A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul

by Jack Canfield

  We walked down a stairway, until we were in a lower-level hallway. Cornelius stood between us. Then a door

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  opened and a man came out. Cornelius looked up, and his eyes filled with a combination of wonder and awe and total disbelief.

  Cornelius tried to say something; his mouth was moving but no words would come out. He tried to speak and then the man helped him out by speaking first.

  "Hi, Cornelius," the man said. "I'm Michael Jordan."

  Jordan knelt down and spoke quietly with Cornelius. He made some jokes and told some stories about basketball and he didn't rush. You have to understandfor a long time the only adults Cornelius had any contact with were adults who wanted to hurt and humiliate him. And now Michael Jordan was saying, "Are you going to cheer for us today? We're going to need it."

  Jordan went back into the locker room to finish dressing for the game. Bigoness and I walked Cornelius back upstairs to the court. There was one more surprise waiting.

  Cornelius was given a red shirt of the kind worn by the Bulls' ball boys. He retrieved balls for the players from both teams as they warmed up.

  Then, as the game was about to begin, he was led to Jordan's seat on the Bulls' bench. That's where he was going to sitright next to Jordan's seat. During the minutes of the game when Jordan was out and resting, Cornelius would be sitting with him; when Jordan was on the court, Cornelius would be saving his seat for him. At one point late in the game Jordan took a pass and sailed into the air and slammed home a basket. And there, just a few feet away, was Cornelius Abraham, laughing out loud with joy.

  I wanted to thank Jordan for taking the time to be so nice to Cornelius. The meeting between them, I had learned, had been something that Jordan had volunteered for; he had been aware of the Lattie McGee case, and when he had heard that the Bulls were giving Cornelius tickets to the game, he had let it be known that he was available.

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  After the game, in the locker room after the last sports-writer left, Jordan got up to retrieve his gym bag and head for home. As he walked toward the door of the locker room he saw me and stopped, and I said, "I just wanted to tell you how much Cornelius appreciated what you did for him."

  For a second I had the strange but undeniable impression that perhaps this was a man who didn't get thanked all that oftenor at least that there were so many people endlessly lining up to beseech him for one thing or another that all he was accustomed to was the long file of faces in front of him wanting an autograph, a favor, a moment of his time, faces that would immediately be replaced by more faces with more entreaties. He stood there waiting, as if he was so used to ceaselessly being asked for things that he thought my thanks on Cornelius' behalf might be the inevitable preface to petitioning him for something else.

  When I didn't say anything, he said, "That's why you came back down here?"

  "Well, I don't think you know how much today meant to Cornelius," I said.

  "No, I'm just surprised that you came back down to tell me," he said.

  "My mom would kill me if I didn't," I said, smiling. "She tried to raise me right."

  He smiled back, "Mine, too," he said.

  We shook hands and I turned to leave and I heard him say, "Do you come out to a lot of games?"

  "First one," I said.

  "Well, you ought to come back," he said.

  Bob Greene

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  Changed Lives

  In 1921, Lewis Lawes became the warden at Sing Sing Prison. No prison was tougher than Sing Sing during that time. But when Warden Lawes retired some 20 years later, that prison had become a humanitarian institution. Those who studied the system said credit for the change belonged to Lawes. But when he was asked about the transformation, here's what he said: ''I owe it all to my wonderful wife, Catherine, who is buried outside the prison walls."

  Catherine Lawes was a young mother with three small children when her husband became the warden. Everybody warned her from the beginning that she should never set foot inside the prison walls, but that didn't stop Catherine! When the first prison basketball game was held, she went . . . walking into the gym with her three beautiful kids and she sat in the stands with the inmates.

  Her attitude was: "My husband and I are going to take care of these men and I believe they will take care of me! I don't have to worry!"

  She insisted on getting acquainted with them and their records. She discovered one convicted murderer was

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  blind so she paid him a visit. Holding his hand in hers she said, "Do you read Braille?"

  "What's Braille?" he asked. Then she taught him how to read. Years later he would weep in love for her.

  Later, Catherine found a deaf-mute in prison. She went to school to learn how to use sign language. Many said that Catherine Lawes was the body of Jesus that came alive again in Sing Sing from 1921 to 1937.

  Then, she was killed in a car accident. The next morning Lewis Lawes didn't come to work, so the acting warden took his place. It seemed almost instantly that the prison knew something was wrong.

  The following day, her body was resting in a casket in her home, three-quarters of a mile from the prison. As the acting warden took his early morning walk, he was shocked to see a large crowd of the toughest, hardestlooking criminals gathered like a herd of animals at the main gate. He came closer and noted tears of grief and sadness. He knew how much they loved Catherine. He turned and faced the men, "All right, men, you can go. Just be sure and check in tonight!" Then he opened the gate and a parade of criminals walked, without a guard, the three-quarters of a mile to stand in line to pay their final respects to Catherine Lawes. And every one of them checked back in. Every one!

  Tim Kimmel

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  Directory Assistance

  You have not lived a perfect clay, even though You have earned your money, unless you have done something for someone who will never be able to repay you.

  Ruth Smeltzer

  Although my sister was sure Daddy would be okay, I worried as I called the hospital. My husband at the time was out of town at a radio advertising convention. "If you need me, call the radio station. The secretary has the name of the hotel and the number," he said before he left.

  I waited until mid-morning to call Memorial Hospital in northern Indiana. The moment I heard Jane's voice, I knew Daddy was in trouble. "He's filling up with fluid. The doctor here can't do any more for him. An ambulance has been ordered, and then he'll be transported to St. John's. They have more cardio equipment there." Jane continued, "Mom and I are going to grab lunch and then drive from Memorial to St. John's. There's nothing more we can do here."

  "Should I come?"

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  "Not yet. He's stable. Why don't you wait."

  The rest of the morning inched by. I tried to work. I collected ads, wrote them up and turned them in. Close to noon, I called St. John's. The nurse in cardio checked her records. The transport had left but returned to Memorial and never reached St. John's. That was all she could tell me.

  There was only one reason the transport would have turned back. Daddy must have died en route. I dialed Memorial my mind racing. Should I drive immediately to Indiana? My family was five hours away. Should I call for my husband and wait for him? If Daddy was dead, did it matter?

  The nurse who answered was a friend of my sister. Because Jane worked at Memorial as a respiratory therapist, many of the nursing staff knew her and, therefore, knew about Daddy.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  She stuttered around. Hospital regulations forbid her from saying, but she recommended I get in touch with my sister as soon as possible.

  "I can't!" I wailed. "I'm in Illinois. You have to tell me. It's cruel not to be honest. All I'm asking is . . . is . . . is he dead ?"

  Yes, of course, he was. He had died two blocks from Memorial en route to St. John's Hospital. Now, in my grief, I had to decide what to do about traveling.

&nb
sp; I called the radio station. "Do you have the number of Jim's hotel?" They put me on hold. They couldn't find it. They were sorry.

  With shaking hands, I opened the phone book. The area code for Kansas City was 913. I dialed information. Bell Telephone policy allowed operators to give out three phone numbers for each directory assistance inquiry. I jotted down the three numbers of the first hotel chains I could think of.

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  I called one. Neither the radio convention nor my husband was there. I called the secondsame situation. I called the third. Again, I struck out. I redialed directory assistance. This time I could only think of the name of one more hotel chain, the Hyatt. I wrote down the number, and then I dialed. The numbness had started wearing off, and I sniffled a little into the receiver.

  "No, we don't have a convention for radio ad managers here, and your husband's name doesn't show on our list of registered guests," said the switchboard operator. "Sorry, I'm just the operator . . . "

  But before she could hang up, a sob escaped my lips. After a long silence, I clutched the receiver in my hand and wiped my nose on the back of my sleeve.

  "What's wrong?" she asked quietly.

  "My dad died a few minutes ago. Hehis bodyis in Indiana. It's a five-hour trip, and I can't find my husband. I don't know whether to jump in the car and go or to wait," I blurted. "I want to be with my sisters and my mom, but I don't know what to do!"

  Another long silence. Then she spoke slowly and quietly, "Give me your name and your number and sit tight until I call back." Gratefully, I did. She called me back in less than five minutes.

  "Joanna, I found him. He's at the Adam's Mark Hotel. I've notified the manager, and they have people posted to grab him as soon as the general session breaks. That should be within 20 minutes. It's impossible for him to get past them."

  I sobbed into the phone. "Thank you, thank you so much."

  "One more thing," she continued, "if you do decide to drive, please take a friend. Be careful. You've had a dreadful shock and . . . and . . . be careful, okay? I'm sorry about your dad."

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  From another state, the voice of a friend soothed me. Whoever this woman was, she was more than just a switchboard operator. She was a wonderful, kind person who was more than her job.

  Joanna Slan

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  A Christmas Story

  After the verb "To Love" . . . "To Help" is the most beautiful verb in the world.

  Bertha von Suttner

  During the Roosevelt era, times were tough. The president was promising a brighter moon, but the Beasleys hadn't seen it rise over their small town in the Texas panhandle.

  So when he got the call that his son was ill in California and not expected to live, Bill Beasley didn't know how he was going to scrape together the money for his wife and himself to make the trip. Bill had worked as a trucker his entire life, but he never managed to accumulate any savings. Swallowing his pride, he phoned a few close relatives for help, but they were no better off.

  So it was with embarrassment and dejection that Bill Beasley walked the mile from his house to the filling station and told the owner, "The son is really sick," he said, "and I've got no cash. Can you trust me for the phone call to California?"

  "Pick up the phone and talk as long as you need to," was the reply. As he started to dial, he was interrupted by

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  a voice asking, "Aren't you Bill Beasley?"

  It was a stranger, jumping down from the cab of a truck with out-of-state plates. The young man didn't look familiar, and Bill could only stare at him with a puzzled look and say, "That's right, I am."

  "Your son was one of my best pals when we were growing up together. When I went off to college, I lost all track of him." He paused for a moment and then continued. "Heard you say he's sick?"

  "Real bad, from what we hear. I'm gonna call and try to make some arrangements for the wife to get out there with him." Then, as a matter of courtesy, he added, "Have yourself a Merry Christmas. Wish your daddy was still with us."

  Old man Beasley walked into the office of the station and placed his call to the cousin on the West coast, informing him that he or his wife hoped to be out as soon as possible.

  There was an obvious look of sorrow on the elder citizen's face as he assured the owner that he would pay for the call as soon as he could.

  "The call has been paid for. That truckerthe one your son used to pal around withleft me a 20 and said to give you the change when the phone bill comes in. He also left you this envelope."

  The old man fumbled open the envelope and pulled out two sheets of paper. One read, "You were the first trucker I ever traveled with, the first my dad trusted enough to let me go along with when I was barely five years old. I remember you bought me a Snickers bar." The second sheet, much smaller in size, was a signed check with an attached message: "Fill out the amount needed for you and your wife to make the trip . . . and give your son, my pal, a Snickers bar. Merry Christmas!"

  Author Unknown

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  Cold Hands

  We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men!

  Herman Melville

  I was cleaning out the pockets of my six-year-old's winter coat, when I found a pair of mittens in each pocket. Thinking that one pair must not be enough to keep her hands warm, I asked her why she was carrying two pairs of mittens in her coat. She replied, "I've been doing that for a long time, Mom. You see, some kids come to school without mittens and if I carry another pair, I can share with them and then their hands won't get cold."

  Joyce Andresen

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  The Woodwork Angel

  Men are rich only as they give. He who gives great service gets great returns.

  Elbert Hubbard

  My teeth screamed. I couldn't neglect them any longer. I finally ignored my fear of dentists and decided to get them fixed. But how? I was a college sophomore and barely supported myself with part-time jobs.

  Maybe I could fix the worst one. I flipped open the Yellow Pages and called the first dentist within walking distance. The receptionist told me to come right over. As I hurried across the campus, I forgot the pain in worrying about how I would pay the bill.

  In a few minutes I was in a chair being examined by a dentist who said, "Hmm!" as he surveyed the wreckage of my mouth. "Your teeth are in bad shape."

  "I already know that," I snapped, in a smart-aleck way to hide my fear.

  "But don't worry, I'm going to fix them."

  "No, you're not. I can't afford to pay you." I started climbing out of the chair.

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  ''What are you doing?"

  "I told you, I have no money."

  "You're a student at the university, aren't you?"

  What difference did that make? "Yes . . . "

  "You're going to graduate in a few years, aren't you?"

  "I hope so."

  "And then you expect to get a job, don't you?"