[The Sanctuary] - Stories 4

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Towers of Emotions - Stories 4

Keeper : The Towers of Emotions. A place where followers of The Truth were sent to realise themselves. They were kept in the towers for three days and three nights to produce well-rounded beings. The followers were at first frightened but since they had nothing to do, they had to sit down and read all the works of brilliant folks. Three days and three nights later, they were released and within, they were much better people.

Note : This is a place where you can read compiled stories and poetry that I find truly reveal the truth in us. This is a place where emotions are honored as god-given rights. Feel free to delve deep into your inner being and learn that there is still peace within you. Most of the master pieces below have been obtained from Chicken Soup for the Soul : Home Delivery. I would like to take this opportunity to thank a special friend who subscribed me to this free service.
Index
Poetry
Believe in Yourself
The Most Beautiful Flower

Stories
Barriers or Hurdles?
The Day I Finally Cried
The Obstacle in Our Path

The Obstacle in Our Path

In ancient times, a king had a boulder placed on a roadway. Then he hid himself and watched to see if anyone would remove the huge rock. Some of the kingdom's wealthiest merchants and courtiers came by and simply walked around it. Many loudly blamed the king for not keeping the roads clear, but none did anything about getting the big stone out of the way. Then a peasant came along, carrying a load of vegetables. On approaching the boulder, the peasant laid down his burden and tried to move the stone to the side of the road. After much pushing and straining, he finally succeeded.

As the peasant picked up his load of vegetables, he noticed a purse lying in the road where the boulder had been. The purse contained many gold coins and a note from the king indicating that the gold was for the person who removed the boulder from the roadway.

The peasant learned what many others never understand: Every obstacle presents an opportunity to improve one's condition.

By Brian Cavanaugh
from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk

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Believe in Yourself

Set your standards high
You deserve the best.
Try for what you want
And never settle for less.
Believe in yourself
No matter what you choose.
Keep a winning attitude
And you can never lose.
Think about your destination
But don’t worry if you stray
Because the most important thing
Is what you’ve learned along the way.
Take all that you’ve become
To be all that you can be.
Soar above the clouds
And let your dreams set you free.

by Jillian K. Hunt
from Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul
Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap

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The Most Beautiful Flower

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With it’s petals all worn - not enough rain or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too.
That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow, or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower and replied, "Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it in midair without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
"You’re welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world, the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that’s mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

By Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey
from A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen

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The Day I Finally Cried

I didn't cry when I learned that I was the parent of a mentally handicapped child. I just sat still and didn't say anything while my husband and I were informed that two-year-old Kristi was - as we suspected - retarded.

"Go ahead and cry," the doctor advised kindly. "Helps prevent serious emotional difficulties."

Serious difficulties not withstanding, I couldn't cry then nor during the months that followed. When Kristi was old enough to attend school, we enrolled her in our neighborhood kindergarten at age seven.

It would have been comforting to cry that day I left her in that room full of self-assured, eager, alert five-year-olds. Kristi had spent hours upon hours playing by herself, but this moment, when she was the different child among twenty, was probably the loneliest she had ever known.

However, positive things began to happen to Kristi in her school and to her schoolmates too. When boasting of their own accomplishments, Kristi's classmates always took pains to praise her as well: "Kristi got all her spelling words right today." No one bothered to add that her spelling list was easier then anyone else's.

During Kristi's second year in school, she faced a very traumatic experience. The big public event of the term was a competition based on a culmination of the year's music and physical education activities. Kristi was way behind in both music and motor coordination. My husband and I dreaded the day as well.

On the day of the program, Kristi pretended to be sick. Desperately I wanted to keep her home. Why let Kristi fail in a gymnasium filled with parents, students and teachers? What a simple solution it would be just to let my child stay home. Surely missing one program couldn't matter. But my conscience wouldn't let me off that easily. So I practically shoved a pale, reluctant Kristi onto the school bus and proceeded to be sick myself.

Just as I had forced my daughter to go to school, now I forced myself to go to the program. It seemed that it would never be time for Kristi's group to perform. When at last they did, I knew why Kristi had been worried. Her class was divided into relay teams. With her limp and slow, clumsy reactions, she would surely hold up her team.

The performance went surprising well, though, until it was time for the gunnysack race. Now each child had to climb into the sack from a standing position, hop to a goal line, return and climb out of the sack.

I watched Kristi standing near the end of her line of players, looking frantic.

But as Kristi's turn to practice neared, a change took place in her team. The tallest boy in the line stepped behind Kristi and placed his hands on her waist. Two other boys stood a little ahead of her. The moment the player in front of Kristi stepped for the sack, those two boys grabbed the sack and held it open while the tall boy lifted Kristi and dropped her neatly into it. A girl in front of Kristi took her hand and supported her briefly until Kristi gained her balance. Then off she hopped, smiling and proud.

Amid the cheers of teachers, schoolmates and parents, I crept off by myself to thank God for the warm, understanding people in life who make it possible for my disabled daughter to be like her fellow human beings.

Then I finally cried.

By Meg Hill
from Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul
by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Heather McNamara
Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen

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Barriers Or Hurdles?

Children were enthusiastically rehearsing and decorating the rural school for their approaching concert. As I glanced up from my teacher's desk, Patty stood waiting to lodge her urgent request.

"Every year I g-g-g-get to do quiet stuff. The other kids are always in a p-p-p-play or something. Talking. This year, I w-w-want to do a p-p-p-poem, myself!"

As I looked into those eager eyes, all possible excuses fizzled. Patty's yearning drew from me a promise that in a day or two she would have a special part - a "reciting" part. That promise proved to be very difficult to keep.

None of my resource books had any useful selections. In desperation, I stayed up most of the night writing a poem, carefully avoiding those letters that trick the tongue. It was not great literature, but it was custom-tailored to cope with Patty's speech problem.

After only a few brief readings, Patty had memorized all the verses and was prepared to dash through them. Somehow we had to control that rush without shattering her enthusiasm. Day after day, Patty and I plodded through recitals. She meticulously matched her timing to my silent mouthing. She accepted the drudgery, eagerly anticipating her first speaking part.

Concert night found the children in a frenzy of excitement.

In a dither the master of ceremonies came to me, waving his printed program. "There has been a mistake! You have listed Patty for a recitation. That girl can't even say her own name without stuttering." Because there was not time enough for explanations, I brushed his objection aside with, "We know what we are doing."

The entertainment was moving well. As item after item was presented, parents and friends responded with encouraging applause.

When it was time for the questionable recitation, the MC again challenged me, insisting that Patty would embarrass everyone. Losing patience, I snapped, "Patty will do her part. You do yours. Just introduce her number."

I flitted past the curtains and sat on the floor at the foot of the audience. The MC appeared flustered as he announced, "The next recitation will be by . . .um . . . Patty Connors." An initial gasp from the audience was followed by strained silence.

The curtain parted to show Patty, radiant, confident.

Those hours of rehearsing took possession of the moment. In perfect control, the little charmer synchronized her words to my silent mouthing below the footlights. She articulated each syllable with controlled clarity, and without a splutter or stammer. With eyes sparkling, she made her triumphant bow.

The curtain closed. A hushed silence held the audience. Gradually the stillness gave way to suppressed chuckles, and then to enthusiastic applause.

Utterly thrilled, I floated backstage. My little heroine threw her arms around me and, bubbling with joy, blurted out, "We d-d-d-did it!"

By Irvine Johnston
from Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul
by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Heather McNamara
Copyright 1999 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen

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