Chicken Soup Unsinkable Soul

by Jack Canfield

  The following season I volunteered to serve as manager for the Challenger team, with the goal of integrating the Challenger Division into the rest of the organization.

  First off, the kids got full uniforms, just like the rest of the league players. Next, we scheduled the Challenger games on Saturday, between the Little League games played by the eleven- and twelve-year-olds. Then we arranged the buddy system so that members of the eleven- and twelve-year-old teams could serve as buddies for our Challenger kids. The results were spectacular.

  The full uniforms were a big hit. One of our players slept in his uniform the first night. Another kid, ten years old, proudly displayed his uniform and said, "Gee, Coach, now I feel like a real person!"

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  For the kids who were buddies, it was, in many cases, their first exposure to kids with developmental disabilities. After some initial hesitation, they took to it like ducks to water. One kid told me that when he came on to the field to be a buddy, he was "bummed out" because his team had just lost 94, and he had gone hitless. After being a "buddy," though, he said it put everything in the proper perspective. He wasn't alone. Kids who, in the past, may have made cruel remarks about kids who are "different" were now championing their cause, chattering about how hard these kids try and how much they enjoy playing. The Challenger kids, meanwhile, took great pride in pointing out their "buddy'' to their parents and friends.

  Scheduling the Challenger games amidst the other games also resulted in a significant increase in spectators. And of course, some of the Challenger kids loved playing to the crowd, bowing after sliding home, or flexing a muscle after getting a hit. Clearly, the effect of the Challenger kids on the crowd was fantastic. Everyone got into applauding, cheering, laughing and having fun. There wasn't an angry glance or a bulging neck vein to be seen. The only tears were ones of joy and laughter.

  The season ended with a round-robin tournament of the six Challenger teams from neighboring leagues. Local TV and newspapers covered the event and nearly one hundred eleven- and twelve-year-old kids from our league volunteered to help as buddies for the different teams.

  To see and feel the warmth of camaraderie and compassion on the baseball diamonds that day renewed everyone's faith in the goodness of the human spirit. Challenger sports created memories that whole season which will last a lifetime for those Challenger kids, those buddies, those parents, coaches and spectators.

  Darrell J. Burnett

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  Don't Worry, Be Happy

  Attitude defies limitation and exceeds expectation.

  Source Unknown

  "How old are you?" a stranger asked my daughter, Melissa, at a party six years ago.

  "Two," she answered.

  "And are you married?" the woman teased.

  "No!" Melissa answered, smiling. Then she dropped her smile, and in a serious tone added, "But my mommy was, and my daddy was."

  I eavesdropped from a safe distance, wondering what might follow. Would Melissa, with her advanced vocabulary, tell this stranger that her parents were divorced? Even worse, would my toddler act out and hit the woman, or start crying?

  To my surprise, with glee, Melissa added, "My mommy was married to my daddy." She then toddled off.

  I, meanwhile, was like a leaky faucet. A steady stream of happy tears trickled down my face as I realized my daughter seemed well-adjusted despite the divorce; her

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  mother was the one who obviously still needed to heal.

  Twenty months earlier, when Melissa was six months old, my husband discarded me like a well-worn pair of shoes and replaced me with his high-school crush. No explanation. Just a silent, seeping withdrawal that culminated in an abrupt exit from what had seemed on the surface a happy marriage.

  As I'd wake at dawn to Melissa's cries, I'd find myself curled up in a corner of the huge mattress, clutching what for six years had been someone else's pillow. I'd drag myself out of bed, throw on some sweatpantsgrateful that I worked at homethen feed and dress my baby.

  Just before driving Melissa to day care and burying my grief in my work for eight hours, I'd dab on some makeup in a feeble attempt to cover the bags under my eyes. Somehow, I found an automatic-pilot switch that got me through the day.

  But by nighttime, after I'd tucked her into the crib in a bedroom filled with rainbows and sunshine, I'd crawl next door to my lifeless room and cling to the phone, calling everyone I knew just to keep from feeling so alone.

  One long day evolved into two, then two into three, and slowly, through the haze, I recognized that even though my marriage had died, I was still alive. Eventually, I propelled myself out the door and joined a divorce support group, a new-mother's network, a local social club and, eventually, dating services.

  Like most new mothers, I also worked out to shed the extra pounds; but, unlike the average new mom, I had been thrust back into the dating scene with a post-childbirth body, so I ran that treadmill with urgency!

  Meanwhile, Melissa grew from a crawler to a walker to a toddler to a talker. Despite knowing life with her parents as a series of good-byes and hellos, she was emerging as a precocious, happy, well-adjusted little girl.

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  These traits may have been planted in her genes, or they may have derived from the one-on-one attention she received from each parent.

  From early on, my daughter had an extensive vocabulary and uncanny perception. When she was twenty-two months old, she saw me and her father arguing and instructed us, with finger pointing: "Don't be so angry so much, be happy." At two, she heard me complain about something and told me "not to worry."

  Yet I did. I worried about competing for her affections with the woman in her father's life. I worried about whether I could ever provide us with a loving man and stepfather so she could learn about love and commitment differently than her father and I had taught her. I worried she'd forever be an only child, or, worse, that one day she'd have step- or, horrors, half-siblings who would be the children of the woman my husband had turned to when he left me.

  Could I stand the emotional pain? Could I nurture my daughter in a healthy way that would teach her that not all relationships end in suffering? Could I back off enough to permit her acceptance of her father's new life, when it tore me apart?

  I tried. I met new people who made my life fuller. I rebuilt my interest in my public-relations business and started making and selling jewelry as both a means to keep busy and a way to recover my self-esteem. I learned to enjoy my days off and I observed that, unlike many of my friends, I rarely took time with my daughter for granted.

  With my head clearer and my body thinner from my workouts, I began dating.

  After my first luscious "post-marital" kiss, I felt I'd experienced life after death!

  Today, eight years after my ex-husband left, I'm

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  working hard to provide Melissa with a life she deserves. I help her tackle her personal goals, like writing in cursive, reading books and learning to ski, and we talk about things that matter to her, like friendships, art and animals. My heart swells with pride whenever I meet with one of her teachers, because their reports consistently paint a picture of a well-liked child demonstrating healthy self-esteem, intelligence and creativity. Just last week her third-grade teacher described Melissa as a child who is always so pleasant, she would "make lemonade if life handed her lemons." Well life did, and she did!

  As for myself, I'm doing well and have remarried. I chose a man who didn't make my heart throb at first, but who provided me with the stability I desperately desired. In time, the respect, devotion, love and attraction that has grown between us is far more solid than love sparked mainly by lust! I'm grateful not only for my new union, but for my daughter's delight over having a loving stepfather and an older step-sister whom she adores.

  Nonetheless, divorce is always with us. Several times each week Melissa goes off to her father's house where he lives with his new wifefortun
ately not the woman he left me for. Shortly after he "dumped" her a few years ago, I panicked over whom he would choose next to be in my daughter's life; so I introduced him to a woman I hardly knew but liked, and she is now his wife! When Melissa spends time with them, I consciously remind myself I'm only temporarily "losing" her, that she'll be back, that it's quite different from losing a husband and a marriage forever. More important, I've learned from my daughter that these are my concerns, and she is still doing fine.

  Two years ago at age six, when an audiotape of The Little Mermaid ended, Melissa applauded Ariel and Prince Eric's wedding. But one second later, she removed her headphones and banged them against our coffee table.

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  "Please don't do that," I calmly but firmly said. "Do you think you struck the table because you were feeling angry that Ariel and Prince Eric are married, yet your parents aren't any more?" I asked, as though straight from the parenting manual on drawing out a child's feelings.

  "No, Mommy," she promptly and assertively replied, looking at me as though I'd just called an apple an orange. "These headphones have been hurting my ears. Sorry." She then calmly continued with her next activity.

  That day I finally learned my lesson: Lighten up, Mom! There's life after divorce! There are many wondrous new things in this little girl's world and in mine. She'll be okay. We'll all be okay. Don't worry so much; be happy.

  Mindy Pollack-Fusi

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  The Wake

  One joy shatters a hundred griefs.

  Chinese Proverb

  "You want to do what?" I asked him incredulously, my voice rising to the high-pitched level it reaches when I become exasperated. "Say that again, please; I don't think I heard you!"

  "Oh, you heard me, all right," Frank snapped, waving his arms in his expressive manner. "I want to have my wake nowbefore I'm dead! Why should everyone else enjoy it and not me?"

  He stalked into the kitchen, and I could hear him muttering to himself as he rummaged in the refrigerator. He returned shortly to the deck where I had remained to watch September's twilight blanket the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  He finished munching a ripe peach, and then the voice that could never remain harsh for long broke the silence. "Honey, I want to do this."

  I tightened my throat and tried not to cry. I was forty-four, and the thought of being widowedagainwas a

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  devastating one. So devastating, in fact, that denial easily became the cloak I donned each day.

  "But, but, you're stronger now. You said so! And the shots, they help. . . ."

  "Melva," he touched my shoulder as if pleading. "Let's have a party, and let's do it right. We could disguise it as an anniversary party. Of course, everyone who knows me so well will know."

  I looked into those liquid brown eyes, their sparkle dulled now from pain, from medication, from worry. I knew what the last couple of years had taken from him. We had ceased to be the golden couple on the dance floor every weekend. Oh, we still went, he insisted; but we now spent most of the evenings sitting and chatting with friends.

  His golf game, once marked by those powerful, straight drives and precision iron shotshe had four holes-in-onehad taken a downward turn.

  The many enjoyable hours he once spent gardening and cutting firewood had dwindled to a precious few minutes that left him wan and spent.

  The spirit never left him, though. While I seemed to constantly bemoan the changes in our lifein my lifehe never complained. Suddenly, I realized that my fears and uncertainties paled in comparison to what he must be going through. The changes we had undergone appeared minuscule beside the cancer that raged within his body, vying with diabetes for the chance to determine his fate.

  Swallowing my shame, I reached for his hand. "Okay. If it's a party you want, it's a party we'll have!"

  The next morning, I ordered the 150 formal invitations for our "Anniversary Party." October 19, 1991, fell on a Saturday night, and we rented Frank's Shrine Club for the event.

  Almost everyone we had invited came to share the

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  evening with us. Mid-party, Frank took center stage with microphone in hand to give a glorious rendition of singer-songwriter Mac Davis's ballad "It's Hard to Be Humble."

  My husband delighted in being in the spotlight and finished to the cheers and, yes, tears, from all who loved him. He made a short speech then, thanking everyone for coming and proclaimed himself the luckiest man in the world! In so many words, he said good-bye.

  And then we waltzed. Frank had begun to lose his balance and was no longer comfortable dancing with other women. But that night he danced with all.

  Later, a slow number found me with one of his doctors. "How long does he have?" I asked quietly.

  "That's impossible to predict, Melva, he seems stronger." "How long?" I asked again and was met by silence. We finished our dance, and he walked me back to my table. "Six months . . . maybe longer," he finally answered me.

  "Thank you," I whispered.

  The rest of the night flew by like a vision, with Frank passing from one group to another, talking with everyone and regaling in the many stories told at his expense. Politicking, he'd once called it. As the evening drew to a close he remained at the door to bid each and every guest good night, standing at first, then needing to take a seatbut always smiling.

  Three months and three days later, I sat shivering in the cold as his lodge brothers performed Masonic rites. I clutched the neatly folded flag while the strong arms of a friend led me to the waiting limousine.

  About a year later, I had lunch with a new friend. She spoke of a wake she'd attended the night before. "What an absolutely beautiful way to say good-bye!" she remarked, obviously unaccustomed to such merriment.

  I listened to her recount the frivolity, and I thought

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  how sad that the dearly departed had missed such a fine evening. The ''I should have done more" and "Why wasn't I stronger for him" guilt that had been my shroud began to slip away. My mind turned instead to Frank's joy at his last party.

  "So, did you hold a wake for Frank?" my friend asked.

  "Oh, yes," I replied. "It was a grand party, and he had the time of his life!"

  Melva Haggar Dye

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  The Power of Forgiveness

  If you are patient in one moment of anger, you will escape a hundred days of sorrow.

  Chinese Proverb

  In 1974, walking home from school the last day before Christmas vacation, I excitedly thought about the upcoming holiday as only ten-year-old boys can dream. A few doors from my home in Coral Gables, Florida, a man came up to me and asked if I would help him with the decorations for a party he was hosting for my father. Thinking that he was a friend of my dad's, I agreed to go with him.

  What I didn't know was that this man held a grudge against my family. He had been employed as a nurse for an elderly relative, but he had been fired because of his drinking.

  After I agreed to accompany him, he drove his motor home to an isolated area north of Miami, where he stopped by the side of the road and stabbed me in the chest several times with an ice pick. He then drove west to the Florida Everglades, walked me out among the bushes, shot me through the head and left me to die.

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  Fortunately, the bullet passed behind my eyes and exited my right temple without causing any brain damage. When I regained consciousness six days later, I was unaware that I had been shot. I sat by the side of the road and was found by a man who stopped to help me.