Finding My Wings

by Sue Augustine

Like so many other girls, my self-confidence growing up was almost nonexistent.  I doubted my abilities, had little faith in my potential and questioned my personal worth.  If I achieved good grades, I believed that I was just lucky. Although I made friends easily, I worried that once they got to know me, the friendships wouldn't last.  And when things went well, I thought I was just in the right place at the right time.  I even rejected praise and compliments.
    
The choices I made reflected my self-image.  While in my teens, I attracted a man with the same low self-esteem.  In spite of his violent temper and an extremely rocky dating relationship, I decided to marry him.  I still remember my dad whispering to me before walking me down the aisle, "It's not too late, Sue.  You can change your mind."  My family knew what a terrible mistake I was making.  Within weeks, I knew it, too.
    
The physical abuse lasted for several years.  I survived serious injuries, was covered with bruises much of the time and had to be hospitalized on numerous occasions.  Life became a blur of police sirens, doctors' reports and family court appearances.  Yet I continued to go back to the relationship, hoping that things would somehow improve.
    
After we had our two little girls, there were times when all that got me through the night was having those chubby little arms wrapped around my neck, pudgy cheeks pressed up against mine and precious toddler voices saying, "It's all right, Mommy.  Everything will be okay."  But I knew that it wasn't going to be okay.  I had to make changes - if not for myself, to protect my little girls.
    
Then something gave me the courage to change.  Through work, I was able to attend a series of professional development seminars.  In one, a presenter talked about turning dreams into realities.  That was hard for me - even to dream about a better future.  But something in the message made me listen.
    
She asked us to consider two powerful questions: "If you could be, do, or have anything in the world, and you knew it would be impossible to fail, what would you choose?  And if you could create your ideal life, what would you dare to dream?"  In that moment, my life began to change.  I began to dream.
    
I imagined having the courage to move the children into an apartment of our own and start over.  I pictured a better life for the girls and me.  I dreamed about being an international motivational speaker so that I could inspire people the way the seminar leader had inspired me.  I saw myself writing my story to encourage others.
    
So I went on to create a clear visual picture of my new success.  I envisioned myself wearing a red business suit, carrying a leather briefcase and getting on an airplane.  This was quite a stretch for me, since at the time I couldn't even afford a suit.
    
Yet I knew that if I was going to dream, it was important to fill in the details for my five senses.  So I went to the leather store and modeled a briefcase in front of the mirror.  How would it look and feel?  What does leather smell like?  I tried on some red suits and even found a picture of a woman in a red suit, carrying a briefcase and getting on a plane.  I hung the picture up where I could see it every day.  It helped to keep the dream alive.
    
And soon the changes began.  I moved with the children to a small apartment.  On only $98 a week, we ate a lot of peanut butter and drove an old jalopy.  But for the first time, we felt free and safe.  I worked hard at my sales career, all the time focusing on my "impossible dream."
    
Then one day I answered the phone, and the voice on the other end asked me to speak at the company's upcoming annual conference.  I accepted, and my speech was a success.  This led to a series of promotions, eventually to national sales trainer.  I went on to develop my own speaking company and have traveled to many countries around the world.  My "impossible dream" has become a reality.
    
I believe that all success begins with spreading your W.I.N.G.S. - believing in your worth, trusting your insight, nurturing yourself, having a goal and devising a personal strategy.  And then, even impossible dreams become real.

Ice Cream

This is from an old story, back in the ’30s, in the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less. A 10 year-old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A waitress put a glass of water in front of him.

“How much is an ice cream sundae?” the little boy asked.

“Fifty cents,” replied the waitress.

The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied the coins he had. “Well, how much is a plain dish of ice cream?” he inquired.

By now, more people were waiting for a table and the waitress was growing very impatient. “Thirty-five cents,” she brusquely replied.

The little boy again counted his coins. “I’ll have the plain ice cream,” he said.

The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream, paid the cashier and left. When the waitress came back, she began to cry. As she wiped down the table, there placed neatly beside the empty dish were two nickels and five pennies.

You see, he couldn’t have the sundae because he had to have enough money to leave her a tip.

If it is to be.. It is up to me

There was a kingdom and the kings were elected once in every five years.

No one wanted to become the king there since they had a custom of leaving each king after his period of five years in a dangerous forest nearby. No one survived in that forest so far.

One man volunteered to become a king. He was enjoying his five years as a king and the day came to set him inside the dangerous forest. He happily came forward to go to the forest. All others were confused why this man was so happy to get into the forest. One asked him why he is so happy to die.

The King replayed, "I knew clearly about our custom. So, in the first year, I sent 100 soldiers to kill all the dangerous animals in the forest. In the second year, I sent 500 wood cutters to cut all the trees. In the third years I sent 1000 farmers to turn the forest into a cultivating land. In the fourth year I sent 2000 villagers to build houses there and settle there. In the fifth year I built a palace there. Now, there is a new kingdom is waiting for me. Why should I worry?"..

If it is to be.. It is up to me..

Raising My Sights

By Terri McPherson

My six-year-old granddaughter, Caitlynd, and I stopped at a Tim Horton's donut shop for a blueberry muffin.  As we were going out the door, a young teenage boy was coming in.
    
This young man had no hair on the sides of his head and a tuft of blue spiked hair on top of it.  One of his nostrils was pierced, and attached to the hoop that ran through the hole was a chain that draped across his face and attached to a ring he was wearing in his ear.  He held a skateboard under one arm and a basketball under the other.
    
Caitlynd, who was walking ahead of me, stopped in her tracks when she saw the teen.  I thought he'd scared the dickens out of her, and she'd frozen on the spot.
    
I was wrong.
    
My Grandangel backed up against the door and opened it as wide as it would go.  Now I was face to face with the young man.  I stepped aside and let him pass.  His response was a gracious, "Thank you very much."
    
On our way to the car, I commended Caitlynd for her manners in holding open the door for the young man.  She didn't seem to be troubled by his appearance, but I wanted to make sure.  If a grandmotherly talk about freedom of self-expression and allowing people their differences was in order, I wanted to be ready.
    
As it turned out, the person who needed the talk was me.
    
The only thing Caitlynd noticed about the teen was the fact that his arms were full.  "He woulda had a hard time to open the door."
    
I saw the partially shaved head, the tuft of spiked hair, the piercings and the chain.  She saw a person carrying something under each arm and heading toward a closed door.
    
In the future, I hope to get down on her level and raise my sights.

Just an Old Golden Retriever

By Audrey Thomasson

She was just an old golden retriever.  Her name was Brandy, and for eleven years she was the sole companion of an elderly woman who lived in a bungalow colony in the country.  Neighbors often saw the two of them together in the garden.  The woman would be hunched over picking flowers and there was that old dog, close at her heels or lying in the middle of the grass watching her pull weeds.  When the woman died, some relatives came and collected anything they thought was valuable and put a "For Sale" sign on the front lawn.  Then they locked the dog out and drove away.
    
Some of the neighbors left food out for Brandy, but mostly the dog stayed near the house that she knew and waited for her owner to come back.  A young mother who lived next door noticed the old retriever, but she had never been around animals before and while she thought the dog was friendly enough, she didn't feel it was any of her concern.
    
However, when the dog wandered into her yard and began playing with eighteen-month-old Adam, she wanted to shoo the dirty thing away.  Adam was her only child and the light of her life.  But he was having so much fun feeding Brandy cookies she decided to let her stay.  After that, whenever Adam had cookies Brandy came by to visit.
    
One afternoon, the boy's mother left Adam in the soft grassy yard to play while she answered the phone.  When she returned he was gone.  Just gone.  The mother was frantic. Neighbors came over to help in the search.  Police arrived and looked for three hours before calling in the state police and helicopters to do an extensive aerial search.  But no one could find the child, and as the sun set over the horizon, whispers of abduction, injury or even death crept into conversations.
    
The search had been going on for six hours when a neighbor, who'd just returned home, wondered where Brandy was.  Adam's mother, hysterical with worry, didn't understand why anyone was asking about the old dog at a time like this.
    
When someone suggested she might be with Adam, a trooper recalled hearing a dog barking deep in the woods when they were doing a foot search.  Suddenly, everybody started calling for Brandy.
    
They heard faint barking and followed the sound until they found the toddler, standing up fast asleep, pressed against the trunk of a tree.  That old dog was holding him there with one shoulder as one of her own legs dangled over a thirty-five-foot drop to a stream below.
    
Brandy had followed Adam when he wandered off.  When she saw danger, she'd pushed him out of harm's way and held him safe for all those hours, even as the child struggled to get free.
    
As soon as the rescue team picked up Adam, the old dog collapsed.  A trooper carried Adam back home, while his mother, sobbing with relief, carried Brandy.  She was so grateful to the old golden retriever that Brandy spent the rest of her days with them.  Brandy lived to the ripe old age of seventeen.
    
But this story doesn't end with just one life saved.  In Brandy's honor, Adam's mother, Sara Whalen, founded Pets Alive, a rescue sanctuary in New York that takes in unwanted animals, including those designated to be euthanized because they are old, blind, incontinent or perhaps not cute enough to be adopted.  While she can't save them all, Sara feels comforted that she can help at least some of them.  She knows that if someone had put that old retriever to sleep, she could have easily lost the light of her life: her son.
    
Today, thirty years later, there are more than three hundred animals in her care, including birds, potbellied pigs, old horses retired from the carriage business and unadoptable pets from rescue groups across the country.  The woman who used to think an old, abandoned dog wasn't any of her concern found that every life has value and has become a beacon for thousands of animals in need.

With These Rings

By Sharon M. Palmer

I was a new pastor's wife when my husband took me to a small town in Oklahoma.  We fought until we learned to love each other during the two years we spent there.  I was the new girl in town.  I knew no one and barely knew my husband, Brad.  He was busy with his church, and there I was, stuck.  No money, no job and no friends.  I was uncomfortable in my new role and resented it when others referred to me as "the preacher's wife."  I failed to see what an honor that was.  The parishioners made attempts to befriend me, but I was too busy being lonely and angry, and was bound and determined to let Brad know it.  I pouted and packed, whined and packed, and threw things at him and packed.  "I'm leaving!" I would scream when he came home.  With the fifty cents I had in my pocket and no gas money, I don't know where I thought I was going, but I was adamant.
   
"Don't do me any favors," he would reply, which only caused me to turn on my heels and shout, "I'm staying, and don't try and stop me!"  Who did he think he was?  I wasn't about to let him kick me out.
   
Somewhere between my daily suitcase-packing episodes, I remembered that I had promised to love him for better or for worse.  In desperation, I found ways to entertain myself.  I spent hours picking from the six pecan trees in the front yard.  I quickly realized that even though we had no money, the pecans made great Christmas gifts.  I even found a job.  Then my husband came home one day and announced that he had an interview at a church in Louisiana.  I had just learned to live in Oklahoma!
   
True to form, I pouted and griped on the way to Louisiana.  Then something stopped me in my tracks.  We were on our way through Texas when we ran right into what looked like a giant crystal bowl.  An ice storm had hit the area a few days earlier, and it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.  And there I was, gnawing on my husband.  Somewhere between Denton and Sulphur, I had taken off my wedding rings and tucked them into the folds of my skirt so that I could apply some hand cream.  The ice we were skidding on distracted me just enough that I forgot to put my rings back on.  Three hours later I looked down and realized that I had lost my rings out on the highway when I had stepped out of the car to take a picture of a horse and buggy driving by.  But which highway?  Everything looks the same in an ice storm, especially when you are in country unfamiliar.
   
"I'll buy you another ring," my husband said.
   
I knew he meant well, but the ring was a family heirloom.  "That ring can't be replaced," I cried.
   
"Honey, we don't even know where to begin looking," he said.  "No, we're NOT going back," he insisted as he turned the car around and headed back to look for the rings.
   
It was hours before we found a location that seemed familiar.  Occasionally some well-meaning person would pull his car over to the side of the road, roll down his window and yell, "Hey, buddy, what'd ya' lose?"  At one point there must have been ten cars stopped on the side of the road, all abandoned by the occupants who had joined in the search.  But with the sun going down, it was obvious that our chances of finding the rings were slim.  I was crushed.
   
"Face it, Honey, they're gone," Brad said.  "I know you're upset.  I promise to try and find a suitable replacement."
   
I knew he was right.  The walk in the cold that day had given me time to think about the day's events.  I played the scene over and over in my mind, and what I saw was not a pretty sight.  I had ranted and raved, nagged and wailed, and acted like a spoiled brat.  I took a good long look at my husband pacing back and forth in the freezing cold.  He had driven three hours back to this desolate area in the middle of a treacherous ice storm without one thought for himself, attempting to find something that was important to me.  The rings might be gone, but there could never be a suitable replacement for my husband.  Suddenly, the rings seemed so unimportant.  I resolved right then and there to stop thinking only of myself.
   
It was at that very moment that I opened the car door and began to step inside.  Something on the floor caught my eye.  My rings!  I grabbed them and waved them in the air.  Brad rushed to my side and put them back on my finger.  "This is where these rings belong," he whispered.  I looked into his eyes, and knew that I had found what I was looking for.  It wasn't my rings that were lost that day - I was the one who had been missing.
   
Life in the pastorate hasn't changed.  The only thing that has changed is me.  We still move around more than I like.  And I still have to start over again every time we do.  But I've learned to appreciate when people call me "the preacher's wife," because etched into my mind is a frozen road in Texas, and a voice that whispers, "This is where these rings belong."

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."

Harvest Moon

By Kenneth L. Pierpont

My grandfather had a small farm where he raised beef and some grain for feed. He also worked diligently as a factory laborer and country pastor. He was a good neighbor and well-respected for honoring his word.

When harvesttime came, he'd piece together his old one-row corn picker and oil it up for the season. He pulled it behind a little Ford 9-N tractor with a wagon hooked on the back. It was a noisy contraption unlike the modern machines you see these days devouring the golden armies of grain in wide gulps.

His whole operation was like that. Basic. In fact, his life was like that, too. He worked hard, helped others, and you could count on him to keep his promises. That's what made it so hard one autumn when difficult circumstances closed in on him.

He had promised to harvest a few ribbons of corn that wound around the hills on a friend's farm, but after harvesting his own corn, Grandpa's little corn picker coughed, sputtered and quit. It would be out of commission until a particular part could be ordered, but that would take far too long to help this year. Then the odds of being able to help out his neighbor got even worse; the factory where grandpa worked began to require overtime. In order to keep his job there he had to leave the farm before dawn and didn't get home until well after sunset.

One autumn night, while harvesttime was running out, he and his wife sat at the kitchen table sipping bitter black coffee and trying to figure a way out of their dilemma.

"There's nothing you can do," said my grandma. "You'll just have to tell him that you can't help with the corn this year."

"Well that just doesn't sit well with me," said my grandpa. "My friend is depending on me. I can't exactly let my neighbor's harvest rot in the field, can I?"

"If you don't have the equipment, you just can't do it," she said.Well, I could do it the way we used to do it. I could harvest it by hand," he said.

"When do you think you'd have time to do it?" she asked. "With the overtime you've been working you'd be up all night . . . besides it'd be too dark."

"I know of one night that I could do it!" he said, running to the bookshelf. He grabbed the Farmer's Almanac and started flipping through the pages until he found what he was looking for. "Aha! There's still one more full moon in October." As it happened, the harvest moon had yet to pass. They say it's called the harvest moon because it gives farmers more light and more time to collect their crops. "If the Lord gives us clear weather, I think I can do it," he said.

And so a few days later, after a long shift at the factory, my grandpa made his way to the field where my grandma met him in the truck with dinner and a steaming thermos of strong, black coffee. The weather was cold but clear, and the moon was brilliant. He worked through the night to keep his word.

I know this story well, because I've spent hours on that old tractor's fender talking with my grandpa. We've even suffered through some of that same bitter coffee together. I'm proud to say that my parents named me after him.

Sometimes, when I'm tempted to cut corners or to put off responsibilities, I think of my grandfather with his scythe cutting wide arcs of corn in the light of the harvest moon. I hear the ears of corn hit the floor of the wagon and the music of geese crossing the cold October sky. The chilly autumn morning darkness envelops my mind and I see my grandpa, his work finally done, crawling into the seat of the old tractor and making his way home. Behind him in the pale moonlight, row after row of corn shocks stand at attention in respect for a man who keeps his word.

Velcr­o Beau

By Carol Kline

When I first saw him, he looked worried.  His furrowed brow and uncertain eyes gave his regal face a haunted look.  I would come to know that this was a dog who was spooked by change until he got his bearings.  And that day his world had been turned upside down.
    
The large German shepherd had been running away on a regular basis.  He always showed up at a neighbor's house where they played with him and fed him - and eventually called his family, asking them to come and get him.  Sometimes when the family showed up to retrieve him, they were rough with him.  The neighbors noticed that the dog never seemed too excited about getting into their truck.  And lately he hadn't been looking well.  His coat was rough and he was losing weight.
    
One day, when they called the dog's family to report his whereabouts, the family said they weren't coming to get him.  They'd had enough; the dog was on his own.  Fortunately, the neighbors called a friend who was a volunteer at the shelter where I also volunteered as dog-intake coordinator and breed-rescue liaison.  She took him home and then called me.
    
As I drove up to my friend's house, I saw her sitting on the porch with her children.  The dog was sitting on the porch, too, but wasn't interacting with any of them.  Instead, he was scanning the street and sidewalk with nervous eyes.
    
He was a stunning dog, in spite of his worried expression, rough coat and emaciated frame.  I was told he was a little over a year and a half, still a pup by German shepherd standards.  He was very tall and would be an imposing creature once he filled out.  I had never handled a dog his size and was intimidated at first.  But, aside from being agitated at the strangeness of his surroundings, he seemed perfectly friendly and readily jumped into the back of my car.
    
My plan was to take him to the vet for an exam and then take him to the shelter or arrange for him to go to the nearest German shepherd rescue group.  But first I thought I'd stop and show him to my husband, Larry, as he'd grown up with German shepherds and loved the breed.  (Over the years, I'd heard many stories about his favorite dog, Marc; none of our rescued mutts could compare.)
    
When I opened the back door of the car and the shepherd leaped out, he immediately loped over to my husband.  After a cursory sniff, he lost interest and began exploring the parking lot where we stood.  We watched him, and I could tell Larry was impressed.  He turned to me and said, "I want him."
    
I was surprised.  We already had three dogs - an occupational hazard of volunteering at an animal shelter - and Larry often complained that the household dog population was too high.  Plus, this dog was huge - it would be like adding two more dogs to our menagerie!  But I didn't argue; I was pleased that Larry wanted a dog for himself.
    
So Beau joined our family.  It wasn't easy at first.  He had physical problems that made it difficult for him to gain weight.  He was too skinny, yet couldn't digest any fats.  His digestion was, to put it mildly, finicky.  All that was certainly difficult, but his behavioral problems were even more troubling.
    
To our dismay, we soon learned that Beau had been "reverse house-trained."  He consistently messed in the house and then stood by the door, waiting to go outside.  We figured out that his first family had not given him regular opportunities to visit the great outdoors.  Then, when he made the inevitable mess inside, they would get mad at him and throw him out the door.  He was an intelligent dog and made the obvious connection: Go to the bathroom and then you get to go outside.  We had quite a time convincing him it actually worked better the other way.
    
But what was worse was his utter lack of interest in people.  He loved the other dogs, but had no use for the two-legged members of his new family.  In my experience, German shepherds were just like that.  I thought of them as "big, impersonal dogs," and didn't feel hurt by Beau's coldness.  Not Larry.  He was deeply disappointed by Beau's aloof disinterest.  It was the antithesis of his experience with Marc, whose devotion to Larry had been the stuff of family legend.
    
Over time, Beau got the hang of being housebroken and established his place within our canine foursome.  His physical problems also gradually cleared up, and he eventually tipped the scales at 108 pounds.  He was such a handsome dog that people constantly stopped us in the street to comment on his beauty.
    
Sometimes when I would see him lying sphinxlike in a patch of sun or running in the fields near our house, my breath would catch.  He resembled a lion or some other majestic wild animal - his physical presence was simply magical.  But still, his heart remained shut.  He had no love to give to us.  And when he looked at us, there was no spark of joy in his eyes.  The lights were on, but no one was home.
    
What could we do?  We did our best to love him and hoped we might reach him someday.
    
Then one day about four months after we got him, I glanced at Beau and was startled to see that he was following Larry closely with his large brown eyes.  He seemed to be studying him - learning what actions signaled a chance to go for a ride or presented the possibility of a walk, treat or a scratch behind the ears.  It was as if he suddenly realized that people had things to offer him - things that might not be half bad.
    
His interest in all things Larry began to snowball.  Swiftly, it became Beau's mission to keep an eye on my husband at all times to make sure he didn't miss any opportunities for doggy fun or excitement.
    
Larry didn't let him down.  He knew what big dogs liked to do and where they liked to be scratched.  He threw balls and sticks and took Beau to interesting places.  Beau soon started whining if Larry left him behind.  And when Larry finally returned from those solo jaunts, Beau was beside himself with joy.  The floodgates of Beau's love had opened.  The dry disinterest fell away and his heart began to bloom.
    
Today we call him Velcro Beau, because he sticks so close to Larry's side.  Every day when Beau wakes up, he stretches his long body luxuriously and then finds one of us to give him his morning rubdown.  He lays his ears flat against his head and shyly pokes his large nose against an arm.  This beautiful big dog, overflowing with affection, lets us know he is ready for some serious lovin'.
    
I am grateful that although he is clearly Larry's dog, he has included me in the circle of his love.  Often, while rubbing his large chest, I lean over and touch my forehead to his.  Then he lifts his paw, places it on my arm and sighs with pleasure.  We stay that way for a while, just enjoying our connection.
    
When we finish, Beau jumps to his feet, his eyes sparkling and his large tail waving wildly.  It's time to eat or play.  Or go to work with Larry.  Or have some other kind of wonderful fun.
    
To our delight, that skinny, worried dog has become an exuberant and devoted companion.  Beau knows that life is good when you live with people you love.

At the Foot of the Bed

By Reverend Jon Arnold

During my daily rounds at the hospital, I came across a room where I could immediately tell by looking through the glass doorway that the man inside, though his back was to me, was visibly disturbed.  He was anxiously sitting up on the far side of the bed with his feet hanging off while he pulled repeatedly at the unkempt sheets.

Knocking on the door frame, I announced myself: "Hello, I'm Chaplain Jon.  Is everything all right in here?"
     
Pointing to the wall at the foot of the bed, the man replied, "No, there is a crucifix."  I sighed as I examined the wall, knowing full well what was there, and I quickly looked at my census list to verify the patient information and faith tradition.  I found the room number and the only word I needed to see:Hindu.
     
As a Protestant chaplain serving at a Catholic hospital in the multicultural and interfaith environment of Los Angeles, it was not infrequent for me to find patients perturbed by the presence of a crucifix on their wall.  Trying to be diplomatic and defuse the situation, I explained, "If you are offended by the crucifix, I can make arrangements for it to be removed during your stay here."  The truth, more accurately, is that some of the more zealous of the Catholic faith had learned of this practice of accommodating people of other faith traditions, and had most of the crucifixes permanently installed on the wall, so the best effort to accommodate patients often was to drape a cloth over the offending relic.
     
The Hindu patient left me dumbfounded by what he told me next.  Turning more toward me and pulling one knee onto the bed, his face wrinkling from being misunderstood, he explained, "I am not offended by the crucifix.  I am disturbed that it is at the foot of my bed, which is a place of dishonor in my culture.  Every time I lie down, I feel as if I am disrespecting the God of this hospital."
     
The teacher had just become the student.  I was overwhelmed with how much respect this man had for a faith not his own.  I couldn't help but think that I had just glimpsed a nugget of human unity whose offspring surely is peace.

Salsa Lessons

By María Luisa Salcines

Growing up, Saturday was cleaning day.  Protest did no good, so, reluctantly, my brother and I would drag our feet into the kitchen where my mother would tell us what we had to do.

My mother did all the heavy cleaning, and we usually had something simple to do.  I would dust all the furniture and make the beds.  My brother would vacuum and throw out the trash.

     
Just before we got started, Mother, who has always had a knack for making even the most mundane chore fun, would turn on the record player.  No matter how tired we were, once the music came on, we came alive.  With salsa blaring from the record player, cleaning somehow became easier.

     
My mother would dance with the broom, the mop, or a pillow; anything could be a dancing partner.  My brother and I would laugh, and eventually we would all end up dancing.  The beat of the bongo drums in salsa music has a way of crawling into your soul, and once you're hooked, there's no turning back.

     
I have always loved music and was eager to learn to dance.  Mami began teaching me steps.  She instructed me how to keep my upper body steady while swaying my hips and moving my feet to the beat.  My mother knew most of the words to the songs, and she would sing while twirling me around the room.  We would do conga lines, and dance in and out of all the rooms in our little house.  Every time a good song came on, we would drop what we were doing and begin dancing.  It wasn't uncommon for my dad to come home for lunch and find his wife and children dancing, and the housecleaning still not done.

     
At first, my brother wasn't too enthusiastic about learning to dance.  He would roll his eyes, pretending he wasn't interested, but my mom never got discouraged.  She would ignore his sulking and entice him to join us.  As he got a little older and realized that girls like boys who can dance, his interest grew.  Although salsa is very different from other forms of dancing, learning to dance gave us the ability to pick up steps to the music of our generation.

     
The habit of putting on music whenever I have to do chores at home has never left me.  Any time I have to get busy, you'll hear salsa blaring from the speakers installed all over my house.  I also dance with sofa cushions and imaginary partners while my children laugh at their nutty mom.  I taught my sons how to dance this way, and now my five-year-old daughter and I share in weekly dance sessions.

     
Thinking back on those Saturday mornings, I realize that we were learning more than just how to dance.  We learned that while life isn't always easy or fun, we have the ability to make the most out of every situation.  The important thing is the attitude we choose to have when dealing with the circumstances we find ourselves in.

     
Music kept my mother sane those first few years in the United States.  It helped her deal with her sadness.  It helped her forget how broke we were and how uncertain the future was.  I'm sure the music took her back home to Guantanamo, to the carnavales and a carefree time in her life.

     
Salsa takes me straight to my Caribbean roots.  The words to the songs talk of the island where I was born.  Salsa helps me stay connected to a place and a way of life I have always been curious to know more about.  When I'm dancing salsa, the drums beat steadily with my heart, and for a moment this Cuban girl is back in Guantanamo.

A Jelly Bean for Halloween

By Evelyn M. Gibb

The bag of assorted candies was ready, and I'd been looking forward to visits from pint-sized goblins. But Halloween morning, my arthritis flared up, and by evening, I could barely move. I couldn't possibly answer each knock on the door to distribute the goodies, so I decided to fasten the candy bag to the door and watch the parade of trick-or-treaters from my darkened living room.

The first to arrive was a ballet dancer with three little ghosts. Each picked out a sweet in turn. When the last tiny hand emerged full-fisted, I heard the ballerina scold: "You're not supposed to take more than one!" I was pleased big sister would play conscience for the little one.

Princesses, astronauts, skeletons and aliens followed. More children showed up than I had expected. The candy was running low, and I was about to turn off the porch light when I noticed four more visitors. The three oldest reached into the bag and pulled out Hershey bars. I held my breath, hoping there would be one left for the tiny witch. But when she pulled out her hand, all it held was a single orange jelly bean.

Already the others were calling, "C'mon, Emily, let's go. There's no one home to give you more." But Emily lingered an extra moment. She dropped the candy in her bag and then paused, facing the doors. Deliberately, she said, "Thank you, house. I like the jelly bean."
Then I watched her scamper away to join her fellow trick-or-treaters. One dear little witch had cast her spell on me.

A Romance of the '90s for Those in Their 70s

By Lillian Darr

There he stood, tall and handsome and 71 years old. There I stood, going on 70, and his face went straight to my heart.

We were waiting to see the same doctor at a small Iowa hospital. I sat down right next to him as we both looked at magazines, but I don't think I absorbed a single word I read that day. An hour later, at the local market, I was amazed to find him waiting at the prescription counter as I went up to talk to the pharmacist. I said, "We've got to stop meeting like this." He responded courteously, but I found out later that he hadn't even noticed me the first time!

His name was Bill. As we chatted, I was surprised to discover that this attractive stranger was the father of my granddaughter's kindergarten teacher. His own grandson was also in the class, and the two children had been mysteriously drawn to each other.

Each of us had moved to Iowa from our respective coasts to be close to our children and grandchildren. We had both left unhappy romances behind and were, in a sense, starting over.

The more I learned about this man, the more intrigued I became. He had built his own house with serious environmental consideration. He was an artist and professor of art history. He had been a Conscientious Objector during the war, and in case after case, his values matched mine perfectly.

After a few phone conversations, our two families convened in the town square for a band concert. My daughter insisted that I bake cookies. Apparently they came out pretty good that night.

One day Bill phoned and apologized for not walking me to the door the evening before. I assured him I was a liberated female who didn't need such pampering, and he said, "No, I mean that if I had walked you to the door, I could have given you a good-night kiss."

They say timing is everything. I had been caring for a woman with Alzheimer's disease, and was about to move on. So I was temporarily sharing cramped quarters with my son and his family, planning to find a room to rent somewhere. I stayed with Bill for just a few days when he said, "It would be fun to plan our garden together." That meant our lives were weaving together, and I couldn't have been happier to hear it.

Soon in his sweet, sensitive way, Bill suggested we marry to protect my good name in our closely knit community. I told him I was not concerned with appearances. Then, after a few weeks of what can only be described as domestic bliss, I found myself sitting on his lap one day. He looked at me, smiled, and quietly said, "It would be fun to plan our marriage together." I didn't know my heart could glow like that. How could I possibly say no?

We planned an exquisite June wedding at full moonrise. So many people expressed a desire to witness our union that we put an ad in the local paper in the form of our four grandchildren inviting all to the marriage of their grandparents.

When we exchanged vows, I declared that, "Everything in my life has prepared me for this magical moment." I truly believe that nothing was wasted.

Bill and I came together at a time when both of us had "paid our dues." We'd experienced a lot of pain and a lot of beauty in our lives, and we'd each finally arrived at something like inner peace, self-sufficiency and even self-appreciation.

When I think of our relationship, I think of a passage I once read:
I must conquer my loneliness alone.
I must be happy with myself, or I have nothing to offer.
Two halves have little choice but to join;
and yes, they do make a whole.
But two wholes when they coincide . .
That is beauty. That is love.