A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  Yet even more important, for the first time in my life, I could also see with my heart. Even though I never knew what Joni looked like, I am sure she was one of the most beautiful people in the world.

  I have lost my vision several times since, but thanks to Joni, I will never allow myself to "lose sight" of the important things in life . . . things like warmth and love and sometimes even sorrow.

  Barbara Jeanne Fisher

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  A Jelly Bean for Halloween

  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

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  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.

  Evelyn M. Gibb

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  Unexpected Angels

  If I've learned anything on this crazy journey of mine, it's that around every bend in the road, and at the end of even the darkest tunnel, there's likely to be a company of angels.

  With me, though, they're more likely to be Hell's Angels!

  A few years ago my husband, Karl, and son, J. J., and I were in our van, traveling through Massachusetts to visit my cousins. It was very late, about two or three in the morning, when it became clear that we were lost. The country roads seemed to be going on forever, and the farther we traveled, the worse it seemed to get.

  Finally we came upon one of those big granddaddy truck stops. So we pulled in for directions. Karl was really shot from all the driving, so I got out of the van to do the talking.

  "Does anybody here know how to find Merridale Road?" I asked.

  A very tired waitress looked up and said, "Lady, I haven't got a clue."

  Since she was not going to be any help, I looked around at the customers. There, sitting nearby, were four of the

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  toughest human beings I had ever seen in my life. Chains. Black leather. Skulls and crossbones. The whole bit.

  I immediately thought of my family in the van and what these characters might do to us.

  "We know where you're going," one of them said cheerfully. "Not only that, but we'll take you there."

  Before I could say no, they got up off their chairs, paid their bill, and were outside on their motorcycles, gesturing, "Follow us!"

  We started to follow this large motorcycle gang down lonely Massachusetts country roads in the wee hours of the morning. There were four guys on motorcycles and four women who weighed 300 pounds each sitting behind them.

  After a few minutes, J. J. decided it was all over for us. "They're taking us to a lonely spot, and that will be the end," he said ominously. "I'm never going to see my school or my friends again. How could you do this to me?"

  I whispered to Karl, "I don't want to scare J. J., but he's right. I am a bit frightened. It's dark. The road is getting very lonely. And these people are tough. Maybe I did the wrong thing."

  "No kidding," he retorted. "We're just going to have to trust that it's going to be all right."

  "If they tell us to stop," I said, "don't stop. Gun the motor and keep going."

  About an hour later, after winding through endless back roads deep in the woods, they motioned to us to go left.

  We looked up, and there was the sign for Merridale Road. They had put us on the right road after all.

  As they waved good-bye, I heard someone shout, "Keep up the good work, Sally!"

  They had known who I was all along, yet they had never let on.

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  About six months later, when Burt was finishing the warmup for the television show, I looked out in the studio audience and thought I saw an apparition.

  There, sitting right smack in front of a bunch of proper Connecticut housewives, was the same motorcycle gang.

  Burt took one look at the unsavory foursome and said aghast, ''Do you see those people? What are we going to do?"

  "Not only do I see them," I said, "but I know them." With that I took the mike and went over and renewed our friendship.

  Ever since then, whenever I see or read anything about the Hell's Angels, I get a smile on my lips.

  I remember how they once led me down the roadthe long, unknown road to adventure. And how, at the end, I was treated to the biggest surprise of all.

  Sally Jessy Raphaël

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  Beauty Contest

  A successful beauty product company asked the people in a large city to send brief letters about the most beautiful women they knew, along with the women's pictures. Within a few weeks, thousands of letters were delivered to the company.

  One letter in particular caught the attention of the employees, and soon it was handed to the company president. The letter was written by a young boy, who wrote he was from a broken home, living in a run-down neighborhood. With spelling corrections, an excerpt from his letter read:

  A beautiful woman lives down the street from me. I visit her every day. She makes me feel like the most important kid in the world. We play checkers and she listens to my problems. She understands me and when I leave, she always yells out the door that she's proud of me.

  The boy ended his letter by saying, "This picture shows you that she is the most beautiful woman. I hope I have a wife as pretty as her."

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  Intrigued by the letter, the president asked to see this woman's picture. His secretary handed him a photograph of a smiling, toothless woman, well-advanced in years, sitting in a wheelchair. Sparse gray hair was pulled back in a bun and wrinkles that formed deep furrows on her face were somehow diminished by the twinkle in her eyes.

  "We can't use this woman," explained the president, smiling. "She would show the world that our products aren't necessary to be beautiful."

  Carla Muir

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  The Scar

  His thumb softly rubbed the twisted flesh on my cheek. The plastic surgeon, a good fifteen years my senior, was a very attractive man. His masculinity and the intensity of his gaze seemed almost overpowering.

  "Hmmm," he said quietly. "Are you a model?"

  Is this a joke? Is he kidding? I asked myself, and I searched his handsome face for signs of mockery. No way would anyone ever confuse me with a fashion model. I was ugly. My mother casually referred to my sister as her pretty child. Anyone could see I was homely. After all, I had the scar to prove it.

  The accident happened in fourth grade, when a neighbor boy picked up a hunk of concrete and heaved the mass through the side of my face. An emergency room doctor stitched together the shreds of skin, pulling cat-gut through the tattered outside of my face and then suturing the shards of flesh inside my mouth. For the rest of the year, a huge bandage from cheekbone to jaw covered the raised angry welt.

  A few weeks after the accident, an eye exam re
vealed I was nearsighted. Above the ungainly bandage sat a big,

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  thick pair of glasses. Around my head, a short fuzzy glob of curls stood out like mold growing on old bread. To save money, Mom had taken me to a beauty school where a student cut my hair. The overzealous girl hacked away cheerfully. Globs of hair piled up on the floor. By the time her instructor wandered over, the damage was done. A quick conference followed, and we were given a coupon for a free styling on our next visit.

  ''Well," sighed my father that evening, "you'll always be pretty to me," and he hesitated, "even if you aren't to the rest of the world."

  Right. Thanks. As if I couldn't hear the taunts of the other kids at school. As if I couldn't see how different I looked from the little girls whom the teachers fawned over. As if I didn't occasionally catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. In a culture that values beauty, an ugly girl is an outcast. My looks caused me no end of pain. I sat in my room and sobbed every time my family watched a beauty pageant or a "talent" search show.

  Eventually I decided that if I couldn't be pretty, I would at least be well-groomed. Over the course of years, I learned to style my hair, wear contact lenses and apply make-up. Watching what worked for other women, I learned to dress myself to best advantage. And now, I was engaged to be married. The scar, shrunken and faded with age, stood between me and a new life.

  "Of course, I'm not a model," I replied with a small amount of indignation.

  The plastic surgeon crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me appraisingly. "Then why are you concerned about this scar? If there is no professional reason to have it removed, what brought you here today?"

  Suddenly he represented all the men I'd ever known. The eight boys who turned me down when I invited them to the girls-ask-boys dance. The sporadic dates I'd had in

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  college. The parade of men who had ignored me since then. The man whose ring I wore on my left hand. My hand rose to my face. The scar confirmed it; I was ugly. The room swam before me as my eyes filled with tears.

  The doctor pulled a rolling stool up next to me and sat down. His knees almost touched mine. His voice was low and soft.

  "Let me tell you what I see. I see a beautiful woman. Not a perfect woman, but a beautiful woman. Lauren Hutton has a gap between her front teeth. Elizabeth Taylor has a tiny, tiny scar on her forehead," he almost whispered. Then he paused and handed me a mirror. "I think to myself how every remarkable woman has an imperfection, and I believe that imperfection makes her beauty more remarkable because it assures us she is human."

  He pushed back the stool and stood up. "I won't touch it. Don't let anyone fool with your face. You are delightful just the way you are. Beauty really does come from within a woman. Believe me. It is my business to know."

  Then he left.

  I turned to the face in the mirror. He was right. Somehow over the years, that ugly child had become a beautiful woman. Since that day in his office, as a woman who makes her living speaking before hundreds of people, I have been told many times by people of both sexes that I am beautiful. And, I know I am.

  When I changed how I saw myself, others were forced to change how they saw me. The doctor didn't remove the scar on my face; he removed the scar on my heart.

  Joanna Slan

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  The Melding

  Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.

  Rumi

  My husband and I came from different religious backgroundsmine Christian, his Jewishand moreover, we were both fiery and determined individuals. Consequently, our first few years together tested our ability to respect and combine our two religious traditions with love and understanding. I remember raising the subject of a Christmas tree the first December after our marriage.

  "Christmas tree?" LeRoy exclaimed incredulously. "Listen, there are two things I won't do. Buying a ham is one of them. Buying a Christmas tree is the other."

  "If I can grate my knuckles while making potato latkes and clean up drippy candles at Chanukah, you can suffer through a Christmas tree!" I snapped back.

  "No way," he retorted. "Remember last month? Whom do I meet at the grocery store when I have nothing but a ham in my cart? The rabbi. If we went shopping for a