The Green Christmas Ball

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

BY: Aletheia D. Lee

If you have much, give of your wealth; if you have little, give of your heart.
~Arabian Proverb

By the third year of teaching I had begun to anticipate Christmas break more for the school holiday and less for the excitement of the children. I was teaching fourth grade and my students, combined with medical problems, had exhausted me. I prayed for strength enough to get me to 3:15. I just had to get through one of the hardest days of the school year.

I groaned out loud as the morning bell rang. Time to begin the circus. I trudged through the cold between my mobile classroom (nice name for a trailer) and into the overly heated school building. I sighed and turned the corner. Twenty-two smiling faces greeted me on the fourth grade bus hall. I forced myself to return their smiles and enthusiastic hugs. "Seven and a half hours to go," I thought to myself.

Back through the cold and into the room they chattered, comparing plans for the vacation. I had to remove one student from each arm and one from around my waist before I could take a seat at my desk for my morning duties. Before I could find my roll book my desk was covered with cards and gifts followed by a chorus of "Merry Christmas" wishes.

"Oh, thank you," I must have responded a million times. Each gift was truly special to me, despite my sour mood. It was kind of them to think of me.

After the tornado had calmed to hurricane levels, I heard a small voice say my name. I looked up to see Brandon standing shyly by my desk, holding a small, round gift. "This is for you."

"Thank you, Sweetheart." I hugged him and laid it on my desk with the others.

"Um, could you open it now?"

I stopped my frantic pace to give him my full attention. This was important to him. "Sure."

I gently tugged at the crumpled paper and mounds of tape. "Careful," he said, "it's breakable."

"Oh, okay," I assured him. Slowly I unwrapped a small, green Christmas tree ornament, complete with a hook already attached. It dawned on me what he had done.

"You know he just pulled that off his tree!" a nearby student commented rudely.

I swallowed some tears. "Yes, I know," I answered. "That makes it even more special."

"It's my favorite," Brandon informed me.

"It'll be my favorite, too. I don't have anything green on my tree."

He beamed.

Later that day, during a rare quiet moment, I sat turning the ornament over in my hands. Was I really so important to this child that he had searched for something to give me? His mother did not hand him a gift bag with an elegant bow as he ran for the bus. He had considered this gift himself.

Now every year as I delicately pull a green Christmas ball from my ornament box I remember the profound impact adults have on children. More importantly, I remember the impact my students have on me.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/The-Green-Christmas-Ball.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Chicken Soup for the Soul: True Love

BY: Christine Trollinger

There's nothing in this world so sweet as love. And next to love the sweetest thing is hate.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Looking at our wedding pictures always makes me giggle. I recall the young man that my brother brought home to dinner one night well over forty-seven years ago. It was not what one could call love at first sight. It was more like loathing at first sight.

The first time I had met him was a few weeks earlier. It all began with a phone call to my high school principal's office. I was a senior in high school at the time. I worked after school at a local restaurant as part of our school work-credit program.

This particular day, I was not scheduled to work, but Mrs. K (the owner) had called and left a message with the office that I would have to take another waitress's place. Mrs. K was not the nicest person in the world to work for to say the least. She never asked if I was available -- she just said in her message to "be there at 4:00 P.M." Since not showing up would affect my grades for graduation, there was no way I could wiggle out of the unplanned shift.

My mother was quite the taskmaster herself, and I found myself caught in a bit of a pickle. My mother expected me to be home immediately after school to start dinner for our family. I tried to call my mom at her workplace to tell her of the change in plans but was unable to reach her. Unfortunately there was no voice-mail in those days. There was no way my mom would just let it slide if she did not know of the change in my work schedule. I could count on being grounded, no matter how good the excuse was, if I did not get my message through to her.

Mrs. K never allowed employees to use the phone while on duty and I knew she would not budge on her rules, even though she was the one who had created the situation. I had to stop for gas so I decided to call my mother again from the gas station. My dad had an account at the local Shell station, where I could sign for gas, and Ed (the owner) would bill my dad later.

I was surprised to see a total stranger running the gas station instead of Ed. The young man was quite a flirt, and took his time putting the gas in the tank, washing the windshield, checking the oil, etc. I tried my best to get him to just put the gas in the tank and forget the other routine services, but he kept on trying to impress me. I tried to be polite, but flirting with a strange guy was the last thing on my mind. He was seriously threatening my job and my big date for the Sweetheart dance the following day if I got grounded.

I finally told him, "Look sir, I am in a big hurry. I have to get to work. Now please put the gas on my dad's credit line in Ed's book." Naturally this lead to more delays as he insisted he had no idea where such a book would be or how to do it, so I had to go inside and find it behind the counter for him. I was beginning to think he wasn't very bright. It was a red ledger, exactly where I told him he would find it, right beside the cash register.

My next big mistake was in asking him to give me a dime for the payphone, and put that on the ledger charge too. Good grief! He began to lecture me about taking money from a stranger and other nonsense. By that time I was furious and stomped out hurrying to get to work, and decided to try and talk Mrs. K into letting me use the phone at work.

Naturally, with all the time wasted at the filling station, I was late to work and Mrs. K refused my request to use the phone. Not only that, she also said I had to stay late and do clean-up duty to boot. By the time I got home at midnight my mom was fit to be tied and as I had feared, I was grounded. A rude stranger had ruined my life. I hoped I never would lay eyes on him again.

As luck would have it, a few weeks later, my mom called me at school and asked me to pick up an extra pound of hamburger as we were having a guest for dinner. Sounded normal to me, so I was totally unprepared that evening when my brother walked in the door with his new friend named Gene that he had met at the gas station. I wanted to hide in the kitchen as I was still so angry at him, but manners precluded my doing so.

By the time the meal was over, the young man apologized for all the trouble he had caused me and he became a regular visitor in our home. When time for the prom came, my boyfriend and I had broken up, so Gene offered to be my date. From there a loathing at first sight became a love story which resulted in forty-one very happy years of marriage and three beautiful children. Obviously, I decided he wasn't so bad after all.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/Loathing-at-First-Sight.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Driven

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dads

BY: Robyn Kurth

Adolescence is a period of rapid changes. Between the ages of 12 and 17, for example, a parent ages as much as 20 years.
~Author Unknown

When I was a junior in high school I was convinced that I would be the last member of my generation to obtain my driver's license. Even though I turned sixteen the summer before my junior year, I was scheduled to take a driver's education course at my suburban Chicago high school during the fall semester, which meant that I would not be able to test for my license until a few months before my seventeenth birthday. While I dreamed about having private driving lessons and a car of my own like some of my classmates, my father had other plans in mind.

Dad was a guidance counselor/college consultant at another local high school, and he wasn't about to spend my future tuition money on private driving lessons, teen driver insurance rates or my own car. As far as he was concerned, he and my mom were working hard enough to save money for a college education for my younger sister and me.

The car I would be training on was the family vehicle -- a 1978 white Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale that was at least seven years old by the time I was old enough to drive it. When the Olds was brand new, it was a powerful, gleaming "King of the Road" with spoke hubcaps, a V8 engine, and a crushed red velvet interior. By the time I was driving it, the car was a rusting gas guzzler that maneuvered as easily as a cruise ship. The engine occasionally died at stoplights, or ran on for another fifteen seconds after I turned it off. My parents had the entire vehicle repainted twice, which kept the bottoms of the car doors from rotting off; and a thin layer of rust bonded by new paint would shudder every time I slammed a door shut.

There was no way on earth that I could look remotely cool in my father's Oldsmobile, not even when I cranked up my favorite Tears for Fears song on the car's AM radio.

Of course, my father was more than happy to supplement my driver's education classes with his own behind-the-wheel lessons. He was right next to me when I first started lurching about an empty parking lot in the oversized Oldsmobile that I lovingly nicknamed Coche, which is Spanish for "car." Since Coche had a bench seat in the front, Dad had to bend his six-foot-three-inch frame to accommodate me every time I adjusted the driver's seat all the way to the front so I could comfortably reach the gas and brake pedals. For hours at a time, he would calmly advise me on the finer points of left turns and lane changes while his knees were shoved up around his ears.

I can still recall the day I obtained my license -- March 3, 1986 -- and I remember being grateful to Casimir Pulaski, the Polish-American Revolutionary War hero who was the reason why public schools throughout Illinois were closed, enabling Dad and I to spend an entire weekday morning at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I seemed to be the only person who was happy to be there, as I anxiously awaited my turn.

My study skills served me well on the written exam, and Dad's careful instruction paid off during my behind-the-wheel test. As the DMV instructor took notes, I carefully maneuvered Dad's enormous Oldsmobile through parallel parking, a three-point turn and a trip around the block.

By lunchtime I became the proud owner of my first driver's license. I grinned giddily as a dour DMV employee took my photograph in front of a bright red background. As I showed my father the license, clearly marked "Under 21" in several places, I could see the expression of pride on his face. He handed me the car keys, which dangled from a Bicentennial keychain that was even older than his car.

When I got behind the wheel of Coche I turned to look at Dad, who was already tensing up his leg muscles as I prepared to slide the front seat forward. For the first time in my life, I realized the patience that was required of my father as he waited for this day. I thought about all those hours that he sat with me without complaining, twisted up like a pretzel while I jerked the family car around empty parking lots and navigated busy suburban roadways in hazardous winter weather, striving to gain my own independence.

Suddenly it occurred to me that after all this patient waiting, I had a lifetime of opportunities to drive ahead of me -- a lifetime of places to go, passengers to transport, and cars to drive (hopefully with power steering, bucket seats, and an FM stereo).

I lowered my hand from the ignition. "Dad, you've been cooped up enough these past few months," I said. "Why don't you drive us home?"

Dad was surprised but I could already see his muscles relax. "Are you sure?" he asked.

"I'm sure," I said, handing him the keys. "It's my treat."

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/Driven.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

How to Be Special

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom

By Jeannie Mai

Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else.
~Judy Garland

Olivia Mai rocks. She's my mom, and because of her, I learned that fashion is powerful. Mom's daring, playful and unconditionally loving personality taught me that being attractive has nothing to do with good looks, but everything to do with great style.

Growing up was a show with my mom. We glittered it up for grocery shopping, gave makeovers to friends who stopped by, and had fun with style for the sake of creativity, not for money or because of trends. Mom believed looking good said two things about a woman: First, that she cares about herself; and second, that she wants others to care about themselves. And she was right. Taking the time to dress yourself builds the confidence to feel good, therefore making you give your best to everyone. People will see your positive energy through your style. Fashion is powerful.

For the first few years of my life, everything was cupcakes and cashmere. I had no problem being myself, and had the most enjoyable time decorating my moods each day. Then came my first day of school.

All month, Mom and I had been preparing for this day and I had everything set the night before to walk in and make new friends. I had decided my first-day color had to be a powerful purple, and sprung out of bed that morning ready to throw on my purple and gray plaid jumper with my favorite T-shirt underneath that spelled "J-E-A-N-N-I-E" in bold black letters. I had also chosen funky, fresh pink fishnet stockings and glossy purple rubber galoshes that my mom had purchased for rainy weather. (It was seventy-four degrees and sunny that day.) She helped me with the finishing touches of sparkly bangles to my wrist, gave me a wet kiss on my cheek, (careful not to smudge my glittery lip gloss), and walked me into school.

The moment I walked into my classroom and took off my coat, every single kid stared. Parents, too. Mom saw Mrs. Clark, my new teacher, and left my side to say hello. I immediately felt the eyes all over the room pan head to toe over my outfit. Several of the parents raised an eyebrow, while many of the kids pointed and laughed. For the first time, I felt insecure. Even scarier, I felt like I'd rather be anybody else but me. I saw that everyone else had slicked smooth hair, barrettes, matching dresses and socks and appropriate sandals and shoes. I sat down wishing I could take off my galoshes and hide.

By midday, I was known as Jeannie Weenie Wild. At lunch, nobody sat by me and at the end, where new friends waited in pairs to be picked up, I waited by myself. When Mom rolled up, I lunged into the backseat, kicked off my boots and headband, and slouched low in my seat. I didn't even wait for Mom to ask what was wrong. Through tears, I wailed about how she let me go to school looking like that and why didn't she buy me clothes like the other kids and why did she name me something that rhymes with Weenie and why...?

Mom immediately pulled the car over, took off her seatbelt and turned around with such a thrilled, elated expression of joy that I wondered if I was in the right car. "They already know your name? What did they say? That's WONDERFUL!"

I sat there dumbfounded. "Did you hear what I said? NO! I don't want them to know my name! I hate school! I'm never going back! Everybody is too mean and I hate my clothes!"

I never forgot the next words my mom said: "Con (which means "my child" in Vietnamese), this is the best day ever. I raised you to stand out and be something to talk about. I don't care what they're saying. You were noticed and unforgettable. You are my daughter and I am so proud!"

Those words changed my life forever. The very second her words slipped into my ears, I understood the difference between "owning it" and "being owned," a philosophy I advocate today when adopting new styles. Never again would I let anybody else tell me who I was. She spent those years teaching me to celebrate myself, and now was my turn to learn how to make a statement. This lesson has built the wall of protection I need in this business. As long as my actions come out of love and a fun spirit, I'm a "Do" all the way.

Thanks to Mom, I use that confident foundation to influence others through fashion.

And just so you know, I wore those purple galoshes the next day, too.

http://www.chickensoup.com/bulletin.asp?newsid=newsletter-101106-2&utm_source=Beliefnet_Email&utm_medium=Bulletin&utm_campaign=Issue_79v

The Toolbox

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Divorce and Recovery

BY: Mia Gardner

"So, how was your day?" Chuck, my ex-husband, asked on this, his third call of the day. It was Friday night, I'd had a long week and I had to report to my second job, waitressing at a pancake house early the next morning. Usually, I screened his calls, but that night I was wondering what the heck I was doing with my life. We had been married for eighteen years. We had a son in his senior year of high school and college-bound. I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor because Chuck had taken the waterbed when we divorced. Was I really better off?

Chuck went on, "I'm really missing you... and Alex of course. I've learned a lot, and I think we should talk about getting back together. When are you going to get over this so I can come back home?" We had separated four months earlier -- which included the three during which we were formally divorced. I had started the divorce proceedings in March, moved out of our master bedroom to the guest room, and got a second job to help soften the blow of losing his income.

In late March, I took a trip and drove to my sister's house in California, partly just to get out of the house, but also to give myself time alone to think. Was I abandoning my marriage vows? Was I going against my religious beliefs? I trusted my sister, and during one late night talk at her kitchen table, I talked to her about my fears.

Her answer: "Chuck has never lived up to his vows as a husband. He never worked in the marriage and has not taken care of you or Alex, physically or emotionally. You've had to shoulder the role of wife, husband, mother, and father for too many years. No wonder you're burned out." Her words helped me to focus my doubts about getting a divorce and made me realize I had been unhappy for many years.

Now Chuck's call came at a time of weakness. Had I wanted too much? Was life just about this -- living with someone who you have memories with and can finish your stories -- or, is there more out there? Someone to love who can love me back? I went to bed on my mattress and slept poorly, thoughts and doubts running through my head, as I wondered whether I should give him a second chance.

The next morning, before I went to my waitressing job, I realized the light bulb on the back porch needed replacing. I felt insecure with the light being out, right next to my sliding glass window. I went for the toolbox that Chuck had made up for me before we parted.

Before he moved out, as I was packing up the kitchen, I made sure he got his fair half of everything, including anything his parents had given us. When he packed the garage, he asked, "What do you want out of my tools?" I had purchased tools for him every birthday and Christmas, hoping he'd find a hobby to fill all his free time.
"Just make me up a toolbox so I can repair little things around the house," I'd replied. And, as I helped him move out that July day, I noticed a small toolbox set aside for my use. It was a busy day and I never did go over to check on what he had left for me in the toolbox -- until that October morning.

I pulled out the toolbox to find one flat head screwdriver, one Phillips-head screwdriver, an old rusty set of pliers, and a broken hammer. This, after I gave him half of the kitchen stuff and he doesn't even cook! While I made use of the old and broken tools to replace the light bulb, using every cuss word I knew directed at Chuck, I realized that this thoughtlessness was the real reason we had divorced. He had never thought of my well-being at all -- and the toolbox was my physical proof that kept me from making the big mistake of taking him back, just because I was lonely.

I'm happy to say it was the right decision. After dating some total losers during my first year of singlehood, I found a gem seven years later.

I threw away the old toolbox and tools without a second thought.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/The-Toolbox.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Almost Human

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

BY: Laura F. Chesler

"On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog."
~Peter Steiner

"To the parents of PHOEBE CHESLER!" the headline blared. "We want YOUR daughter for our Young Miss Preteen Pageant!!" The slick glossy mailer went on to tell us how we could prepare Phoebe for a glamorous, successful life as a model/actress/pitchwoman simply by taking advantage of this fantastic opportunity! All we would have to do, we were informed, was send in a $150 entry fee (apparently the old adage "you've got to spend money to make money" can be applied to those not yet in puberty), procure a formal "party" dress for the pageant, and have some professional headshots taken. For a nominal fee, the company hosting the pageant would be delighted to provide this service for us.

You might think that visions of my child becoming the next Brooke Shields danced tantalizingly in my head. Was I tempted, even for a minute? You bet I was. The image of someone looking in disbelief at a picture of my Border Collie wearing a taffeta petticoat made me dissolve into laughter. You see... Phoebe was a dog. A beautiful dog, yes, but a dog nonetheless. And the thought of her in a party dress still makes me smile.

We adopted Phoebe when she was just three months old from an animal shelter in Auburn, California. I took one look at the black and white puppy yapping her head off, determined not to be overlooked amidst the chaos of the shelter, and fell completely in love. She was the first dog my husband and I had together, and was as smart as they come. In retrospect, perhaps she was a little too smart, but her Mensa-level intelligence was perfectly offset by the innate sweetness of some Springer Spaniel blood. We forgave her for doing things no dog should really know how to do, like opening the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage, then leaping up and hitting the garage door opener button that allowed her to escape, on her way to freedom.

My husband and I had a good laugh over this first letter, and briefly wondered how a dog got on a mailing list obviously intended for children. We figured it was a one-time deal, and had fun sharing it with a few friends. Then, we forgot about it -- until the deluge began.

"HEY!" the next mailing trumpeted. "We're looking for Hollywood's NEXT CHILD STAR! We think that child could be PHOEBE CHESLER! You owe it to HER to sign up NOW for our series of acting/modeling workshops!" All this company needed to secure my child's wildly successful future was a check for $500. They assured me it was just too good to pass up.

"To the parents of PHOEBE CHESLER! If something happened to you, do you have adequate life insurance to provide for YOUR daughter?" Somehow, I think the insurance company sending the letter would look askance at our application. Imagine the look on the adjuster's face who reads this:

Child's Full Name: Phoebe Alexandra "Feeber-Deeber-Dog" Chesler

• Age: 8
• Height: 2 feet on all fours, approximately 4 feet when on her hind legs.
• Weight: 50 lbs.
• Nationality: Border Collie/Springer Spaniel.
• Hair: Black and white
• Allergies: Flea spray and corn meal

Over the next few years, we received many letters asking us to consider Phoebe for modeling schools, pageants (I wonder what they would have done had I sent in the application with "herding" listed under the "talent" section?) and acting workshops. I decided to start saving them when I noticed the nature of each solicitation coincided with Phoebe's age. We had fun opening the latest ones and seeing just where Phoebe was supposed to be in her "human" life at that moment.

As she grew older, the "Preteen" offers gradually gave way to "Teen" opportunities, Army recruitment and then, lo and behold, college solicitations. How fast they grow -- our "baby" was about to start college! It was around this time that the credit card applications began arriving, thick and fast. According to whatever database she was in, she was now in college, and urgently needed to start building her credit history as quickly as possible.

Up until this point, the whole thing was a great source of amusement for my husband and me, but the credit card solicitations were upsetting. I hadn't realized just how much the big card companies preyed on college students. The "offers" were amazing, and not in a good way: huge annual fees, exorbitant interest rates, and credit limits that shouldn't be offered to most adults, let alone a student. I worked myself up into a fit over it one day until my husband gently reminded me that our "daughter" could not and would never be a casualty of America's overspending. She was in fact, at that moment, enjoying a rawhide chewie. Still, I felt for all the parents and students who must have been constantly barraged with these offers.

Over the years, I have never stopped wondering why it was Phoebe who mysteriously made the leap into the human system, while none of our other dogs ever did. I'd like to think it was some sort of cosmic destiny, as she was the smartest dog I've ever known, but I seriously doubt intelligence is the criteria for most mailing lists. One person suggested it was because we had given her a "human" name. Hmm. Our other two dogs were named Chloe and Madeleine, so, no, I don't think that was it. Yet another friend jokingly suggested that perhaps our veterinarian sold his client list to marketers. It got to the point where an accountant friend dryly remarked that if we could only issue Phoebe a social security number, we could claim her as a deduction. My husband brightened considerably at that idea, until I reminded him it was illegal.

Those of us who love dogs feel that at times that they are almost human, to the point of attributing human characteristics to much of their behavior. Still, we know they are dogs, and as such are usually exempt from the annoyance we call junk mail by virtue of their species.

Phoebe lived to the ripe old age of fifteen, and after she died, the offers slowly stopped arriving. How did they know? There was no hospital death certificate, no obituary. How did they know to remove her from The List? We may never know, but I'm wondering if maybe my veterinarian is chuckling even now, enjoying his secret prank. One of these days, I'll have to ask. For Phoebe's sake... and for mine.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/Almost-Human.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

The Classics

Chicken Soup for the Soul: All in the Family

BY: Carol Genengels

One man's trash is another man's treasure.
~English Proverb

As a mother, I've learned that having grown sons often demands long suffering. Their toys aren't picked up as easily as their Matchbox cars once were. Take Ryan's motorcycle, for instance. Though he hadn't ridden it in years, the bike held a place of honor in the blackberry bushes. "I'm gonna restore it someday, Mom. I can't get rid of it!" My youngest child knew he could usually wrap me around his little finger. As a teen, he'd once accused me of child abuse for buying fat-free ice cream. When he drove off to college in a Toyota pick-up, he abandoned his first love -- a 1977 Camaro -- next to his brother's red 1967 Firebird and a brown 1979 Datsun with no windows. Next to the cars, a sixteen-foot boat and trailer languished in the sun.

Home for summer break, Ryan was in the backyard tenderly spreading gobs of Bondo over the rust spots on his Camaro. "Listen, Ryan," I said lightly, "since you drive the truck now, why not sell the Camaro?"

"Sell the Camaro?!" Ryan gasped as if I'd asked him to cut off his foot. His expression of sheer terror let me know that I'd have to tread carefully. He continued, "When I get it all fixed up, it will be worth a lot more than I paid for it. It'll be a classic someday!"

"I can hardly wait," I muttered before returning to the house to consider my next tactics.

Number-one son, Shawn, the owner of the Firebird and Datsun, came over to work on a marine engine. I found him under the sundeck, muscles rippling as he hoisted an outboard motor into a barrel of fresh water. I sauntered over: "Say, Shawn, have you considered selling that Firebird? You don't drive it anymore." Shawn wiped grimy hands on his jeans. His blue eyes stared as though I'd said something ridiculous. "Mom, that car has sentimental value. I bought that in the Navy, remember? It took me ages to pay that thing off. Besides, it's almost a classic!"

"Well, what about the Datsun?" I persisted.

"Aw, Mom, nobody will buy that thing the way it is. New windows will cost more than it's worth."

I sighed and went back in the house. I recalled the day that Shawn parked the Datsun at the top of the road with a "For Sale" sign. In the middle of the night, vandals broke out all the windows. The next day, Shawn sadly drove it down the driveway and parked it next to his Firebird.

My husband, Ted, came up from the basement. "Carol, have you seen my torque wrench?"

"I wouldn't know a torque wrench if I stumbled over one. Try the backyard."

"Those guys never put anything away," he mumbled.

"Ted, our backyard looks like a junkyard," I said, seizing the opportunity to complain.

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's all those cars! Shawn's Firebird, the Datsun, that junky boat and trailer nobody uses, and Ryan's Camaro and truck."

"There's nothing wrong with Ryan's truck."

"That's not the point! With our cars, and all their junkers, our place looks like a used car lot in a bad part of town! This is a nice neighborhood, or at least it used to be!"

"I would like to get rid of that Datsun," Ted admitted. "It's a shame about those windows."

As the summer progressed, I grew to hate those cars. I prayed that God would spur my boys to car-selling action, or maybe consume the cars in a freak fireball. Everyone who entered the yard was asked the same question: "Do you know anyone who wants an old Datsun with no windows?" No one jumped at my offer.

One day, I got tough. "Shawn, it's almost wintertime. You'd better do something about that Datsun, and soon!"

"Okay, Mom, I promise I'll do something tomorrow."

When I came home from work the next day, the Datsun was draped with blue tarps. "Aughhhhhhhhhh!"

By spring, the tarps had blown off, and mushrooms were sprouting in the back seat. "Please, Lord," I prayed. "Send someone to take this wreck away."

Meanwhile, Ted was asked to consider running for president of the small mission congregation we attended. He prayed about the matter, but heard nothing. Pastor Tim said he needed an answer by the following Sunday. All week, Ted wrestled with his decision. By Saturday afternoon, he was still undecided. "You'd better let Pastor Tim know your answer pretty soon," I said.

Ted sighed. "I just don't know."

"Hey, why don't we put out a fleece?" I suggested.

Ted frowned. "What kind of a fleece?"

"You know, something so out of the ordinary that if it happens, you'll know for sure that you're supposed to serve as president. Hey, I've got an idea. Let's tell God that if somebody walks down our driveway tonight and buys that old Datsun, then you'll know."

Ted laughed. "I guess we're safe on that one!"

"I'm serious. Let's pray."

About 9:30 that evening, Ted said, "I'd better call the pastor. I hate to let him down, but..."

Just then, the doorbell rang. Our teenage neighbor, Alex, and a friend of his greeted us. "Hi, Mrs. Genengels." He nodded politely. "Mr. Genengels."

"Hi, Alex, what's up?"

"Well, my friend here was wondering if you'd take fifty bucks for that Datsun."

We doubled over.

"What's so funny?" Alex asked.

"Are you sure you want that car?" Ted said.

His friend answered, "Yeah, it's perfect for the demolition derby. I've had my eye on it for awhile."

"You've got yourself a deal," Ted said before excusing himself. "I have to go call someone."

Ted served as congregational president for two years. Eventually, all the "classics" found new homes, and we got our yard back. Through it all, I've discovered that being the mother of grown sons has its own special challenges, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/The-Classics.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru