Have a Little Faith

Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Book of Miracles

BY: Emily Weaver

So then, don't be afraid. I will provide for you and your children.
~Genesis 50:21

I don't think my husband and I really understood what we had gotten ourselves into. Sure we knew things would be tough. We were both still in college, newly married, and our first baby had just been born. Life was chaotic, money was short, but we had more than enough love to get us through. What more did we need?

Life soon taught us that love doesn't put food on the table, nor does love magically make baby formula appear.

This reality was all too real as I looked helplessly at the neatly lined-up canisters of baby formula on the drugstore shelf. There were dozens of varieties. Name brand, off-brand, specialty, soy- and lactose-free. The one thing they had in common, however, was that they were all out of my price range.

I opened my purse for the hundredth time that morning and wanted to cry. I had $2.23. Not enough for a can of formula.

My sweet baby boy was sleeping in the shopping cart and at that moment panic set in. What would happen when he was hungry and I had nothing to give him? Sure I could ask my mom for help or my mother-in-law, but considering they were miles away, it wouldn't help me today. An unexpected car repair had taken every extra dime we'd had that month. And now my baby was going to go hungry.

I bought four packages of ramen noodles instead, and silently wondered if they were on the list of "okay foods for a three-month-old infant."

My husband was waiting for us in the car and after securing the baby I plopped into the passenger seat.

"What are we doing?" I choked back a sob. "We are barely making rent, barely getting studying done, and now we can't buy formula for our baby! We don't even deserve him."

My husband took my hand and kissed it, with tears of his own forming.

"Have a little faith, Em," he told me. "We knew it was going to be hard. I'll think of something. I won't let our baby starve, and neither will God."
At that moment something in me just snapped. My husband always had to throw the "faith" card into everything. I had never been one to pin my hopes on such an abstract idea and at that moment it seemed almost comically frustrating to me.

"Faith?" I asked in a snide tone. "You think faith is going to, right this minute, feed our newborn? Do you think faith is going to magically fill our fridge? If God really wanted to help us He would have never given us a beautiful baby and then allowed him to go hungry. Faith hasn't helped us much up to this point, Ryan. Why should it suddenly help us now?"

Ryan was quiet. He didn't chastise me, or lecture me, or even say anything to make me feel his disapproval. He just kissed my hand again and started the car.

"Well, I still have faith," was all he said.

The ride home was silent. I was worried about the night ahead. I had enough formula for one bottle, maybe two if I mixed it thin. In the morning I would call my mom, swallow my pride, and ask her to transfer money into my checking account. If only I could have bought one can of formula to tide us over until payday. Still, better to put away the ego and ask for help instead of letting my baby starve, I supposed.

My thoughts were interrupted as Ryan pulled into the small post office parking lot.

"Stopping for the mail," he announced. "I forgot to get it yesterday."

Our apartment complex didn't offer mail service so we had to stop at the post office every day and check our P.O. box. It was rainy and cold and I cursed this inconvenience as I hopped out of the car.

I inserted the key into our box and was surprised to find another key nestled among the pile of letters. Attached to it was a note:

"You have received a package that was too large for your post office box. Please use this key to retrieve it in box 40C."

What could the package be? We weren't expecting any sort of large delivery.

I located box 40C and turned the key. When the door opened my heart skipped a beat. I instantly recognized the symbol on the large box as the logo of the baby formula we had been using for our son. With all the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, I tore open the package to find two full-sized cans of formula inside, with a coupon for two more free cans to be redeemed at the store.

Still in shock, I ran outside to my waiting husband. I showed him the precious delivery and began to cry tears of relief. Knowing my child wouldn't go hungry that day or the rest of the week even, was the most uplifting sensation I had ever experienced.

"I don't know what to think," I told Ryan. "I can't believe that today, of all days, we would be so lucky to get free formula samples."

"Do you have faith now?" Ryan asked me with a smile.

That day was the beginning of my own relationship with God. I learned He is always by our side. He never lets us walk alone. We just have to have a little faith.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/10/Have-a-Little-Faith.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Define Normal

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Family Matters

BY: Natalie June Reilly

Divorce: The past tense of marriage.
~Author Unknown

The house is deathly quiet now, but I swear I can still hear my poor Jeep Grand Cherokee panting heavily out in the garage after toting seven-plus Reillys around town for the past seven-plus days. Ah, the out-of-town guests have left for home; they boarded a plane just this morning and I am finally free to sit down at my laptop in my skivvies with a tall Coke and a short line to the little girl's room.

For the past week I have been entertaining my out-of-town in-laws; I took them to and from the airport, hauled them around town, fed them my famous homemade fried potatoes and scrambled cheese eggs for breakfast, played board games and charades around the kitchen table with all of the kids for hours and employed every sleep-able piece of furniture I own. When the boys weren't at my ex-husbands house -- taking full-advantage of the ultimate bachelor's pad -- my cozy, little house was stuffed like a summer sausage.

My friends don't seem to understand this bizarre relationship I keep with my ex-husband's family, especially considering that I've been legally unbound from that particular contractual obligation for almost ten years now, the unspoken rule that states that I am to put up my in-laws whenever they're in town. I mean, it's not like I don't have the paperwork to prove it.

"It's just not normal," they observe.

Well, that may be true, but I like to think that I was granted joint custody of my quirky, well-meaning "out-laws" -- as I like to call them -- in the final decree of my divorce. My ex-husband doesn't seem to mind that I'm still close with them. In fact, I think he likes it; those are the ties that continue to bind us as a family, and I think it's been healthy for our boys to see that we can all still get along. And, besides that, whoever said that there was anything normal when it comes to family, anyway?

I happen to love my sister-in-law, a woman who was once married to my ex-husband's big brother. Over the years we've become sisters of sorts. I know it sounds kind of complicated, but she and her three children are very close to me and my two children. We all seem to get along great; it's as if, somehow, we belong together, in some crazy, not-entirely-dysfunctional way.

When I look at her two boys and her daughter -- who are almost exactly the same ages as my boys -- I see a strong family resemblance and I can't help but conclude that it is exactly as the old saying goes: Blood is, in fact, thicker than water.

All I know is that when I watch my kids hanging out with their cousins, laughing and enjoying one another in a way that only family can, I know that my decision to remain close with my out-laws is something I'm meant to do, if not supposed to do. The contented expressions on my boys' faces say it all, especially when we spend the day with friends and family -- at the request of my ex-husband -- consuming two lanes at the local bowling alley, scarfing down greasy food and making the Clampetts look more like the Kardashians.

The thing is my out-laws are good people -- a little crazy sometimes -- but then again, aren't we all?

And now that they've all packed up their bags and are headed for home, I realize more and more how desperately I miss seeing their faces. I realize how quickly time is getting away from us as our kids are growing up, graduating and grappling with their own futures.

Truth: Life is too short to be spent fighting with family -- in-laws, out-laws and the like.

This sweet time in our life should be spent wisely, say, playing board games around the kitchen table with a humongous dish of homemade chicken nuggets and French fries placed strategically within everyone's reach, while everyone is eating, laughing and clamoring all at once -- pretending to be pseudo-normal, but really coming off as looking more like what a family is supposed to look like, and that is happy. At least happy is what my family looks like to me and that's what matters most.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/10/Define-Normal.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Bell of Truth

Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Book of Miracles

BY: Morgan Hill

And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much and will inherit eternal life.
~Matthew 19:29

I was nineteen years old, alone in a studio apartment in Kansas City. It was the Christmas season and self-pity had gotten the best of me. With no job and the rent barely paid, all I had was a box of cereal, a carton of milk, five dollars in my bank account, and a single one-dollar bill in my purse.

Earlier that year, I'd made a fateful decision. I was forced to quit college due to lack of money. So, I packed up two suitcases and got on a bus with only fifty dollars in my pocket. My parents were getting a divorce, and I had no financial support. My temporary minimum wage job had ended. I was new to town, alone and friendless.

So here I was in Kansas City, sitting on my Murphy bed, staring out the window. I began to think, "No one really cares if I live or die. I could be lying in the gutter somewhere and it wouldn't make a difference."

I thought, "I've got to get out of here, get out of this room, before I do something I'll regret."

I buttoned up my old lime green coat. It had once been part of my new college wardrobe. Now it had holes in the elbow and was torn at the shoulder where white stuffing poked out.

I walked down the five flights of stairs with the dollar in my pocket. I opened the door to bitter cold. The icy wind smacked me in the face, making my eyes tear. I began to walk. And walk. I had no destination. I just knew I had to get out of the apartment. Eventually, I came to a park with benches and a fountain, where I could sit, cry and pray.

With my eyes closed, begging God for help, His wisdom, a sign, anything, I heard a voice. A man was speaking to me. Was it a sign? I opened my eyes to find a homeless drunk sitting next to me and asking me for a date!

I headed back toward the apartment. By now the sky had opened up, delivering a combination of rain, sleet and snow. Without a hat or umbrella, my tattered coat soaked up the freezing rain like a sponge and wet hair covered my face.

Walking past fancy stores that were beautifully decorated for the Christmas season, I felt embarrassed by my "little match girl" appearance. A few steps later I stood outside a small coffee shop, gazing in the window. Here, even in this coffee shop, women were wearing furs and beautiful clothes. What would it feel like to be sitting and chatting with friends over a nice warm cup of tea, looking good, watching the dreary weather outside? I wondered if my one dollar could buy me a cup of tea. Then it occurred to me that with tax and tip, I couldn't afford the tea and I continued homeward.

Cold and wet, I asked myself, "Could life get any more miserable?"

It was then that I came upon a Salvation Army woman ringing the bell in front of a red bucket.

"Well," I thought to myself, "you've got your arms and legs, your eyesight and your health, so you're a lot luckier than a lot of these folks The Salvation Army people are trying to help." So I reached in my pocket and gave my last dollar to The Salvation Army.

Back at my apartment, I opened my mailbox to find one envelope, my bank statement. I already knew what it said. But when I opened it to file it away, I noticed something wrong on the statement. It did not show the expected $5 balance, but now reflected a $105 balance.

I always knew exactly what I had in my account, balanced to the penny. Something was wrong. I wasn't about to spend money that was not mine. I called the bank. I wasn't taking any chances. The bank employee said it was indeed my money, but I knew better.

Donning the tattered, wet green coat, I marched back out into the cold. My bank happened to be directly across the street from the fountain I had sat at crying just a couple of hours earlier.

I walked in. "May I see the bank manager, please?"

I'm sure I looked an awful sight; well-dressed people were staring at this cold ragamuffin demanding that the bank officer remove the mistaken overage.

While he went into back offices to check out the error, I waited patiently in a leather chair that squeaked when I shifted in the seat, water dripping from my hair. Upon his return, he looked puzzled and sat down, scratching his head. "I can't make any sense of it," he said, "but it is indeed your money."

"That's impossible. I know what I had to the penny, and this appeared out of nowhere."

He said he understood my concern because it had not appeared on previous statements. "Our records indicate that a deposit was made into your account last July and we just now caught it. That's why it appears on your bank statement for the first time in December. But it is definitely your money and you need not worry that we'll be asking for it back."

When money is tight, a person keeps track of each and every cent. I knew without question that I'd never made such a deposit back in July, but I couldn't convince him.

I walked home, thanking God for the extra money, which I used for a discount plane ticket to visit family for Christmas. My spirits healed as I shared that holy holiday with them.

A few months later, I told someone about the mysterious appearance of the $100.

"Hadn't you just given your last dollar to charity?" she asked.

"Well, yes."

"So, don't you see?" she replied. "You were rewarded hundredfold!"

The tiny hairs went up on my arms and a chill moved up my back. I call this the bell of truth ringing my spine. I had just experienced a blessing, a Christmas miracle.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/10/Bell-of-Truth.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Tripping Out

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Family Matters

BY: Jess Knox

In the long run the pessimist may be proved right, but the optimist has a better time on the trip.
~Daniel L. Reardon

On a hot August morning, after waking me up way too early, my dad handed me a red T-shirt with orange lettering on it. "McCheesey?" I grumbled.

"McChesney." It was his mother's maiden name.

"Looks like McCheesey. These are McDonald's colors. It looks like we're selling cheeseburgers."

Mom chuckled. Dad scowled. That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the trip.

The reason for the shirts (we each had one) was to identify which branch of the family tree we fell off at a reunion. In rural Wisconsin. I wasn't even trying to pretend that I wasn't miserable.

From the moment we arrived, parking our car between a compost heap and a tree stump, my worst fears were confirmed: I was at a picnic. I don't "do" nature. I appreciate bike rides and walks, but only on pavement. Put dirt in the picture or, God forbid, bumblebees, and I'm out. I've camped twice in my entire life -- once in the pouring rain (bye-bye sneakers) and once at a Christian camp, where I didn't last three days. Dragging me to a family reunion in the woods was just plain cruel.

"Why didn't they host the reunion up there?" I whined.

"Up there" was a modern lodge on the top of a hill. It had bay windows, through which I could clearly see banquet tables, indoor plumbing, and a snack machine.

"Because this was cheaper," my dad replied curtly.

"This" was a creaky cabin with picnic tables crawling with daddy long-legs.

To be fair, I wouldn't have been much happier in the lodge. Thermostats or not, I don't like family reunions. I think they're dumb. I know everybody complains about them. I know nobody looks forward to old people jabbering on about insurance or new moms insisting that their big, barfing baby is adorable. But my distaste for family reunions runs deeper than simple annoyance. I am opposed to them on principle.

It's the same way I feel about networking. Anybody I actually care about is someone I met naturally and is a friend of mine on Facebook. These people in the woods were folks I never e-mailed and barely knew the names of. Spending an entire day with them just seemed silly.

"Put on your shirt," my dad said. He'd finished unloading the car and apparently had time to nag me again.

"It's goofy."

"We all look goofy. Put it on."

I mumbled something and wandered into the cabin without my McCheesey shirt.

Inside, I came face to face with my next gripe of the trip: the menu. Countless Tupperware containers filled with unidentifiable casseroles and the occasional Jell-O mold littered the dining area. But for all the food, none of it looked edible. Not to me. I was a picky eater. Growing up, my parents and I had an arrangement: any time the adults ate weird food (i.e., something other than a hamburger), I got McDonald's on the way home. That day, we were too far from civilization to observe the pact. There would be no French fries.

"Have a Sloppy Joe," my dad suggested.

"I don't like Sloppy Joes."

"It's meat and ketchup. It's basically a hamburger."

"That is NOT a hamburger."

"Then have a SALAD."

He knew I hated salad. Out of spite, I put a small dollop of Sloppy Joe on my plate, the kind that said, "See, I TRIED it." Then when he turned his back, I filled the rest of my plate with potato chips.

Throughout lunch, I was passed around to a variety of family members who I had either met once, met several times, or never heard of at all, and they all asked me if I remembered them. An uncle talked vaguely about the time he spent in Egypt working for the government. An aunt asked about college. A cousin filled us in all too thoroughly on his recent stomach stapling procedure. And that's when I decided it was time to use the bathroom.

I really did have to use the bathroom, but I also really needed an excuse to escape. My plan was to pee, then hide. I could read behind a tree until it was time to leave. I could listen to my MP3 player. If anybody asked, I could tell them I'd been in the bathroom the whole time. I could blame it on the Sloppy Joes. No one would doubt me.

Little did I know the bathrooms would not be my salvation so much as the last straw. The bathrooms, if you can even call them that, were squat, square boxes of concrete that looked like above-ground bomb shelters. They were comparable to rest stop bathrooms, the kind you find along interstates, but these were cleaned far less frequently and didn't have running water. They were damp, dark, cobwebbed cubes with toilets. And, for some reason, there were no doors or sinks.

That sealed it. I stomped back to the cabin, sunburned and full-bladdered, and begged my dad to drive me to the nearest city. I needed a toilet. I needed McDonald's. I was getting mosquito bites and totally creeped out being this close to a green lake. We'd made our cameo. We'd eaten some food. Couldn't we leave?

But instead of caving under the weight of his little girl's misery, my dad exploded.

"I ask you to do ONE THING for my family. Can't you deal with it for ONE DAY?"

I recoiled.

"I don't want to be here either, but I never ask you to do ANYTHING. I was hoping you could put up with it for ME."

I was speechless. I'd never been yelled at like that before, certainly not for my behavior. I was a good kid. I did my homework. I said thank you for everything and never hit my cousins. I was freakin' charming.

The rest of the trip, even our stop in the Wisconsin Dells the day after, was soured by the argument. Sure, the backwoods of Wisconsin are not the most ideal vacation destination, but the whole outing was a bust -- all because I refused to let it be anything better than that. I made the day lame by refusing to swim in the lake. I made it boring by not even tasting the potato salad. I made it regrettable by remaining bitter.

Somebody on the family trip always makes things difficult. That trip, I realized the pain in the butt was me.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/10/Tripping-Out.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

A Wrinkled Kiss

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotional Stories for Mothers

BY: Robyn Langdon

God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them.
~Hebrews 6:10

I was not nervous, but neither did I know what to expect. I was taking my children to a nursing home to serve the residents. It was an opportunity presented through a group of people in my church who regularly reached out in love to the elderly. Though my children, ages seven and five, had not been around older people very often, I was pretty sure they would be comfortable enough to interact positively without being too frightened.

We were asked to help the residents paint a pot for their garden, and then serve cookies and coffee. My kids are always up for a craft project, and anything having to do with paint especially excites them. They gladly plopped down at one of the tables next to the residents and began to paint little animals onto the clay pots, with minimal apprehensive glances at the shaking hands painting beside them.

It was during "snack time" -- as my son, Josiah, endearingly referred to it -- that I was stunned and filled with pride all at once. After passing out cookies, my children finished their crunchy sweets in no time, and began to follow me as I meandered and mingled among the residents. If you've ever been to a nursing home, you'll be able to relate to the fragrant wet-diaper-mixed-with-antiseptic-soap-and-Bengay smell that permeated our noses, even as we tasted the cookies. For me, a former certified nursing assistant, it was no big deal, but I feared that my kids and their hypersensitive young noses were not going to tolerate the environment much longer.

It was then, while I was predicting how many more minutes they would last before whining to go home, that I observed one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. No matter how long I live, I'll never forget it.

One particularly fetid woman had taken a fancy to my son, even being so bold as to hold his hand and squeeze his cheeks. (My son is extremely handsome, bearing the cutest freckles splayed across his sweet little face.) She would beckon him over to her if he wandered too far away. The lines were etched so deeply in her face that I guessed she must have been at least ninety-five years old. Her hands held the beauty of age spots and long, twisted fingers that shook when she reached up to touch him. I was just about to retrieve our jackets and tell them it was time for us to leave when this lovely, endearing woman pointed to her face and puckered her lips to ask him for a kiss.

I felt my eyes widening in curiosity at what he would do. While I could not condone any disgust or rudeness from my son, neither could I force him to do anything awkward or embarrassing. And while I stood there pondering my next move, Josiah amazingly and without hesitation reached out, braced his hand on her wheelchair, and puckered his own pink lips to meet hers. Gentle. Sweet. Unafraid. A smile filled her ancient face, and her delight shone just as bright as if she were decades younger. My charming son could not help but smile in response. Needless to say, my proud tears slid down to the upturned corners of my mouth.

We left that day different from when we had arrived. God had revealed His tender love through my son's courage and grace. It is a wrinkled kiss I'll never forget.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/10/A-Wrinkled-Kiss.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Time for Myself

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Devotional Stories for Mothers

BY: Susan M. Heim

"In repentance and rest is your salvation, in quietness and trust is your strength..."
~Isaiah 30:15


My husband and I both work from home. We have four children, so the times when I am alone in the house are few and far between. Like many work-at-home moms, when I do get a chance to be by myself, I fill that time with more work, whether it's related to my career or taking care of the household chores. Most of the time, I don't mind. After all, I wanted this "gig" as wife and mother, and I knew from the start that it often entailed putting others' needs before my own. But, other times, I can't help but feel a little resentful.

One day, things really came to a head. My husband was heading out to the gym, just assuming I had nothing to do but watch the twins. My older boys were making plans with their friends without consulting me -- plans that involved having me drive them quite a distance from home. The twins, being young, wanted my undivided attention. Even my work clients seemed to be more demanding that day. Nobody bothered to ask if I might have plans of my own. But, the truth was, I rarely did have any plans for myself, and everyone knew it. My life revolved around them, and they took advantage of that.

The next day, when the kids were at school, I headed for the movie theater -- alone. I'd never been to the movies alone before, so I was a little nervous. Would I look pitiful going to the theater by myself? Was I being frivolous by seeing a movie when so much work awaited me at home? I forced myself to swallow these thoughts and buy myself a ticket. And then I walked into the theater with my head held high and enjoyed every minute of the movie. I laughed and felt my good spirits return. For a couple of hours, I was nobody's wife or mother. I was just myself.

From that point on, I decided that Fridays would be mine, at least for a couple of hours. Some Fridays, I head to the beach with a good book. Other Fridays, I go shopping and indulge in a little "retail therapy." I may pick up a little fast food or a gourmet coffee just for myself. I really look forward to my Fridays after a long week of caring for my family.

By forcing myself to slow down and put the needs of my family out of my mind (well, almost), I also feel closer to my Creator. Sitting alone on the beach, I'm not focused on the children's safety around the water. I'm drinking in God's majesty and feeling his Spirit in the air and the waves around me. Even at the theater, I think about what God might be trying to teach me through the story I'm seeing. When I buy myself a yummy treat, I thank God for being able to savor His bounty and for always providing for my needs. I realize that I'm not solely responsible for caring for my family. God is taking care of all of us; I don't need to do it all myself. And He is taking care of me when I'm feeling overwhelmed or overburdened. I just need to remember to carve out time to be with Him -- alone.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/10/Time-for-Myself.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Opportunity Cost

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Campus Chronicles

BY: Kathryn Z. West

A penny saved is a penny earned.
~Benjamin Franklin


Some people learned everything they needed to know in kindergarten. Call me slow, but it took me until college to figure out one of life's most practical lessons.

It was my college economics professor who introduced me to the term "opportunity cost." When you choose one thing, it's a tradeoff at the expense of something else. If you go to the football game, you can't go to the movies. If you have dessert with lunch, you can't have it with dinner. If you go to law school with student loans, you'll be working for twenty years to pay them off. It's a lot more than a theory; it's one of the practical realities at the heart of almost any decision we make.

At the ripe age of nineteen, I had my eye on a summer term abroad. I knew my parents didn't have the means to send me to Europe; they were barely sending me to college. But I had a choice: Accept this limitation as my destiny or figure out a way to pay for it.

Working as many as three jobs each summer, I had managed to cover state school tuition and board for both my freshman and sophomore years. Having been living within my means, I decided it was my turn to live outside of them for a change. So into the debt pool I dove, head first. Voilà, I was heading to Europe.

I had barely enough money for my flights, tuition and board at the University of Dijon, and "living" expenses. I even opted out of meals on the airline to save a few bucks. Lucky for me, my sister gave me a travel pack of butter cookies. They were dinner and breakfast on my flight over.

I had to cut similar corners (if you call eating a corner) to subsidize my journey. For instance, baskets of baguettes were abundant for breakfast at the convent in Dijon where our student group stayed. God forgive me, but I'd snatch what extra pieces I could to bring back to my room for later. (Initially I just gorged myself, but I learned soon enough that I was no squirrel.) How else did I sustain myself? Besides careful choices every step of the way and the kindness of friends and strangers, I found the answer in peanuts. I'd buy a bag a week and ration them -- for lunch, for snacks, for dinner.

Don't feel sorry for me. I traveled almost every weekend -- to Nice, Venice, Lauterbrunnen, and Paris twice. The accommodations were modest at best and I was mostly hungry, but that's not what I remember. It's the canals, the horn blowers in Wengen, and sleeping on the pebbled beaches in the south of France that I recall.

When I returned home, I was different. Surprisingly not as skinny as you'd have expected, but I had a resilience and confidence knowing that I had made my own way. When I shared the grisly details with my parents and sisters, they asked why didn't I call -- why didn't I tell them I needed more money: all I needed to do was ask. Today, our country is in the midst of a credit meltdown, and I am reminded of my summer abroad, the loan I took and repaid, and all the peanuts I ate that made it work. It's what my economics professor said: It's not that we can't have what we want, but whatever we want has a cost -- a price we must pay. Or, as my business law professor put it, there's no such thing as a free lunch. And when I think back to my summer opportunity, I know what it cost: Courage, sacrifice, and peanuts.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/09/Opportunity-Cost.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru