird in a tree. She told me she had been feeling a little lonely and had said, 'Look at the pretty bird. Wouldn't it be nice if it came down to see me?' Of course, it was Dolly, although Shayna didn't know. And the bird flew directly to Shayna, landing on her shoulder and giving her a kiss on the cheek. Shayna was ecstatic.”

My friend continued, “Our baby-sitter saw that the bird was domesticated and managed to tempt her into an old cage we had in the garage - she was going to find a home for her.

“I got home in time to tuck Shayna into bed, and she told me the whole story. I was stunned. I knew how upset you'd been about losing Dolly.”

I was silent, trying to take it all in. I was grateful to see my lovely bird again, but there was more. I knew something that neither Shayna nor her mother knew. After watching that poor child suffer so much, and praying for her every day, I had finally asked God for a sign that Shayna would be healed. I considered it miraculous that we had really found Dolly again, but that He had sent our simple little bird to rest on Shayna's shoulder seemed truly wondrous. I took it as His promise, and I felt in that moment that Shayna would recover.

Today, Shayna is thirteen years old and cancer free. Dolly is getting on in years for a bird, but we see to it that she lives a life of luxury because it was through her that we were all given the greatest gift - the gift of hope.

[biggie9385]

Mr. Washington
by Les Brown

One day in 11th grade, I went into a classroom to wait for a friend of mine. When I went into the room, the teacher, Mr. Washington, suddenly appeared and asked me to go to the board to write something, to work something out. I told him that I couldn't do it. And he said, Why not?”

I said, “Because I'm not one of your students.”

He said, “It doesn't matter. Go to the board anyhow.”

I said, “I can't do that.”

He said, “Why not?”

And I paused because I was somewhat embarrassed. I said, “Because I'm Educable Mentally Retarded.”

He came from behind his desk and he looked at me and he said, “Don't ever say that again. Someone's opinion of you does not have to become your reality.”

It was a very liberating moment for me. On one hand, I was humiliated because the other students laughed at me. They knew that I was in Special Education. But on the other hand, I was liberated because he began to bring to my attention that I did not have to live within the context of what another person's view of me was.

And so Mr. Washington became my mentor. Prior to this experience, I had failed twice in school. I was identified as Educable Mentally Retarded in the fifth grade, was put back from the fifth grade into the fourth grade, and failed again, when I was in the eighth grade. So this person made a dramatic difference in my life.

I always say that he operates in the consciousness of Goethe, who said, “Look at a man the way that he is, he only becomes worse. But look at him as if he were what he could be, and then he becomes what he should be.” Like Calvin Lloyd, Mr. Washington believed that “Nobody rises to low expectations.” This man always gave students the feeling that he had high expectations for them and we strove, all of the students strove, to live up to what those expectations were.

One day, when I was still a junior, I heard him giving a speech to some graduating seniors. He said to them, “You have greatness within you. You have something special. If just one of you can get a glimpse of a larger vision of yourself, of who you really are, of what it is you bring to the planet, of your specialness, then in a historical context, the world will never be the same again. You can make your parents proud. You can make your school proud. You can make your community proud. You can touch millions of people's lives.” He was talking to the seniors, but it seemed like that speech was for me.

I remember when they gave him a standing ovation. Afterwards, I caught up to him in the parking lot and I said, “Mr. Washington, do you remember me? I was in the auditorium when you were talking to the seniors.”

He said, “What were you doing there? You are a junior.”

I said, “I know. But that speech you were giving, I heard your voice coming through the auditorium doors. That speech was for me, Sir. You said they had greatness within them. I was in that auditorium. Is there greatness within me, Sir?”

He said, “Yes, Mr. Brown.”

“But what about the fact that I failed English and math and history, and I'm going to have to go to summer school. What about that, Sir? I'm slower than most kids. I'm not as smart as my brother or my sister who's going to the University of Miami.”
“It doesn't matter. It just means that you have to work harder. Your grades don't determine who you are or what you can produce in your life.”

“I want to buy my mother a home.”

“It's possible, Mr. Brown. You can do that.” And he turned to walk away again.

“Mr. Washington?”

“What do you want now?”

“Uh, I'm the one, Sir. You remember me, remember my name. One day you're gonna hear it. I'm gonna make you proud. I'm the one, Sir.”

School was a real struggle for me. I was passed from one grade to another because I was not a bad kid. I was a nice kid; I was a fun kid. I made people laugh. I was polite. I was respectful. So teachers would pass me on, which was not helpful to me. But Mr. Washington made demands on me. He made me accountable. But he enabled me to believe that I could handle it, that I could do it.

He became my instructor my senior year, even though I was Special Education. Normally, Special Ed students don't take Speech and Drama, but they made special provisions for me to be with him. The principal realized the kind of bonding that had taken place and the impact that he'd made on me because I had begun to do well academically. For the first time in my life I made the honor roll. I wanted to travel on a trip with the drama department and you had to be on the honor roll in order to make the trip out of town. That was a miracle for me!

Mr. Washington restructured my own picture of who I am. He gave me a larger vision of myself, beyond my mental conditioning and my circumstances.
Years later, I produced five specials that appeared on public television. I had some friends call him when my program, “You Deserve,” was on the educational television channel in Miami. I was sitting by the phone waiting when he called me in Detroit. He said, “May I speak to Mr. Brown, please?”

“Who's calling?”

“You know who's calling.”

“Oh, Mr. Washington, it's you.”

“You were the one, weren't you?”

“Yes, Sir, I was.”

[biggie9385]

One for the Team
by Kim Noone

This story was told by an old priest one Sunday. It is a true story of when he served in the military.

One day their drill sergeant came out and threw a hand grenade into a group of young soldiers. The man all ran away and took cover away from the grenade. Then the drill sergeant told them that the grenade was not set to explode and he just did it to see their reaction. The next day a newly recruited soldier joined the group. The drill sergeant told the other soldiers not to tell the new soldier what was going to happen. As the drill sergeant came out and threw the grenade into the crowd of soldiers, the new soldier, not knowing it wasn't going to explode, threw himself on top of the grenade to prevent it from killing the other men. He was willing to die for his fellow soldiers.

That year the young man was awarded the only medal for courage and bravery that had not been won during battle.

[biggie9385]

Cold Hands
by Joyce Andresen

I was cleaning out the pockets of my six-year-old's winter coat, when I found a pair of mittens in each pocket. Thinking that one pair must not be enough to keep her hands warm, I asked her why she was carrying two pairs of mittens in her coat. She replied, “I've been doing that for a long time, Mom. You see, some kids come to school without mittens and if I carry another pair, I can share with them and then their hands won't get cold.”



All Those Years
by Alice Collins

My friend Debbie's two daughters were in high school when she experienced severe flu-like symptoms. Debbie visited her family doctor, who told her the flu bug had passed her by. Instead, she had been touched by the “love bug” and was now pregnant.

The birth of Tommy, a healthy, beautiful son, was an event for celebration, and as time went by, it seemed as though every day brought another reason to celebrate the gift of Tommy's life. He was sweet, thoughtful, fun-loving and a joy to be around.
One day when Tommy was about five years old, he and Debbie were driving to the neighborhood mall. As is the way with children, out of nowhere, Tommy asked, “Mom, how old were you when I was born?”

“Thirty-six, Tommy. Why?” Debbie asked, wondering what his little mind was contemplating.

“What a shame!” Tommy responded.

“What do you mean?” Debbie inquired, more than a little puzzled. Looking at her with love-filled eyes, Tommy said, “Just think of all those years we didn't know each other.”

[biggie9385]

A Simple Gesture
by John W. Schlatter

Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed that the boy ahead of him had tripped and dropped all the books he was carrying, along with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove and a small tape recorder. Mark knelt down and helped the boy pick up the scattered articles. Since they were going the same way, he helped to carry part of the burden. As they walked, Mark discovered the boy's name was Bill, that he loved video games, baseball and history, that he was having a lot of trouble with his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend.

Mark went home after dropping Bill at his house. They continued to see each other around school, had lunch together once or twice, then both graduated from junior high school. They ended up in the same high school, where they had brief contacts over the years. Finally the long-awaited senior year came. Three weeks before graduation, Bill asked Mark if they could talk.

Bill reminded him of the day years ago when they had first met. “Do you ever wonder why I was carrying so many things home that day?” asked Bill. “You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want to leave a mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mother's sleeping pills and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time together talking and laughing, I realized that if I had killed myself, I would have missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you see, Mark, when you picked up my books that day, you did a lot more. You saved my life.”

[biggie9385]

The Two-Hundredth Hug
by Harold H. Bloomfield, M.D.

My father’s skin was jaundiced as he lay hooked up to monitors and intravenous tubes in the intensive care unit of the hospital. Normally a well-built man, he had lost more than 30 pounds.

My father’s illness had been diagnosed as cancer of the pancreas, one of the most malignant forms of the disease. The doctors were doing what they could but told us that he had only three to six months to live. Cancer of the pancreas does not lend itself to radiation therapy or chemotherapy, so they could offer little hope.

A few days later, when my father was sitting up in bed, I approached him and said, “Dad, I feel deeply for what’s happened to you. It’s helped me to look at the ways I’ve kept my distance and to feel how much I really love you.” I leaned over to give him a hug, but his shoulders and arms became tense.

“C’mon, Dad, I really want to give you a hug.”

For a moment he looked shocked. Showing affection was not our usual way of relating. I asked him to sit up some more so I could get my arms around him. Then I tried again. This time, however, he was even more tense. I could feel the old resentment starting to build up, and I began to think “I don’t need this. If you want to die and leave me with the same coldness as always, go right ahead.”

For years I had used every instance of my father’s resistance and rigidness to blame him, to resent him and to say to myself, “See, he doesn’t care.” This time, however, I thought again and realized the hug was for my benefit as well as my father’s. I wanted to express how much I cared for him no matter how hard it was for him to let me in. My father had always been very Germanic and duty-oriented; in his childhood, his parents must have taught him how to shut off his feelings in order to be a man.

Letting go of my long-held desire to blame him for our distance, I was actually looking forward to the challenge of giving him more love. I said, “C’mon, Dad, put your arms around me.”

I leaned up close to him at the edge of the bed with his arms around me. “Now squeeze. That’s it. Now again, squeeze. Very good!”

In a sense I was showing my father how to hug, and as he squeezed, something happened. For an instant, a feeling of “I love you” bubbled through. For years our greeting had been a cold and formal handshake that said, “Hello, how are you?” Now, both he and I waited for that momentary closeness to happen again. Yet, just at the moment when he would begin to enjoy the feelings of love, something would tighten in his upper torso and our hug would become awkward and strange. It took months before his rigidness gave way and he was able to let the emotions inside him pass through his arms to encircle me.

It was up to me to be the source of many hugs before my father initiated a hug on his own. I was not blaming him, but supporting him; after all, he was changing the habits of an entire lifetime - and that takes time. I knew we were succeeding because more and more we were relating out of care and affection. Around the two-hundredth hug, he spontaneously said out loud, for the first time I could ever recall, “I love you.”