By Barbara S. Canale
What the daughter does, the mother did.
~Jewish Proverb
As I was flying home from Romania, my newly adopted daughter Andrea resting comfortably on my lap, I thought about all the things I would not pass onto her genetically. I wondered if someday we would have anything in common. I shed any expectation I might have for her on that flight to America. Oh sure, I wanted her to be healthy and happy, but I did not want to mold her into my image, or force her to live up to the monumental expectations of society. I wanted her to simply be, to grow, learn and develop on her own accord. However, once we were home, it became evident that Andrea needed a lot of medical help to grow, learn and develop.
Many wonderful doctors and therapists helped Andrea navigate through life, and she began to thrive after a few months. Andrea's talents began to emerge with a vengeance. The first gift that I noticed was her ability to smile and be friendly to those around her. She mastered her socialization skills early. Later, I recognized her ability to sing, act and entertain. She was blossoming before my eyes, and sometimes I daydreamed about who she would grow up to be.
Before she entered kindergarten, she underwent a myriad of tests to ascertain if she was emotionally and physically ready for school. When the speech therapist called me, I was alarmed.
"Andrea is a lovely child," Colleen, the therapist, began. "I don't want you to be concerned. Andrea's speech is on target."
"Oh, thank goodness," I stammered, feeling instantly relieved.
"I feel compelled to tell you something you might not know about your daughter."
"Oh?"
"Andrea is quite the storyteller," she said cheerfully. "We don't usually see children her age with the ability to tell such elaborate stories."
"Really?"
"Yes. Typically, I show the children a picture of an object and hope they can identify it using a partial or complete sentence," she said, pausing slightly. "I showed Andrea a picture of a bird. She adjusted her glasses, and then slapped her forehead when she saw it and said, 'It's a mockingbird, of course. It goes tweet, tweet all night long, perched in a cherry tree outside my mother's bedroom window, and it keeps her awake every single night. And that's not all. My mother wants to shoot it, but she knows she can't do that because it's against the law and we don't have a gun!'"
"Oh, my," I said sheepishly. "Andrea is a chatty and gregarious girl."
"In this case, it's a very good thing," Colleen said.
When I hung up the phone, I smiled, believing Andrea and I had something wonderful in common: We were both storytellers.
As she grew up, I enjoyed reading her essays, which brought rave reviews from her teachers. One day, Andrea showed me a story she had written. "I was asked to write something about bullying," she said softly. "Would you read it and give me your opinion?"
While she made hot cocoa to go with her chocolate-chip cookies, I read the essay. When I had finished her story, I could barely speak. My mouth hung open a few minutes before my brain could form the message I wanted to deliver. "This essay is phenomenal! You are a remarkable writer."
Andrea smiled humbly. "Thank you."
"Andrea, you need to enter this essay in a writing contest," I said, full of encouragement. "I know the perfect one." I shuffled through the papers that cluttered my desk. "I just know you are going to win."
"Really?" she squealed with excitement.
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"Yes," I said matter-of-factly, "and the prize is fifty dollars!"
Andrea submitted the story and waited patiently for an answer, which seemed to take forever to arrive. We were excited beyond words the day the contest results were in. I could see the disappointment on her face as she read the letter. I felt responsible for her grief, and I blamed myself for setting her up for failure. I couldn't understand how her story didn't even rank an "honorable mention." I set her rejection letter aside and mulled it over a few days. Then an idea came to me.
I slid my arms around her tiny frame and reminded her how good her story was.
"Do you know what I think you should do?" I asked.
"Try again?" she said awkwardly.
"Sort of," I began. "As a freelance writer, I get rejection letters all the time, but I do not take them personally. Neither should you." I sighed deeply as I wondered if I was making matters worse. "Trust me," I said. "You don't have anything to lose, but so much to gain by sending it out again." I swallowed hard. "Publishing this story could be the beginning of a wonderful career, but you don't know until you try."
Her jaw dropped open. "Are you kidding?"
"I think you should send it to Chicken Soup for the Soul. They are seeking stories for a new book dedicated to middle-school students. That's the perfect venue for your story." I powered on my computer and showed Andrea how to submit a story online. "Now, we wait."
The day her congratulations letter arrived, I ran down the street to meet her at the bus stop. I was waving the letter wildly, shrieking, "Andrea, you did it!"
She climbed off the bus wearing a quizzical grin. "Did what?"
"Chicken Soup for the Soul wants your story!" I yelled as I hugged her. She dropped her backpack, and together we jumped up and down like we had just won the lottery. "The reason you didn't win that contest is because your story belonged in a Chicken Soup for the Soul book." As I walked home from the bus stop embracing my fifteen-year-old daughter, my thoughts drifted to the day I brought her home, wondering who she would grow up to be. I felt dismayed that I couldn't pass along something of mine to her genetically, but God made sure it happened anyway. My little storyteller became quite the writer, just like me.
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