A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul

by Jack Canfield

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  miles from home. It was no dream job. Low-income housing across the street from the school was a haven for drug users. Street gangs hung around the school after dark. Many of my charges, emotionally disturbed 10- to 14-year-old boys, had been arrested for shoplifting, car theft or arson.

  "Be careful," Dad warned me during one of my frequent weekend visits home. He was concerned about my living alone, but I was 23, enthusiastic and naive, and I needed to be on my own. Besides, teaching jobs were tight in 1974, and I felt lucky to have one.

  "Don't worry," I reassured him, as I loaded up the car to start my trip back to the desert and my job.

  Several evenings later I stayed after school to rearrange my classroom. Finished, I turned out the light and closed the door. Then I headed toward the gate. It was locked! I looked around. Everyoneteachers, custodians, secretarieshad gone home and, not realizing I was still there, stranded me on the school grounds. I glanced at my watchit was almost 6 P.M. I had been so engrossed in my work that I hadn't noticed the time.

  After checking all the exits, I found just enough room to squeeze under a gate in the rear of the school. I pushed my purse through first, lay on my back and slowly edged through.

  I retrieved my purse and walked toward my car, parked in a field behind the building. Eerie shadows fell across the schoolyard.

  Suddenly, I heard voices. I glanced around and saw at least eight high-school-age boys following me. They were half a block away. Even in the near darkness I could see they were wearing gang insignia.

  "Hey!" one called out. "You a teacher?"

  "Nah, she's too youngmust be an aide!" another said.

  As I walked faster, they continued taunting me. "Hey! She's kinda cute!"

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  Quickening my pace, I reached into my shoulder bag to get my key ring. If I have the keys in my hands, I thought, I can unlock the car and get in before . . . My heart was pounding.

  Frantically, I felt all over the inside of my handbag. But the key ring wasn't there!

  ''Hey! Let's get the lady!" one boy shouted.

  Dear Lord, please help me, I prayed silently. Suddenly, my fingers wrapped around a loose key in my purse. I didn't even know if it was for my car, but I took it out and clutched it firmly.

  I jogged across the grass to my car and tried the key. It worked! I opened the door, slid in and locked itjust as the teenagers surrounded the car, kicking the sides and banging on the roof. Trembling, I started the engine and drove away.

  Later, some teachers went back to the school with me. With flashlights, we found the key ring on the ground by the gate, where it had fallen as I slid through.

  When I returned to my apartment, the phone was ringing. It was Dad. I didn't tell him about my ordeal; I didn't want to worry him.

  "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" he said. "I had an extra car key made and slipped it into your pocketbookjust in case you ever need it."

  Today, I keep that key in my dresser drawer and treasure it. Whenever I hold it in my hand, I am reminded of all the wonderful things Dad has done for me over the years. I realize that, although he is now 68 and I am 40, I still look to him for wisdom, guidance and reassurance. Most of all, I marvel at the fact that his thoughtful gesture of making the extra key may have saved my life. And I understand how a simple act of love can make extraordinary things happen.

  Sharon Whitley

  Appeared in Reader's Digest, 1992

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  Permission to Cry

  Treasure the love you receive above all. It will survive long after your gold and good health have vanished.

  Og Mandino

  Alone in the wheel of light at the dining room table, surrounded by an otherwise darkened house, I sat in tears.

  Finally, I'd succeeded in getting both kids to bed. A relatively new single parent, I had to be both Mommy and Daddy to my two little children. I got them both washed, accompanied by shrieks of delight, crazy running around, laughing and throwing things. More or less calmed down, they lay in their beds as I gave each the prescribed five minutes of back rubs. Then I took up my guitar and began the nighttime ritual of folk songs, ending with "All the Pretty Little Horses," both kids' favorite. I sang it over and over, gradually reducing the tempo and the volume until they seemed fully engaged in sleep.

  A recently divorced man with full custody of his children, I was determined to give them as normal and stable a home life as possible. I put on a happy face for them. I

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  kept their activities as close to how they had always been as I could. This nightly ritual was just as it had always been with the exception that their mother was now missing. There, I had done it again: another night successfully concluded.

  I had risen slowly, gingerly, trying to avoid making even the least sound which might start them up again, asking for more songs and more stories. I tiptoed out of their room, closed the door part way, and went downstairs.

  Sitting at the dining room table, I slumped in my chair, aware that this was the first time since I came home from work that I'd been able to just sit down. I had cooked and served and encouraged two little ones to eat. I had done the dishes while responding to their many requests for attention. I helped my oldest with her second grade homework and appreciated my youngest's drawings and oohed over his elaborate construction of Lego blocks. The bath, the stories, the backrubs, the singing and now, at long last, a brief moment for myself. The silence was a relief, for the moment.

  Then it all crowded in on me: the fatigue, the weight of the responsibility, the worry about bills I wasn't sure I could pay that month. The endless details of running a house. Only a short time before, I'd been married and had a partner to share these chores, these bills, these worries.

  And loneliness. I felt as though I were at the bottom of a great sea of loneliness. It all came together and I was at once lost, overwhelmed. Unexpected, convulsive sobs overtook me. I sat there, silently sobbing.

  Just then, a pair of little arms went around my middle and a little face peered up at me. I looked down into my five-year-old son's sympathetic face.

  I was embarrassed to be seen crying by my son. "I'm sorry, Ethan, I didn't know you were still awake." I don't

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  know why it is, but so many people apologize when they cry and I was no exception. "I didn't mean to cry. I'm sorry. I'm just a little sad tonight."

  "It's okay, Daddy. It's okay to cry, you're just a person."

  I can't express how happy he made me, this little boy, who in the wisdom of innocence, gave me permission to cry. He seemed to be saying that I didn't have to always be strong, that it was occasionally possible to allow myself to feel weak and let out my feelings.

  He crept into my lap and we hugged and talked for a while, and I took him back up to his bed and tucked him in. Somehow, it was possible for me to get to sleep that night, too. Thank you, my son.

  Hanoch McCarty

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  The Perfect Hug

  Please continue to look at your children as valuable treasures. Honor them, and yourself.

  Bernie Siegel

  The room was filling up with teachers and administrators. It was a long room with those bare and fading painted walls that we've come to associate with schools, church rectories and other under-funded institutions. The only details to relieve the plainness were the flag up on the front wall and the cracked slate chalkboard. This huge room served many purposes: classroom, meeting space and recreation hall for this old, small college.

  I had been invited to present a workshop on innovative teaching methods to a large group of local teachers.

  At that moment in time, I was a single parent with full custody of my two little children. My daughter, Shayna, was about seven years old and my son, Ethan, was just five. Because this was not a school day, I had arranged for a babysitter to watch my children while I drove to the conference site. Unfortunately, the sitter canceled the morning of the
conference and I had to take both children

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  with me. They had been at many of my presentations before so they knew "the drill." They knew they had to sit and play quietly.

  Shayna brought books and drawing materials to occupy her time. She also brought her doll collection including a box of Barbie dolls and their myriad accessories. Ethan brought a small suitcase of building blocks and soldier dolls with all their guns and equipment.

  They sat at a table at the very back of the room, facing away from the front where I would be presenting, both fully engrossed in play.

  The teachers group was lively and responsive. Every activity I proposed they enthusiastically made their own. Participation was nearly total as I demonstrated teaching methods and organized small groups to share ideas.

  At one point, a teacher raised her hand and said, "I wonder what you'd suggest about hugging."

  "Tell me more about your concern," I replied.

  "Well, I teach elementary schoolfourth- and fifth-grade combinedand sometimes I just want to hug the kids, especially the ones who are often in trouble. Do you think it's all right to do that?"

  "It's a strange world, indeed, that we are living in," I replied. "Hugging is such a natural and spontaneous display of affection. It is often the very best thing you can do when a child is hurting, depressed, crying or frightened. Yet we've learned to be worried about it. There have been, sadly enough, too many cases reported in the media, of adults touching kids inappropriately. So it is important to have guidelines and clear limits to how, when and where we touch kids. Yes, I think hugging is a very good thing to do."

  I concluded with this comment: "You know, when adults hug each other, there's always a bit of selfconsciousness about it. Part of you is committed to the

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  hug and part of you may be thinking something like, 'I wonder if this person understands what I really mean by this hug,' or 'I wonder what this person means by his or her hug!' or 'I wonder if anyone else is watching this hug and I wonder what they think,' or [I added for the sake of humor] even, 'I wonder if I've paid my MasterCard bill.'" The group roared with laughter.

  "As adults, because we've been through so many experiences, we each bring our entire personal history into the hug and all the concerns that come with that history. Further, we are worried about, thinking about, planning for, engaged in, so many, many things that it's hard to just be in the hug totally and completely. The reason I am thinking about this is that I can see my children at the back of the room."

  At this, the group turned their heads to look at my children who were still sitting quietly, engrossed in play, facing away from the group. Then the participants turned back to me as I went on.

  "You see, when I get home at the end of a work day, as tired as I am, one of the things I most look forward to is a hug from my children. As young as they are, they have less history and fewer complicated worries and no bills to pay. As I walk in the door, they each almost fly up my body and hug and kiss me. My son particularly nearly melts his body into mine, burying his face in my neck and just hugs me. I believe that at such moments he is fully, completely and only hugging me, without distracting thoughts and without reservation. And it's the most tender moment in my life!" The group smiled approvingly and that started a number of side conversations that went on for several minutes before we went on with the workshop.

  Six or seven weeks later I was coming home from a long and exhausting day at the university where I taught educational psychology. I pulled into the garage, took my

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  briefcase and entered the house through the kitchen door. Both children came flying down the stairs screaming, "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!" and Shayna leaped into my arms, "I missed you, Daddy. Do you know what I did?" And of course I wanted to know all about what she had done. Their nanny stood beaming in the background as Shayna told her story. Then, done with me, Shayna ran gaily out of the kitchen and returned to her latest project.

  Ethan had barely contained himself. He, too, leaped up on my chest and hugged me with all his might. He buried his face in my neck and his breathing slowed. His body softened as he seemed to melt into me. Then he raised his head slightly away from my neck and whispered in my ear, "I wonder if I paid my MasterCard bill?

  Hanoch McCarty

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  Winners and Winners

  Honesty is the first chapter in the book of wisdom.

  Thomas Jefferson

  As a high school coach, I did all I could to help my boys win their games. I rooted as hard for victory as they did.

  A dramatic incident, however, following a game in which I officiated as a referee, changed my perspective on victories and defeats. I was refereeing a league championship basketball game in New Rochelle, New York, between New Rochelle and Yonkers High. New Rochelle was coached by Dan O'Brien, Yonkers by Les Beck.

  The gym was crowded to capacity, and the volume of noise made it impossible to hear. The game was well played and closely contested. Yonkers was leading by one point as I glanced at the clock and discovered there were but 30 seconds left to play. Yonkers, in possession of the ball, passed offshotmissed. New Rochelle recoveredpushed the ball up courtshot. The ball rolled tantalizingly around the rim and off. The fans shrieked.

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  New Rochelle, the home team, recovered the ball, and tapped it in for what looked like victory. The tumult was deafening. I glanced at the clock and saw that the game was over. I hadn't heard the final buzzer because of the noise. I checked with the other official, but he could not help me.

  Still seeking help in this bedlam, I approached the timekeeper, a young man of 17 or so. He said, ''Mr. Covino, the buzzer went off as the ball rolled off the rim, before the final tap-in was made."

  I was in the unenviable position of having to tell Coach O'Brien the sad news. "Dan," I said, "time ran out before the final basket was tapped in. Yonkers won the game."

  His face clouded over. The young timekeeper came up. He said, "I'm sorry, Dad. The time ran out before the final basket."

  Suddenly, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, Coach O'Brien's face lit up. He said, "That's okay, Joe. You did what you had to do. I'm proud of you."

  Turning to me, he said, "Al, I want you to meet my son, Joe."

  The two of them then walked off the court together, the coach's arm around his son's shoulder.

  Al Covino

  Submitted by Rob Nelson

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  When You Thought I Wasn't Looking

  When you thought I wasn't looking you hung my first painting on the refrigerator

  And I wanted to paint another.

  When you thought I wasn't looking you fed a stray cat and I thought it was good to be kind to animals

  When you thought I wasn't looking you baked a birthday cake just for me

  And I knew that little things were special things.

  When you thought I wasn't looking you said a prayer

  And I believed there was a God that I could always talk to.

  When you thought I wasn't looking you kissed me good-night

  And I felt loved.

  When you thought I wasn't looking I saw tears come from your eyes

  And I learned that sometimes things hurt but that it's alright to cry.

  When you thought I wasn't looking you smiled

  And it made me want to look that pretty too.

  When you thought I wasn't looking you cared