The Three Men I Married

The Three Men I Married

By Pamela F. Dowd

I have been married to three kinds of Rodneys over the past two decades. The Rodney I met right after college asked my father for my hand in marriage, but he never proposed to me. He claimed bragging rights among his fraternity brothers. He didn't have to bend a knee to a woman. It never occurred to him that his boast offended me.

When I brought it to his attention after the newlywed sweetness dampened, he said, "You married me, didn't you?"

As a young attorney, he made an unarguable point. I looked at the traditional solitaire diamond ring and remembered June 10, 1978, the day of our wedding. Though he hadn't officially asked me to marry him, he'd given me his solemn vows that day - vows we both intended to keep.

The week before our tenth anniversary, June 10, 1988, Rodney and I fought long-distance. I was 150 miles away at a work-related conference. Each phone conversation left me in frustrated tears. I arrived home five days later in a foul mood with a sour disposition. I knew it was the end of a difficult relationship, and as much as I didn't want to leave the marriage, I convinced myself that he wanted out.

When I arrived home, I only wanted to see our three children. Rodney was the last person I wanted to spend time with, but he was the only person waiting for me. He suggested a walk downtown in the heat. The vapors rose from the sidewalk on that June day and steam seemed to be pent up inside me as I tried to feel happy to be home.

As we walked he tried to engage me in small talk. He took my hand. Sweat mingled in our palms, and I thought of all the sweat and toil that had gone into keeping both of us sane through so much fighting over the years. Our marriage felt like the dry leaves clinging to the trees under which we walked.

He said, "Sit down," and indicated the courthouse steps.

I knew what was coming, and though I didn't want it to happen, I felt unprepared to stop it. I held my breath, shut my eyes and waited for the word "divorce."

"Would you marry me again?"

My eyes popped open as I said, "What?"

Rodney held a ring box gingerly before me. He laughed a gentle laugh and dropped down on one knee.

"I said, would you marry me again?"

As he opened the box, a deep blue sapphire and diamond ring caught the sunlight and winked at me. I let my held breath out with a rush and said, "Yes!"

I'd never been more startled.

"I didn't like you being gone this week," he offered as an explanation for his incessant fights.

"That's what all that was about?"

He looked sheepish, but he nodded and grinned.

"Surprised you, didn't I? You said you'd do it again, and now you can't take it back."

I smiled at him and thought to myself - and so I will do it again.

As we walked home hand-in-hand, the leaves didn't seem as dull; I'd finally gotten my down-on-one-knee proposal. This time though, I entered the "engagement" with less hope than I'd entered the marriage. Proposal or not, things had to change. We talked about that too.

We changed all right, and when the third Rodney came to propose, he did it with a flourish and a gentled heart.

The morning of our twentieth anniversary, he called me from work.

"Let's go to the Versailles exhibit in Jackson, Mississippi, today," he said, as if it were normal to take three-hundred-mile day trips. I've learned to say "okay" over the years to my impetuous husband, so I willingly agreed.

The trip was pleasant. We talked and laughed and shared our dreams. Before we crossed the Mississippi River, he suggested we change drivers. We stopped at a small convenience store, and while I was inside, he snuck out the back door to retrieve a small box from the glove compartment. When he slipped back inside, I was buying Junior Mints to celebrate. I never knew he'd been gone.

Back on the road again, we soon approached the Mississippi River Bridge. Right in the middle of crossing, he popped a ring box open and held it at the height of the steering wheel.

"Will you marry me?" he asked with a grin plastered on his gorgeous face.

The sun glinted off the diamond and emerald ring. I gazed at the green ring against the backdrop of the verdant bridge high above the water below; it's a wonder I didn't crash the car. Rodney had planned the perfect proposal for me, his incurably romantic wife.

We exited on the other side and talked a security guard at the Mississippi hospitality center into capturing the moment on film. All my questions of when and how were answered with a hug and a smile. He'd been listening to my heart and taking notes for twenty years; he knew me well.

It's like I always tell young brides, "You don't often get the sensitive caring husband you long for on the day you marry him. That process takes years. You grow there together."

Reprinted by permission of Pamela F. Dowd (c) 2006 from Chicken Soup for the Romantic Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark & Chrissy Donnelly and Barbara DeAngelis, Ph. D. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

Mark's Choice

Mark's Choice

By Tom Krause

"What's wrong?"

I still remember asking that question to my teammate as he sat in front of his locker more than twenty years ago. We had just finished polishing off another opponent our senior year and there he sat - head in hands - alone - in pain.

He was tough, seventeen years old and a great athlete. His name is Mark Overstreet. The rest of our teammates had showered and left for home, but Mark was still fully dressed in his football uniform. When he raised his head to speak, I saw tears in his eyes. Now I knew something was wrong. This was a young man who took pride in making the opponents cry on the football field.

"I don't know," he said silently.

"It's as if all the injuries I've ever had are coming back. My whole body hurts. My legs feel like they weigh a hundred pounds each."

A week or so before, an outbreak of the swine flu had swept through our community. One by one, students lined up to take the vaccine to prevent the spread of the illness. I remember we all took the shot and thought nothing of it. When Mark received the vaccine, however, his body developed a very rare allergic reaction to the drug - so rare that his sudden illness was never correctly diagnosed until ten years later.

The next morning after our conversation in the locker room, Mark awoke to find his right foot asleep. No matter how much he tried to rub the foot to alleviate the "pins and needles" feeling, the circulation never returned. Concerned, Mark's mother decided to take him to the doctor. Mark's life was about to change forever.

Baffled by what he saw while examining Mark, the doctor somberly exclaimed, "I don't know what's wrong with you, Mark, but you are going to lose that foot."

Shocked, his mother backed up against the wall. Stunned, Mark said, "What are you talking about? What's wrong with me?"

The doctor did not know the answer and admitted Mark into the hospital for further tests.

While in the hospital, Mark's left foot fell asleep and, just like the right one, never woke up. Now, not only were both feet losing circulation, but things were getting worse. Finally, after many failed tests, the doctor entered his room to tell him the news.

"Mark, whatever it is, it is killing you. It's spreading up to your heart. We have one plan. To hopefully stop the spread we want to amputate both your legs just below the knee. If that doesn't work, you have two weeks."

Two weeks. Two weeks for a young man who had never been sick a day in his life.

"What is wrong with me?" Mark again asked.

"We don't know," responded the doctor. Mark prepared for the operation not knowing his chances.

When the operation was over, Mark awoke to find the doctor by his bed.

"I've got some good news and some bad news," he said.

"The good news is, whatever it was, it's gone. The operation was successful. You are going to live. The bad news is, you are probably going to be in a wheelchair your whole life and in and out of hospitals, as well. I'm sorry."

It was at that moment that Mark made a decision - a choice that would shape his whole future.

"No!" he responded. "I'm not staying in hospitals - I'm not staying in wheelchairs. I'm going to walk and I'm going to live life! This is just the beginning - not the end."

It took a year, but after learning to use wooden legs, Mark walked out of the hospital for the last time. Later, he decided that since he would never play football or baseball again, he would coach and teach others to play. While in college, Mark met Sharon and fell in love. Sharon didn't mind Mark's wooden legs. She loved him for who he was.

After graduation they married and Mark began his first job teaching handicapped students and coaching high school football. Today, Mark and Sharon have four beautiful children and a lovely home. He is a high-school principal in southwest Missouri and my boss.

Every morning Mark gets up, puts on his legs and goes to school to greet students and teachers alike. You would never know if he has had a bad day because he would never tell you.

The choice was his. He could still be back in that wheelchair, in and out of hospitals, feeling sorry about the bad break he suffered in high school, but, instead, he is changing lives and living a blessed one himself.

Reprinted by permission of Tom Krause (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul III by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Kimberly Kirberger. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

The Value of Worth

Horror gripped the heart of a World War-I soldier, as he saw his lifelong friend fall in battle. The soldier asked his Lieutenant if he could go out to bring his fallen comrade back.

"You can go," said the Lieutenant," but don't think it will be worth it. Your friend is probably dead and you may throw your life away."

The Lieutenant's words didn't matter, and the soldier went anyway.

Miraculously, he managed to reach his friend, hoisted him onto his shoulder and brought him back to their company's trench. The officer checked the wounded soldier, then looked kindly at his friend.

"I told you it wouldn't be worth it," he said. "Your friend is dead and you are mortally wounded. "

"It was worth it, Sir," said the soldier.

"Wha t do you mean by worth it?" responded the Lieutenant. "Your friend is dead."

"Yes Sir," the soldier answered, "but it was worth it because when I got to him, he was still alive and I had the satisfaction of hearing him say... " Jim... I knew you'd come."

****** *

Many times in life, whether a thing is worth doing or not, really depends on how u look at it.

Take up all your courage and do something your heart tells you to do so that you may not regret not doing it later in your life...

The Garden Guard

The Garden Guard

By Tom R. Kovach

Both my parents, Hungarian immigrants, were born with green thumbs. Our family of ten depended on the food we grew in our huge vegetable garden. My mother canned much of the produce for winter, and my father sold potatoes and cabbage to the local stores and high schools. Our garden was the pride of the neighborhood.

But then, one summer when I was quite young, we had a problem. Someone was stealing some of our vegetables. My parents were dumbfounded. “I don’t get it,” my father said. “If someone wants vegetables from us, all they have to do is ask. If they can’t afford to pay for them, they could just have them.”

Then one of the neighbors tipped us off that an old bachelor who lived a short distance from us was seen selling some vegetables in a nearby town. It didn’t take long for my parents to put two and two together. Benny did not have a garden. So he was obviously getting his vegetables from someone else’s garden.

Now, Benny was not a bad old fellow. My dad often hired him for haying and other odd jobs just to help him out. Benny had no steady job and lived in a small cabin that looked rather bleak to me. My parents figured he was taking our vegetables to earn a few extra dollars. But stealing is stealing, and it just isn’t right. My father decided to handle this situation his own way.

“I’m going to hire Benny,” he announced one day.

“What?” my mother exclaimed. “Joseph, we don’t have enough money to hire anyone. Besides, why would we hire the man who’s taking our vegetables?”

My father only smiled and said, “Trust me, Mary, I’ve got a plan.”

“What are you going to do?” my mother asked.

“I’m going to hire him to guard our garden.”

My mother shook her head. “What? That’s like hiring the fox to watch the henhouse. I don’t understand.”

“Well,” my father said, “here’s what I think. Benny’s got himself backed into a corner. And I’m going to give him a way out. The way I figure it, he can’t turn me down. And he sure can’t take the vegetables that he’s guarding.”

When my father approached him about the job, Benny was obviously a bit shocked. But Dad handled it pretty well.

“Benny,” he said, “someone - probably some kids - has been taking vegetables out of our garden. I wonder if I could hire you to guard it for me?”

Benny hemmed and hawed for a bit, but after Dad explained that he would also be eating supper with us (and Mom’s cooking was legendary), he finally agreed.

Needless to say, there were no vegetables missing the next day. Whether or not Benny slept most of the night was not important. The fact was that Dad’s plan was working. We were not missing any vegetables and Benny had a job . . . of sorts. I don’t think my folks could have been paying him much. But he was being paid. And just having a job gave Benny more than a little pride.

That solved our problem. But that wasn’t the end of the story. Things worked out even better than my father had planned. You see, each morning, after Benny got done sleeping - er, guarding the garden - he’d stick around long enough for breakfast and then follow us around in the garden.

Now, Benny got to kind of liking this garden business. He’d ask questions like, “Why do you plant these carrots here? How come some of these peas are growing faster than those over there?”

My parents were patient with him, answering all his questions. Then my father suggested something. “You know, Benny, the growing season is just about over, but I could take my team of horses over to your place and plow you up a nice patch of ground where you could plant a garden next spring.”

“You would do that?” Benny asked.

“Certainly,” my father replied. “That’s what neighbors are for.”

By the following spring, Benny had his garden spot, all plowed, disked and ready for planting. In fact, my parents gave him various seeds that he could use: corn, peas, pumpkins, potatoes and such. Benny caught on to gardening as if he’d been a born farmer.

As we drove by his place in our old rattletrap car one day, Dad slowed down and pointed at Benny’s garden. “Look at that, would you? He’s growing nicer sweet corn than we are. And he’s so busy gardening that he doesn’t have time to guard our garden. Of course . . . for some reason, we don’t need a garden guard anymore.”

We all chuckled a little at that. But our smiles lingered for a long time after - smiles of pride in the new gardener we had helped create, and pride in our remarkable father.

Reprinted by permission of Tom R. Kovach (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Gardener's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Cynthia Brian, Cindy Buck, Marion Owen, Pat Stone and Carol Sturgulewski. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

True Love

True Love

By Barry and Joyce Vissell

Moses Mendelssohn, the grandfather of the well-known German composer, was far from being handsome. Along with a rather short stature, he had a grotesque hunchback.

One day he visited a merchant in Hamburg who had a lovely daughter named Frumtje. Moses fell hopelessly in love with her. But Frumtje was repulsed by his misshapen appearance.

When it came time for him to leave, Moses gathered his courage and climbed the stairs to her room to take one last opportunity to speak with her. She was a vision of heavenly beauty, but caused him deep sadness by her refusal to look at him. After several attempts at conversation, Moses shyly asked, “Do you believe marriages are made in heaven?”

“Yes,” she answered, still looking at the floor. “And do you?”

“Yes I do,” he replied. “You see, in heaven at the birth of each boy, the Lord announces which girl he will marry. When I was born, my future bride was pointed out to me. Then the Lord added, ‘But your wife will be humpbacked.’

“Right then and there I called out, ‘Oh Lord, a humpbacked woman would be a tragedy. Please, Lord, give me the hump and let her be beautiful.’”

Then Frumtje looked up into his eyes and was stirred by some deep memory. She reached out and gave Mendelssohn her hand and later became his devoted wife.

Reprinted by permission of Barry Vissell (c) 1992 from Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

No Left Turn

Dear all,

This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading, and a few good chuckles are guaranteed.

My father never drove a car. Well, that's not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.

He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.

"In those days," he told me when he was in his 90s, "to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it."

At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: "Oh, bull----!" she said. "He hit a horse."

"Well," my father said, "there was that, too."

So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars -- the Kollingses next door had a green 1941 Dodge, the Van Laninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford -- but we had none.

My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines, would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.

My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we'd ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none.

"No one in the family drives," my mother would explain, and that was that.

But, sometimes, my father would say, "But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we'll get one."

It was as if he wasn't sure which one of us would turn 16 first. But, sure enough , my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parentsbought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown. It was a four- door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn't drive, it more or less became my brother's car.

Having a car but not being able to drive didn't bother my father, but it didn't make sense to my mother.

So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practise driving. The cemetery probably was my father's idea.

"Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?" I remember him saying more than once.

For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps -- though they seldom left the city limits -- and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.

Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn't seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.

(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)

He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin's Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish's two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.

If it was the assistant pastor, he'd take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests "Father Fast" and "Father Slow."

After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he'd sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio.

In the evening, then, when I'd stop by, he'dexplain: "The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored."

If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out -- and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, "Do you want to know the secret of a long life?"

"I guess so," I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.

"No left turns," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"No left turns," he repeated. "Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic. As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn."

"What?" I said again.

"No left turns," he said. "Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that's a lot safer. So we always make three rights."

"You're kidding!" I said, and I turned to my mother for support

"No," she said, "your father is right. We make three rights. It works." But then she added: "Except when your father loses count."

I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.

"Loses count?" I asked.

"Yes," my father admitted, "that sometimes happens. But it's not a problem You just make seven rights, and you're okay again."

I couldn't resist. "Do you ever go for 11?" I asked.

"No," he said " If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can't be put off another day or another week."

My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.

She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.

They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom - - the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)

He continued to walk daily -- he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he'd fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising -- and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died.

One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.

A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, "You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred."

At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, "You know, I'm probably not going to live much longer."

"You're probably right," I said.

"Why would you say that?" He countered, somewhat irritated.

"Because you're 102 years old," I said.

"Yes," he said, "you're right." He stayed in bed all the next day.

That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.

He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said:

"I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet."

An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:

"I want you to know," he said, clearly and lucidly, "that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have."

A short time later, he died.

I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I've wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.

I can't figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he quit taking left turns. "

Life is too short to wake up with regrets. So love the people who treat you right. Forget about those who don't. Believe everything happens for a reason.

If you get a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it. Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it."

Lessons From A Dandelion

Lessons From A Dandelion

by Donna Doyon

I recall as a young child bringing bouquets of brilliant yellow flowers to my mother. It didn't matter that the stems felt sticky or that both my parents cursed the presence of these flowers in the lawn. I thought they were beautiful!

And there were so many of them! We spent hours picking the flowers and then popping the blossoms off with a snap of our fingers. But the supply of dandelions never ran out. My father or brothers would chop off all the heads with the lawn mower at least once a week, but that didn't stop these hardy wonders.

And for those flowers that escaped the honor of being hand-delivered to my mother or the sharp blades of the lawn mower, there was another level of existence.

The soft, round puffs of a dandelion gone to seed caused endless giggles and squeals of delight as we unwittingly spread this flower across the yard.

As I worked in my garden last week, pulling unwanted weeds out of the space that would become a haven for tomatoes, corn, peas and sunflowers, I again marveled at the flower that some call a weed. And I thought, "If only I had the staying power of a dandelion."

If only I could stretch my roots so deep and straight that something tugging on my stem couldn't separate me completely from the source that feeds me life. If only I could come back to face the world with a bright, sunshiny face after someone has run me over with a lawnmower or worse, purposely attacked me in an attempt to destroy me. If only my foliage was a nutritious source of vitamins that help others grow. If only I could spread love and encouragement as freely and fully as this flower spreads seeds of itself.

The lawns at my parents' homes are now beautiful green blankets. The only patches of color come from well- placed, well-controlled flowerbeds. Chemicals have managed to kill what human persistence couldn't.

I hope you and I can be different. I hope that we can stretch our roots deep enough that the strongest poison can't reach our souls. I hope that we can overcome the poisons of anger, fear, hate, criticism and competitiveness. I hope that we can see flowers in a world that sees weeds.

Donna Doyon is the author of GLOW: Renew Your Spirit & Release Your Inner Beauty. Donna's website offers information, inspiration and encouragement to people who want to say goodbye to self defeating attitudes and behaviors and hello to greater success, healthier relationships and more joyful living.

Gifts From The Heart

Gifts From The Heart

Michael Josephson

According to legend, a young man while roaming the desert came across a spring of delicious crystal-clear water. The water was so sweet he filled his leather canteen so he could bring some back to a tribal elder who had been his teacher. After a four-day journey he presented the water to the old man who took a deep drink, smiled warmly and thanked his student lavishly for the sweet water. The young man returned to his village with a happy heart.

Later, the teacher let another student taste the water. He spat it out, saying it was awful. It apparently had become stale because of the old leather container. The student challenged his teacher: "Master, the water was foul. Why did you pretend to like it?"

The teacher replied, "You only tasted the water. I tasted the gift. The water was simply the container for an act of loving-kindness and nothing could be sweeter."

I think we understand this lesson best when we receive innocent gifts of love from young children. Whether it's a ceramic tray or a macaroni bracelet, the natural and proper response is appreciation and expressed thankfulness because we love the idea within the gift.

Gratitude doesn't always come naturally. Unfortunately, most children and many adults value only the thing given rather than the feeling embodied in it. We should remind ourselves and teach our children about the beauty and purity of feelings and expressions of gratitude. After all, gifts from the heart are really gifts of the heart.

Michael Josephson is a nationally known ethicist and radio commentator. For more information, please visit this site: www. charactercounts. org

© 2003, Josephson Institute of Ethics

The Real Meaning of Peace

The Real Meaning Of Peace

Author Unknown

There once was a king who offered a prize to the artist who would paint the best picture of peace. Many artists tried. The king looked at all the pictures. But there were only two he really liked, and he had to choose between them.

One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for peaceful towering mountains all around it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought that it was a perfect picture of peace.

The other picture had mountains, too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky, from which rain fell and in which lightning played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all.

But when the king looked closely, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest. There, in the midst of the rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest - in perfect peace.

Which picture do you think won the prize? The king chose the second picture. Do you know why?

"Because," explained the king, "peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace."

True Height

His palms were sweating. He needed a towel to dry his grip. A glass of ice water quenched his thirst, but hardly cooled his intensity. The Astroturf he was sitting on was as hot as the competition he faced today at the National Junior Olympics. The pole was set at 17 feet. That was three inches higher than his personal best. Michael Stone confronted the most challenging day of his pole-vaulting career.

The stands were still filled with about 20,000 people, even though the final race had ended an hour earlier. The pole vault is truly the glamour event of any track-and-field competition. It combines the grace of a gymnast with the strength of a body builder. It also has the element of flying, and the thought of flying as high as a two-story building is a mere fantasy to anyone watching such an event. Today and now, it is not only Michael Stone's reality and dream - it's his quest.

As long as Michael could remember, he had always dreamed of flying. Michael's mother read him numerous stories about flying when he was growing up. Her stories were always ones that described the land from a bird's eye view. Her excitement and passion for details made Michael's dreams full of color and beauty. Michael had this one recurring dream. He would be running down country road. He could feel the rocks and chunks of dirt at his feet. As he raced down the golden-lined wheat fields, he always out-ran the locomotives passing by. It was at the exact moment he took a deep breath that he lifted off the ground. He would soar like an eagle.

Where he flew always coincided with his mother's stories. Wherever he flew was with a keen eye for detail and the free spirit of his mother's love. His dad, on the other hand, was not a dreamer. Bert Stone was a hard core realist. He believed in hard work and sweat. His motto: If you want something, work for it!

From the age of 14, Michael did just that. He began a very careful and regimented weight-lifting program. He worked out every other day with weights, with some kind of running work on alternate days. The program was carefully monitored by Michael's coach, trainer and father.

Michael's dedication, determination and discipline were a coach's dream. Besides being an honor student and an only child, Michael Stone continued to help his parents with their farm chores. Michael's persistence in striving for perfection was not only his obsession but his passion.

Mildred Stone, Michael's mother, wished he could relax a bit more and be that "free dreaming" little boy. On one occasion she attempted to talk to him and his father about this, but his dad quickly interrupted, smiled and said, "You want something, work for it!"

All of Michael's vaults today seemed to be the reward for his hard work. If Michael Stone was surprised, thrilled or arrogant about clearing the bar at 17 feet, you couldn't tell. As soon as he landed on the inflated landing mat, and with the crowd on their feet, Michael immediately began preparing for his next attempt at flight. He seemed oblivious of the fact he had just surpassed his personal best by three inches and that he was one of the final two competitors in the pole-vaulting event at the National Junior Olympics.

When Michael cleared the bar at 17 feet, 2 inches and 17 feet, 4 inches, again he showed no emotion. Constant preparation and determination were his vision. As he lay on he back and heard the crowd moan, he knew the other vaulter had missed his final jump. He knew it was time for his final jump.

Since the other vaulter had fewer misses, Michael needed to clear this vault to win. A miss would get him second place. nothing to be ashamed of, but Michael would not allow himself the thought of not winning first place.

He rolled over and did his ritual of three finger-tipped push-ups along with three Marine-style push-ups. He found his pole, stood and stepped on the runway that led to the most challenging event of his 17-year old life.

The runway felt different this time. It startled him for a brief moment. Then it all hit him like a wet bale of hay. The bar was set at nine inches higher than his personal best. That's only one inch off the national record, he thought.

The intensity of the moment filled his mind with anxiety. He began shaking the tension from his body. It wasn't working. He became tenser. Why was this happening to him now, he thought. He began to get nervous. Fear would be a more accurate description. What was he going to do? He had never experienced these feelings.

Then out of nowhere, and from the deepest depths of his soul, he envisioned his mother. Why now? What was his mother doing in his thoughts at a time like this? It was simple. His mother always used to tell him that when you felt tense, anxious, or even scared, to take deep breaths.

So he did. Along with shaking the tension from his legs, he gently laid his pole at his feet. He began to stretch out his arms and upper body. The light breeze that was once there was now gone. He could feel a trickle of cold sweat running down his back.

He carefully picked up his pole. He felt his heart pounding. He was sure the crowd did, too. The silence was deafening. When he heard the singing of some distant robins in flight, he knew it was his time to fly.

As he began sprinting down the runway, something felt wonderfully different, yet familiar. The surface below him felt like the country road he used to dream about. The rocks and chunks of dirt, the visions of the golden wheat fields seemed to fill his thoughts.

When he took a deep breath, it happened. He began to fly. His take-off was effortless. Michael Stone was now flying, just like in his childhood dreams. Only this time he knew he wasn't dreaming. This was real. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The air around him seemed the purest and freshest he had ever sensed. Michael was soaring with the majesty of an eagle.

It was either the eruption of the people in the stands or the thump of his landing that brought Michael back to earth. On his back with that wonderful hot sun on his face, he could only envision the smile on his mother's face. He knew his dad was probably smiling too, even laughing. Bert would always do that when he got excited: smile and then sort of giggly. What he didn't know was that his dad was hugging his wife and crying.

That's right: Bert "if-you-want-it-work-for-it" Stone was crying like a baby in his wife's arms. He was crying harder than Mildred had ever seen before. She also knew he was crying the greatest tears of all: tears of pride.

Michael was immediately swarmed with people hugging and congratulating him on the greatest achievement thus far in his life. He later went on that day to clear 17 feet and 6 1/2 inches: National and International Junior Olympics record.

With all the media attention, endorsement possibilities and swarming herds of heartfelt congratulations, Michael's life would never be the same. It wasn't just because he won the National Junior Olympics and set a new world record. And it wasn't because he had just increased his personal best by 9 1/2 inches. It was simply because Michael Stone is blind.

--- Copyright © David Naster

The Tiny Foot

The Tiny Foot

Author: DR Loomis

Two years after I came to California, there came to my office one day a fragile young woman, expecting her first baby. Her history was not good from an emotional standpoint, though she came from a fine family. I built her up as well as I could and found her increasingly wholesome and interesting as time went on, partly because of the effort she was making to be calm and patient and to keep her emotional and nervous reactions under control.

One month before her baby was due, her routine examination showed that her baby was in a breech position. As a rule, the baby's head is in the lower part of the uterus for months before delivery, not because it is heavier and "sinks" in the surrounding fluid, but simply because it fits more comfortably in that position. There is no routine "turning" of all babies at the seventh or eighth month, as is so generally supposed. Only about one baby in 25 is born in the breech position. This is fortunate, as the death rate of breech babies is comparatively high because of the difficulty in delivering the after- coming head, and the imperative need of delivering it rather quickly after the body is born. At that moment the cord becomes compressed between the baby's hard little head and the mother's bony pelvis. When no oxygen reaches the baby's bloodstream, it inevitably dies in a few short minutes.

The case I was speaking of was a "complete" breech -- the baby's legs and feet being folded under it, tailor fashion -- in contrast to the "frank" breech, in which the thighs and legs are folded back on a baby's body like a jackknife, the little rear end backing its way into the world first of all. The hardest thing for the attending doctor to do with any breech delivery is to keep his hands away from it until the natural forces of expulsion have thoroughly dilated the firm maternal structures that delay its progress.

I waited as patiently as I could, sending frequent messages to the excited family in the corridor outside. At last the time had come, and I gently drew down one little foot, I grasped the other, but for some reason I could not understand, it would not come down beside the first one. I pulled again, gently enough but with a little force, with light pressure on the abdomen from above by my assisting nurse, and the baby's body moved down just enough for me to see that it was a little girl -- and then, to my consternation, I saw that the other foot would never be beside the first one. The entire thigh from the hip to the knee was missing and that one foot never could reach below the opposite knee. And a baby girl was to suffer this, a curious defect that I had never seen before, nor have I since!

There followed the hardest struggle I have ever had with myself. I knew what a dreadful effect it would have upon the unstable nervous system of the mother. I felt sure that the family would almost certainly impoverish itself in taking the child to every famous orthopedist in the world whose achievements might offer a ray of hope. Most of all, I saw this little girl sitting sadly by herself while other girls laughed and danced and ran and played -- and then I suddenly realized that there was something that would save every pang but once, and that one thing was in my power. One breech baby in 10 dies in delivery because it is not delivered rapidly enough, and now -- if only I did not hurry! If I could slow my hand, if I could make myself delay those few short moments. No one in all this world would ever know.

The mother, after the first shock of grief, would probably be glad she had lost a child so sadly handicapped. In a year or two she would try again and this tragic fate would never be repeated.

"Don't bring this suffering upon them," the small voice within me said. "This baby has never taken a breath -- don't let her ever take one. You probably can't get it out in time, anyway. Don't hurry. Don't be a fool and bring this terrible thing upon them. Maybe your conscience will hurt worse if you do get it out in time."

I motioned to the nurse for the warm sterile towel that is always ready for me in a breech delivery to wrap around the baby's body so that stimulation of the cold air of the outside world may not induce a sudden expansion of the baby's chest, causing the aspiration of fluid or mucus that might bring death. But this time the towel was only to conceal from the attending nurses that which my eyes alone had seen. With the touch of that pitiful little foot in my hand, a pang of sorrow for the baby's future swept through me, and my decision was made. I glanced at the clock. Three of the allotted seven or eight minutes had already gone.

Every eye in the room was upon me and I could feel the tension in their eagerness to do instantly what I asked, totally unaware of what I was feeling. I hoped they could not possibly detect the tension of my own struggle at that moment. For the first time in my medical life I was deliberately discarding what I had been taught was right for something that I felt sure was better. I slipped my hand beneath the towel to feel the pulsation's of the baby's cord, a certain index of its condition. Two or three minutes more would be enough.

So that I might seem to be doing something, I drew the baby down a little lower to "split out" the arms, the usual next step, and as I did so the little pink foot on the good side bobbed out from its protecting towel and pressed firmly against my slowly moving hand, the hand into whose keeping the safety of the mother and the baby had been entrusted. There was a sudden convulsive movement of the baby's body, an actual feeling of strength and life and vigor. It was too much. I couldn't do it. I delivered the baby with her pitiful little leg.

I told the family the next day, and with a catch in my voice, I told the mother. Every foreboding came true. The mother was in a hospital for months. I saw her once or twice and she looked like a wraith of her former self. I heard of them indirectly from time to time. Finally I lost track of them altogether.

As the years went on, I blamed myself bitterly for not having had the strength to yield to my temptation. Through the many years that I have been there, there has developed in our hospital a pretty custom of staging an elaborate Christmas party each year for the employees, the nurses and the doctors of the staff. There is always a beautifully decorated tree on the stage of our little auditorium. The girls spend weeks in preparation. We have set aside this one day to touch upon the emotional and spiritual side. It is almost like going to an impressive church service, as each year we dedicate ourselves anew to the year ahead.

This past year the arrangement was somewhat changed. The tree, on one side of the stage, had been sprayed with sliver paint and was hung with scores of gleaming silver and tinsel ornaments, without a trace of color anywhere and with no lights hung upon the tree itself. It shone but faintly in the dimly lighted auditorium. The first rows were reserved for the nurses and the moment the procession entered, each girl in uniform, each one crowned by her nurse's cap, her badge of office. We rose as one man to do them honor, and as the last one reached her seat, and we settled in our places again, the organ began the opening notes of one of the oldest of our carols.

Slowly down the middle aisle, marching from the back of the auditorium, came 20 other girls singing softly, our own nurses, in full uniform, each holding high a lighted candle, while through the auditorium floated the familiar strains of "Silent Night." On the opposite side of the stage a curtain was slowly drawn, and we saw three lovely young musicians, all in shimmering white evening gowns. They played very softly in unison with the organ -- a harp, a cello and a violin.

I am quite sure I was not the only old sissy there whose eyes were filled with tears. I have always like the harp, and I love to watch the grace of a skillful player. I was especially fascinated by this young harpist. She played extraordinarily well, as if she loved it. Her slender fingers flickered across the strings, and as the nurses sang, her face, made beautiful by a mass of auburn hair, was upturned as if the world that moment were a wonderful and holy place.

When the short program was over, I sat alone, there came running down the aisle a woman whom I did not know. She came to me with arms outstretched.

"Oh, you saw her," she cried. "You must have recognized your baby. That was my daughter who played the harp and I saw you watching her. Don't you remember the little girl who was born with only one good leg 17 years ago? We tried everything else first, but now she has a whole artificial leg on that side but you would never know it, would you? She can walk, she can swim, and she can almost dance. But, best of all, through all those years when she couldn't do those things, she learned to use her hands so wonderfully. She is going to be one of the world's great harpists. She is my whole life, and now she is so happy."

As we spoke, this sweet young girl had quietly approached us, her eyes glowing, and now she stood beside me.

"This is your first doctor, my dear, our doctor," her mother said. Her voice trembled. I could see her literally swept back, as I was, through all the years of heartache to the day when I told her what she had to face.

"He was the first one to tell me about you. He brought you to me."

Impulsively I took the child in my arms. Across her warm young shoulder I saw the creeping clock of the delivery room 17 years before. I lived again those awful moments when her life was in my hand, when I had decided on deliberate infanticide.

"You never will know, my dear," I said, "you never will know, nor will anyone else in all the world, just what tonight has meant to me. Go back to your harp for a moment, please -- and play "Silent Night" for me alone. I have a load on my shoulders that no one has ever seen, a load that only you can take away."

Perhaps her mother knew what was in my mind. And as the last strains of "Silent Night, Holy Night" faded again, I think I found the answer, and the comfort, I had waited for so long.

Becky And Her Wolf

Becky and Her Wolf

Author: Unknown

With all her big brothers and sisters off to school, our ranch became a lonely place for our three-year-old daughter, Becky. She longed for playmates. Cattle and horses were too big to cuddle and farm machinery dangerous for a child so small. We promised to buy her a puppy but in the meantime, "Pretend" puppies popped up nearly every day.

I had just finished washing the lunch dishes when the screen door slammed and Becky rushed in, cheeks flushed with excitement.

"Mama!" she cried. "Come see my new doggy!

"I gave him water two times already. He's so thirsty!" I sighed. Another of Becky's imaginary dogs.

"Please come, Mama." She tugged at my jeans, her brown eyes pleading, "He's crying -- and he can't walk!"

"Can't walk?"

Now that was a twist. All her previous make-believe dogs could do marvelous things. One balanced a ball on the end of its nose. Another dug a hole that went all the way through the earth and fell out on a star on the other side. Still another danced on a tightrope. Why suddenly a dog that couldn't walk?

"All right, honey," I said. By the time I tried to follow her, Becky had already disappeared into the mesquite.

"Where are you?" I called.

"Over here by the oak stump. Hurry, Mama!"

I parted the thorny branches and raised my hand against the glare of the Arizona sun. A numbing chill gripped me. There she was, sitting on her heels, toes dug firmly in the sand, and cradled in her lap was the unmistakable head of a wolf! Beyond its head rose massive black shoulders. The rest of the body lay completely hidden inside the hollow stump of a fallen oak.

"Becky," My mouth felt dry. "Don't move."

I stepped closer. Pale-yellow eyes narrowed. Black lips tightened, exposing double sets of two-inch fangs. Suddenly the wolf trembled. Its teeth clacked, and a piteous whine rose from its throat.

"It's all right, boy," Becky crooned. "Don't be afraid. That's my mama, and she loves you, too."

Then the unbelievable happened. As her tiny hands stroked the great shaggy head, I heard the gentle thump, thump, thumping of the wolf's tail from deep inside the stump. What was wrong with the animal? I wondered. Why couldn't he get up? I couldn't tell. Nor did I dare to step any closer. I glanced at the empty water bowl. My memory flashed back to the five skunks that last week had torn the burlap from a leaking pipe in a frenzied effort to reach water during the final agonies of rabies. Of course! Rabies! Warning signs had been posted all over the county, and hadn't Becky said, "He's so thirsty?"

I had to get Becky away.

"Honey." My throat tightened. "Put his head down and come to Mama. We'll go find help."

Reluctantly, Becky got up and kissed the wolf on the nose before she walked slowly into my outstretched arms. Sad yellow eyes followed her. Then the wolf's head sank to the ground. With Becky safe in my arms, I ran to the barns where Brian, one of our cowhands, was saddling up to check heifers in the North pasture.

"Brian! Come quickly. Becky found a wolf in the oak stump near the wash! I think it has rabies!"

"I'll be there in a jiffy," he said as I hurried back to the house, eager to put Becky down for her nap. I didn't want her to see Brian come out of the bunkhouse. I knew he'd have a gun.

"But I want to give my doggy his water," she cried. I kissed her and gave her some stuffed animals to play with.

"Honey, let Mom and Brian take care of him for now," I said. Moments later, I reached the oak stump.

Brian stood looking down at the beast. "It's a Mexican lobo, all right." He said, " And a big one!"

The wolf whined. Then we both caught the smell of gangrene.

"Whew! It's not rabies," Brian said. "But he's sure hurt real bad. Don't you think it's best I put him out of his misery?"

The word "yes" was on my lips, when Becky emerged from the bushes. "Is Brian going to make him well, Mama?"

She hauled the animal's head onto her lap once more, and buried her face in the coarse, dark fur. This time I wasn't the only one who heard the thumping of the lobo's tail.

That afternoon my husband, Bill, and our veterinarian came to see the wolf. Observing the trust the animal had in our child, Doc said to me, "Suppose you let Becky and me tend to this fella together."

Minutes later, as child and vet reassured the stricken beast, the hypodermic found its mark. The yellow eyes closed.

"He's asleep now," said the vet. "Give me a hand here, Bill."

They hauled the massive body out of the stump. The animal must have been over five feet long and well over one- hundred pounds. The hip and leg had been mutilated by bullets. Doc did what he had to in order to clean the wound and then gave the patient a dose of penicillin. Next day he returned and inserted a metal rod to replace the missing bone.

"Well, it looks like you've got yourselves a Mexican lobo," Doc said. "He looks to be about three years old, and even as pups, they don't tame real easy. I'm amazed at the way this big fella took to your little gal. But often there's something that goes on between children and animals that we grownups don't understand."

Becky named the wolf Ralph and carried food and water to the stump every day.

Ralph's recovery was not easy. For three months he dragged his injured hindquarters by clawing the earth with his front paws. From the way he lowered his eyelids when we massaged the atrophied limbs, we knew he endured excruciating pain, but not once did he ever try to bite the hands of those who cared for him.

Four months to the day, Ralph finally stood unaided. His huge frame shook as long- unused muscles were activated. Bill and I patted and praised him. But it was Becky to whom he turned for a gentle word, a kiss or a smile. He responded to these gestures of love by swinging his busy tail like a pendulum. As his strength grew, Ralph followed Becky all over the ranch. Together they roamed the desert pastures, the golden-haired child often stooping low, sharing with the great lame wolf whispered secrets of nature's wonders. When evening came, he returned like a silent shadow to his hollow stump that had surely become his special place.

As time went on, although he lived primarily in the brush, the habits of this timid creature endeared him more and more to all of us. His reaction to people other than our family was yet another story. Strangers terrified him, yet his affection for and protectiveness of Becky brought him out of the desert and fields at the sight of every unknown pickup or car. Occasionally he'd approach, lips taut, exposing a nervous smile full of chattering teeth. More often he'd simply pace and finally skulk off to his tree stump, perhaps to worry alone.

Becky's first day of school was sad for Ralph. After the bus left, he refused to return to the yard. Instead, he lay by the side of the road and waited. When Becky returned, he limped and tottered in wild, joyous circles around her. This welcoming ritual persisted throughout her school years.

Although Ralph seemed happy on the ranch, he disappeared into the surrounding deserts and mountains for several weeks during the spring mating season, leaving us to worry about his safety. This was calving season, and fellow ranchers watched for coyotes, cougars, wild dogs and, of course, the lone wolf. But Ralph was lucky.

During Ralph's twelve years on our ranch, his habits remained unchanged. Always keeping his distance, he tolerated other pets and endured the activities of our busy family, but his love for Becky never wavered. Then the spring came when our neighbor told us he'd shot and killed a she-wolf and grazed her mate, who had been running with her. Sure enough, Ralph returned home with another bullet wound. Becky, nearly fifteen years old now, sat with Ralph's head resting on her lap. He, too, must have been about fifteen and was gray with age.

As Bill removed the bullet, my memory raced back through the years. Once again I saw a chubby three-year-old girl stroking the head of a huge black wolf and heard a small voice murmuring, "It's all right, boy. Don't be afraid. That's my mama, and she loves you, too."

Although the wound wasn't serious, this time Ralph didn't get well. Precious pounds fell away. The once luxurious fur turned dull and dry, and his trips to the yard in search of Becky's companionship ceased. All day long he rested quietly. But when night fell, old and stiff as he was, he disappeared into the desert and surrounding hills. By dawn his food was gone.

The morning came when we found him dead. The yellow eyes were closed. Stretched out in front of the oak stump, he appeared but a shadow of the proud beast he once had been. A lump in my throat choked me as I watched Becky stroke his shaggy neck, tears streaming down her face.

"I'll miss him so," she cried.

Then as I covered him with a blanket, we were startled by a strange rustling sound from inside the stump. Becky looked inside. Two tiny yellow eyes peered back and puppy fangs glinted in the semidarkness. Ralph's pup!

Had a dying instinct told him his motherless offspring would be safe here, as he had been, with those who loved him? Hot tears spilled on baby fur as Becky gathered the trembling bundle in her arms.

"It's all right, little . . . Ralphie," she murmured. "Don't be afraid. That's my mom, and she loves you, too."

Doing Well By Doing Good

Doing Well By Doing Good

William R. Brody

Excerpted from a speech delivered by Mr. Brody to the graduating class of John Hopkins University on May 26, 2005.

There is a man who I'd like to tell you about. His name is Sandy Greenberg. In his youth, Sandy was a very good student, but he came from a poor family. And so he went to Columbia University on a scholarship and there he met his roommate who also was receiving financial aid.

Now while he was a sophomore at Columbia University, Sandy contracted an eye disease that eventually proved to be glaucoma. But the trouble was, it wasn't detected early enough, and as a result he became legally blind. I ask you all to imagine for a moment having been sighted all your life, and then all of a sudden being faced, in a very competitive school, with losing so much sight you could no longer read. This is what happened to Sandy Greenberg.

But something else happened to Sandy that may surprise you. Sandy said that when he lost his sight, his roommate would read his textbooks to him, every night.

So I'm going to put you in that position, in a competitive school like Columbia, or Johns Hopkins. If your roommate had a serious disability, would you take the time to read textbooks to him every night, knowing the more you spend time reading textbooks to your roommate, perhaps the less well you might do with your other activities? That's not as easy a question as it first appears.

But luckily for Sandy, his roommate did. And as a result, Sandy went on to graduate with honors. He got a Fulbright Scholarship, and he went off to study at Oxford. He was still quite poor, but he said he had managed to save about five hundred dollars as he went along.

His roommate, meanwhile, also went on to graduate school. One day, Sandy got a call from him at Oxford. And his former roommate said, "Sandy I'm really unhappy. I really don't like being in graduate school, and I don't want to do this."

So Sandy asked, "Well what do you want to do?"

And his roommate told him, "Sandy, I really love to sing. I have a high school friend who plays the guitar. And we would really like to try our hand in the music business. But we need to make a promo record, and in order to do that I need $500."

So Sandy Greenberg told me he took all his life savings and sent it to his roommate. He told me, "You know, what else could I do? He made my life; I needed to help make his life."

So, I hope you'll remember the power of doing well by doing good. Each of you, in your own lives, will be faced with challenges, with roadblocks, with problems that you didn't anticipate or expect. How you are able to deal with adversity will be influenced, to no small extent, by how you deal with others along the way. What you get will depend a lot on what you give. And that's the end of the story of doing well, by doing good.

Ah! I almost forgot. You probably are wanting to know who Sandy's roommate was. I think you've heard of him. Sandy's roommate was a fellow by the name of Art Garfunkel, and he teamed up with another musician by the name of Paul Simon. That $500 helped them cut a record that eventually became "The Sounds of Silence." Recently, we had the pleasure of going to Sandy's daughter's wedding, and it was Art Garfunkel who sang as Sandy walked his daughter down the aisle.

When you get to be my age (which, for some of you, is really old, (though it doesn't seem so old to me anymore), you will find yourself beginning to ask, did my life make a difference?

That's the day of personal reckoning. And I think the only way to face it is to consider, every day of your life: How can I do something for somebody else? How can I give back to others? It may be teaching, it may be becoming a doctor, you may be successful in business - no matter what your career path, there will always be the opportunity to give back. The chance will present itself to be giving of your time, giving of your money, but mostly, to be giving of yourselves, of your own heart and soul.

My hope today, as you commence to new beginnings, is you will always keep your eyes open for those opportunities to give and embrace them as your best sure way of doing well.

Father's Eyes

Bob Richards, the former pole-vault champion, shares a moving story about a skinny young boy who loved football with all his heart.

Practice after practice, he eagerly gave everything he had. But being half the size of the other boys, he got absolutely nowhere.

At all the games, this hopeful athlete sat on the bench and hardly ever played. This teenager lived alone with his father, and the two of them had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench, his father was always in the stands cheering. He never missed a game.

This young man was still the smallest of the class when he entered high school. But his father continued to encourage him but also made it very clear that he did not have to play football if he didn't want to. But the young man loved football and decided to hang in there. He was determined to try his best at every practice, and perhaps he'd get to play when he became a senior.

All through high school he never missed a practice nor a game but remained a bench-warmer all four years. His faithful father was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him.

When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team as a walk-on. Everyone was sure he could never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul to every practice, and at the same time, provided the other members with the spirit and hustle they badly needed.

The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared the son's excitement and received season tickets for all the college games.

This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in a game. It was the end of his senior football season, and as he trotted onto the practice field shortly before the big playoff game, the coach met him with a telegram.

The young man read the telegram and he became deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, "My father died this morning. Is it all right if I miss practice today"?

The coach put his arm gently around his shoulder and said, "Take the rest of the week off, son. And don't even plan to come back to the game on Saturday."

Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well. In the third quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful team-mate back so soon.

"Coach, please let me play. I've just got to play today," said the young man. The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally, feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in.

"All right," he said. "22 You can go in."

Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right. The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked, and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied.

In the closing seconds of the game, this kid intercepted a pass and ran all the way for the winning touchdown. The fans broke loose. His team-mates hoisted him onto their shoulders. Such cheering you never heard.

Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that this young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said, "Kid, I can't believe it. You were fantastic! Tell me, what got into you? How did you do it?"

The young man looked at the coach, with tears in his eyes, and said, "Well, you knew my dad died, but did you know that my dad was blind?"

The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, "Dad came to all my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and I wanted to show him I could do it."

--- Author Unknown ---

A Love Story

*One of the most touching and purest love story I've read in a while..

From the very beginning, girl's family objected strongly on her dating this guy, saying that it has got to do with family background, & that the girl will have to suffer for the rest of her life if she were to be with him.

Due to family's pressure, the couple quarreled very often. Though the girl loved the guy deeply, she always asked him: "How deep is your love for me?"

As the guy is not good with his words, this often caused the girl to be very upset. With that & the family's pressure, the gal often vents her anger on him. As for him.. he only endured it in silence.

After a couple of years, the guy finally graduated & decided to further his studies overseas.

Before leaving, he proposed to the gal: "I'm not very good with words. But all I know is that I love you. If you allow me, I will take care of you for the rest of my life. As for your family, I'll try my best to talk them round. Will you marry me?"

The girl agreed, & with the guy's determination, the family finally gave in & agreed to let them get married. So before he left, they got engaged.

The gal went out to the working society, whereas the guy was overseas, continuing his studies. They sent their love through emails & phone calls. Though it was hard, but both never thought of giving up.

One day, while the gal was on her way to work, she was knocked down by a car that lost control. When she woke up, she saw her parents beside her bed. She realized that she was badly injured. Seeing her mum cry, she wanted to comfort her. But she realized that all that could come out of her mouth was just a sigh. She had lost her voice....

The doctor says that the impact on her brain has caused her to lose her voice. Listening to her parents' comfort, but with nothing coming out from her, she broke down. During the stay in hospital, besides silent cry. it's still just silent cry that accompanied her. Upon reaching home, everything seems to be the same. Except for the ringing tone of the phone which pierced into her heart every time it rang. She does not wish to let the guy know & not wanting to be a burden to him, she wrote a letter to him saying that she does not wish to wait any longer.

With that, she sent the ring back to him. In return, the guy sent millions & millions of reply and countless phone calls. all the gal could do besides crying is still crying.... The parents decided to move away, hoping that she could eventually forget everything & be happy.

With a new environment, the gal learnt sign language & started a new life, Telling herself everyday that she must forget the guy.

One day, her friend came & told her that he's back. She asked her friend not to let him know what happened to her. Since then, there wasn't anymore news of him.

A year has passed & her friend came with an envelope, containing an invitation card for the guy's wedding.

The gal was shattered. When she opened the letter, she saw her name on it instead. When she was about to ask her friend what was going on, she saw the guy standing in front of her....

He used sign language to tell her, "I've spent a year to learn sign language. Just to let you know that I've not forgotten our promise. Let me have the chance to be your voice. I Love You."

With that, he slipped the ring back into her finger. The gal finally smiled......

Treat every relationship as if it's the last one, then you'll know how to Give.

Treat every moment as if it's the last day, then you'll know how to Treasure.

Treasure what you have right now, or else you may regret one day... *

It Might Be Too Late

The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock.

It was 9 P. M. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.

As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.

He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - "He hesitated, tears filling his eyes.

Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind. I touched his hand, waiting. He brushed away a tear.

"Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have."

His respiration suddenly speeded up. I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute.

"Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face. He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency.

"Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?"

He was breathing fast - too fast.

"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.

I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 - year - old face. Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.

"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"

I dug a scrap of yellow paper and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table. I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed.

Her soft voice answered.

"Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and "

"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he ?"

"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing. Silence. I bit my lip.

"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.

"He is getting the very best care."

"But you don't understand," she pleaded.

"My daddy and I haven't spoken. On my 21st birthday, we had a fight over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."

Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."

As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."

"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said.

Click. She had hung up. I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712.

I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door. Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.

"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat."

The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed. Mr. Williams had a cardiac arrest. With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count.

At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and . He could not die!

"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming! Don't let it end this way."

The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing. I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat.

My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."

"Stand back," cried a doctor.

I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead. A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.

How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside -everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?

When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew.

The doctor had told her that her father was gone. I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.

"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.

"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said. God, please help her, I thought. Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."

My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door.

We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets. I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:

My dearest Janie,

I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me.

I love you too,

Daddy

The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.

"Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window.

A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare.

I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."

P. S. I think it would be a wonderful idea for each of us to take a minute of our busy day and tell people that are special to us that we love them.... before it's too late! Don't you?

Trusting The Unknown

"We are very near to greatness: one step and we are safe: can we not take the leap?" - Ralph W. Emerson

After ten years of working for a prestigious Wall Street bank and slamming into a glass ceiling, I vehemently said "Enough!" If I was going to have an inspiring, compelling life and go beyond a clock-punching, nine-to-five job, I knew I had to make the decision to create it and shift gears.

I began looking. I'd never let my deafness shortchange my dreams. I wasn't about to start now. I scanned through The New York Times in search of new opportunities. My eyes were drawn to an advertisement in the back. A financial giant was looking to hire more stockbrokers. I thought, I can do that! With great excitement, I called a few people and made an appointment to see a New York City branch vice president.

On the day of my appointment, I was terribly sick with a cold and 101° fever that threatened to keep me in bed. Yet, I knew I couldn't let this golden opportunity slip away, so I showed up for the interview and spoke with vice president for over three hours. I thought he was surely going to hire me on the spot. Instead, he instructed me to meet with twelve of his top stockbrokers for further interviews. I was floored!

But., then maybe that's a good sign, I thought, trying to rationalize his decision.

During the next five months, every one of the twelve professionals discouraged me from becoming a stockbroker.

"You're better off in a safe 9-to-5 bank job," they proclaimed.

"Eighty percent of newcomers fail within their first year," they added.

"You have no investment experience."

"You won't make it."

The more attacked my dream, the more my stomach tightened. I could hardly breath. I realized then that I would have to "fake it to make it."

My final interview was scheduled on a cold, blustery January day on Fifth Avenue. Five minutes into the meeting, it was obvious the vice president didn't know what to do with me.

I handed him a 25-page marketing report on how I would build my business. I hoped this would convince him that I was indeed the man for the job. But, it didn't. Noticeably uncomfortable, he nervously played with a paper clip and pretended to read my report. Apparently, he wasn't confident that I could perform the job. I felt a tremendous opportunity was about to slip through my fingers.

So I looked at him straight in the eye and captured his attention.

"Sir," I said confidently. "If you don't hire me, you'll never know just how much I could've done for this firm." When I heard my own brazen words, I panicked. My God, I thought, what have I done? Can I really back that up?

I nervously waited. The seconds seemed like minutes and the minutes, like hours.

He finally spoke.

"Okay, you've got the job!" he announced.

I stood up and was about to leave when he added, "On one condition."

My heart sank.

"First," he said, "you must first resign from the Bank of New York effective two weeks from today and enroll in our three-month training program. Then, you have to take the Series 7 stockbroker exam. And, you must pass it on the FIRST try." He drove home his final point, "If you fail even by one point - you're out!"

My mouth went dry. Inward, I shook uncontrollably. I choked at the prospect of taking a huge leap of faith into the unknown. I stood to lose everything!

Then, captivated by this ultimate risk taking opportunity and by a courage that I knew would forever change my future, I swallowed hard and spoke confidently, "I'll take it." Little did I know the impact of that split- second decision.

As instructed, I cut my lifeline to the Bank and leapt into unproven waters.

After three months of training, it was time for me to take the three-hour exam. The test site was on Madison Avenue, a short distance from where I would be working, if I passed the test. I took the elevator to the seventh floor and signed in. From the reception area, I could see the test room through the glass partition. It was full of computers, all deliberately spaced in several rows. The room was sparsely furnished with the barest of essentials of scrap paper, several sharpened pencils and uncomfortable-looking chairs.

The exam proctors led me to my assigned computer. One of the most important tests of my life was about to begin. They gave me a signal to go ahead. I was extremely nervous but as the test progressed, I felt increasingly confident. Three hours passed by surprisingly fast.

It was time for the final score - the computer would calculate it and flash it on the screen. I sat there sweating and staring at the computer that held the key to my future. I was positive someone could hear my heart beating. The screen blinked on and off with the message, "Your scores are being tabulated by the computer, please wait."

The wait seemed like hours. The scores were finally displayed.

I had passed! I let out an audible sigh of relief.

Since that day, I've never looked back. I exceeded not only my own expectations but also those of the manager who took a chance and hired me on that fateful day. Before being promoted himself, he was around long enough to witness my personal sales soar 1,700%, hand me several sales awards and see me on CNN.

That was four years ago. I am now a inspirational speaker and author.

All because I took a chance, instead of hiding safely behind my deafness.

My experiences confirmed the truth of Thoreau's words when he said, "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams and endeavors to live the life which he had imagined, he will meet success unexpected in common hours."

That's what the power of making a split second decision did for me, a deaf stockbroker-turned motivational speaker/author!

(c) Stephen J. Hopson (Revised Edition)

Information Please

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember well the polished old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother used to talk to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person - her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know. "Information Please" could supply anybody's number and the correct time.

My first personal experience with this genie-in-the-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer.

The pain was terrible, but there didn't seem to be any reason in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway.

The telephone!

Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear.

"Information Please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head.

A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information."

"I hurt my finger. . ." I wailed into the phone. The tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

"Isn't your mother home?"came the question.

"Nobody's home but me." I blubbered.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts."

"Can you open your icebox?" she asked. I said I could.

"Then chip off a little piece of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before would eat fruits and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary died. I called "Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, then said the usual things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was unconsoled.

I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?"

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in."

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone. "Information Please."

"Information," said the now familiar voice.

"How do you spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was 9 years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home, and I somehow never thought of trying the tall, shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall.

As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about half an hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information, Please".

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well, "Information."

I hadn't planned this but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?"

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now."

I laughed. "So it's really still you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time."

"I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your calls meant to me."

"I never had any children, and I used to look forward to your calls."

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

"Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered "Information." I asked for Sally.

"Are you a friend?" She said.

"Yes, a very old friend," I answered.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, "she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago."

Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute. Did you say your name was Paul?"

"Yes."

"Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him I still say there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean."

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

" Never underestimate the impression you may make on others".

--- Author Unknown ---

The Old Corral

I had a childhood friend that taught me several lessons that I'll never forget. His name was Jim and he was a dreamer. He always liked to think up new ways of doing things and had a way of bringing others into those dreams. He was a tremendous friend that understood things beyond his years. Jim and I were about 13 or 14 years old farm kids. I knew him most of my life and we were always at each others homes, especially after we got our motorcycles.

One day Jim walked me down to his parents back pasture. It was quite a hike but it was worth it when he painted out his dream for us. The pasture area sat at the bottom of a wooded hillside a short distance away ran a small creek. Jim took me over to a specified location just inside the woods and said, "Well, what do you think?"

I said, "Think about what?"

He said, "About the cabin that we're going to build?"

I remember thinking that he was crazy, but he was insistent. He told about all the fun we were going to have and how it would be a whole lot better than a tent.

By the time he was done painting his dream, I was sold. I said, "When are we going to start?!?!"

Jim said, "Oh, we need to start by building the corral."

I said, "A corral? What for?"

Jim replied, "In case we need to put horses or cattle into it?"

Well, it was Jim's dream, so I agreed. I remember working for several days digging through the virgin soil under the trees, hitting roots, and complaining an awful lot. I remember taking axes and chopping down trees and dragging them over to the selected location. We trudged onward, until about a week later (It seemed more like a year) we finished.

As we stood back admiring our corral, Jim said, "Good now we can start working on the cabin!"

As we walked back to his home that evening, I remember Jim turning to me and saying, "You know Terry, I have to be honest with you. I didn't want us to build that corral for horses, or cattle."

I said, "Then why did we build it?"

Jim answered, "We built it so that I would know if you really would help me build the cabin."

Jim understood the importance of making dreams real and that dream only come true when commitment is involved. We did finish building the cabin later that year, and it was a source of fun and pride for many, many years to come. It all started with an idea, a dream, and someone who understood the importance of commitment.

I am now an administrator of an elementary school and Jim taught me several lessons that I still apply today. I still try to paint my dreams in vivid colors and make them touchable for others and I still work with my staff to build corrals.

"Your words are continually educating others around you. Let them create a portrait of enthusiasm and faith"

--- Copyright © Terry Hogenson

Take Control of Your Mind

It was the spring of 1982 and I was coaching girls' track in a small southern Iowa town. There was a young discus thrower on the team, a sophomore who had tremendous potential. This is a story about her realizing that potential... and about what tends to hold us all back from realizing our potential.

At the end of our workout the Friday before the Monday district track meet, this discus thrower, we'll call her Jill in this story, came to me and asked if she could come to the school on Sunday after lunch for a little extra workout. I said, "Sure." We would meet at 1:00 and go through a 40-45 minute workout.

I knew why Jill wanted the extra fine tuning. The year before, as only a freshman, she had placed second in the discus at the district meet and narrowly missed going to the state meet in Des Moines.

See, I had done some checking on Jill's freshman season and had tallied those results with the sophomore year that was now winding down. This young lady had won every discus event, in every varsity meet as both a freshman and sophomore, except that district event the year before! And, her throws in competition had always been between 106' 1" and 110' 10". Very consistent. Very good for so young.

But, something began to bother me. Something that I didn't know how to fix until it hit me that sunny Sunday in 1982.

What bothered me was why this young athlete couldn't seem to get the discus two more inches to 111 feet? Only two more little inches... why? I began to wonder if it was more a psychological barrier rather than a physical one. But, what to do about it? I had encouraged the socks off that girl that year...110' 10" was the best she could do... twice!

I decided to try something I had never done to one of my athletes before. I decided to deceive Jill. I decided to LIE! Without going into too many details the rest of the story goes like this.

Jill went through her usual drills. Then, I said, "Why don't you throw five or six good ones for me to measure?" She agreed and proceeded to let some good throws rip, but none were farther than what she had already thrown. I could just tell, even though the markings on the discus area had pretty well been washed off by some recent rains.

But, I didn't tell Jill. As a matter of fact, when we measured them I made sure Jill had the "zero" end of the measuring tape. And, Jill also threw one of her best throws away from the rest of her tosses, which helped with my little scheme, too. As we were measuring, the throws were in her usual range --- 108 to 110 feet. But, as I was walking toward the final one I yelled out to her, "I really think this one is farther!"

It wasn't. It was around 110' 6". But, it was now or never. I still had the tape between my thumb and index finger as I jumped up, pumped my fist into the air, and screamed out, "You've got to see this!!!"

Jill, thinking that this was a personal best, jumped wildly into the air in excitement. As she did, I pulled some more tape through my fingers. I had no idea how much. I just hoped it would be over 111 feet. I didn't even look at the tape until Jill made it to where I was standing. When she looked at the tape, it was the first time I had, too.

There it was, right at the end of my thumb, 112' 2"! Jill went crazy. I just hoped it would work.

The next afternoon, at districts, Jill won with a personal best toss of 114' 10"!!! Just 24 hours after I had "lied" to her. Just 24 hours after she had actually thrown 110' 6". But, now she had ACTUALLY thrown the discus four feet further than she had ever thrown it before without any practice in between our extra session the day before and the meet. But, unbelievably, the story doesn't end here.

Eleven days later we were at the Drake intramural field where the State discus event was to be held. It was a terrible weather day raining fairly heavily. The discus ring was wet. The officials even had to use towels to constantly dry it for the athletes. Jill came into the event with the 8th best throw in the districts.

Her goals were simple: break the school record of 115' 1" and place in the top six to score at least one point for herself, her teammates, and the school. (Jill was the only qualifier from our school that year).

You get 3 throws in the prelims and the top eight qualify for 3 more in the finals. Jill didn't need 6 throws, or even 3 throws that day. On her second throw in the preliminaries she uncorked a toss like she had never had before. The discus sliced through the heavy, rainy air and splashed down. The officials marked it. Then, they measured it. 118' 1"! Amazing!!! But, the most amazing part of the story was that it held up... Jill won the state title by three inches!

She would go on her junior year to place second at State and again win the state meet her senior year. She would throw the discus in college, eventually having a personal best over 135 feet!

I know she got better coaching in college. But what changed in the 12 days from that Sunday afternoon, when I tricked her until the state meet? Not her technique, not her workouts, not her strength level, not her build.

The entire change occurred between her ears and in her heart. She believed that she had broken through. She believed that she was better than 110 feet 10 inches.

After that state meet her sophomore year, her parents took her and my wife and I out for a steak feast in Des Moines. While we were eating dinner I told everyone what I had done 12 days earlier. As I told the story, Jill's mouth dropped open further and further. When I finished, Jill got mad! That's right! She got mad at me and said, "I can't believe that you would lie to me like that."

For a brief moment I felt bad. Then, I looked up at her. Looked her right in the eyes and said, "Jill, take one more look at that medal around your neck. Now you answer me this. Was I lying to you or were you lying to yourself for two years?"

I wonder how many people go through life lying to themselves about their potential and their ability to reach their dreams. I would venture a guess that 90%-95% of us do. Most of us are like Jill. We set our own barriers in our minds. We lie to ourselves.

When someone tries to encourage us, we usually respond with some negative answer. Psychologist, Shad Helmstetter, says that 70% of our self- talk is negative. (Self-talk is what we say to ourselves about ourselves). I agree, and I know Jill would agree too.

Don't lie to yourself, learn to take control of your mind. God gave each of us tremendous abilities and talents. I believe those talents are there to glorify Him. But, whether you believe that or not, don't lie to yourself.

Be the best possible you!

Copyright © Lee Ayers