A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

by Jack Canfield

  Frantically, the captain called for another volunteer team to go after the lone survivor. Sixteen-year-old Hans stepped forward. His mother grabbed his arm, pleading, "Please don't go. Your father died in a

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  shipwreck 10 years ago and your older brother, Paul, has been lost at sea for three weeks. Hans, you are all I have left."

  Hans replied, "Mother, I have to go. What if everyone said, 'I can't go, let someone else do it? Mother, this time I have to do my duty. When the call for service comes, we all need to take our turn and do our part." Hans kissed his mother, joined the team and disappeared into the night.

  Another hour passed, which seemed to Hans' mother like an eternity. Finally, the rescue boat darted through the fog with Hans standing up in the bow. Cupping his hands, the captain called, "Did you find the lost man?" Barely able to contain himself, Hans excitedly yelled back, "Yes, we found him. Tell my mother it's my older brother, Paul!"

  Dan Clark

  A Life Worth Saving

  A man risked his life by swimming through the treacherous riptide to save a youngster being swept out to sea. After the child recovered from the harrowing experience, he said to the man, "Thank you for saving my life."

  The man looked into the boy's eyes and said, "That's okay, kid. Just make sure your life was worth saving."

  Author Unknown

  from More Sower's Seeds by Brian Cavanaugh

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  The Two-Hundredth Hug

  Love cures peopleboth the ones who give

  it and the ones who receive it.

  Dr. Karl Menninger

  My father's skin was jaundiced as he lay hooked up to monitors and intravenous tubes in the intensive care unit of the hospital. Normally a well-built man, he had lost more than 30 pounds.

  My father's illness had been diagnosed as cancer of the pancreas, one of the most malignant forms of the disease. The doctors were doing what they could but told us that he had only three to six months to live. Cancer of the pancreas does not lend itself to radiation therapy or chemotherapy, so they could offer little hope.

  A few days later, when my father was sitting up in bed, I approached him and said, ''Dad, I feel deeply for what's happened to you. It's helped me to look at the ways I've kept my distance and to feel how much I really love you." I leaned over to give him a hug, but his shoulders and arms became tense.

  "C'mon, Dad, I really want to give you a hug."

  For a moment he looked shocked. Showing affection was not our usual way of relating. I asked him to sit up some more so I could get my arms around him.

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  Then I tried again. This time, however, he was even more tense. I could feel the old resentment starting to build up, and I began to think, "I don't need this. If you want to die and leave me with the same coldness as always, go right ahead."

  For years I had used every instance of my father's resistance and rigidness to blame him, to resent him and to say to myself, "See, he doesn't care." This time, however, I thought again and realized the hug was for my benefit as well as my father's. I wanted to express how much I cared for him no matter how hard it was for him to let me in. My father had always been very Germanic and duty-oriented; in his childhood, his parents must have taught him how to shut off his feelings in order to be a man.

  Letting go of my long-held desire to blame him for our distance, I was actually looking forward to the challenge of giving him more love. I said, "C'mon, Dad, put your arms around me."

  I leaned up close to him at the edge of the bed with his arms around me. "Now squeeze. That's it. Now again, squeeze. Very good!"

  In a sense I was showing my father how to hug, and as he squeezed, something happened. For an instant, a feeling of "I love you" bubbled through. For years our greeting had been a cold and formal handshake that said, "Hello, how are you?" Now, both he and I waited for that momentary closeness to happen again. Yet, just at the moment when he would begin to enjoy the feelings of love, something would tighten in his upper torso and our hug would become awkward and strange. It took months before his rigidness gave way and he was able to let the emotions inside him pass through his arms to encircle me.

  It was up to me to be the source of many hugs before my father initiated a hug on his own. I was not

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  blaming him, but supporting him; after all, he was changing the habits of an entire lifetimeand that takes time. I knew we were succeeding because more and more we were relating out of care and affection. Around the two-hundredth hug, he spontaneously said out loud, for the first time I could ever recall, "I love you."

  Harold H. Bloomfield, M.D.

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  A Strawberry Malt and Three Squeezes, Please!

  My mother loved strawberry malts. It was always a thrill for me to drop in to see her and surprise her with her favorite refreshment.

  In their later years, both my mom and dad lived in a life-care retirement center. Partially due to the stress of my mom's Alzheimer's condition, my dad became ill and was no longer able to care for her. They lived in separate rooms yet were together as much as they could be. They loved each other so much. Hand-in-hand, those silver-haired lovers would stroll the halls, visiting their friends, passing out love. They were the "romantics" of the retirement center.

  When I realized that my mother's condition was worsening, I wrote h a letter of acknowledgment. I told her how much I loved her. I apologized for my orneriness when I was growing up. I told her that she was a great mother and I was proud to be her son. I told her things I had wanted to say for a long time but had been too stubborn to say until I realized she might not be in a position to comprehend the love behind the words. It was a detailed letter of love and of completion. My dad told me she often spent hours reading and re-reading that letter.

  It saddened me to know that my mom no longer

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  knew I was her son. She would often ask, "Now, what was your name?" and I would proudly reply that my name was Larry and I was her son. She would smile and reach for my hand. I wish I could once again experience that special touch.

  On one of my visits, I stopped by the local malt shop and bought my mother and father each a strawberry malt. I stopped by her room first, reintroduced myself to her, chatted for a few minutes and then took the other strawberry malt to my dad's room.

  By the time I returned, she had almost finished the malt. She had lain down on the bed for a rest. She was awake. We both smiled when she saw me come into the room.

  Without a word, I pulled a chair close to the bed and reached over to hold her hand. It was a divine connection. I silently affirmed my love for her. In the quiet I could feel the magic of our unconditional love, even though I knew she was quite unaware of who was holding her hand. Or was she holding my hand?

  After about 10 minutes, I felt her give my hand a tender squeeze . . . three squeezes. They were brief and instantly I knew what she was saying without having to hear any words.

  The miracle of unconditional love is nurtured by the power of the Divine and our own imagination.

  I couldn't believe it! Even though she could no longer express her innermost thoughts like she used to, no words were necessary. It was as though she came back for a brief moment.

  Many years ago when my father and she were dating, she had invented this special way of telling my dad, "I love you!" while they were sitting in church. He would softly give her hand two squeezes to say, "Me too!"

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  I gave her hand two soft squeezes. She turned her head and gave me a loving smile I shall never forget. Her countenance radiated love.

  I remembered her expressions of unconditional love for my father, our family and her countless friends. Her love continues to profoundly influence my life.

  Another eight to ten minutes went by. No words were spoken.

  Suddenly, she turned to me and quietly spoke these words: "It's important to have someone who loves you."

 
I wept. They were tears of joy. I gave her a warm and tender hug, told her how very much I loved her and left.

  My mother passed away shortly after that.

  Very few words were spoken that day; those she spoke were words of gold. I will always treasure those special moments.

  Larry James

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  The Little Glass Chip

  Quite often my mother would request me to set the family table with the "good china." Because this occurred with such frequency, I never questioned these occasions. I assumed it was just my mother's desire, a momentary whim, and did what I was asked.

  One evening as I was setting the table, Marge, a neighbor woman, dropped by unexpectedly. She knocked on the door and Mother, busy at the stove, called to her to come in. Marge entered the large kitchen and, glancing at the beautifully set table, remarked, "Oh, I see you're expecting company. I'll come back another time. I should have called first anyway."

  "No, no, it's all right," replied my mother. 'We're not expecting company."

  "Well then," said Marge with a puzzled look on her face, "why would you have the good china out? I use my good china only twice a year, if that."

  "Because," my mom answered laughing softly, "I've prepared my family's favorite meal. If you set your best table for special guests and outsiders when you prepare a meal, why not for your own family? They are as special as anyone I can think of."

  "Well yes, but your beautiful china will get

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  broken," responded Marge, still not understanding the importance of the value my mother had assigned to esteeming her family in this way.

  "Oh well," said Mom casually, "a few chips in the china is a small price to pay for the way we always feel as we gather as a family at the dinner table, using these lovely dishes. Besides," she added with a girlish twinkle in her eyes, "all these chips have a story to tell, now don't they?" She looked at Marge as though this woman with two grown children should have known this.

  Mom walked to the cupboard and took down a plate. Holding it up she said, "See this chip? I was 17 when this happened. I'll never forget that day." My mother's voice softened and she seemed to be remembering another time. "One fall day, my brothers needed help putting the last of the season's hay up, so they hired a young, strong, handsome buck to help out. My mother had asked me to go to the hen house to gather fresh eggs. It was then that I first noticed the new help. I stopped and watched for a moment as he slung large heavy bales of fresh green hay up and over his shoulder, tossing them effortlessly into the hay mow. I tell you, he was one gorgeous man: lean, slim-waisted with powerful arms and shiny thick hair. He must have felt my presence because with a bale of hay in mid-air, he stopped, turned and looked at me, and just smiled. He was so incredibly handsome," she said slowly, running a finger around the plate, stroking it gently.

  "Well, I guess my brothers took a liking to him because they invited him to have dinner with us. When my older brother directed him to sit next to me at the table, I nearly died. You can imagine how embarrassed I felt because he had seen me standing there staring at him. Now, here I was seated next to

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  him. His presence made me so flustered, I was tongue-tied and just stared down at the table."

  Suddenly remembering that she was telling a story in the presence of her young daughter and the neighbor woman, Mom blushed and hurriedly brought the story to conclusion. "Well anyway, he handed me his plate and asked that I dish him a helping. I was so nervous that my palms were sweaty and my hands shook. When I took his plate, it slipped and cracked against the casserole dish, knocking out a chip."

  "Well," said Marge, unmoved by my mother's story, "I'd say that sounds like a memory I'd try to forget."

  "On the contrary," countered my mother. "One year later I married that marvelous man. And to this day, when I see that plate, I fondly recall the day I met him." She carefully put the plate back into the cupboardbehind the others, in a place all its own, and seeing me staring at her, gave me a quick wink.

  Aware that the passionate story she had just told held no sentiments for Marge, she hurriedly took down another plate, this time one that had been shattered and then carefully pieced back together, with small droplets of glue dribbled out of rather crooked seams. "This plate was broken the day we brought our newborn son, Mark, home from the hospital," Mom said. "What a cold and blustery day that was! Trying to be helpful, my six-year-old daughter dropped that plate as she carried it to the sink. At first I was upset, but then I told myself, "It's just a broken plate and I won't let a broken plate change the happiness we feel welcoming this new baby to our family. As I recall, we all had a lot of fun on the several attempts it took to glue that plate together!"

  I was sure my mother had other stories to tell about that set of china.

  Several days passed and I couldn't forget about that

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  plate. It had been made special, if for no other reason, because Mom had stored it carefully behind the others. There was something about that plate that intrigued me and thoughts of it lingered in the back of my mind.

  A few days later my mother took a trip into town to get groceries. As usual I was put in charge of caring for the other children when she was gone. As the car drove out of the driveway, I did what I always did in the first ten minutes when she left for town. I ran into my parents' bedroom (as I was forbidden to do!), pulled up a chair, opened the top dresser drawer and snooped through the drawer, as I had done so many times before. There in the back of the drawer, beneath soft and wonderful smelling grown-up garments, was a small square wooden jewelry box. I took it out and opened it. In it were the usual items: the red ruby ring left to my mother by Auntie Hilda, her favorite aunt; a pair of delicate pearl earrings given to my mother's mom by her husband on their wedding day; and my mother's dainty wedding ring, which she often took off as she helped do outside chores alongside her husband.

  Once again enchanted by these precious keepsakes, I did what every little girl would want to do: I tried them all on, filling my mind with glorious images of what I thought it must be like to be grown up, to be a beautiful woman like my mother, and to own such exquisite things. I couldn't wait to be old enough to command a drawer of my very own and be able to tell others they could not go into it!

  Today I didn't linger too long on these thoughts. I removed the fine piece of red felt on the lid of the little wooden box that separated the jewelry from an ordinary-looking chip of white glassheretofore, completely meaningless to me. I removed the piece of

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  glass from the box, held it up to the light to examine it more carefully, and following an instinct, ran to the kitchen cabinet, pulled up a chair and climbed up and took down the plate. Just as I had imagined, the chipso carefully stored beneath the only three precious keepsakes my mother ownedbelonged to the plate she had broken on the day she first laid eyes on my father.

  Wiser now, and with more respect, I cautiously returned the sacred chip to its place beneath the jewels along with the piece of fabric that protected it. Now I knew for sure that the china held for Mother a number of love stories about her family, but none so memorable as the legacy she had assigned to that plate. With that chip began a love story of love stories, now in its 53rd chapter; my parents have been married for 53 years!

  One of my sisters asked my mother if someday the antique ruby ring could be hers, and my other sister has laid claim to Grandmother's pearl earrings. I want my sisters to have these beautiful family heirlooms. As for me, well, I'd like the memento representing the beginning of a very extraordinary woman's extraordinary life of loving. I'd like that little glass chip.

  Bettie B. Youngs