Read Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (9 page)
Sandy’s story is not unusual. Many single parents and older people grapple with our economic structure, falling into the crevice between being truly self-sufficient and being sufficiently impoverished to gain government assistance.
What makes Sandy unusual is her outlook.
“I don’t have much in the way of stuff or the American dream,” she told me with a genuine smile.
“Does that bother you?” I asked.
“Sometimes. When I see another little girl around my daughter’s age who has nice clothes and toys, or who is riding around in a fancy car or living in a fine house, then I feel bad. Everyone wants to do well by their children,” she replied.
“But you’re not bitter?”
“What’s to be bitter about? We aren’t starving or freezing to death, and I have what is really important in life,” she replied.
“And what is that?” I asked.
“As I see it, no matter how much stuff you buy, no matter how much money you make, you really only get to keep three things in life,” she said.
“What do you mean by ‘keep’?”
“I mean that nobody can take these things away from you.”
“And what are these three things?” I asked.
“One, your experiences; two, your true friends; and three, what you grow inside yourself,” she told me without hesitation.
For Sandy, “experiences” don’t come on a grand scale. They are so-called ordinary moments with her daughter, walks in the woods, napping under a shade tree, listening to music, taking a warm bath or baking bread.
Her definition of friends is more expansive. “True friends are the ones who never leave your heart, even if they leave your life for a while. Even after years apart, you pick up with them right where you left off, and even if they die, they’re never dead in your heart,” she explained.
As for what we grow inside, Sandy said, “That’s up to each of us, isn’t it? I don’t grow bitterness or sorrow. I could if I wanted to, but I’d rather not.”
“So what do you grow?” I asked.
Sandy looked warmly at her daughter and then back to me. She pointed toward her own eyes, which were aglow with tenderness, gratitude and a sparkling joy.
“I grow this.”
Philip Chard
Submitted by Laurie Waldron
Being a mother of two very active boys, ages seven and one, I am sometimes worried about their making a shambles of my carefully decorated home. In their innocence and play, they occasionally knock over my favorite lamp or upset my well-designed arrangements. In these moments when nothing feels sacred, I remember the lesson I learned from my wise mother-in-law, Ruby.
Ruby is the mother of 6 and grandmother of 13. She is the embodiment of gentleness, patience and love.
One Christmas, all the children and grandchildren were gathered as usual at Ruby’s home. Just the month before, Ruby had bought beautiful new white carpeting after living with the “same old carpet” for over 25 years. She was overjoyed with the new look it gave her home.
My brother-in-law, Arnie, had just distributed his gifts for all the nieces and nephews—prized homemade honey from his beehives. They were excited. But as fate would have it, eight-year-old Sheena spilled her tub of honey on Grandma’s new carpeting and trailed it throughout the entire downstairs of the house.
Crying, Sheena ran into the kitchen and into Grandma Ruby’s arms. “Grandma, I’ve spilled my honey all over your brand new carpet.”
Grandma Ruby knelt down, looked tenderly into Sheena’s tearful eyes and said, “Don’t worry sweetheart, we can get you more honey.”
Lynn Robertson
It was 1933. I had been laid off my part-time job and could no longer make my contribution to the family larder. Our only income was what Mother could make by doing dressmaking for others.
Then Mother was sick for a few weeks and unable to work. The electric company came out and cut off the power when we couldn’t pay the bill. Then the gas company cut off the gas. Then the water company. But the Health Department made them turn the water back on for reasons of sanitation. The cupboard got very bare. Fortunately, we had a vegetable garden and were able to cook some of its produce in a campfire in the back yard.
Then one day my younger sister came tripping home from school with, “We’re supposed to bring something to school tomorrow to give to the poor.”
Mother started to blurt out, “I don’t know of anyone who is any poorer than we are,” when her mother, who was living with us at the time, shushed her with a hand on her arm and a frown.
“Eva,” she said, “if you give that child the idea that she is ‘poor folks’ at her age, she will be ‘poor folks’ for the rest of her life. There is one jar of that homemade jelly left. She can take that.”
Grandmother found some tissue paper and a little bit of pink ribbon with which she wrapped our last jar of jelly, and Sis tripped off to school the next day proudly carrying her “gift to the poor.”
And ever after, if there was a problem in the community, Sis just naturally assumed that she was supposed to be part of the solution.
Edgar Bledsoe
My friend Mark Tucker produces and delivers multimedia slide presentations to audiences across the country.
One night, following one of his shows on the East Coast, a woman came up to him and said, “You know, you really should be using my son’s music in your show.”
So Mark started to give her the usual rap. First, her son should make a demo tape. It didn’t have to be professional, he explained. In fact, her son could just go into his bedroom and play some simple chords on his guitar—just enough to give Mark an idea of the type of music he played.
After he had explained the whole process, the woman gave him a funny look and said, “Well, my son is Billy Joel.”
As soon as he had recovered from the shock, Mark quickly assured her that her son would not need to send a demo tape! He then listened as this woman urged him to consider using one particular song her son had written. She felt it contained a positive message about self-worth that would fit Mark’s work beautifully. And she went on to describe how the seeds of that song had been planted in early childhood.
As a young boy, she explained, Billy Joel often wanted to be someone else, someone different from who he was. It seems he was teased a lot because he was shorter than the rest of the kids. It was common for him to come home from school or play and complain that he wasn’t good enough. And he truly believed that if he could be just a little taller, then he’d be okay.
His mother, of course, never believed for a minute that her son was anything less than perfect. So every time he expressed something negative about himself, she said to him, “Don’t worry—it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to be like anyone else because you’re already perfect. We’re all unique, we’re all different. And you, too, have something wonderful to share with the world. I love you just the way you are.”
Remember that old expression about words coming back to haunt you? In this case, the words of a mother who unconditionally loved her son came back many years later in the form of a song. You see, as Billy Joel grew up, he learned who he was and he found his dream of creating music for the world. And millions of people got to hear with their hearts, as his mother did, the words of his Grammy Award-winning song:
Don’t go changin’
to try and please me ...
I love you just the way you are.
Jennifer Read Hawthorne
“Just the Way You Are,”lyrics by Billy Joel,copyright1977Impulsive Music.
All rights reserved. Used by permission.
W
hen asked how she still appears young despite her difficult lifestyle, Mother Teresa replied, “Sometimes a good feeling from inside is worth much more than a beautician.”
For Mother’s Day, Jeannie had put considerable effort and planning into buying something very special for her mother, Bess. She had carefully put together the cost of an image consultation gift certificate out of her first few paychecks. On the appointed day, this young daughter brought her shy, plain mother to my studio.
During the color draping and makeover, Bess confessed that she had concentrated on her family for years and ignored herself. Consequently she had never even considered what clothes looked good on her or how to apply her makeup.
As I placed pretty colors close to her face, she began to blossom, though she didn’t seem to realize it. After applying the finishing touches of blush and lipstick to enhance her coloring, I invited her to view herself in the big cheval mirror. She took a long look, as if she were surveying a stranger, then edged closer and closer to her image. Finally, staring open-mouthed, she touched the mirror lightly. “Jeannie,” she motioned, “come here.” Drawing her daughter beside her, she pointed toward the image. “Jeannie, look at me. I’m beautiful!”
The young woman smiled at the older woman in the mirror with tears in her eyes. “Yes, Mother, you have always been—beautiful.”
Charlotte Ward
When Angela was very young,
Age two or three or so,
Her mother and her father
Taught her never to say NO.
They taught her that she must agree
With everything they said,
And if she didn’t, she was spanked
And sent upstairs to bed.
So Angela grew up to be
A most agreeable child;
She was never angry
And she was never wild;
She always shared, she always cared,
She never picked a fight,
And no matter what her parents said,
She thought that they were right.
Angela the Angel did very well in school
And, as you might imagine, she followed every rule;
Her teachers said she was so well-bred,
So quiet and so good,
But how Angela felt inside
They never understood.
Angela had lots of friends
Who liked her for her smile;
They knew she was the kind of gal
Who’d go the extra mile;
And even when she had a cold
And really needed rest,
When someone asked her if she’d help
She always answered Yes.
When Angela was thirty-three, she was a lawyer’s wife.
She had a home and family, and a nice suburban life.
She had a little girl of four
And a little boy of nine,
And if someone asked her how she felt
She always answered, “Fine.”
But one cold night near Christmastime
When her family was in bed,
She lay awake as awful thoughts went spinning through her head;
She didn’t know why, and she didn’t know how,
But she wanted her life to end;
So she begged Whoever put her here
To take her back again.
And then she heard, from deep inside,
A voice that was soft and low;
It only said a single word
And the word it said was...NO.
From that moment on, Angela knew
Exactly what she had to do.
Her life depended on that word,
So this is what her loved ones heard:
NO, I just don’t want to;
NO, I don’t agree;
NO, that’s yours to handle;
NO, that’s wrong for me;
NO, I wanted something else;
NO, that hurt a lot!
NO, I’m tired, and NO, I’m busy,
And NO, I’d rather not!
Well, her family found it shocking,
Her friends reacted with surprise;
But Angela was different, you could see it in her eyes;
For they’ve held no meek submission
Since that night three years ago
When Angela the Angel
Got permission to say NO.
Today Angela’s a person first, then a mother and a wife.
She knows where she begins and ends,
She has a separate life.
She has talents and ambitions,
She has feelings, needs and goals.
She has money in the bank and
An opinion at the polls.
And to her boy and girl she says,
“It’s nice when we agree;
But if you can’t say NO, you’ll never grow
To be all you’re meant to be.
Because I know I’m sometimes wrong
And because I love you so,
You’ll always be my angels
Even when you tell me NO.”
Barbara K. Bassett
