Chicken Soup for the Country Soul

by Jack Canfield

  After a brief discussion, everyone agreed that giving to a needy family was the “right spirit” of Christmas. We telephoned the television station and told them we wanted to help out a family, preferably one with several children. We found the perfect family—one with four children ranging from a two-year-old girl to boys, nine, ten and eleven years old. The plan was for each of our children to shop and pick out a present for one of those children and give up that gift on their “wish” list.

  The next night my husband and I took the children to a huge toy store. I had never seen them so excited about shopping! Ally headed directly for the play dishes, dolls and paint sets. She lovingly and carefully went through the items, searching for “just the right gift,” and finally settled on a baby doll wrapped in a blanket that you could feed and cuddle.

  She said, “Mommy, I know that little girl will love this baby because it’s just like the one I wanted Santa to bring me.”

  My heart went out to her as I watched this kind, unselfish gesture.

  Joshua found the display for the Men in Black toys and picked out a fierce machine gun that could blast aliens. It was one that he desperately wanted to have, but he agreed to give it to the little boy of the needy family, instead.

  “I’ll get plenty of gifts,” he said, “and that little boy will love this!”

  Our nineteen-year-old picked out some toy trucks and cars that he had loved when he was a boy—a red fire engine and an ambulance. He tested them in the store to make sure they made real siren sounds. What good was an ambulance or fire engine if it didn’t have sirens? And Matthew found the perfect baseball mitt.

  “All children need a baseball mitt!” he exclaimed. He couldn’t imagine growing up and not playing baseball.

  They all proudly marched up to the cash register with their gifts in their hands. I had never seen such joy in their faces as they put everything on the counter.

  My husband and I watched our children that night with pride and love. When did they get to be so wise and giving of themselves? We weren’t sure how, but we were raising four children who had discovered the “right spirit” at Christmas.

  Merilyn Gilliam

  The Chain

  Some people come to Nashville and slowly lose sight of who they are. They forget the simple pleasures. They forget their roots. They forget their own story. They don’t understand that we are all like links in a chain, connected to our past and connected to our future—our children.

  My story starts like a lot of people’s stories—with my dad. He is my link to the past, to a simpler time. My father was, and still is, a major influence in my life. He was a preacher and a man of great wisdom, strength and generosity. Although our family wasn’t rich, it felt like we were rich because of the amount of love my father gave us and the way he expressed it. Now, learning to share with my own kids that wisdom my father passed along to me is my way of continuing that chain unbroken.

  When I was a kid, a lot of folks were down on their luck. Often when they’d come into town, the first person these folks would call on was the preacher. I remember once when some people came to our house who didn’t look particularly respectable. I called my dad and he came to the door. I heard our visitors tell their hard-luck story, and in my gut I knew they were being less than honest. In disbelief, I watched my dad give them money. After the whole thing was over and they’d left, I asked, “Do you really think those people were telling the truth?”

  My dad said, “Honestly, Son, if I had to say ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ I’d have to say ‘no.’ But it doesn’t matter.”

  “But telling the truth always matters,” I said with that little-kid insistence that comes from always knowing more than your elders.

  He said, “No, it doesn’t matter, Son. What they were doing is what they were doing; and what we were doing is what we were supposed to do. They expressed a need, we had more than we needed, and so we gave to them. God will deal with us and what we do the same way he will deal with them and what they do. Really, the two things do not depend on each other.”

  My father’s wisdom struck me. I think I’ve carried that wisdom with me into my life, and I think that is the way I want to live. Some people spend their whole lives “keeping score”—they feel they have to come out on top in every encounter. I’m sure there are lines that you can cross where you can be completely taken advantage of by strangers and even people you think are your friends. But you have to ask yourself, “Does it really matter?”

  I’m the guy who always stops for the down-and-out men by the side of the road. Like many people, I assume that many of them are going to use my money to buy cigarettes or liquor—but I am still my brother’s keeper. I have more than I need. I can give. And for every needy guy who doesn’t use the money wisely, there’s a deserving guy with an honest, hard-luck story that will break your heart.

  I make sure my children know that it’s important to stop and help. It’s important to give at least a little bit everywhere you can. That’s the part of Dad I pass along— my part of the chain.

  In caring for our part of the chain, my family does work with the Make-A-Wish Foundation, a nonprofit organization that tries to grant the simple wishes of terminally ill children. For some youngsters, attending my show is what they wish for. I’ve never turned anyone down. My wife is also very involved with Make-A-Wish. Sometimes, Make-A-Wish children come and stay at our farm when it’s close to their last weeks of life.

  My own kids are five, eight, and ten and are at various levels in understanding our efforts to ease the suffering of others. My wife and I never cease to marvel at the way our own children respond to seeing our acts of simple kindness. Our children know that these Make-A-Wish kids are dying, and they know what we’re doing is—on a grand scale—futile. They know what we’re doing isn’t going to change the outcome dramatically, but they’ve come to realize it’s still the right thing to do. It’s still giving what you can give. It’s making your own little corner of the world a little bit softer and nicer for someone else.

  Sometimes, you’re lucky enough to be able to show kindness to people you know personally. For many years, we employed a man who drove our tour bus. He had a daughter with very serious health problems. After receiving a lung transplant, she suffered a relapse and eventually died at the age of fifteen. A few weeks before this girl passed away, her dad brought her out to our farm where I keep a small plane. Although the girl had experienced emergency flights for surgery, she had not been conscious during any of them. Her last wish was to fly in a small plane.

  The kids and I sat and talked to the girl and her parents for a while before I took her up to fly. She had an oxygen bottle with her containing a supply that was supposed to be good for forty-five minutes or so. We climbed into my little plane—a Piper Super Cub—where I got her and her oxygen strapped into the backseat. If you’ve never flown in a small plane, you’ll have to trust me when I say it’s one of the great pleasures of life. You really are, to a large degree, free as a bird. It’s as near to the Wright brothers’ experience as you’re going to get.

  At the time we took off, it was that magical hour just before sunset. I could hear my young passenger start giggling. And she didn’t stop giggling for the full twenty minutes we were in the air. She had this constant, sincere, but low-grade chuckle for the entire time. I think it was the freedom of it all—those moments of pain and struggle were all but forgotten in the air and we could just soar.

  When we came back, the girl’s oxygen bottle was almost completely empty. She had been back there breathing up her oxygen with the sheer happiness and thrill of the ride. There was more joy on her face at that moment than I can ever remember seeing on anybody’s face. After she went home with her parents, my son asked, “Is she gonna die, Dad?”

  I nodded my head solemnly.

  “When I grow up, I want to be able to do things like this for other people. To make them happy,” my son said.

  It was then that I realized the chain w
as continuing— unbroken. Because that’s exactly the way my dad taught me.

  Gary Chapman

  Teddy Bear

  I was on the outskirts of a little southern town trying to reach my destination before the sun went down. The old CB was blaring away on channel 1-9 when there came a little boy’s voice on the radio line. And he said, “Breaker one-nine, is anyone there? Come on back truckers and talk to Teddy Bear.”

  I keyed the mike and said, “You got it, Teddy Bear.”

  The little boy’s voice came back on the air, “ ’Preciate the break. Who we got on the other end?” I told him my handle and then he began. “Now I’m not supposed to bother you fellas out there. Mom says you’re busy and for me to stay off the air. But you see, I get lonely and it helps to talk ’cause that’s about all I can do. I’m crippled and cannot walk.”

  I came back and told him to fire up that mike and I’d talk to him as long as he’d like.

  “This was my dad’s radio,” the little boy said. “But I guess it’s mine and Mom’s now ’cause my daddy’s dead. Dad had a wreck about a month ago. He was trying to get home in a blinding snow. Mom has to work now to make ends meet. I’m not much help with my crippled feet. She says not to worry, that we’ll make it all right. But I hear her crying sometimes late at night. Ya know, there’s one thing I want more than anything else to see. Ah, I know you guys are too busy to bother with me. But, ya see, my dad used to take me for rides when he was home. But I guess that’s all over now since my daddy’s gone.”

  Not one breaker came in on the CB as that little crippled boy talked to me. I tried hard to swallow the lump. It just would not stay down as I thought about my boy in Greenville Town.

  “Dad was going to take Mom and me with him later on this year. Why, I remember him saying, ‘Someday this ol’ truck will be yours, Teddy Bear.’ But I know I will never get to ride in an eighteen-wheeler again. But this old base will keep me in touch with all my trucker friends. Teddy Bear’s going to back out now and leave you alone ’cause it’s almost time for Mom to come home. But you give me a shout when you’re passing through and I’ll be happy to come back to you.”

  Well, I came back and said, “Before you go ten-ten, what’s your home twenty little CB friend?” Well, he gave me his address and I didn’t hesitate one second ’cause this hot load of freight was just gonna have to wait. I turned that truck around on a dime and headed for Jackson Street 229. As I rounded the corner, I got one heck of a shock. Eighteen-wheelers lined up for three city blocks. Why, I guess every trucker from miles around had caught Teddy Bear’s call and that little boy was having a ball. For as fast as one driver could carry him in, another would carry him to his truck and take off again. Well, you better believe I took my turn at riding Teddy Bear. And then I carried him back in and put him down in his chair. Buddy, if I never live to see happiness again, I want you to know I saw it that day in the face of that little man. We took up a collection before his momma came home. Each driver said good-bye and then they were all gone. He shook my hand with a mile-long grin and he said, “So long trucker, I’ll catch ya again.”

  I hit that interstate with tears in my eyes. I turned on the radio and got another surprise. “Breaker one-nine,” came a voice on the air. “Just one word of thanks from Momma Teddy Bear. We wish each and every one a special prayer for you, ’cause you just made my little boy’s dream come true. I’ll sign off now before I start to cry. May God ride with you. Ten-four and good-bye.”

  Red Sovine

  “TEDDY BEAR”

  Written by Dale Royal, Tommy Hill, Red Sovine and J. William Denny

  Copyright ©1976 Cedarwood Publishing

  Used By Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  Teddy Bear’s Last Ride

  I was there that day and I saw her cry . . . after Mama Teddy Bear said: “Ten-four and good-bye!” She turned off the old CB and just looked at me and her heart overflowed. Her tears ran free and the gratitude shone in her face like the sun for all the things these big tough truckers had done. A handful of change and a few dollar bills, but most of all, a little crippled boy’s dream fulfilled.

  I guess I was Mama Teddy Bear’s best friend. I’d lived by her and little Teddy Bear since . . . oh, I couldn’t remember when. And that’s why now, before my memory grows old, the rest of the story just has to be told.

  I’d come over and sit with Teddy Bear while his mama was away and play little games to help him pass the day. But in the afternoons he’d wheel that chair over by the radio and he’d go on the air. And I never knew a trucker not to answer his call. He’d just grin and ask me not to tell his mama, but I was pretty sure she knew what was going on.

  Time has a way of taking its toll, and much too fast Mama Teddy Bear was growin’ old—I watched as the silver touched her hair. But her one aim in life was Teddy Bear. And then I saw another change take place—Little Teddy Bear was slowly losing the race—and I knew it. His mama knew it, too. There was nothing in this whole world either of us could do.

  He talked less often on the old CB. There were times when he would hardly talk with me. He took to sittin’ by the window and watchin’ the road, the big eighteen-wheelers rollin’ by with their loads.

  Finally he was too weak to get out of bed. One day he looked up at me and said: “Would you turn the radio on and go on the air and tell all my trucker friends what’s happened to Teddy Bear?” Well, the hardest thing I’ve done in my time was to pick up that mike and say: “Breaker one-nine! This is for all you truckers who care. . . . I’m callin’ for your little friend, Teddy Bear. He says to tell you he misses you all and he’s awful sorry he can’t answer your calls!”

  They all came back and joked with me and said that they’d catch him later on the old CB. They never did catch Teddy Bear again, ’cause late one night the angel came and the last thing he said before he died was: “Tell all my trucker friends how I enjoyed the rides!” Mama Teddy Bear couldn’t tell ’em and neither could I ’cause every time we’d look at that radio, we’d both start to cry.

  The funeral was preached at the chapel and Little Teddy Bear started on his last ride. As the procession rounded the little city square, the sounds of a hundred engines filled the air. The truckers had dropped their trailers back somewhere behind, and one by one, they fell in line. They all tried to comfort Mama Teddy Bear, and it seemed like the warmth of God just filled the air. Slowly they formed a circle around the little grave. A lot of big men cried that day as they paid their respects on Teddy Bear’s last ride.

  Dale Royal and J. William Denny

  “TEDDY BEAR’S LAST RIDE”

  Written by Dale Royal and J. William Denny

  Copyright ©1976 Cedarwood Publishing

  Used By Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  I Meant to Do That

  It is only when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth and that we have no way of knowing when our time is up that we will begin to live each day to the fullest, as if it were the only one we had.

  Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

  Before I got into the music business, I worked for a couple of years as a registered nurse at the children’s hospital back home in Canada. One of the patients I cared for was a little girl named Aimeelee who was afflicted with a severe case of cystic fibrosis. Because of her illness, she was in and out of the hospital quite often.

  As I got to know her, I discovered that Aimeelee was a really amazing little girl. She was the kind of kid who, faced with a critical illness at an early age, took advantage of every single moment in her life. It was almost like she had to grow up a lot in those last few years that she was alive.

  While I worked at the hospital, I occasionally took time off to visit Nashville as I made plans for a new career in country music. Aimeelee thought my trips to Nashville were really cool. Whenever I was back in Canada, Aimeelee and I shared a lot together—she liked to write poetry and I wrote songs.

  On one of my trips to Nashville, I w
rote the song “I Meant to Do That.” (The song deals with those things all of us intend to do but never quite find time for—such as saying “I love you” to those we care about.) When I returned to Canada from that trip, I learned that Aimeelee had gone back into the hospital and wasn’t doing very well. When I walked into her room, I was struck by how frail she looked against a background of blinking, beeping life-support machines. Tubes fed oxygen to her nostrils and nourishment to her veins. Aimeelee’s parents sat next to her bed and held her small hands. All the while, a steady stream of doctors and nurses moved in and out of the room providing constant care for the young patient.

  I knelt beside Aimeelee’s bed and took her hands in mine, realizing at that moment that I just needed to talk to her. As she faded in and out of consciousness, I asked, “Hey, Aimeelee, how are you doing?” The first thing she said was, “Hi, Paul! How was your trip to Nashville?” I couldn’t believe it! This little girl was fighting for every single breath; and instead of complaining or feeling sorry for herself, she was more concerned with me than with anything going on in her room.

  Later that night, one of my friends from work called and told me that Aimeelee had passed away. Aimeelee’s attitude really blew me away and changed the way I looked at my own life. It made me think of how I was treating people and if I was taking advantage of every single moment—telling those close to me that I loved them whenever I had the chance.

  Quite some time after Aimeelee’s death, the video of “I Meant to Do That” was released. Not long afterward, I was a guest on a whole series of radio talk shows. While on these shows, I never failed to talk about my experience with Aimeelee and what I learned by her example. But what I found really rewarding was when my mother— who runs my fan club—got a call from Aimeelee’s parents. They said they had heard me talking about Aimeelee during a radio show. They later wrote me a letter saying, “Thank you for letting Aimeelee’s memory live on. It was because of your story on the radio that we felt her life really meant so much.” They were able to see what an inspiration their daughter had been to other people.