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(Erik's Webhome Online) |
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
The Cookie Thief
Stories
As A Man Soweth
My Hero
A woman was waiting at an airport one night,
With several long hours before her flight.
She hunted for a book in the airport shop,
Bought a bag of cookies and found a place to drop.
She was engrossed in her book, but happened to see,
That the man beside her, as bold as could be,
Grabbed a cookie or two from the bag between,
Which she tried to ignore, to avoid a scene.
She read, munched cookies, and watched the clock,
As the gutsy "cookie thief" diminished her stock.
She was getting more irritated as the minutes ticked by,
Thinking, "If I wasn't so nice, I'd blacken his eye!"
With each cookie she took, he took one too.
When only one was left, she wondered what he'd do.
With a smile on his face and a nervous laugh,
He took the last cookie and broke it in half.
He offered her half, as he ate the other.
She snatched it from him and thought, "Oh brother,
This guy has some nerve, and he's also rude,
Why, he didn't even show any gratitude!"
She had never known when she has been so galled,
And sighed with relief when her flight was called.
She gathered her belongings and headed for the gate,
Refusing to look back at the "thieving ingrate."
She boarded the plane and sank in her seat,
Then sought her book, which was almost complete.
As she reached in her baggage, she gasped with surprise:
There was her bag of cookies in front of her eyes!
"If mine are here," she moaned with despair,
"Then the others were his and he tried to share!"
Too late to apologize, she realized with grief,
That she was the rude one, the ingrate, the thief!
When I was in junior high, the eighth-grade bully punched me in the stomach. Not only did it hurt and make me angry, but the embarrassment and humiliation were almost intolerable. I wanted desperately to even the score! I planned to meet him by the bike racks the next day and let him have it.
For some reason, I told my plan to Nana, my grandmother - big mistake. She gave me one of her hour-long lectures (that woman could really talk). The lecture was a total drag, but among other things, I vaguely remember her telling me that I didn’t need to worry about him. She said, "Good deeds beget good results, and evil deeds beget bad results." I told her, in a nice way, of course, that I thought she was full of it. I told her that I did good things all the time, and all I got in return was "baloney!" (I didn’t use that word.) She stuck to her guns, though. She said, "Every good deed will come back to you someday, and every bad thing you do will also come back to you."
It took me 30 years to understand the wisdom of her words. Nana was living in a board-and-care home in Laguna Hills, California. Each Tuesday, I came by and took her out to dinner. I would always find her neatly dressed and sitting in a chair right by the front door. I vividly remember our very last dinner together before she went into the convalescent hospital. We drove to a nearby simple little family-owned restaurant. I ordered pot roast for Nana and a hamburger for myself. The food arrived and as I dug in, I noticed that Nana wasn’t eating. She was just staring at the food on her plate. Moving my plate aside, I took Nana’s plate, placed it in front of me, and cut her meat into small pieces. I then placed the plate back in front of her. As she very weakly, and with great difficulty, forked the meat into her mouth, I was struck with a memory that brought instant tears to my eyes. Forty years previously, as a little boy sitting at the table. Nana had always taken the meat on my plate and cut it into small pieces so I could eat it.
It had taken 40 years, but the good deed had been repaid. Nana was right. We reap exactly what we sow. "Every good deed you do will someday come back to you."
What about the eighth-grade bully?
He ran into the ninth-grade bully.
By Mike Buetelle
from A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1995 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
It is Thursday. I hate Thursday. Today, multitudes of parents and children make long trips in order to arrive at this destination ... hell. It is a crowded and noisy place. It is a place where people do not smile, a place where pain and fear lurk around every corner. I exit the elevator on the fourth floor, turn the far-too-familiar corner, and sit in the uncomfortable chair. People are all around me, yet I am alone. Although my journey has just begun for today, it is not an unfamiliar one. I have been here many times before. Twenty-one grooves in each tile. I have counted them often. I settle myself in my chair because I know it may be some time before my name is called. Suddenly, I hear a strange sound. It is a laugh. I can hardly believe it, for no one laughs on Thursday. Thursday is chemo day on 4B.
I scan the crowded reception area, looking for the source of the laughter. I note child after child, parent after parent. They all look the same - tired and frightened. I am certain each is thinking the same thought: Why is the treatment worse than the disease? My eyes lock on one particular mother who is holding her baby, a boy of about eight months. The laugh is his. He is bouncing on his mother’s knee. It is obvious this is the child’s favorite game. The mother’s face is one big smile. She relishes the brief moments of happiness in her son’s short life. She realizes it may be a while before he has the strength to smile again. He, too, has been chosen to suffer an unfair and uncertain fate. My eyes fill with tears.
I shift in my seat to get a better view of the baby. I stare at his small, bald head. Baldness is not unusual in an infant, but I know why he is hairless. Suddenly I become angry with myself. I despise it when people stare at me; however, here I am sharing the stares I abhor.
I shift my weight once again and sink more deeply into the groove of my chair. A rush of emotions - anger, fear, sadness, pity - surge through me. I remain deeply engrossed in my thoughts for a long time. A booming voice interrupts my reverie. It is the nurse summoning mother and baby into hell. Simultaneously the bouncing and laughing cease. The mother picks up her son. As they walk past me, I look at the baby once more. He is completely calm. His eyes are bright and there is an expression of complete trust on his tiny face. I know that I will never forget that expression.
This is but one of many Thursdays. However, on this particular Thursday, many months into a seemingly endless series of treatments, I learned a lesson from a little baby. He changed my life. He taught me that anger, tears and sadness are only for those who have given up. He also taught me to trust. This I will carry with me always. Today, my little hero is doing fine. His last treatment is in sight and his future looks bright. I can honestly say that I am a little surprised. That bright-eyed baby appeared so pale and sick that day. However, that was before I learned to trust.
Everyone, some sooner than others, must endure his or her own personal "hell on earth." It is important to keep searching for the small joys, although they are sometimes the most elusive. Trust that these joys will appear, sometimes unexpectedly, and often in life’s darkest moments ... for instance, in the smile on a baby’s face.
By Katie Gill
from Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubery &
Nancy Mitchell, R.N.
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