Chicken Soup for the Soul

[tolstoi]

---

What It Really Means To Say I Love You.............

After 21 years of marriage, I discovered new way of keeping alive the
Spark of love. A little while ago I had started to go out with another
woman. It was really my wife's idea.

"I know that you love her," she said one day, taking me by surprise.

"But I love YOU," I protested.

"I know, but you also love her."

The other woman that my wife wanted me to visit was my mother, who has
been

a widow for 19 years, but the demands of my work and my three children
had made it possible to visit her only occasionally.
That night I called to invite her to go out for dinner and a movie.

"What's wrong, are you well?" she asked. My mother is the type of woman
who

suspects that a late night call or a surprise invitation is a sign of bad
news.

"I thought that it would be pleasant to pass some time with you," I

responded. " Just the two of us."

She thought about it for a moment then said "I would like that very
much."

That Friday after work, as I drove over to pick her up I was a bit

nervous. When I arrived at her house, I noticed that she, too, seemed
to be nervous about our date. She waited in the door with her coat on.

She had curled her hair and was wearing the dress that she had worn to

celebrate her last wedding anniversary. She smiled from a face that was
as

radiant as an angel's.

"I told my friends that I was going to go out with my son, and they were

impressed," she said, as she got into the car. "They can't wait to hear

about our meeting". We went to a restaurant that, although not elegant,
was

very nice and cozy. My mother took my arm as if she were the First Lady.

After we sat down, I had to read the menu to her. Her eyes could only
read

large print. Half way through the entree, I lifted my eyes and saw Mom
sitting there staring at me. A nostalgic smile was on her lips. "It was I
who used to have to read the menu when you were small," she said.

"Then it's time for you to relax and let me return the favor," I
responded.

During the dinner we had an agreeable conversation, nothing extraordinary

- but catching up on recent events of each others lives. We talked so
much

that we missed the movie.

As we arrived at her house later, she said, "I'll go out with you again,

but only if you let me invite you". I agreed.

"How was your dinner date?" asked my wife when I got home. "Very nice.

Much more so than I could have imagined," I answered.

A few days later my mother died of a massive heart attack. It happened so

suddenly that I didn't have a chance to do anything for her.

Some time later I received an envelope with copy of a restaurant receipt

from the same place mother and I had dined.

An attached note said: "I paid this bill in advance. I was almost sure
that

I couldn't be there but, nevertheless, I paid for two plates - one for
you

and the other for your wife. You will never know what that night meant
to

me. I love you."

At that moment I understood the importance of saying, in time: "I LOVE
YOU"

and giving our loved ones the time that they deserve. Nothing in life is

more important than God and your family and friends.

Give them the time they deserve, because these things cannot be put off

'til "some other time".

Someone once said "I've learned that, regardless of your relationship
with

your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life.

I think this is true with your in-laws, grandchildren, sisters, brothers

and your friends. Anyone that means something to you-you should spend
time

with them and let them know how much they mean to you as often as you
can.

[tolstoi]

Love Not WORDS....

My boyfriend and I live together for years and he is
an Engineer by profession. I love him for his steady
nature, and I love the warm feeling when I lean
against his broad shoulders.

Three months of courtship and now, two years engaged,
I would have to admit, that I am getting tired of it.
The reasons of me loving him before, has now
transformed into the cause of all my restlessness. I
am a sentimental woman and extremely sensitive when it
comes to a relationship and my feelings, I yearn for
the romantic
moments, like a little girl yearning for candy. My
boyfriend, is my complete opposite, his lack of
sensitivity, and the inability of bringing romantic
moments into our
relationship has disheartened me about love. One day,
I finally decided to tell him my
decision, that I wanted to break up with him. "Why?"
he asked, shocked. "I am tired, there are no reasons
for everything in the world!" I answered.

He kept silent the whole night, seems to be in deep
thought with a lighted cigarette at all times.

My feeling of disappointment only increased, here was
a man who can't even express his predicament, what
else can I hope from him? And finally he asked me:"
What can I do to change your mind?" Somebody said it
right, it's hard to change a person's
personality, and I guess, I have started losing faith
in him.

Looking deep into his eyes I slowly answered : "Here
is the question, if you can answer and convince my
heart, I will change my mind, Let's say, I want a
flower located on the face of a mountain cliff, and we
both are sure that picking the flower will cause your
death, will you do it for me?"

He said :" I will give you your answer tomorrow...."
My hopes just sank by
listening to his response.

I woke up the next morning to find him gone, and saw a
piece of paper with
his scratchy handwriting, underneath a milk glass, on
the dining table near the front door, that goes....

My dear,

"I would not pick that flower for you, but please
allow me to explain the reasons further.."

This first line was already breaking my heart. I
continued reading.

"When you use the computer you always mess up the
Software programs, and you cry in front of the screen,
I have to save my fingers so that I can help to
restore the programs.

You always leave the house keys behind, thus I have to
save my legs to rush home to open the door for you.

You love traveling but always lose your way in a new
city, I have to save my eyes to show you the way.

You always have the cramps whenever your "good friend"
approaches every month, I have to save my palms so
that I can calm the cramps in your tummy.

You like to stay indoors, and I worry that you will be
infected by infantile autism. I have to save my mouth
to tell you jokes and stories to cure your boredom.

You always stare at the computer, and that will do
nothing good for your eyes, I have to save my eyes so
that when we grow old, I can help to clip your
nails,and help to remove those annoying white hairs.
So I can also hold your hand while strolling down the
beach, as you enjoy the sunshine and the beautiful
sand... and tell you the colour of flowers, just like
the color of the glow on your young face...

Thus, my dear, unless I am sure that there is someone
who loves you more
than I do... I could not pick that flower yet, and
die.. "

My tears fell on the letter, and blurred the ink of
his handwriting...

and as I conntinue on reading...

"Now, that you have finished reading my answer, if you
are satisfied,
please open the front door for I am standing outside
bringing your favorite bread and fresh milk...

I rush to pull open the door, and saw his anxious
face, clutching tightly with his hands, the milk
bottle and loaf of bread....

Now I am very sure that no one will ever love me as
much as he does, and I
have decided to leave the flower alone...

That's life, and love. When one is surrounded by love,
the feeling of excitement fades away, and one tends to
ignore the true love that lies in between the peace
and dullness.

Love shows up in all forms, even very small and cheeky
forms, it has never been a model, it could be the most
dull and boring form.. . flowers, and romantic moments
are only used and appear on the surface of the
relationship.

Under all this, the pillar of true love stands... and
that's our life...Love, not words win arguments...

[biggie9385]

Between Two Worlds
By Kari West

At Pillar Point Lighthouse, south of San Francisco, where the ocean gives way to the land, I stood on the edge of two worlds. That day my thoughts were as restless as the relentless sea pummeling the shore below. I was floundering, torn between the deep attachments of the past and the pressing need to let go of them forever. I was almost ready to give up.

Me, single again? I can't do this! Two months earlier, my husband had suddenly walked out of our marriage. The discovery of multiple affairs going back decades left me breathless. Now, as a single working mother of a teenager, I felt overwhelmed. Sometimes I felt I could make it through, but at other times I just wanted to die.

That particular Sunday afternoon, Eleanor, a woman I knew from church, suggested that we go and pick blackberries at the ocean. So we had driven down the coast and stopped at this bluff to stretch our legs and absorb the view.

I didn't know Eleanor well, but she turned out to be good company. As we gazed down at the ocean she turned to me and said, very deliberately, "The kind of men who sneak around and walk out on marriages are not worth crying over."

So began my friendship with Eleanor. I soon discovered that as a divorced woman herself, she had also stood where I was now - and that she had not only survived, but flourished.

In the months that followed, Eleanor taught me how. "Lighten up. Simplify," she said. I began by getting rid of the heavy furniture I couldn't lift on my own.

"Why hold on to all those knickknacks and holiday ornaments, if they have such heavy memories?" she asked. So I held a garage sale to make room for new memories and traditions. I bought a small house across town and redecorated the black vinyl and beige with colorful floral patterns. Instead of bemoaning that my daughter chose to spend that first Christmas with her father, I took the week off work to travel to Israel.

Slowly, I got my feet wet with all this single stuff. Eleanor was always there for me. She let me have the keys to her house so I could have a quiet place to go when she was at work, and she said I could call her anytime, day or night. I thought of her as my "3 a.m. friend." What a gift she gave me!

I found myself wanting what Eleanor had. That wisdom. That twinkle in the eye that said that life is good and we are here to enjoy it. Just watching her move smoothly, creatively through her life helped. I thought, Maybe one day I'll be where she is.

Although our paths took different directions in the years that followed, Eleanor and I always managed to pick up our friendship where we left off. To this day, I continue to admire how she carries herself with flair through life's ups and downs. She has a way of putting things into perspective.

It is in part because of Eleanor that I have realized one special dream. While I was going through all my emotional turmoil, I hoped that someday I would be able to write about it and so help other women in the same situation. Inspired by watching Eleanor turn a hobby of oil painting into a home business, I left behind a thirty-year career to become a freelance writer.

One day I was at a writer's conference having an article based on my experience reviewed by an editor. In the middle of our session she suddenly broke down and said, "I'm going through this same thing right now!"

She was obviously in distress. I gave her a hug and told her she would get through it; there was a future out there, even though she might not be able to see it at the moment.

Over the next few months, we stayed in touch, and then it occurred to me that she and I would make a perfect writing team. The combination of my weathered experience and her raw pain would enable us to write a book that would mentor other women in similar situations. When I told her my idea over the telephone she was very enthusiastic, and as we said good-bye she added, "I want my twinkle back - the twinkle that I see in your eyes!"

I closed my eyes for a moment as I realized what had happened: I had become for my new friend what my old friend Eleanor had always been for me. Twelve years had passed since that Sunday afternoon when Eleanor and I stopped at the lighthouse. And now I knew what Eleanor must have known as we stood looking down at the ocean pounding at the shore: There is a place where the turbulent sea gives way to firm, dry land. And when you find that place, you become a beacon of hope for others who are still floundering in the waves.

[biggie9385]

The Unexpected
By Julie Lucas

In September of the year I turned nineteen, my parents drove up unexpectedly one Sunday afternoon to my college dorm. My mother sat down, quietly sniffling, while my dad, truly uncomfortable, cleared his throat, paused for a moment, and told me that they had received a letter from the Social Security Administration.

The letter said that Daniel Frazier - and for a moment, a heartbeat moment, I couldn't remember who he was - had died, and I was entitled to Social Security benefits. Oh yes, he used to be my father. Well, my birth father. I don't even remember him.

A part of me stood in the corner of the room quietly watching as this surreal scene unfolded. The person who I regarded as my true father, who had raised me from a child - my stepfather - was telling me about Daniel Frazier's death. Another part of me was summing up what I felt at this moment, which was nothing - no sorrow, no sadness. Only a sense of melancholy that sometimes comes over one when reading a stranger's obituary. Despite the chaotic thoughts scuffling around in my head, all I could think was that this isn't how I thought it would end. I always thought I would see him again, at least once.

This was the second and final time I had lost him. He left my mother, my six-year-old sister and two-year-old me, promising to be back in two weeks - walked out the door and never looked back. When I turned six, my mother married a man who happily took on an instant family, and when our family grew through the addition of a baby brother, my sister and I happily spoiled our little prince.

But always, my thoughts would return to this missing man. I had wildly conflicting views on exactly how I should feel about Daniel Frazier. For a long time, I hated him. Despised him for walking out our front door and never looking back, never calling. I sometimes thought that perhaps he would silently be watching us at school or home, ashamed to show his face, lurking around the edges of my life, interested in how I was growing and my emerging chrysalis personality.

But the saddest thing is that I really have no memories of him. My sister recalls holding his hand and walking with him on a rainy October evening, the streetlights reflecting off the water-slicked streets. They stopped at a large building, where he pointed to one of the windows and said, "That's where your mommy and baby sister are." And that is as much as she can recall. But at least she has something, a bonafide picture captured in her heart. I find myself envious of her for that small glimpse.

My family had such an authentic core of sheer love that it was outside my understanding that someone of such looming importance to me could simply not care. Well, he didn't. Care, that is. But what was not apparent to me when I found out about his death was how unspeakably troubled his life was. Only years later did the details of his life emerge.

My mother's most hidden fear was that he would reemerge to haunt the lives of my sister and me, and only because he had died did she reveal some of his past. It turns out he had, for years, been manic-depressive, undiagnosed and untreated during their marriage. My mother found out that he died alone in a hotel room after taking an overdose of sleeping pills.

I know truth is often blurred in interpretation and no one knows what anyone's final, most intimate thoughts are before exiting this world. But I want to believe he achieved some sort of redemptive grace before he died. Only lately, as I've gotten older, can I understand how utterly terrifying his world must have seemed. The chasm between him and a normal life must have seemed incalculable. How defeating it must have all been. With the added, overwhelming responsibilities of parenthood, he simply unraveled. All semblance of reality sloughed off of him, and during his last few years, he evidently lurched between medicated and nonmedicated crises. He had no friends, no family, no one to hold his hand at the end of his life.

It's taken me a long time to be able to write these words. And only after I went through some troubled times in my own life did I begin to comprehend his pain. I found myself understanding how he could walk out that door and not look back. And not call, not write, not be part of our lives. He had nothing left to give, except his own grief and madness. I'd like to think he knew this. So, as my sister and I talked about him last weekend, we realized that we forgave him for leaving us. We had finally stopped looking for the reasons why he went away.

He will always be the first man who broke my heart, but today as I write this, I can finally accept him with all his flaws.

[biggie9385]

Going Home
By Liza Maakestad

"Is everything okay?" Tim asks as we drive through the night's heavy rain.

"I'm fine," I say, staring out my window. "Just tired from the plane ride." The November downpour outside is a harsh contrast to the warm beaches we enjoyed all week on our honeymoon.

"If you want," he begins slowly, "we can probably stay with your mom and dad."

"No, that's okay!" I say quickly, half smiling. I turn to look at our backseat, piled with the wedding gifts we had picked up from my parents' house. The drive to our new apartment to spend the night for the first time is lonely.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Tim asks again.

I look at him carefully and I can picture him in his black tux at our wedding. I see us running hand-in-hand to our car while a row of guests on each side tosses tiny leaves into the air. I pass my parents without looking back.

"I just feel different," I say aloud.

Suddenly, I see my young self. I'm graduating from high school and picking a university 1,500 miles from home, not telling my parents until after making my first tuition payment. A year later, I don't have a dime for my tuition, but somehow manage without a single terrified call home. My junior year, I tell my parents about my boyfriend, Tim - whom I'd already been dating a year and a half.

Reflecting back, it's all clear now.

I wanted to do everything on my own and assumed my parents would accept and support the changes. But my independent spirit told me they would always be waiting when I decided to come back.

"You know," I tell Tim, my throat tightening, "up until a week ago I've always lived with my parents. I could leave home to do what I had to do, and then come back whenever I wanted." The reality of what I'm saying chokes me. "But now I can't go back to live in my house - I have to grow up!"

With surprise, I feel tears spilling down my face. In between sobs, I hear Tim dialing his cell phone.

"Hello, it's Tim. Can I speak to Mrs. Gomez?" A pause. "Hi, Mrs. Gomez. No, we're fine, but I think someone needs to talk to you." He puts the phone by my ear, and before I can think, I whimper, "It's just different, that's all."

Mom already knows.

"Don't cry!" she says, her timid voice unusually strong. "Don't you know I already prayed to God to give me the strength to let you go?" I wipe my eyes as her soothing voice explains, "That's just life, but it's all going to be all right."

She talks to me for a long time, and when I finally say good-bye to her, I'm no longer crying, just sleepy.

Thinking back at that first night in our new apartment, I smile. As I slept next to Tim, surrounded by boxes and empty rooms, I could not possibly know how easily and without notice I would begin to call our new place "home."

I sleep peacefully now, knowing I can leave and come back and everything will be all right, because I am always home.

[biggie9385]

Check Your Bag
By Robert Lalonde

My brother Maurice and three of his buddies - Sam, Renwick and Earl - have a regular golf game every Friday during the summer. In order to make the game interesting and even, they use handicaps. As a result of this, Maurice and Earl are partners, and Sam and Renwick play together.

Maurice never walks the golf course and is always trying to get one of the other guys to ride with him. This particular Friday in July, it was very warm, and he asked Renwick to ride with him.

It just so happens that Renwick had been on a health kick for a couple of months, so he told Maurice that he would prefer to walk. Renwick had lost about twenty pounds and had just purchased a carry bag from the pro shop, deciding that toting, rather than using a pull cart as he walked the course, would help him stay in shape.

Maurice candidly cautioned Renwick, "Remember, you are fifty-eight years old. Walking the course is one thing; carrying your bag for eighteen holes is something else."

Nevertheless, Renwick insisted on walking, and off they went.

After nine holes, Renwick said to one of the other guys who was walking, "I think Maurice was right. Carrying this bag is wearing me out."

Naturally, the other guy suggested that Renwick ask Maurice for a ride in the cart, to which Renwick stubbornly replied, "Not a chance. If you think I will admit this to Maurice, you are crazy."

They continued on. Renwick struggled but refused to give Maurice the satisfaction of giving up.

At about the 12th hole, Sam confided in Maurice, "Renwick realizes carrying the golf bag was a bad idea, but will not admit it to you because he knows he will be in for a real good ribbing."

Shortly after hearing this, Maurice called Renwick over and said, "Are you getting tired of carrying that golf bag? Why don't you take a load off and put the bag on the cart?"

Renwick grimaced but replied, "No thanks. It's not bad at all."

With a sly grin, Maurice continued, "Then why don't you unzip that side pocket and lighten your load?"

Knowing he'd been had, Renwick unzipped the side pocket, where he discovered two rocks - slightly smaller than a couple of footballs - that he had been carrying for twelve holes!

Needless to say, Renwick had some choice words for Maurice, while Sam and Earl were rolling on the tee, laughing until they were crying.

And rest assured, Renwick now checks his bag for foreign objects before every golf game . . . particularly on Fridays.

[biggie9385]

How Bubba Lukey Got His Name
By Del Doughty

We named our first son Sam. We loved him so much we
decided to have another. When my wife, Leah, got into the
second trimester, we started talking about names. We both
wanted something biblical, but that was where the agreement
ended.

One evening after dinner I ran a few possibilities by
her. "How about Moses?" I asked, half seriously. "We
could call him 'Moe' for short."

Leah didn't go for that.

"What about Nimrod?" I asked. "Nimrod the mighty
hunter."

She just rolled her eyes and turned away. But later,
she pitched a few names of her own: "Jacob?"

Nope. Too popular.

"Matthew?"

Nope. We almost named our first son Matthew. I
couldn't dish out a leftover to our new son.

Then one day, sitting together at a Bible study, we
came across the name Simeon: "...when she gave birth to a
son...she named him Simeon" (Gen. 29:33). The "she" in the
passage is Leah, and as the story goes, Simeon was Leah's
second son. There was a neat symmetry about the whole
thing.

"Hey," I said, nudging Leah, "what about Simeon?"

"What about Simon?"

Close enough. We had ourselves a name, or so I
thought. A few days later my wife came and said, "Ix-nay
on Simon."

"Why?" I asked. "What's wrong with Simon?"

"People will make fun of his name. They'll call him
Simple Simon."

"But what about the biblical second-son-of-Leah
thing?" I asked.

"Here's the deal," said my wife. "We name him Simon,
but we call him something else. Simon doesn't have to be a
first name. It can be his middle name."

So it was back to the name books. We tried Aaron and
Zack, Jack and Shaq, Moby and Toby. None of them stuck.

Meanwhile, my wife's belly grew rounder. One fall
Saturday afternoon while I was watching football, she came
to me and said, "Hey, how about Luke?"

"Luke." I said it aloud. I repeated it a few times.
It sounded good.

"And the best part," she said, "is that no one can
make fun of it."

"It's insult-proof," I said. "Luke Simon Doughty."

So we were agreed.

Until Sunday, at least. I was watching another
football game when my wife came in and said, "It won't
work."

I knew at once what she was referring to. "What's
wrong now?"

"His monogram: Luke Simon Doughty equals LSD. I can't
have my son's initials be a major hallucinogen."

"Look," I said, turning off the football game. "It's
a bit late to be fooling with names again, don't you
think?"

My wife stood there shaking her head. "I can't do it.
My son will not have the initials LSD."

Then I had the answer. "What if we name him Simon
Luke Doughty, but call him by his middle name?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, Simon
Luke Doughty, but we'll call him Luke. Works for me."

Relieved, I went back to my game.

The very next Thursday, Leah delivered our baby boy -
a cheeky seven-pounder, a delight just like his brother.
On Saturday, we brought Baby Luke home, and family and
friends came by with gifts and covered casseroles, hoping
to catch a glimpse of the new bubba. Big brother Sam was
as excited as anyone. "Can I hold Baby Wookey?" he asked
all evening.

When things had settled down, I took Sam upstairs for
bedtime. We knelt to pray beside his bed, and Sam added
the "God blesses": "God bless Mama and Daddy, God bless
Sammy and" - and why didn't I see this coming? - "and God
bless Luke the Kook."

[biggie9385]

The Baby's Stash
by James A. Nelson

“How are we going to pay for the baby, Jim?” my wife Lois asked with concern in her voice. We had just received the news from the doctor about the upcoming birth of our first child. The news was met with joyful innocence, now reality was sinking in. I'm sure questions about birth expenses and how they will be paid are universal. They were in our case at least.

I had just started a new job and had only minimal medical insurance, Lois was only working part time and had no insurance whatsoever. “Don't worry, Hon,” I said with confidence, “I'll find a way.” And indeed I did.

I paid for our first child with $2.00 bills. I was paid on a weekly basis and my employer paid in cash when you presented your timeslip. The even dollar amount from the last $10.00 or close to it was always paid in $2.00 bills. They did this so they could determine if you were spending anything in their establishment. Even then (late '50s) $2.00 bills were scarce, with few in normal circulation.

We had been told the doctor bill would be $150.00 and the hospital bill would be $175.00. This figure seemed like a lot to a guy making $58.50 a week, clear. What a difference forty-five years makes. The medical procedures have changed little but the monetary aspect of medical bills has become almost frightening. As the weeks progressed I would dutifully arrive home after each payday and hand Lois all my $2.00 bills.

She had created a secret hiding place in the cupboard where she kept our “Baby Stash” as she laughingly called it. I never knew where it was so I had no idea how much we were accumulating. Whenever I would ask she would only smile, point to her now protruding stomach and say, “You will have to ask the baby.” I would just smile, pick up the evening paper and say, “He doesn't feel like talking tonight.” You see I had already decided on the baby's gender. It's sort of a macho thing with males. Fortunately wives seem to understand.

As the weeks turned into months I knew our Baby Stash was growing almost as fast as the baby was. The funny thing is - I never missed the money because I knew the $2.00 bills were not mine to keep. Like all pregnancies the delivery day finally arrived.

Awakening in the middle of the night, I reached over for Lois and she was gone, leaving a warm spot where she should have been. Then I heard her in the front room. 'What's that noise?' I thought to myself. 'Sounds like she is ironing.' I raised up in bed and hollered to her. “What are you doing?” “Ironing,” she said matter-of-factly. “What for?” I asked. “It's time to go to the hospital and I want my new dress smock to look freshly pressed. Get up. Grab the suitcase and start the car.” By the time our fourth child was born I knew this routine by heart. For you see it never changed. The only thing that changed was the manner we paid for our other children. Plus our cars were newer and easier to start.

Throughout the years I have progressed in my career and the other children were fully covered by medical insurance. I was glad for this fact and so was Lois but it was sad in a way. For you see medical insurance can't cover the surprised smile on a doctor's face when you hand him a fistful of $2.00 bills and say, “Here's your fee, Doctor.” Nor can a check from the insurance company ever take the place of Lois's Baby Stash and the warm feeling we both shared when I handed her my weekly $2.00 bills.

I had forgotten about the forty-two-year-old episode in my life until recently. I was at the supermarket when a dirty, worn $2.00 bill was placed in my hand along with my change. A lump arose in my throat and tears came to my eyes as I gazed at its tattered corners. Our Baby's Stash and all it represented had arisen from my memory in a blinding flash.

Struggling with my groceries, along with my memories, I walked toward my car and headed home to an empty apartment. Turning into my driveway I reflected how much fun it would be to start a Baby Stash once again. Then reality set in. There isn't enough time left in my life or enough $2.00 bills in circulation any more. Then I grinned as I thought - maybe, just maybe I could start another Baby Stash using our new gold dollars - dreamer.

[biggie9385]

The Good Side of Fear
by Joe Theismann

I had the chance to sit down at Jack Murphy Stadium in San Diego with Joe Montana before he went onto the field with the San Francisco 49ers against Denver in Super Bowl XXIV (1989). We didn't know it then, but this would be Joe's last Super Bowl, his fourth championship, yet another high point in one of the most remarkable careers not just in pro football, but in all of sports.

Joe seemed restless. He had already won everything there is in this game - the respect of teammates and opponents, coaches and owners, and especially the fans - plus all the awards: multiple League Most Valuable Player (MVPs), Super Bowls, and Super Bowl MVPs.

I said, “Joe, you can't possibly be scared.”

What he said to me is, I believe the key to his success and the reason I consider him the greatest quarterback of all time. He said, “If you're not afraid of losing, then losing means nothing.”

Every time Joe Montana stepped on the field, he was scared. That element of fear kept him sharp through his entire career. If we want to be at our best, we need that same element of fear burning inside of us. It sharpens the focus; keeps the edge.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't remember what Joe said, realizing the truth of it. It has helped me. I know it will surely help you.

[biggie9385]

The All-Leather, NFL Regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-Inscribed Football
by Tom Payne

The year was 1964. The place was Chicago. A man I worked with had acquired a couple of all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed footballs and was selling them at a real good price. My first son was on the way. I bought the football. I had my son's “coming home from the hospital” gift, and it was something truly special.

Several years later, young Tom was rummaging around in the garage as only a five- or six-year-old can rummage when he came across the all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football. He asked if he could play with it. With as much logic as I felt he could understand, I explained to him that he was still a bit too young to play carefully with such a special ball. We had the same conversation several more times in the next few months, and soon the requests faded away.
The next fall, after watching a football game on television, Tom asked, “Dad, remember that football you have in the garage? Can I use it to play with the guys now?”

Eyes rolling up in my head, I replied, “Tom, you don't understand. You don't just go out and casually throw around an all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago bears-inscribed football. I told you before; it's special.”

Eventually Tom stopped asking altogether. But he did remember, and a few years later he told his younger brother, Dave, about the all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football that was special and kept somewhere in the garage. Dave came to me one day and asked if he could take that special football and throw it around for awhile. It seemed like I'd been through this before, but I patiently explained, once again, that you don't just go out and throw around an all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football.

But it wasn't special anymore.

I stood alone in the garage. The boys had long since moved away from home, and suddenly I realized that the football had never been so special at all. Children playing with it when it was their time to play is what would have made it special. I had blown those precious, present moments that can never be reclaimed, and I had saved a football. For what?

I took the football across the street and gave it to a family with young kids. A couple of hours later I looked out the window. They were throwing, catching, kicking and letting skid across the cement my all-leather, NFL regulation, 1963 Chicago Bears-inscribed football.

Now it was special!