Baby's Breath

The LORD God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.
Genesis 2:7

Nineteen years ago, I was a new mother. I'd always wanted to have a child, but, like most new parents, I was somewhat surprised at how overwhelming it was to keep my baby happy twenty-four hours a day.

One particular evening, my little son had been overly fussy, and both of us were worn out from his crying. Finally, exhausted, I lay down on the couch with the baby stretched across my chest. Both baby and I fell fast asleep.

A while later, I awoke to the bright glow of the moon shining through the window. I opened my eyes to find this tiny body still sprawled across me, his little hands tightly clenching the sides of my shirt. His bow-shaped mouth was slightly open, and his sweet baby breath caressed my face with each rise and fall of his chest. His skin was translucent, and his dear face was the picture of innocence bathed in the moonlight.

Tears came to my eyes as I realized that this delicate child, nestled close, had truly stolen my heart. I felt wondrously blessed to have this precious son.

From that moment on, whenever I grew frustrated with my attempts to keep my child satisfied -- and, believe me, over the next nineteen years, there were many of those times -- I'd transport myself back to that perfect night, to feel again the soft weight of his warm body on mine and his light breath blowing across my face.

PRAYER: Dear Lord, thank you for those moments in our lives that we can cherish forever when our spirits are low. When you breathed the power of the Holy Spirit upon us, you enabled us to see things through your wondrous eyes. May we always remember to cherish those moments that take our breath away and restore our souls. Amen.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/Babys-Breath.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

The Shopping Trip

Every action in our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity.
~Edwin Hubbel Chapin


"Jane, hurry and get your coat. We're going to the store."


I ran to do as my father instructed. A shopping trip with Dad was a rare treat. He traveled a great deal of the time, and I cherished the unexpected opportunity to be alone with him.


Once in the car, I asked, "Where are we going?"


Dad only smiled. "You'll see."


To my surprise, we didn't take the usual turn to the area's one department store. (This was in the pre-mall era.) Instead, we turned down an alley where small row houses lined the road. Dad parked the car, got out, and walked to the front door of the first house on the street.


Within a few minutes, he returned with Connor, a boy from our church.


I tried to hide my disappointment. I had wanted my father to myself. Now it looked as though I would have to share him with someone else.


"Hi, Connor," I mumbled, barely able to keep the resentment from my voice.


"Hi," he mumbled back. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt.


Dad drove to the store. Once inside, he steered us to the boys' clothing section. My indignation bubbled over. Not only did I have to share my dad, I had to endure looking at boring clothes for boys.


"Connor is going to receive his confirmation tomorrow," Dad said. "He'll need a suit to wear for the occasion."


Connor looked with wonder at the row of clothes.


Dad must have noticed my stiff posture for he drew me aside.


"We have an opportunity to help someone in need," he said in a quiet voice.
Finally, I understood and was ashamed at my lack of compassion. Connor came from a family of modest means where his single mother worked to provide for her four children. I guessed that Sunday clothes had no place in the budget.


With Dad's help, Connor chose a dark suit. I watched as Dad gently encouraged Connor to add a white shirt, tie, dress shoes, and socks. Connor's eyes grew wide as the purchases mounted.


"Th... thank you," he stuttered when we returned him home.


Dad smiled broadly. "You're welcome. And remember, this is our secret. Only your mother knows."


"Yes, sir."


"Thanks for coming with me," Dad said once Connor had gathered up his bags and run to the front door. "What if we stop and get a chocolate milkshake?"


I nodded, but without my customary eagerness for my favorite treat. I had a lot to think about. Other things began to make sense. I recalled holiday dinners where the table was filled with widows and others who were likely to be alone.


"Why," I had asked Dad at one time, "do we always have to invite those ladies to dinner? They never invite us to their houses."


Dad's answer has remained with me. "It's easy to invite those who can return the favor. Taking care of those who can't do something for us in return is the hallmark of love."


I didn't realize it at the time, but in those few words my father had given me the greatest definition of charity I would ever hear.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/The-Shopping-Trip.aspx?+style=color%3A%3F#0066ff;text-decoration:none;?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

How I Found My Running Partner

Beware of the chair!
~Author Unknown


One morning I started to sweat. Profusely. Just sitting down. I would have attributed it to hot flashes, but I knew those were years away. The accompanying pain in my left arm was what made me ask a neighbor for a ride to the emergency room.


The heart attack was minor in nature, but a major scare. Who knew that a size 2 forty-year-old who ate plenty of veggies, hated junk food, and only ate lean meats would be a candidate for heart problems? After one night of observation in the emergency room I headed home.


My doctor blamed my sedentary lifestyle for my new health problems and told me I needed to get some daily exercise. He said that because I worked at home, I lacked the need to go out, walk around an office building, walk at lunch, run for trains, and all that. I simply walked from my bedroom each morning, headed to the kitchen for coffee, and walked about 35 feet to my office. Sometimes still in my jammies.


He told me to start running. Slowly at first, maybe 50 feet, stop, walk, rest, run another 50 feet. He told me perhaps I could run each day with my husband, an accomplished headstrong runner who could do five miles a day without even breathing hard. I knew for a fact that my husband would never allow me to accompany him and slow him down, but I was ready to promise my doctor anything in order to stop the lecture.


The following day, Karen, the neighbor who had driven me to the hospital, came over to check on me. I told her I had my marching orders, or rather, my walking orders. Karen knew how much I detested exercising and laughed at my predicament.


Then she said, "I have an idea! Roxy loves to go to the park!" Roxy was her nine-year-old Lab, and we were crazy about each other. I frequently took her for her afternoon walks when Karen was away on business. "With my travel schedule, I can't take her as often as I'd like. Why don't you take her?"


Before I could answer, we heard some barking. Our yards were connected by a two-way gate that Roxy had mastered. As we watched her padding across the lawn and up my back stairs, we were astonished to see that Roxy had somehow managed to find her leash and bring it with her! As she pranced through the kitchen door, she proudly wagged her tail as she dropped the leash at my feet, and extended her paw in a "high five."


"How did you get her to do this?" I asked Karen. The entire episode smelled of conspiracy! Karen, however, couldn't stop laughing and swore up and down she had nothing to do with this!
I picked up the leash and headed out the front door with Roxy in tow. She led me down the block to the park where she promptly took off like a wild bronco! Up, down, around bushes and trees, other dogs, other owners, hills, dales and doggy hydrants. I couldn't even get her to slow down enough so I could take her leash off! And she seemed to know exactly what she was doing. She had this all planned! I finally begged for mercy as I sweated, gulped for air, and headed to the bubbler.


As I walked her home, Roxy was calm and kept glancing over at me with what looked like concern. She would slow down, look up, and when I nodded to say, "I'm fine, girl," she'd pick up the pace a bit.


The following day I had a deadline I was certain I wouldn't meet. Being a freelance writer, this was my life. As I worked diligently, I heard Roxy barking out back. This was nothing unusual -- Roxy loved to bark at the neighborhood squirrels and kids coming home from school. But something made me get up this time and go look.


Sure enough -- here came Roxy, leash in her mouth, heading up my kitchen stairs! Same time as the day before! I was sure Karen had put her up to it this time, so figuring Karen was hiding in the bushes outside, I called her cell phone, knowing she'd pick up.


"Okay, lady, how on Earth did you train Roxy to do this?"


Karen seemed befuddled. "Huh?"


"The leash thing! She looks so cute sitting here with the leash in her mouth!" I explained.


"She's at your house? Good grief! She must have gone out the doggy door in the basement. I am at the grocery store and she was sleeping when I left!"


I just looked down at Roxy, and I knew. This was her idea. She knew how to help me. And she was doing it.


This routine went on for almost three years. Every day, rain or shine, Roxy showed up with her leash and barked at my kitchen door. I could set my clock by her: 3:00 on the dot, every day.


My doctor was thrilled and I was feeling wonderful. I actually toned up with all this running and chasing and doggy babysitting. I loved spending time with Roxy. It gave me something to look forward to each day.


Even though I wasn't officially "jogging," I was certainly doing my share of running! Maybe without form, but certainly with lots of purpose. Roxy would never let me take off her leash! She seemed to instinctively know I needed to be attached to her in order to get better! Many of our doggy dates ended up with a healthy frozen yogurt at the park, which I lovingly shared with her.


Then one morning my phone rang very early. Caller ID told me it was Karen, and my heart skipped a beat. No one calls at 6:00 with good news.


I picked up the phone and simply said, "What's wrong?"


She was crying. "Can you come over?"


I ran through the backyard in my robe and slippers, not knowing what I'd find. Karen opened her kitchen door for me.


"She's gone. I can't believe it. I tried to wake her for breakfast and she was cold. At least she died in her sleep; she didn't suffer like I thought she might. I didn't want to tell you, but she had a bad heart. It was a matter of time."


I looked at our beloved Roxy, all curled up in her warm cozy bed, peaceful and quiet -- with her leash next to her, ready for our afternoon outing. I couldn't help but think that maybe we managed to keep each other alive a little longer than was meant to be.


That was almost ten years ago. I still run, but this time I have my own Lab, Sally, a gift from my husband.


It's now Sally's job to put me through my paces at the doggy park, and she does a marvelous job. Each day as we walk out the front door, Sally barks once, and wags her tail, looking at the large white urn on the bookshelf. This is where Roxy's ashes are, in loving memory. As I see Sally bark at the urn each day, I can't help but wonder, "Does she know?"

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/How-I-Found-My-Running-Partner.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

A Father's Love

Nearly fifty years ago, during one of my summer college vacations, my father drove me to my favorite fishing spot at Candlewood Lake in western Connecticut. The winding country road paralleled a beautiful little stream, about thirty feet wide, which flowed into the lake. As I soaked up the passing scenery, I decided to tell him about an idea I had been visualizing for several weeks, even if he thought it was outrageous.


We had taken this route many times before and had established a now-familiar routine. My father would bring me to the lake, carry my wheelchair to an easy location at the water's edge and then carry me to my wheelchair. He'd make one more trip from the car to bring me my fishing rod, spinning reel and tackle box, which also contained my snack. My mother was sure I'd get hungry.


Despite my cerebral palsy, I had found unique ways to cast my lure between fifty and one hundred feet. The biggest trick was how to hang onto the line after releasing the bail, and then let go of it at the right moment while casting. Believe me, there was a lot of trial and error in the backyard before I finally got the technique just right.


Truthfully, I never cared whether I caught any fish or not. I wanted to be out in nature by myself for awhile, just like other people. My father, another nature lover, understood perfectly well and, by mutual agreement, he would leave me at the lake for three or four hours before returning to pick me up. Only once did he have to return earlier than planned because of a sudden downpour; I was pretty wet by the time he arrived, but it really didn't matter. In fact, it was fun.


But on this particular day I asked him to pull over to the side of the road where we could easily see the gently moving stream.


"See that big rock out there in the middle?" I asked him.


"That flat one?" my father asked.


I had a hunch he knew what I was going to ask next. "Yes. Do you think you could carry me out there?"


He laughed at first, then said, "Let me take a look." I watched him walk to the edge of the stream, scouting for a way to step from rock to rock without getting wet. Then he began stepping carefully across the water until he was on my desired location. Though getting there did not look easy, he didn't get wet and it was obvious, as he looked all around, that he enjoyed the short journey. When he came back to the car, he said, "So you really want to fish out there?"


"Yes, I'd love to. I've always envied guys who fish standing in the water up to their knees or higher in the middle of a fast-moving stream. Several weeks ago, when we drove by here, I noticed that rock and thought it looked perfect for me, if you can just get me out there."


"Well, I'm game if you are," he said. So we began our routine, but in a different location this time. I watched him set up my wheelchair in the middle of the rock, making sure to put the brakes on, a very necessary precaution, especially in this case. Then he came back for me. Truly, I was a little scared as we went from one small rock to another because he could not use his arms for balancing as needed, but we somehow made it across the water. We were both relieved when I was sitting safely in my chair. After bringing me my usual equipment, he said he would return in a couple of hours.


And then I was alone.


The sounds of the rushing water got louder and it seemed to flow faster, as if saying, "What are you doing out here?" But I knew it was only my imagination and some of my fear of being there all by myself. "What ifs" began popping into my consciousness: What if Moby Dick grabs my lure and pulls me off this rock? What if the water rises? What if someone sees me out here and calls the fire or police department to rescue me? I quickly told myself how silly I was being and started appreciating how awesome the site truly was.


I began fishing and noticed that I could let the water's current carry my lure away instead of me casting it. I liked that. Fishermen really don't want to work too hard. Reeling it back to me was easy, despite the tug of the current, and I soon felt wonderfully calm as my lure went out and back, out and back. It was a beautiful day, and time flew by.


My father came back for me a little early that afternoon, but it didn't matter. I hadn't caught a thing, except great personal satisfaction from fulfilling a small dream. I also gained an awareness of how much my father loved me. He demonstrated it many times throughout my life, willingly taking risks for me, so that I too might experience what everyone else does.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/A-Fathers-Love.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

The Path of a College Entrepreneur

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Campus Chronicles

BY: Arthur Woods

Success is a journey, not a destination. The doing is often more important than the outcome.
~Arthur Ashe


8:05 A.M. March 5, 2007: Washington, DC


Jumping down from the top bunk in my freshman dorm room, I feel a rush of excitement. Immediately I remember how early it is and that I should avoid waking my roommate. But there is so much to do! I need to call members of the team to confirm plans for today. I need to contact the farm and make sure all is organized for the truck to navigate through the narrow streets of Georgetown. Mark Toigo is personally driving the Toigo Orchards products down to supply our first delivery.


We have over eighty orders... not bad for the first day. Our group of eight should be able to handle those, right? But wait, Georgetown's off-campus deliveries might be harder. I'll call two friends to stand by as backups.


I need to brainstorm a solid marketing pitch for our service. When people see us carrying bags of fruit and ask, "What is Mission Three?" I need to be ready with the perfect explanation: "Mission Three is a fresh farm delivery service... and it's called Mission Three because our three values are Health, Environment, and Community." A month and a half ago, on the back of my pre-calculus notebook, I had drawn out ideas to create a partnership with local farmers and deliver their products to students. Now the concept is becoming reality.


10:07 A.M. August 3, 2007: Taipei, Taiwan


What on earth am I doing in Taiwan? It's so crazy to think that after six hours of work in the library, we wrote and submitted a fifty-page business plan to an international entrepreneurial contest. We are now presenting the company in our second foreign country this summer -- the only American team here, and one of the youngest.


With a slight glance back, I think to myself that the Mission Three booth looks so much better after the improvements we made. In Panama it was decent, but nothing like this... custom banners showing our values, a quality image backdrop of Toigo Orchards, M3 canvas bags, the three of us in M3 shirts and even some Taiwanese fruit to show our efforts to always "keep it local."


I'm nervous about presenting the company to a panel of Taiwanese judges. I was told that our holistic approach might not jive with Asian sentiments. Nevertheless, I'll be content regardless of the outcome. I'm so glad that Julia, our head of philanthropy, is here to do the presentation with me. We can't go wrong when speaking from the heart about helping local farmers and offering affordable, healthy products to students.


9:56 P.M. November 16, 2007: Washington, DC


Running up the red brick staircase near the center of campus, I feel overwhelmed. The thought of finishing my business stats homework for my 8 A.M. class doesn't faze me. Mission Three is what's really on my mind; especially the daunting thought of the meeting that I just left. I think about how well the Georgetown team has done since we moved to restructure the company, but how stressful the whole thing has been. We have maintained well over one hundred weekly subscribers to our service, but each team member has had a difficult time balancing challenging classes with coordinating a delivery service.


I think about how significant tonight's meeting was, for the simple reason that it adjourned with all of the team leaders' resignations. I had loaded them with too much work and too much responsibility. I had failed to spread out the workload down the chain.


I am concerned about next semester. What will we do? We have a great website. We have another location starting at Loyola. But this is our home base. We can't lose it. We can't throw in the towel. We have to make it work. I have to make it work.


I think back to a little over a month ago when a good friend from home passed away. I had to coordinate many people to fill the gap I left when I departed for the week. I remember how much I believe that a good leader should never ask of his workers what he would not do himself, but also that good leader should know how to delegate and teach others. I now realize the extent to which I have not done enough of the latter.


10:30 P.M. May 6, 2008: Washington, DC


Opening the grand doors of the McDonough School of Business boardroom, where Mission Three is now able to meet, optimism fills my mind as I see our team members gather around the table. I initiate a discussion about the new website for our newly branded delivery service. I think about the future of the service: our new Georgetown team, the one in Loyola, and my hopes to position the service so it can serve more students with more products.


Finally, I move to the last item on our agenda, the discussion of a new concept. After a few nights of passionate, philosophical conversations followed up by copious diagrams and charts to explain the idea, I try to present it simply: an ethical consulting service focused on the areas of Health, Environment, and Community. Looking around the room, I see mixed expressions -- excitement, confusion, and apathy. I decide to explain a bit more: it's an ethical auditing service, whereby students are trained as consultants to analyze businesses and work with the business owners to set goals for improvements and create transparency for consumers. The expressions around the room are now a bit more relaxed and pleasant. I take that as a sign that perhaps it could work.


5:14 P.M. October 2, 2008: Viña Del Mar, Chile


Sipping a cup of coffee with my Chilean host family, I think about the multiple Skype calls I need to make tonight. I'm eager to get started on work now, yet I haven't been able to spend a lot of quality time with the family. Also, I could use more practice speaking Spanish, so I'll stick around at the table a little longer.


My excitement stems from the three services now under Mission Three, each at different stages, everything strongly moving forward. M3E Consulting now has fifteen team members and after receiving an award grant, it recently finished consulting its fifth client. We're launching a new college bike rental program called BorrowBike, and I am now at the drawing board with a new long-term concept: the establishment of a DC-based entrepreneurial incubation program that will offer an incredible learning experience to aspiring entrepreneurs.


Yeah sure, with these three endeavors I'm logging in more hours to Gmail and less to sleep, but that is to be expected. As far as studying in Chile for the semester, I have no regrets. The rich experience of being abroad is proving to be cultural and engaging. In fact, being out of the country, I'm finally learning the thing I never did quite well enough before: how to delegate. Our three services have depended on it and this truly has become the team endeavor that I always hoped for.


I feel a sense of accomplishment and joy, having had this experience at such an early age. However, at times it has been hard to backtrack and just be a student when I feel as though the entrepreneurial world is calling. Purely from a time management perspective, I have been challenged and stressed. At times, I have sacrificed my studies for my business interests. At times, this has left me desperate to find a way out and wishing that I had created a less complicated college life.


When I started Mission Three, I knew that this endeavor would provide me a remarkable hands-on learning experience; it definitely has. I have learned more about myself than I ever could have imagined. There were times along the way when my passion, commitment, and endurance were tested. Times when things looked bleak and when I considered giving up. I'm glad that I didn't.


I have come to realize that a college entrepreneur follows a path with many twists and turns. The most valuable results are not what lie at the end of that path; they lie in the journey it takes to get there.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/The-Path-of-a-College-Entrepreneur.aspx?+style=color%3A%3F#0066ff;text-decoration:none;?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Stumbling on the Path

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotional Stories for Women

BY: Gerri Kinley

He will not let your foot slip -- he who watches over you will not slumber; indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
Psalm 121:3-4


Early one morning, I was driving my daughter, Abigail, to ballet class. As usual, her younger siblings had come along. During the entire drive, the back seat of my minivan became a literal war zone. My three "angels" screamed and bickered as if their lives depended upon how high the volume could get! To make matters worse, my yelling from the driver's seat to make them stop only added to the pandemonium. My mind began to slowly drift off into a dark cloud of misery and guilt.


"I'm such a failure," I thought. "What kind of mother am I? What did I do wrong to produce this atmosphere with my children?"


In my mind, I wanted to be someplace far away. Turning on the radio was the quickest means of escape.


"Are you a mother of three, ages six and under?" said a voice from the radio. I perked up! "Do you feel angry and frustrated trying to deal with the incessant whining and fighting of toddlers? Well, you're not alone, and my guest today has something to say to you."


The guest happened to be a Christian psychiatrist eager to relate his experiences as a father.


"Every Saturday morning," the doctor began, "I give my wife a break from our kids. She leaves early in the morning and returns about midday. During this time, I feed and play with my children and attempt to get them to do their chores. My whole morning is so saturated with sibling rivalry that I find myself yearning for my wife's return. You know, I would actually rather listen to suicidal patients for the rest of the afternoon than have to remain in my wife's shoes!"


I can't remember what words of wisdom transpired beyond that candid admission. The only thing that mattered was that another person was stumbling on the parenthood path like me -- and a professional, no less, whom I assumed had all the answers!


I realized that this was no coincidental chance meeting via the air waves. God graciously showered me with encouragement and affirmation through the honest words of a struggling dad. In a desperate moment, my hand turned on the radio, but it was God, in His infinite wisdom, who orchestrated the timing.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/07/Stumbling-on-the-Path.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Courage in a Small and Furry Package

Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat

BY: Joanne Vukman

Fall seven times, stand up eight.
~Japanese Proverb


I got the call one day after school. My father had seen a little black and white kitten at the animal hospital where he used to work as a veterinarian before he started his own practice. It turned out the kitten and her mother were being fostered for the county animal shelter by a veterinarian technician. The mother cat had received a modified live virus distemper vaccine while pregnant. The vaccine infected the developing kittens. Only three were born live: one died later, one was suffering and had to be euthanized, and one was Penelope.


Penelope was about six weeks old when we took her, over my mother's protests that five cats were plenty. She couldn't be returned to the animal shelter, or she would be euthanized, and the woman fostering her couldn't have another cat. You see, Penelope was born with neurological damage that rendered her nearly unable to walk, or even to stand. Her hindquarters would randomly flip over her head, and she fell repeatedly. But she managed. She could always get where she wanted, even if it took her much longer than it would have taken a normal feline. She even had difficulty using the litter box, as she struggled to control her body long enough to do her business. Listening to her cry as she fought to hold still was heartbreaking, and more than once I steadied her. As she grew older, she learned to control her body. She was able to stand, and even to walk a dozen steps or more before falling.


Penelope was a comical cat. Watching her move, weaving from side to side, and seeing her jump up on beds and couches was always a surprise, since no one (including Penelope) knew where she would end up. It was not at all uncommon to see her smash into a wall or corner, or to miss her jump and land on the other side of a bed, rather than on top of it. We winced for her between our chuckles. The other cats didn't accept her, and never did. Only one tolerated her; the rest hissed and made it clear she was not welcome.


One would think that, in the face of all her adversity, Penelope would just give up and become a sullen, miserable cat. After all, she struggled to walk and jump, was almost always bruised from her crashes, and she was hated by her fellow felines. But she kept on going. She was a spunky, feisty, determined little cat. And she was little -- she matured at about six pounds, by far the smallest of our six cats. She held her own with the other cats and pushed around the dogs, all of whom were in the hundred pound range; she lived her life to the fullest. We soon gave up trying to keep her inside when it became clear she wanted nothing more than to enjoy the outdoors at will. Penelope lived her life to the fullest.


One day, a little less than a year and a half after that telephone call from my dad, we realized Penelope was not acting like herself. However, her lethargy was not terribly serious, and she did seem to have improved over the few hours we were watching her, so we didn't worry too much. Two days later, I called home from college to check on her. My mom answered my question "How's Nellie doing?" with the words "I was hoping you wouldn't call."


Penelope had died a little earlier. I listened to the details while holding back sobs. She had a bruised lung, bleeding in her chest, and other injuries, which we suppose were the result of being hit by a car. Those six pounds of black and white fur spoke volumes about courage in the face of adversity. She never cried about the pain she surely suffered every day as a result of her frequent falls. She never stopped trying to do what she wanted. She was a once-in-a-lifetime cat, the kind who can teach you more about life and bravery in a short year or two than the average person learns in a lifetime. Penelope was proof that a willing soul can do anything if it
just tries hard enough.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/06/Courage-in-a-Small-and-Furry-Package.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter