Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  But a few days later he came back, searching for the wise woman. When he found her, he returned the stone and said, “I have been thinking. I know how valuable this stone is, but I give it back to you in the hope that you can give me something much more precious. If you can, give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me the stone.”

  The Best of Bits & Pieces

  Let It Be

  I was on the phone the morning of May 13, 1993, when my secretary handed me a note saying that my sister Judy was holding on the other line. I remember thinking it odd that she didn’t just leave a message, but I picked up her call with a cheery, “Hi!”

  I heard my sister sobbing, as if her heart were broken, as she struggled to gain enough composure to give me her news. A litany of possible tragedies ran through my mind. Had something happened to Aunt Chris or Uncle Leo, our much loved surrogate parents now in their 80s? Judy’s husband was out of town. God, I hoped nothing had happened to him! Maybe it wasn’t anything that horrible— possibly something had happened with Judy’s job.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the words Judy finally spoke. “Oh, Sunny, our Tommy was killed in a car wreck this morning.”

  It couldn’t be true. Tommy, my beloved nephew, Judy’s only son, was just finishing up his next-to-last semester of graduate studies at the University of Missouri. An athlete, he had chosen to study sports marketing. Tommy’s two sisters, Jen and Lisa, had always had a case of hero worship for their big brother. We all adored this tall, handsome young man with his easy laugh and gentle nature. Tommy’s whole life stretched out before him, and my mind wanted to reject the words I had just heard. I almost asked, “Are you sure?” But even as I thought it, I realized Judy would not have called me otherwise.

  My memories of the next few days are a haze of unreality. Lynn, our other sister, and I stayed with Judy and her family during that time, and we all clung to each other for support. I didn’t know what hurt worse: the loss of Tommy or seeing my sister act bravely when I knew her world was shattered.

  The day we made funeral arrangements was especially hard. No mother should ever have the awful job of selecting a coffin for her child. Judy had so wanted to see her boy one last time, to touch his hand or brush back his hair. But the funeral director had told us she would not be able to see him. Her good-byes would have to be said to that lovingly selected coffin.

  That same afternoon, I stood in the front yard of my sister’s home and asked my nephew to send us a sign that he was okay...to somehow let us know that he had gone on to something even more wonderful than the life we had envisioned for him here. “Sweetheart, can you let us know that you’re all right?”

  I can’t say that I even believed in such things as “signs.” But when the heart is in enough pain it will seek comfort in its own way. Tommy’s favorite baseball team was the St. Louis Cardinals, so I asked him to send us a cardinal. As I look back on the moment, standing in that yard so full of Tommy’s childhood, it was really just a fleeting thought. “Please let us know you’re okay. A cardinal will be the sign I’ll watch for.”

  Judy had carefully planned her son’s funeral to be a celebration of his life. At my request, she had included Paul McCartney’s beautiful song, “Let It Be.” His cousins served as altar boys and bravely read scripture. The young priest who said the Mass fought tears throughout the morning.

  At one particular moment, as the priest paused to regain his composure, a bird suddenly began singing somewhere outside. It was a loud, insistent song that lasted through the remainder of the service.

  It wasn’t until later that afternoon, though, that Tommy’s message registered with any of us. A close friend called us to comment on the beauty of the funeral Mass, and then said, “When that bird began singing so loudly, I jerked my head around and saw the most beautiful cardinal sitting in the window of the church!”

  I had my sign.

  Two weeks later, Paul McCartney came to our city for a Memorial Day concert. We had already bought tickets for Tommy and several other family members, and decided to go ahead with our plans. On the morning of the concert, as my sister Lynn was dressing for work and listening to her usual radio station, she heard two disk jockeys talking about the interview they hoped to get that day with the famous former Beatle.

  Without thinking, she did something completely out of character—she phoned the radio station and suddenly found herself telling the story of Tommy and our tragedy, and of his great love for the Beatles. Could they get the story to Paul? They couldn’t promise, but they’d see what they could do.

  That night, we all settled in for the outdoor concert in the clear, crisp evening air, cuddled together with our sweaters and each other for warmth. Over 30,000 had gathered for the star-billed evening. Paul McCartney opened with a song that he performed against the backdrop of an enormous fireworks display. Then, when the song ended, he waited for silence and said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, our next song is for a very special family in our audience. This is for Tommy’s family.” Then to my two sisters, my nephews and nieces and me, Paul McCartney sang “Let It Be.”

  As we stood arm in arm, with tears streaming down our faces, candles were lit and other small lights flashed throughout the audience. This was for all of us, especially our Tommy.

  K. Lynn Towse with Mary L. Towse

  We Are Not Alone

  After my husband died suddenly from a heart attack on the tennis court, my world crashed around me. My six children were 10, nine, eight, six, three and 18 months, and I was overwhelmed with the responsibilities of earning a living, caring for the children and just plain keeping my head above water.

  I was fortunate to find a wonderful housekeeper to care for the children during the week, but from Friday nights to Monday mornings, the children and I were alone, and frankly I was uneasy. Every creak of the house, every unusual noise, any late-night phone call—all filled me with dread. I felt incredibly alone.

  One Friday evening I came home from work to find a big beautiful German shepherd on our doorstep. This wonderful strong animal gave every indication that he intended to enter the house and make it his home. I, however, was wary. Where did this obviously well-cared-for dog come from? Was it safe to let the children play with a strange dog? Even though he seemed gentle, he still was powerful and commanded respect. The children took an instant liking to “German” and begged me to let him in. I agreed to let him sleep in the basement until the next day, when we could inquire around the neighborhood for his owner. That night I slept peacefully for the first time in many weeks.

  The following morning we made phone calls and checked lost-and-found ads for German’s owner, but with no results. German, meanwhile, made himself part of the family and good-naturedly put up with hugs, wrestling and playing in the yard. Saturday night he was still with us, so again he was allowed to sleep in the basement.

  On Sunday I had planned to take the children on a picnic. Since I thought it best to leave German behind in case his owner came by, we drove off without him. When we stopped to get gas at a local station, we were amazed to see German racing to the gas station after us. He not only raced to the car, he leaped onto the hood and put his nose on the windshield, looking directly into my eyes. No way was he going to be left behind. So into the station wagon he jumped and settled down in the back for the ride to the picnic. He stayed again Sunday.

  Monday morning I let him out for a run while the children got ready for school. He didn’t come back. As evening came and German didn’t appear, we were all disappointed. We were convinced that he had gone home or been found by his owners, and that we would never see him again. We were wrong. The next Friday evening, German was back on our doorstep. Again we took him in, and again he stayed until Monday morning, when our housekeeper arrived.

  This pattern repeated itself every weekend for almost 10 months. We grew more and more fond of German and we looked forward to his coming. We stopped thinking about where he belonged—he belonged to us.
We took comfort in his strong, warm presence, and we felt safe with him near us. When we saw German come to attention and perk up his ears, and heard that low growl begin deep in his throat, we knew we were protected.

  As German became part of the family, he considered it his duty to check every bedroom to be sure each child was snug in bed. When he was satisfied that the last person was tucked in, he took up his position by the front door and remained there until the morning.

  Each week, between German’s visits, I grew a little stronger, a little braver and more able to cope; every weekend I enjoyed his company. Then one Monday morning we patted his head and let him out for what turned out to be the last time. He never came back. We never saw or heard from German again.

  I think of him often. He came when I needed him the most and stayed until I was strong enough to go on alone. Maybe there is a perfectly natural explanation for German’s visits to our house—maybe his owner went away on weekends—maybe. I believe German was sent because he was needed, and because no matter how abandoned and alone we feel, somehow, somewhere, someone knows and cares. We are never really alone.

  Mary L. Miller

  The Hijacking

  The flight from New York to Florida began routinely. The flight attendants were busy welcoming passengers, helping them stow their luggage and guiding them to their seats. Since I was first flight attendant, I was going through procedures that were now becoming normal to me after seven months of flying. In my preliminary check of the cabin, I didn’t particularly notice the man wearing the black suede cowboy hat and sitting in the third row.

  It was an overcast day in 1983. Ten minutes after leaving New York, the plane broke through the clouds. Checking passenger tickets, I came to the man in the cowboy hat and leaned over to ask for his ticket. In a split second of terror, a normal flight turned into a hijacking.

  The man jumped up and pinned my left arm behind my back. He whispered in my ear, “I have a gun. Take me to the cockpit.” As he jammed the gun into my back, I saw the look of deathly fear in the eyes of the woman who had been sitting next to him, with her little girl. I took a couple of deep breaths and gave the woman and her little girl a reassuring look.

  The hijacker was strong; my arm twisted with pain. With the gun pressing into my back, I told the hijacker that the door to the cockpit was pressurized and couldn’t be opened for another 15 minutes, when the plane reached an altitude of 30,000 feet. Fortunately, he didn’t know there’s no such thing as a pressurized cockpit door.

  Slowly, I led the hijacker to the back of the plane, as far away from the pilots and passengers as possible. Only a few people knew anything was wrong. Michael, another flight attendant, was conducting beverage service when he caught sight of my face. I don’t know what my voice sounded like, but I managed to tell him we had a little problem and that we needed to go to the back of the plane.

  It was painfully clear that my own life was not the only one at stake. I thought of the crew, the passengers and their loved ones waiting innocently at the airport. Our survival depended on my absolute composure—I desperately needed a way to calm myself. Trying to ignore the jabbing pressure of the gun in my back, I began to repeat a prayer I learned as a teenager, the Serenity Prayer:

  God, grant me the serenity

  To accept the things I cannot change;

  The courage to change the things I can, and

  Wisdom to know the difference.

  As I recited the Serenity Prayer, all the procedures I had learned during training to deal with a hijacking came flooding back to me. “Before you officially declare a hijacking, you must see a weapon,” they said. I gathered my nerve and told the hijacker I had to see his gun. He pushed it harder into my back. “It’s a 32-caliber and if you ask me again, I’ll blow a hole right through you.”

  He then turned to Michael and said, “Call the pilot and tell him we’re going to Haiti.” Michael complied. After several terrifying moments of silence, the hijacker told Michael to call the pilot again and tell him to first land the plane in New Jersey, get rid of all the passengers there and then continue to Haiti with just the crew.

  This new direction gave me a plan. It was a long shot, but maybe I could convince the hijacker to get off the plane with me in New Jersey. The next 40 minutes felt like a lifetime, but finally, with the gun still pressed to my back, we approached the runway in New Jersey. I turned to the hijacker and said, “You’ll never get away with this if we go all the way to Haiti. You’ll be arrested and thrown in jail for the rest of your life. If you get off the plane with me here, I’ll help you get a car and get away, and no one will ever know.”

  He said, “No, we’re going to Haiti.”

  The plane landed, and when it finally came to a stop, he turned to me and said, “I’ve changed my mind—I want it to end.”

  The silence in the airplane cabin was deafening.

  Michael lowered the automatic airstairs, and the hijacker and I walked alone down the stairs and across the airfield. As we walked together, my arm was still twisted behind my back, with the gun pressing into my spine. I wondered where I was going to take him and what I was going to do with him.

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a patrol car appeared on the airfield. The hijacker swung me around in front of him, shielding himself against the police with my body.

  That was the moment I was sure I was going to die. I saw my whole family and their reaction to my death. But the Serenity Prayer quickly filled my mind again. “The courage to change the things I can...” That’s when I felt a peaceful acceptance that became my strength.

  I looked back at the plane and watched as the airstairs folded up and the plane slowly pulled away to safety, with my friends and colleagues and all the other passengers on board. I realized with frightening finality that I was on my own.

  The hijacker pushed me into the nearest building with him. He waited in the hallway while I entered a nearby office to get him a phone so he could call for a getaway car. When he released my arm for the first time in over an hour, I carefully walked away from him and into the office.

  After alerting the tense men inside the office to the danger, I turned and motioned for the hijacker to come in. I calmly explained to him that the two men at the desk were going to help him get a car. When he went to use the phone, it was the first time since the hijacking began that his attention was diverted from me. I knew this was my only chance to escape.

  I ran. I thought my heart would pound right out of my chest, but I kept running. It would be impossible to describe the sense of relief I felt when FBI agents and police flooded around me.

  Fifteen minutes later they successfully apprehended the hijacker. I was taken immediately to a small room and asked to give a detailed account of the event to the police and the FBI. My heightened memory recalled every nuance of the flight, the crew and the hijacker. They looked at me in amazement and said, “How did you do it? We train people for years to respond like you did. You did everything right.”

  I simply told them it was a combination of things: good training, good crew and passengers, the ability to handle stress and most of all, faith. As I stood to leave, I looked down and saw underneath the glass top of the table—right where I had been sitting—a copy of the Serenity Prayer.

  Name withheld

  as told to K. Bernard

  Miracle in Toronto

  I had absolutely no idea what had driven me from the warmth of a café into this freezing Toronto phone booth. I’d been peacefully drinking a cup of coffee in this strange city when I suddenly had a bizarre but irresistible compulsion to look in the Toronto phone book. Since I knew absolutely no one in Toronto, my compulsion made no sense at all.

  I’m British, but I was living in Iowa at the time. I needed a new work visa for the States, so I chose Toronto, since it appeared to be the nearest consulate. And here I was, flipping through the pages of a phone book for apparently no reason. My fingers stopped when I came to McIntyre.

  It wasn�
��t an unfamiliar name to me. Twelve years before, the adoption laws had been changed in England, and I’d finally felt ready to trace my birth mother. My search had yielded three facts about her—she had red hair, she was born near Glasgow and her name was Margaret McIntyre Gray. Still, my search had proved fruitless, and I tried my best to put the whole thing out of my mind.

  Yet here I was, so many miles from where I started life, staring at several pages of McIntyres. There were so many names, even under McIntyre, M. I shook myself. Why was I doing this? I’d been to dozens of cities throughout the world and had never been reduced to reading the phone book!

  The next thing I knew, the pages were open to Gray. My eye went down the page and stopped when I found Gray, M. McIntyre, 85 Lawton Boulevard, Toronto. My brain seemed to stop at that point—all I could hear was the sound of my heart. It’s her,it’s her, my heart said. But why should it be? This was Canada, and even if by some bizarre coincidence she was here, she’d probably be married with a different name by now. And even if I called, what could I possibly say? Still, I found myself dialing.

  All I could hear on the other end was a strange tone. Out of order. I’ve come too late, I thought. That was her, but she’s dead. I called the repair service. A polite voice informed me: “Well, there’s a contact number, but it’s confidential.”

  “Look, I know you’ll think I’m crazy,” I blurted quickly. “But I think this may be my real mother, whom I’ve never known. Can we find out what happened?”

  The operator agreed, but when she called the contact number, a woman informed her that Miss Gray had never married, so there must be some mistake. Surprised at the boldness of my own voice, I asked, “Look, would you mind phoning her again? Tell her that maybe Miss Gray never married, but I’m here! Tell her the woman I’m looking for was born on July 9, 1914 in Greenoch, Scotland.”