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

by Jack Canfield

  I thought of myself as a regular kid. But according to many of the children in my school, I was a nobody. I had friends here and there, but that year, friends began to fade away. My interests were in reading a good book, writing and schoolwork in general. I pulled some of the highest grades in my fourth-grade class. But I didn’t fit in and wasn’t socially accepted because I wasn’t interested in athletics like most of the other boys, and I was overweight.

  My one friend, Conner, would stand up for me sometimes with things like, “How can you judge someone you don’t even know?” Conner had a lot of challenges when it came to the other kids making fun of him, too. He had a stuttering problem that became the target of the same kinds of put-downs.

  The teasing got so bad that every day after school, I came home either crying or totally destroyed mentally. I was very much a perfectionist in my schoolwork and other interests, achieving goals that I set for myself. I couldn’t stand that I was losing friends and just couldn’t take the joking any longer.

  I decided to starve myself. I figured that if I could control my eating habits, I could change my physical appearance and end the teasing. I started checking the calories on the labels of everything I ate. If I could get away with it, I skipped meals altogether. A salad was usually the most I ate in a day. My mom and dad were totally unaware of my plan as long as my lunch box was empty and my cereal was partially eaten.

  At dinner, I made excuses about having had a big lunch so I’d only have to eat a few bites, or nothing at all. Whenever possible, I came up with ways to get rid of my food. I’d wipe most of the food into the trash or hide it in extra paper towels. Often, I tried to get my parents to allow me to do my homework while eating so that I could ditch the food without their knowing about it. I was caught up in a contest with myself, and I was determined to win.

  Then the sickness and headaches began. I suffered week after week of horrible headaches and endless colds. My clothes no longer fit, and it wasn’t long before I was too thin to wear the new clothes Mom replaced them with.

  At that point, my parents realized that I had an eating disorder and rushed me to the doctor. I weighed in at only eighty-three and a half pounds. The doctor told me how dangerous this disorder is to a person’s health. I realized that I was slowly starving my body of the nutrients that it needs in order to function normally. If I kept up this behavior, I could become seriously sick and maybe even die.

  The doctor and my parents helped me to set up new, healthy goals for myself. I went to see a counselor, started a weight-lifting program and decided to try playing sports.

  My mom heard about a winter-session lacrosse clinic that would help me learn about the sport before I would be expected to compete in it. Lacrosse is big in our area, but I had never given it a try. After the first few clinics, I didn’t want to go back. I hadn’t mastered the game in the first few tries, so the perfectionist in me couldn’t stand not being able to be in control. But I kept going, and finally, I started feeling better and better after each time out on the field. I was getting the hang of the game, and I liked it. Lacrosse gave me then, and still gives me now, confidence in myself. It’s also great exercise, so it helps me stay healthy.

  The year after the clinic, I was playing so well that I was chosen to be on a travel team of kids more experienced than I. I began to make new friends with kids on my team, and they don’t tease me. They respect me for working so hard at the game that I can play at their level.

  It’s been three years since the beginning of fourth grade, when my life had started to fall apart. What a year! I have learned to find self-esteem in the things that make me special and not in what others say or don’t say about me. I am still the same perfectionist that I was born to be, but I know when I need to stop pushing myself so hard. I concentrate on perfection where it really matters. I still get high grades and love to read and write, and I have also discovered interests like playing the drums, football and tennis. I plan to play basketball during the next season.

  Trying to totally change my physical appearance didn’t lead to happiness. I learned that “beauty is only skin deep,” and it’s what’s inside that counts. Getting involved with things that I enjoy has helped my self-confidence, and I have made the kind of friends who like me for who I am—not for what I look like.

  Robert Diehl, age 12

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

  Dear God, This Is Charles

  Aman, as a general rule, owes very little to what he is born with—a man is what he makes of himself.

  Alexander Graham Bell

  Dear God,

  This is Charles. I turned twelve the other day. If you noticed, I’m typing this letter. Sometimes it’s hard for me to write, you know. It’s this thing called dysgraphia. I also have Attention Deficit Disorder—oftentimes learning disabilities accompany A.D.D. My IQ was tested at 140, but if you graded my cursive, you’d think I was dumb.

  I never could hold a pencil the right way. I never could color in the lines. Every time I would try, my hand would cramp up and the letters would come out sloppy, the lines too dark, and the marker would get all over my hands. Nobody wanted to switch papers with me to grade them because they couldn’t read them. Keith could, but he moved away.

  My brain doesn’t sense what my hand is doing. I can feel the pencil, but the message doesn’t get through right. I have to grip the pencil tighter so my brain knows that I have it in my hand.

  It’s much easier for me to explain things by talking than it is to write. I’m really good at dictating, but my teachers don’t always let me. If I am asked to write an essay on my trip to Washington and Philadelphia, it’s like a punishment. But if I can dictate it, or just get up and talk about it, I can tell everyone about the awesomeness of seeing the Declaration of Independence in the National Archives or the feeling of true patriotism that rushed through me when I stood in the room where our founding fathers debated the issues of freedom.

  If I got graded on art, I’d fail for sure. There are so many things that I can picture in my mind, but my hands just don’t draw it the way I see it.

  It’s okay. I’m not complaining. I’m really doing fine. You see, you gave me a wonderful mind and a great sense of humor. I’m great at figuring things out, and I love to debate. We have some great Bible discussions in class, and that’s where I really shine.

  I want to be a lawyer when I grow up, a trial lawyer in fact. I know I’d be good at that. I would be responsible for researching the crime, examining the evidence and truthfully presenting the case.

  You have told me that you made me special when you said that I am fearfully and wonderfully made. You have assured me that you will see me through, and that you have plans for me to give me a future and hope.

  My parents want to help me, so they bought me a laptop to take to school. My teacher is the best this year! I am allowed to do a lot of my work on the computer. We have a character trait book due every Friday, and guess what? She lets me use Print Shop Deluxe for the artwork. For the first time, I’ll be able to show everyone some of the things I have in my mind.

  Lord, this is a thank-you letter, just to let you know I’m doing fine. Life’s hard sometimes, but you know what? I accept the challenge. I have the faith to see myself through anything. Thanks for making me me. Thanks for loving me unconditionally. Thanks for everything.

  In your service,

  Charles

  Charles Inglehart, age 12

  Missy and Me

  I sold my bike to a friend in my sixth-grade class when we moved from Oklahoma. I planned to buy a new one in California when we got settled, but that never happened. The house we bought in San Diego was near a busy highway, outside of town, and I wasn’t allowed to ride there, even if I had wanted to.

  Instead I spent my bike money on Missy, a cuddly, brown-eyed cocker spaniel puppy. It was love at first sight. The other puppies at the kennel hopped all ove
r each other, but Missy walked straight up to me and gently licked my hand with her pink tongue. When I picked her up, she looked at me with those big, sad eyes, and I was hooked.

  I missed my friends in Oklahoma. I wrote to all of them every week. The kids in my new school made fun of my Southern accent. One red-haired girl named Melissa mimicked me every time I spoke. She showed off by arguing with the school bus driver and using swear words. When I heard him call her “missy,” I felt like changing my puppy’s name.

  In those days, my only friend was my dog. Every day, I spent hours training her and brushing her blond, wavy coat. Within a few weeks, she was house trained. At night, she slept curled up in my bed. In the morning, she licked my face to let me know she was awake and wanted to go outside.

  One morning when she was six months old, I was dressing for school when I heard screeching brakes and a yelp. I ran down our driveway to see a huge truck pulled over to the side of the highway and the limp body of Missy lying in the ditch. “You hit my dog!” I screamed at the driver. I jumped into the ditch and picked up Missy’s lifeless body. “Wake up, wake up!” I yelled at her.

  My parents thanked the man for stopping. “The dog ran out right in front of me,” he said. “I tried to stop.” I knew he meant it, but all I could do was cry.

  I carried Missy into the house and wrapped her in her favorite blanket. I rocked her and cried, hoping she would wake up, but she never did.

  Before my dad went to work, we dug a little grave and buried her. The three of us held hands, and my dad thanked God for giving us Missy. Then he prayed to God, asking for him to send me new friends here in California. My dad ended his prayer by thanking God for the joy Missy had brought to my life. But I didn’t feel thankful. The thoughts just went around and around in my head. Why hadn’t God protected her? Why hadn’t he kept her from running out on the highway? He knew how lonely I was. Why had he taken my only friend away?

  For weeks, I cried myself to sleep. I woke up every morning to the bad dream that was my reality— Missy was gone. Classes, teachers, homework and weekends all blurred together through my tears. I tried to concentrate on my schoolwork, but all I could think about was Missy. My parents offered to buy me another dog, but I didn’t want just any dog. I wanted Missy. Nothing else mattered anymore.

  One day, my gym teacher gave me a hall pass and told me to go to see the vice principal. I must be in trouble if I’m being sent to Mrs. Stevens’s office, I thought.

  Mrs. Stevens asked me to sit down. In a gentle voice, she said, “You must be wondering why I called you in. Your teachers are concerned about you. They have seen you crying in class. Do you want to talk about it?”

  I began sobbing so violently that I couldn’t speak. She handed me a box of tissues. Finally I choked out, “My dog got run over.” We talked for the whole gym period. When the bell rang, Mrs. Stevens gave me a little notebook.

  “Sometimes it helps when you write down your feelings,” she said. “Be honest. You don’t have to ever show it to anyone—it’s just for you. It may help you decide what you are learning about life and death.” She smiled and led me to the door with her arm around my shoulder.

  For the next week, I did what she said, spilling out all my sadness and anger. I wrote to God about letting Missy die. I wrote about my parents moving to this awful place. I wrote about Melissa and the kids who hurt my feelings. I even wrote to Missy: “I loved you so much. Why were you so stupid? I taught you not to go near the highway! Now you are gone forever. Forever. Things will never be the same. Never.”

  When I couldn’t write any more, I finally closed my notebook and wept. I cried and cried. I cried because things never would be the same, because Missy wasn’t coming back and because I knew we weren’t going to move back to Oklahoma. When I was finished crying, there was nothing else to do. I decided I would just have to make the best of it.

  As difficult as it was, Missy and her death helped me to grow up that year. God answered my dad’s prayer and gave me new friends to fill my loneliness. I finally stopped missing all my old friends. My time was filled with school and activities instead of just memories. I was surprised that these friends became just as special as the ones that I had left behind in Oklahoma. My heart was starting to heal.

  Even though I still believe that no other dog could ever take Missy’s place in my heart, maybe one of these days I’ll let my parents buy me another dog. Maybe.

  Glenda Palmer

  The Miracle of Life

  Courageous risks are life-giving; they help you grow, make you brave and better than you think you are.

  Joan L. Curcio

  I never knew how valuable life was until I almost lost my little brother. It all started when my brother got sick. I was nine, and he was just nine months. My mother thought it was an ear infection because he kept grabbing his ear. The first doctor she took him to told her that it was an ear infection. After a week, he was still grabbing his ear. My mother took him to a different doctor for a second opinion. They immediately started running blood tests on him. The doctor knew that he needed to be in the hospital as quickly as possible. My mother, father and brother all rode to the hospital in a speeding ambulance.

  At first the doctors did not know what was wrong with him. Then a couple days later, they found out he had a type of bone marrow cancer. My mother and father stayed with my brother the first few weeks. Then my mother would stay with my brother while my father would come home and see my sisters and me. It was hard not seeing my mother all the time, but I did go to the hospital about once a week.

  The doctors tried one round of chemotherapy. It helped, but my brother lost his hair. Then he needed a bone marrow transplant. They needed to find a donor, so the doctors tested my family first. I was so scared to get a shot. My sisters and I were all crying. We got it over with quickly, and it did not hurt as much as I thought it would.

  A couple of weeks later, we found out that one of my sisters and I were both matches. My parents had to choose which one of us should be the donor. After thinking about it for a long time, they chose me because I was the oldest. I was excited and scared at the same time, but I knew that I might save his life.

  My brother was moved to Duke Hospital. It was a unit of about ten kids who all had a disease. About two weeks later, I went to Duke to do the transplant. The doctors showed me what it was going to be like. I was not scared until the next day, when I had to wake up at 5:00 A.M. I had to be at the hospital at 6:00 A.M. When I got there, I had to put on a gown. Then my mother and I went into the operating room with the doctors. They put a mask over my face, and in about ten seconds I fell asleep.

  When I woke up, there was a tube stuck into the back of my hand, putting fluid into my body to keep me from getting dehydrated. I immediately wanted to know how my brother was. My mother told me that he was getting my bone marrow right then.

  About two hours after I woke up, I went to see him. He was asleep, and my father was holding him. All of the bone marrow that I had donated had gone into him. Everybody hoped and prayed that it would work.

  About a month and a half later, my mother came home. My brother was doing fine. We still had to be careful to not let him get sick with a cold or the flu. He could not be in the sun, either. Also, we had to wear surgical masks when we held him.

  Now, two years later, he is doing great! He is full of life and is very energetic. He is always doing something. We have to watch him and make sure he does not get too curious!

  This experience has shown me that all you have to do is believe. You have to believe that the best will happen. Also, you need to be strong no matter what happens. That makes a true hero!

  Lacy Richardson, age 12

  8

  ON CHOICES

  I can overcome my fears

  I can buy for the hungry

  I can help stop pollution

  I can give to the poor

  I can be what I want

  I can use my head

  I can giv
e advice

  I can receive

  I can behave

  I can listen

  I can think

  I can teach

  I can know

  I can give

  I can feel

  I can see

  I can.

  Kendra Batch, age 12

  Goodwill

  Icannot and will not cut my conscience to fit this year’s fashions.

  Lillian Hellman

  Annie leaned against her locker and sighed. What a day! What a disaster! This school year wasn’t starting out the way she had planned it at all.

  Of course, Annie hadn’t planned on that new girl, Kristen. And she definitely hadn’t planned on the new girl wearing the exact skirt Annie was supposed to bewearing.

  It wasn’t just any skirt. Annie had baby-sat three active brothers all summer to buy that skirt and its designer accent top. When she saw them in her Teen magazine, Annie knew they were meant for her. She had gone right to the phone and called the 800 number for the “outlet nearest” her.

  With price and picture in hand, she had set off to convince her mother.

  “It’s great, hon,” her mother agreed. “I just can’t see spending as much on one outfit as I do for all your clothes.” Annie wasn’t surprised, but she was disappointed.

  “Well, if it’s that important, we could put it on layaway,” her mom said. “You’d have to pay for it, though.”

  So she did. Every Friday, Annie took all her baby-sitting money and paid down the balance.

  She had made her final payment just last week and hurried home to try on the skirt and top. The moment of truth had arrived and she was afraid to look! She stood in front of the mirror with her eyes squeezed shut. She counted to three and forced herself to open them.