Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul: 101 Stories of Courage, Hope and Laughter

by Jack Canfield

Two weeks before Halloween, my uncle Tommy came over again. He looked so pale—he could have been a walking dead man. I gave him a wave and a faint hello. Then I walked away because I could tell he wanted to talk to my dad. After he left, my dad went into the house to talk to his girlfriend.

  I was getting very worried. I went into the house and asked, “What’s wrong with the two of you?”

  Then my dad told me something about my mom that I wasn’t ready for. She was in the hospital.

  The very next day, I went to the hospital to visit her. I was expecting to see the same beautiful face of my mom that I was used to, but it wasn’t that way. I couldn’t believe the person lying there was really my mom. She had drunk so much beer that it had destroyed her liver. She looked like she had yellow cover-up all over her body. Then it hit me. My mom was dying.

  For one week, my mom lay in the hospital, and I felt completely lost. I visited her so often that it was like I was living there.

  Then one day, when I was at home, my dad received a phone call. His smile disappeared, he started to frown— and in my heart I knew what it was. There would be no more pain or suffering for my mom, and my nightmares had come true. The one in pain, the one I loved—my mom—was dead. Those three little words, “She is gone,” will hurt me forever. Sticks and stones would be easier to bear.

  Damien Liermann, age 14

  CALVIN AND HOBBES. Distributed by United Feature Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

  Lessons from God

  One cannot get through life without pain . . . What we can do is choose how to use the pain life presents us.

  Bernie S. Siegel, M.D.

  There was a time in my childhood when I believed that God was punishing my family by making us watch my only brother die.

  My brother Brad was a hemophiliac. If a person has hemophilia, his blood doesn’t clot in a normal way; so, if he gets a cut, it is very difficult to stop the bleeding. When too much blood is lost, he has to have his blood replenished to keep him going.

  Even though Brad couldn’t be as active as other kids because of the hemophilia, we had many common interests and spent a lot of time together. Brad and I rode bikes with the neighborhood kids, and we spent most of our summers swimming in our pool. When we played football or baseball, Brad would throw the ball, and the rest of us would do all the rough playing. Brad picked out a puppy for me when I was seven, and I named her PeeWee. My brother, Brad, was my protector and my best friend.

  When Brad was ten, he received blood from someone who didn’t realize, or was too selfish to admit, that he or she was carrying the AIDS virus.

  I had just entered the sixth grade when my brother began to have serious symptoms, and was diagnosed with AIDS. He was a freshman in high school and had just turned fifteen. At that time, many people were not educated about how you “catch” AIDS and were very afraid of being around people who had it. My family worried about how people would act when they found out.

  Our lives changed when Brad’s symptoms became obvious. I couldn’t have friends over to spend the night. Whenever I had a basketball game, only one, never both of my parents, could come to watch because someone had to stay with Brad. Often, my parents would need to be with Brad during the times he was hospitalized. Sometimes they were gone for a week at a time while I stayed at a neighbor’s or an aunt’s house. I never knew where I’d be from one day to the next.

  Through all the sadness and confusion, I grew resentful about not being able to lead a normal life. My parents weren’t able to help me with my homework because they had to tend to Brad’s needs. I began having problems in school. The emotional part of slowly losing Brad, my best friend, made things even worse. I became very angry and needed to blame someone, so I turned my blame toward God.

  It was a burden to keep his condition a secret, yet I knew how cruel kids could be. I didn’t want anyone to see my brother not looking at all like his former self, and lying in diapers. I wasn’t going to have him be the subject of their jokes at school. It wasn’t my brother’s fault that his twelve-year-old sister had to change his diapers or feed him through a tube.

  The AIDS virus caused damage to Brad’s brain and destroyed the person that he had grown to be. Eventually, he became like a very young child again. Instead of listening to current music or talking about things that kids in junior high or high school would be interested in, he wanted us to read childhood books to him. He wanted me to help him color. I felt like I had lost my brother while he was still alive.

  I remember the day that Brad died, just like it was yesterday. The old musty room was filled with recognizable faces. There was my brother’s worn-out body in the bed. The body was now empty, and the pain could no longer be felt. That was the end of my only brother’s life—two weeks before his eighteenth birthday.

  Between 1980 and 1987, over 10,000 hemophiliacs like Brad received blood that was infected with the AIDS virus. Ninety percent of these severe hemophiliacs who were infected are either living with AIDS or have died from it. If the blood that they received had been tested before they gave it to them, their early deaths could have been avoided. As I see it, my brother was basically murdered.

  The experimental drugs used to battle AIDS only made him worse. Even some of the doctors seemed to have a what’s-the-use attitude. Some of these things made losing him even more painful.

  Since his passing, I’ve searched for some reason for his life and death. Although there may not be a complete answer to my question, I believe that there was a purpose. Brad taught us many things. He is still teaching people, even now, with the story of his life. I told his story to someone just the other day, and that person learned something.

  Brad was a person who always fought for what he believed in. He taught his friends and family members not to give up. He never gave up, and he never gave in to his hemophilia. Although Brad was special because of it, he never wanted to be treated special. He would play basketball with the heart of Larry Bird, but the body of a hemophiliac. Those who watched him play for his elementary school team would see him limping up and down the court, trying his hardest.

  Out of respect for his memory, we have not given up. My family and I have taken an active part in helping to make a difference in the way that people with hemophilia and AIDS are treated. We have been interviewed on the television program, 60 Minutes. We have gone to Washington D.C. twice, fighting for the Ricky Ray Bill to be passed by Congress. This bill would help families who have been through similar or worse situations. The bill was named for a boy who was taken out of school because he had AIDS. People who were afraid of AIDS and thought they could get it from him burned down his family’s home. The people didn’t understand that people can get AIDS from tainted blood donations.

  My brother gave so much love and happiness to so many people while he was alive, that his death left us feeling empty and sad. Before he was infected with AIDS, my big brother, Brad, was my protector and the person I would tell all my secrets to. Brad can no longer protect me, or even talk to me, and I miss him every day.

  Since Brad’s death I’ve come to realize that God was not punishing my family for anything. He simply had given us a gift of love—my brother, Brad—that had to be taken back. With these lessons from God, I can continue with my journey—this journey called life—with the hope that everyone with whom I share Brad’s story will learn exactly how precious life is.

  Jennifer Rhea Cross

  [EDITORS’ NOTE: If you would like information about hemophilia and/or AIDS, call the COMMITTEE OF TEN THOUSAND hotline at 800-488-2688.]

  6

  ACHIEVING

  DREAMS

  A dream is a seed

  The seed of a tree

  A tree full of life

  And the things you can be

  Your dreams are the windows

  Through which you can see

  A hint of your future

  And the things you will be

  Each night when you sleep


  You’re feeding the seed

  The seed of the tree

  Of who you will be.

  Jennifer Genereux Davis

  Believe in Yourself

  Set your standards high

  You deserve the best.

  Try for what you want

  And never settle for less.

  Believe in yourself

  No matter what you choose.

  Keep a winning attitude

  And you can never lose.

  Think about your destination

  But don’t worry if you stray

  Because the most important thing

  Is what you’ve learned along the way.

  Take all that you’ve become

  To be all that you can be.

  Soar above the clouds

  And let your dreams set you free.

  Jillian K. Hunt

  CALVIN AND HOBBES. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

  The Little Girl Who Dared to Wish

  As Amy Hagadorn rounded the corner across the hall from her classroom, she collided with a tall boy from the fifth grade running in the opposite direction.

  “Watch it, squirt,” the boy yelled as he dodged around the little third-grader. Then, with a smirk on his face, the boy took hold of his right leg and mimicked the way Amy limped when she walked.

  Amy closed her eyes. Ignore him, she told herself as she headed for her classroom.

  But at the end of the day, Amy was still thinking about the tall boy’s mean teasing. It wasn’t as if he were the only one. It seemed that ever since Amy started the third grade, someone teased her every single day. Kids teased her about her speech or her limping. Amy was tired of it. Sometimes, even in a classroom full of other students, the teasing made her feel all alone.

  Back home at the dinner table that evening, Amy was quiet. Her mother knew that things were not going well at school. That’s why Patti Hagadorn was happy to have some exciting news to share with her daughter.

  “There’s a Christmas wish contest on the radio station,” Amy’s mom announced. “Write a letter to Santa, and you might win a prize. I think someone at this table with blonde curly hair should enter.”

  Amy giggled. The contest sounded like fun. She started thinking about what she wanted most for Christmas.

  A smile took hold of Amy when the idea first came to her. Out came pencil and paper, and Amy went to work on her letter. “Dear Santa Claus,” she began.

  While Amy worked away at her best printing, the rest of the family tried to guess what she might ask from Santa. Amy’s sister, Jamie, and Amy’s mom both thought a three-foot Barbie doll would top Amy’s wish list. Amy’s dad guessed a picture book. But Amy wasn’t ready to reveal her secret Christmas wish just then. Here is Amy’s letter to Santa, just as she wrote it that night:

  Dear Santa Claus,

  My name is Amy. I am nine years old. I have a problem at school. Can you help me, Santa? Kids laugh at me because of the way I walk and run and talk. I have cerebral palsy. I just want one day where no one laughs at me or makes fun of me.

  Love,

  Amy

  At radio station WJLT in Fort Wayne, Indiana, letters poured in for the Christmas wish contest. The workers had fun reading about all the different presents that boys and girls from across the city wanted for Christmas.

  When Amy’s letter arrived at the radio station, manager Lee Tobin read it carefully. He knew cerebral palsy was a muscle disorder that might confuse the schoolmates of Amy’s who didn’t understand her disability. He thought it would be good for the people in Fort Wayne to hear about this special third-grader and her unusual wish. Mr. Tobin called up the local newspaper.

  The next day, a picture of Amy and her letter to Santa made the front page of the News Sentinel. The story spread quickly. All across the country, newspapers and radio and television stations reported the story of the little girl in Fort Wayne, Indiana, who asked for such a simple yet remarkable Christmas gift—just one day without teasing.

  Suddenly the postman was a regular at the Hagadorn house. Envelopes of all sizes addressed to Amy arrived daily from children and adults all across the nation. They came filled with holiday greetings and words of encouragement.

  During that unforgettable Christmas season, over two thousand people from all over the world sent Amy letters of friendship and support. Amy and her family read every single one. Some of the writers had disabilities; some had been teased as children. Each writer had a special message for Amy. Through the cards and letters from strangers, Amy glimpsed a world full of people who truly cared about each other. She realized that no amount or form of teasing could ever make her feel lonely again.

  Many people thanked Amy for being brave enough to speak up. Others encouraged her to ignore teasing and to carry her head high. Lynn, a sixth-grader from Texas, sent this message:

  “I would like to be your friend,” she wrote, “and if you want to visit me, we could have fun. No one would make fun of us, ’cause if they do, we will not even hear them.”

  Amy did get her wish of a special day without teasing at South Wayne Elementary School. Additionally, everyone at school got another bonus. Teachers and students talked together about how bad teasing can make others feel.

  That year, the Fort Wayne mayor officially proclaimed December 21 as Amy Jo Hagadorn Day throughout the city. The mayor explained that by daring to make such a simple wish, Amy taught a universal lesson.

  “Everyone,” said the mayor, “wants and deserves to be treated with respect, dignity and warmth.”

  Alan D. Shultz

  The Playground

  I always tried to turn every disaster into an opportunity.

  John D. Rockefeller

  “Carlos, we’re going to the store to get a soda. You wanna go?”

  Carlos joined his friends as they walked the few blocks to the store, crossing the railroad tracks, kicking cans and tossing rocks as they went.

  It was a Sunday afternoon in January, and they were especially carefree. Monday would be a holiday honoring Martin Luther King Jr.’s birthday, and they wouldn’t have to go to school.

  Carlos was eight years old, a second-grader living with his mother in the housing project, just blocks from the train tracks. He was the sixth of her eight children. His father lived in Florida.

  Carlos had lived in the country most of his life. Their little town of Millen was like a giant playground to him. He and his friends loved to wander and explore. Freight trains were a part of everyday life in their little town. The trains would drop off and pick up boxcars and tank cars at the loading yards, then continue on their way to Savannah. It was a given that since the tracks were between home and the church, as well as the store and their neighborhood, Carlos and his friends often had to jump over them.

  Carlos was good at sports and always included anyone who was left out or said to someone who needed cheering, “Come on, buddy; let’s play.” When anyone called to him, “Carlos, come help us,” he always helped them. Upon meeting him, he seemed quiet. He would drop his head; but the look in his eye was playful, and his face had an easy smile. The children liked Carlos because he was fun. He could make playtime out of most any situation. Carlos was not afraid of anything.

  It was a cold day, warming slightly in the afternoon from the sun. Carlos hated to wear his jacket, so on this particular afternoon, he was only wearing a short-sleeved shirt with his jeans and tennis shoes. On the way home from the store, he and his friends began to play on a freight train that had stopped to drop off and pick up boxcars, moving back and forth on the tracks in the process. They were near the middle of the freight train, having great fun climbing the ladders and hopping on and off the train. It was exciting to feel the moving train, to hear the squealing of the wheels as it came to a halt and the whistle blowing, to experience the sounds and smells of the engine as the train moved back and forth.

  The train began to tra
vel forward on the tracks, and all the boys jumped off—all except Carlos. He held on, yelling to them, “I’ll get off at the next stop. Meet me there.” Just outside of town, there was a dirt railroad crossing. He would get off there. It wasn’t too far away. It was very exciting to ride the train. They would all have a good laugh at his feat.

  The sun was beginning to go down, and the wind became cold. Carlos held on to the ladder at the rear of the freight car. He watched for the dirt crossing. As the train moved out of town, it began to pick up speed. He began to wonder if it would stop. He decided he might have to jump off. By the time he saw the crossing, the train had passed it. They were going too fast, and he had missed his chance.

  A chill from the cold wind went up his spine. Perhaps it was a chill of fear as he became aware of what had happened. This was more adventure than he had bargained for. He decided to hold on very tightly and look for the lights of the next town. The train would stop there, and he could get off and ask for help to get back home. It was very cold now, and Carlos said out loud to himself, “If I had my jacket, I’d put it on for sure. That’s how cold I am.”

  It was hard work holding on to the moving train. The cold was making it even harder. Carlos felt like his hands were freezing. He had not realized the weather would be this cold. The area they were traveling through was very wooded with lots of bushes. He was glad to finally see houses and lights, and got ready for the train to stop . . . but the train kept going!

  Carlos felt his first real fear. He had counted on the train stopping, but it was not going to stop! He was getting farther and farther from home. What should I do? Can I hold on until the train reaches its destination? Can I hold on that long? Should I try to jump? It looked too dangerous to do that. His mind was in turmoil as he tried to think of what to do. He decided that his best course of action would be to hold on until the train finally stopped. Surely it would stop somewhere along the way.