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