A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

by Jack Canfield

  In the mornings when I was nine years old, he would come home from working 18 hours at his bakery and wake me up at 5:00 A.M. by scratching my back with his strong, powerful hands and whispering, "Time to get up, Son." By the time I was dressed and ready to roll, he had my newspapers folded, banded and stuffed in my bicycle basket. Recalling his generosity of spirit brings tears to my eyes.

  When I was racing bicycles, he drove me 50 miles each way to Kenosha, Wisconsin, every Tuesday night so I could race and he could watch me. He was there to hold me if I lost and shared the euphoria when I won.

  Later, he accompanied me to all my local talks in Chicago when I spoke to Century 21, Mary Kay, Equitable and various churches. He always smiled, listened and proudly told whomever he was sitting with, "That's my boy!"

  After the fact, my heart was in pain because Dad was there for me and I wasn't there for him. My humble advice is to always, always share your love with your loved ones, and ask to be invited to that sacred transitional period where physical life transforms into spiritual life. Experiencing the process of death with one you love will take you into a bigger, more expansive dimension of beingness.

  Mark Victor Hansen

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  Do It Today!

  If you were going to die soon and had only one phone call you could make, who would you call and what would you say? And why are you waiting?

  Stephen Levine

  When I was superintendent of schools in Palo Alto, California, Polly Tyner, the president of our board of trustees, wrote a letter that was printed in the Palo Alto Times. Polly's son, Jim, had great difficulty in school. He was classified as educationally handicapped and required a great deal of patience on the part of his parents and teachers. But Jim was a happy kid with a great smile that lit up the room. His parents acknowledged his academic difficulties, but always tried to help him see his strengths so that he could walk with pride. Shortly after Jim finished high school, he was killed in a motorcycle accident. After his death, his mother submitted this letter to the newspaper.

  Today we buried our 20-year-old son. He was killed instantly in a motorcycle accident on Friday night. How I wish I had known when I talked to him last that it would be the last time. If I had only

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  known I would have said, "Jim, I love you and I'm so very proud of you."

  I would have taken the time to count the many blessings he brought to the lives of the many who loved him. I would have taken time to appreciate his beautiful smile, the sound of his laughter, his genuine love of people.

  When you put all the good attributes on the scale and you try to balance all the irritating traits such as the radio which was always too loud, the haircut that wasn't to our liking, the dirty socks under the bed, etc., the irritations don't amount to much.

  I won't get another chance to tell my son all I would have wanted him to hear, but, other parents, you do have a chance. Tell your young people what you would want them to hear if you knew it would be your last conversation. The last time I talked to Jim was the day he died. He called me to say, "Hi, Mom! I just called to say I love you. Got to go to work. Bye." He gave me something to treasure forever.

  If there is any purpose at all to Jim's death, maybe it is to make others appreciate more of life and to have people, especially families, take the time to let each other know just how much we care.

  You may never have another chance. Do it today!

  Robert Reasoner

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  The Right Words

  After my brother's massive heart attack, he lay in a coma in the hospital's coronary intensive care unit. Tubes and wires hooked him up to machines that kept him alive. A scope showed the wiggly lines of a faltering heartbeat. The only sound in his room was the rhythmical whoosh of the pump forcing air into his lungs. My sister-in-law stood by, helpless.

  As a minister I had often been with families in similar situations. I had searched for the right words, the perfect scriptural passage, a phrase of hope, trying to comfort them. But this was a new experience.

  During these difficult days, my sister-in-law and I were torn between hope and resignation. We appreciated every visitor. We were grateful for their stories of people who had snapped out of comas and returned to normal. We listened when they talked knowledgeably about the stages of grief. We knew they cared. But many visitors came through the door talking, and kept talking. Was that how I had dealt with my nervousness when I didn't know what to say?

  Then a casual friend came to visit. He stood with us around the bed, looking at my brother's body. There was a long silence. Suddenly overcome with emotion, he said, "I'm sorry." There was another long pause. Finally, he hugged my sister-in-law and then turned

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  to shake my hand. He held it a second longer than necessary and squeezed a little harder than usual. As he looked at me, tears came to his eyes. And then he left. One week later, my brother died.

  Years have passed and I still remember that visitor. I do not recall his name, but I'll never forget how he shared our grief, quietly and sincerely and without awkwardness. His few words spoke volumes.

  Robert J. McMullen Jr.

  Submitted by Dave Potter

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  An Act of Kindness for a Broken Heart

  I am only one. But still, I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something. And because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.

  Edward Everett Hale

  My husband, Hanoch, and I wrote a book, Acts of Kindness: How to Create a Kindness Revolution, which has generated much interest across America. This story was shared with us by an anonymous caller during a radio talk show in Chicago.

  ''Hi, Mommy, what are you doing?" asked Susie.

  "I'm making a casserole for Mrs. Smith next door," said her mother.

  "Why?" asked Susie, who was only six years old.

  "Because Mrs. Smith is very sad; she lost her daughter and she has a broken heart. We need to take care of her for a little while."

  "Why, Mommy?"

  "You see, Susie, when someone is very, very sad, they have trouble doing the little things like making dinner or other chores. Because we're part of a community and Mrs. Smith is our neighbor, we need to do

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  some things to help her. Mrs. Smith won't ever be able to talk with her daughter or hug her or do all those wonderful things that mommies and daughters do together. You are a very smart girl, Susie; maybe you'll think of some way to help take care of Mrs. Smith."

  Susie thought seriously about this challenge and how she could do her part in caring for Mrs. Smith. A few minutes later, Susie knocked on her door. After a few moments Mrs. Smith answered the knock with a "Hi, Susie."

  Susie noticed that Mrs. Smith didn't have that familiar musical quality about her voice when she greeted someone.

  Mrs. Smith also looked as though she might have been crying because her eyes were watery and swollen.

  "What can I do for you, Susie?" asked Mrs. Smith.

  "My mommy says that you lost your daughter and you're very, very sad with a broken heart." Susie held her hand out shyly. In it was a Band-Aid. "This is for your broken heart." Mrs. Smith gasped, choking back her tears. She knelt down and hugged Susie. Through her tears she said, "Thank you, darling girl, this will help a lot."

  Mrs. Smith accepted Susie's act of kindness and took it one step further. She purchased a small key ring with a plexiglass picture framethe ones designed to carry keys and proudly display a family portrait at the same time. Mrs. Smith placed Susie's Band-Aid in the frame to remind herself to heal a little every time she sees it. She wisely knows that healing takes time and support. It has become her symbol for healing, while not forgetting the joy and love she experienced with her daughter.

  Meladee McCarty

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  See You in the Morning

  Because of my mother and her wisdom I have no fear of death
. She was my best friend and my greatest teacher. Every time we parted company, whether it was to retire for the evening or before one of us was about to depart on a trip, she would say, "I'll see you in the morning." It was a promise she always kept.

  My grandfather was a minister and in those days, around the turn of the century, whenever a member of the congregation passed on, the body would lie in state in the minister's parlor. To an eight-year-old girl, this can be a most frightening experience.

  One day, my grandfather picked up my mother, carried her into the parlor and asked her to feel the wall.

  "What does that feel like, Bobbie?" he asked.

  "Well, it's hard and it's cold," she replied.

  Then he carried her over to the casket and said, "Bobbie, I'm going to ask you to do the most difficult thing I'll ever ask. But if you do it, you'll never be afraid of death again. I want you to put your hand on Mr. Smith's face."

  Because she loved and trusted him so much she was able to fulfill his request. "Well?" asked my grandfather. "Daddy," she said, "it feels like the wall."

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  "That's right," he said. "This is his old house and our friend, Mr. Smith, has moved and Bobbie, there's no reason to be afraid of an old house."

  The lesson took root and grew the rest of her life. She had absolutely no fear of death. Eight hours before she left us, she made a most unusual request. As we stood around her bed fighting back tears, she said, "Don't bring any flowers to my grave because I won't be there. When I get rid of this body, I'm flying to Europe. Your father would never take me." The room erupted in laughter and there were no more tears the rest of the night.

  As we kissed her and bade her goodnight, she smiled and said, "I'll see you in the morning."

  However, at 6:15 A.M. the next day, I received the call from the doctor that she had begun her flight to Europe.

  Two days later, we were in my parents' apartment going through my mother's things when we came across a huge file of her writings. As I opened the packet, one piece of paper fell to the floor.

  It was the following poem. I don't know if it was one she had written or someone else's work that she had lovingly saved. All I know is that it was the only piece of paper to fall and it read:

  The Legacy

  When I die, give what is left of me to children.

  If you need to cry, cry for your brothers walking

  beside you.

  Put your arms around anyone and give them what

  you need to give to me.

  I want to leave you with something, something

  better than words or sounds.

  Look for me in the people I have known and loved.

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  And if you cannot live without me, then let me

  live on in your eyes, your mind and your acts

  of kindness.

  You can love me most by letting hands touch

  hands and letting go of children that need to be

  free.

  Love does not die, people do.

  So when all that is left of me is love . . .

  Give me away . . .

  My dad and I smiled at each other as we felt her presence, and it was morning once again.

  John Wayne Schlatter

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  Love Never Leaves You

  I grew up in a very normal family with two brothers and two sisters. Although we did not have much money in those days, I always remember my mother and father taking us out for weekend picnics or to the zoo.

  My mother was a very loving and caring person. She was always ready to help someone else and she often brought home stray or injured animals. Even though she had five children to contend with, she always found time to help others.

  I think back to my early childhood and I see my parents not as husband and wife with five children, but as a newlywed couple very much in love. The daytime was to be spent with us kids, but the night was their time to be with each other.

  I remember I was lying in bed one night. It was Sunday, May 27, 1973. I woke up to the sound of my parents coming home from a night out with some friends. They were laughing and playing around and when I heard them go to bed, I rolled over and went back to sleep, but all that night my sleep was troubled by nightmares.

  Monday morning, May 28, 1973, I awoke to a cloudy overcast day. My mother was not up yet so we all got ourselves ready and went to school. All that

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  day, I had this very empty feeling inside. I came home after school and let myself into the house. "Hi, Ma, I'm home." No answer. The house seemed very cold and empty. I was afraid. Trembling, I climbed the stairs and went to my parents' room. The door was only open a little and I could not see all the way inside. "Ma?" I pushed the door open all the way so I could see the whole room, and there was my mother lying on the floor beside the bed. I tried to wake her, but she would not wake up. I knew she was dead. I turned around, left the room and went downstairs. I sat on the couch in silence for a very long time until my older sister came home. She saw me sitting there and then in a flash she was running up the stairs.

  I sat in the living room and watched as my father talked to the policeman. I watched the ambulance attendants carry out the stretcher with my mother on it. All I could do was sit and watch. I couldn't even cry. I had never thought of my father as an old man, but when I saw him that day he never looked so old as he did then.

  Tuesday, May 29, 1973. My 11th birthday. There was no singing, no party or cake, just silence as we sat around the dining room table looking at our food. It was my fault. If I had come home sooner she would still be alive. If I had been older she would still be alive. If . . .

  For many years, I carried around the guilt of my mother's death. I thought about all the things I should have done. All the nasty things I had said to her. I truly believed that because I was a troublesome child, God was punishing me by taking away my mother. The thing that troubled me the most was the fact I never got the chance to say goodbye. I would never again feel her warm embrace, smell the sweet scent of her perfume or feel her gentle kisses as she

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  tucked me into my bed at night. All these things taken away from me were my punishment.

  May 29, 1989: my 27th birthday, and I was feeling very lonely and empty. I had never recovered from the effects of my mother's death. I was an emotional mess. My anger at God had hit its peak. I was crying and screaming at God. "Why did you take her away from me? You never even gave me the chance to say goodbye. I loved her and you took that away from me. I only wanted to hold her one more time. I hate you!" I sat in my living room sobbing. I felt drained when suddenly a warm feeling came over me. I could physically feel two arms embrace me. I could sense a familiar but long-forgotten fragrance in the room. It was her. I could feel her presence. I felt her touch and smelled her fragrance. The God that I had hated had granted me my wish. My mother was coming to me when I needed her.

  I know today my mother is always with me. I still love her with all my heart, and I know that she will always be there for me. Just when I had given up and resigned myself to the fact that she was gone forever, she let me know that her love would never leave me.

  Stanley D. Moulson

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  The Prettiest Angel

  The heart of a fool is in his mouth, but the mouth of a wise man is in his heart.