I Pledge Allegiance

By Beth Cato

I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives. I like to see a man live so that his place will be proud of him.
~Abraham Lincoln

The first day of junior high school! Excitement crackled in the air. My mom dropped me off at the curb, and I practically skipped onto my brand new campus. Everywhere, kids were greeting each other, grinning and laughing. I waved at familiar faces and called out, "Hi!"

It was weird, but after just three months, everyone looked so different — taller, with new haircuts, new clothes.

I had P.E. for first period. I didn't mind it that much, since it meant I'd get it over and done before the heat of the afternoon. I was weirded out by the locker room though. It even smelled funny — stale and musty. We all bustled around each other, shoving our backpacks beneath the benches, trying to figure out the combinations on our new locks. I smiled at the girls next to me and they smiled back.

In a far corner of the room, a speaker squawked on. "Good morning, Woodrow Wilson Junior High School students! Welcome to the first day of a fabulous new school year. We'll begin with the Pledge of Allegiance."

I tugged my gray gym shirt over my head and my right hand immediately rested over my heart. Around me, other girls froze in place, all of us looking towards the flag draped near the speaker.

A few tears came to my eyes. Every time I did the pledge, I thought of my grandpa. He had died almost a year before, but I still missed him every single day. Grandpa served in World War II and the flag had very special meaning for him. Even if we heard the pledge or the national anthem on TV, we stopped everything and saluted. He would get this distant look in his eyes, like he could see all the way to India and China where he loaded bombers during the war. It had made him proud and sad all at once.

The principal finished reciting the pledge. The other girls unfroze and resumed dressing. The day continued, full of reunions and excitement and groans as we confronted our first homework assignments of the year.

The next morning in the locker room, I noticed something odd. Some of the girls talked through the pledge and continued to change clothes. The morning after that, even fewer paused to place their hands over their hearts. I looked at the gym teachers' cubby and was shocked that they talked and laughed through the pledge, too.

By the second week of school, I was the only girl in the whole locker room who did the Pledge of Allegiance. I stood out. That's when the comments started.

"What do you think you're doing?" sneered one girl.

"The pledge," I said.

"What's wrong with you? We don't have to do the pledge anymore." She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

"Yeah," another girl chimed in, "there's no one to make us do it!" They shared a triumphant grin.

I had known some of these girls since second grade, but now it was like I didn't know them at all. It wasn't just their hairstyles and bodies that had changed over the summer. Something else had changed, too.

The next morning, I hid in a bathroom stall to switch clothes. When the pledge started, I faced a graffiti-covered metal door as I mouthed the words. I couldn't see the flag. My stomach clenched in a great big knot. It felt so wrong to be hiding like that.

I kept hiding for the next week, and it felt worse every single day.

The other girls left me alone, and that should have made me glad. It didn't. Instead, I felt like I was betraying the memory of my grandpa. He risked his life fighting for that flag. I rarely saw him cry, but when he'd hear the song "I'm Proud To Be An American" by Lee Greenwood, tears would fill his eyes. Now, tears were filling my eyes as I cowered in a bathroom stall. I wished that I could go to the teachers for help, but they didn't seem to care about doing the pledge, either.

I cared. I cared a lot.

I spent a weekend gathering up my nerve and practicing what I would say. By the time Monday came, I was nervous, but also calmer than I had been in a long time because I knew I was doing the right thing.

I changed into my gray gym clothes right away and was standing by my locker when the principal began morning announcements. The pledge started and I put my hand over my heart.

A girl nearby slammed her locker shut and looked over at me. "Why are you doing that?" she asked. She didn't sound mean about it, more like she was confused.

"My grandpa fought in World War II and he died last year," I said. "I'm doing it for him."

She blinked. Embarrassment flickered over her face and she looked away. "Oh," she said.

Over the next few weeks, more girls confronted me, thinking they could bully me about the pledge. I gave them all that same answer. Eventually, they stopped asking.

I came to realize something. These kids thought they were rebelling against something they were forced to do in school. The fact was, every single girl in that locker room probably had a family member in the military at some point. With a Navy base nearby, some of them even had enlisted dads.

I never inspired other girls to do the pledge along with me. That was okay. They made a choice; I made mine. It was enough that I stood there, in the open, to say those words. I was doing it for Grandpa, but more than that, I was doing it for myself.

Grandpa raised me to be proud to be an American, and that pride didn't stop because I was in seventh grade.

http://www.chickensoup.com

Truth or Dare

By Madeline Clapps

Precaution is better than cure.
~Edward Coke

In fifth grade, I really wanted to be Allison's friend. She seemed to know a lot of things I didn't. Allison had an older brother and a big house, and a really sarcastic sense of humor that you didn't want directed at you. What else did Allison have? A giant slumber party for her birthday in her finished basement, complete with snacks and foosball and what promised to be a pretty exciting round of Truth or Dare. I seriously wanted to be on Allison's good side.

I was a hopeless romantic, even from kindergarten. I never had a lot of luck with diaries, but every few months I would start a new one when the agony of love was just too much to bear. "Today, Kevin came in with a haircut, and it was AMAZING," I would write. Or, "James said he would play tag with me at recess and then he DIDN'T! I am so mad at him!" In that regard, Allison had something else to offer me — she was friends with most of the boys in our grade, and she really liked to talk about it. Staying up late listening to music and discussing which boys we liked was my all-time favorite activity. For this, I would follow Allison to the ends of the earth.

One day, Allison came over to my desk to talk about the sleepover we were having that night. She said she had something awesome planned, something she had done before. "We're going to talk to guys... online," she said. "We chat with them, and we flirt with them."

"Are these boys from our class?" I asked, always looking for an opportunity to "accidentally" let slip my latest crush. I mean, if they didn't know I liked them, how would they know to like me, right?

"No, I don't even know them," Allison answered. "They're just random guys. We go online and find them and then talk about kissing them and stuff."

Something didn't feel right. It was one thing to want Jeff to know I thought he was cute. It was another to talk to some random guy online. I may have been a fifth grader, but I was still a straight-A student. How did we know these guys were our age? How did we know it was safe?

But still — I wanted to be Allison's friend. I wasn't going to be Allison's friend if I always chose "Truth" in Truth or Dare, and I wasn't going to be Allison's friend if I didn't do this thing with her. It was that kind of situation. "Okay," I said. "Sounds awesome."

That night, I was packing up my things to go over to Allison's house. I knew my mom had a strong distrust of Allison's parents and thought they were totally weird. I usually tried not to add fuel to the fire, but something just didn't feel right.

"I think we're going to make friendship bracelets," I said to my mom, "so I need to bring my string with me."

"Mmmhmm," my mom answered, otherwise occupied with making dinner.

"And then we're going to go online and chat with some boys. It's not that big a deal, just like, flirting and stuff."

"What was that?" My mom put down her knife. "Do you know these boys?"

"Well, no, they're just random guys, but it's fine. Allison said she's done it before."

My mom didn't think it was fine, not even a little bit. And I kind of knew it wasn't fine... that was why I told her. When my mom dropped me at Allison's house that night, she went in to talk to Allison's mom while I ran upstairs to get settled. My stomach was in knots. Allison would definitely know that I told on her and she would never want to be my friend now. I was pretty sure our friendship was over. I was pathetic, and she would laugh at me.

"Hey," I said to Allison. "So... my mom found out we were going to chat with boys online tonight. She says we can't do it."

I waited for her response, my stomach doing flips.

"Whatever," Allison said. "Do you want to watch a movie?"

I was stunned. She didn't care at all.

That night, we didn't touch the computer. We made popcorn, watched a movie, and listened to music. In the morning, my mom picked me up. Allison never mentioned it again. I know now that what I did was right — no friendship is worth doing something unsafe and wrong.

And you know what? I was invited to her big slumber party after all. It was awesome.

http://www.chickensoup.com

S'more

By Debbie Hagan

Angels are never too distant to hear you.

~Author Unknown

It was the most beautiful day of that summer — blue sky, billowy clouds, and a dandelion-bright sun. Strange, though, we were the only ones enjoying it at the state park.

My father stood over a campfire roasting hot dogs, while my mother and I pushed marshmallows onto skewers. My two high-strung preschoolers ran amok. We'd arranged the picnic hoping they'd run off some of this energy and go to bed early.

Connor, my five-year-old, grabbed one of the sticks my father had cleaned and sharpened for the marshmallows, raised it over his head, and shouted to his four-year-old brother, "It's morphin' time. Wham. Bam."

Kyle shrieked, sharp like a coach's whistle.

My neck muscles twitched as the boys ran round and round the campsite.

"Stop it," I yelled, trying to hold a skewer of marshmallows over the coals.

Connor poked the stick at his brother. They fell and rolled across the ground.

One of the marshmallows burst into flames. I blew it out.

"Come here and help me!" I shouted, as I turned to see them pulling each other's hair.

When I glanced back at the marshmallows, they'd fallen onto the coals, sizzling in a tar smear.

"That's it," I said, tossing the marshmallows and sticks into the woods.

Connor released a lock of his brother's hair, crestfallen. "But the s'mores, Mommy."

"I don't think so," I snapped and plopped down on the picnic bench next to my parents.

They shot me a look of utter disbelief. A picnic wasn't a picnic without s'mores. It had been our family's tradition ever since my mother was a Brownie troop leader. My sisters and I used to lick the marshmallow-chocolate-graham cracker goo from our fingers, and my mother would wink at us and ask, "You know why they call them s'mores?"

We'd chant back, "Because you always want some more."

Now my mother said, "Why don't you take a break? Dad and I will take the boys to the water. You just sit here and relax."

"The boys can't swim," I said. Then I remembered, neither could my parents.

"They'll just be wading," Mom said. "The water's only this deep at the edge." She pointed to her calf and gave me a you-worry-too-much look.

My parents grabbed their lawn chairs. Also a tradition, they would sit in the shade, let the cool breeze toss their hair, and listen to Hank Williams on the radio, while the kids splashed along the beach.

I waved them off, feeling wickedly happy to have a few minutes to myself.

Still not another boater, swimmer, or picnicker in sight. Strange, I thought.

I saw the boys run on the beach, kick off their sandals, and dunk their toes in the water. Any second Connor would be soaking his brother. I didn't want to watch.

When I looked up the hill, I noticed big tire ruts, now overgrown with weeds, running from the top of the hill down to the water — a path of some kind. Then it hit me — my kids were playing on an old boat launch, a concrete ramp sloping down into deep water.

I ran to the beach just to hear Connor kerplunk into the dark water. His face beamed — but for only a second.

Fingers splayed, he reached to me and screamed, "Help me, Mommy. Help me!"

He slid backwards. I reached, but the tips of my fingers just brushed his. I tried to grab him again, but he slid out of reach.

I kicked off my sandals. My bare feet hit what I thought was going to be concrete. Instead it felt mushy and slick, like Jell-O. I was sliding fast. Long green tendrils of algae covered my feet. I bent my knees, skating down the ramp.

I slid into Connor, grabbed him, and lifted his head. Our weight and the volume of water slowed our glide, but we didn't stop.

I managed to turn us around and tried walking back up the ramp. I fell and fell again. The more I fought, the farther from shore we slid.

Swim. I knew that was our only hope. Between Connor's extra fifty-two pounds and my inability to find a hard, stable surface for my feet, I couldn't lift us to a point of buoyancy. We simply flailed in the water, sliding deeper and deeper.

The water hit my chin. I yelled, "Help!"

My mother wrung her hands. Dad handed my mom his watch. He could barely swim — certainly not enough to save us. He must have figured that he'd rather die than watch us drown.

I wanted to yell at him to stop, but I could only gurgle.

I stood on my tiptoes, the water up to my lips. I knew we were about to drown.

At that point I decided the lake could take me, but it would take not my son — not if I could help it. I would put Connor on my shoulders, hold my breath, and stand like a pillar until he was rescued or until I couldn't stand anymore.

I took one last look at my parents.

To my surprise, they weren't looking at us, but at something in the distance — something moving. Finally I made out a chestnut ponytail bobbing in the water. Then emerged a woman moving towards us with swift, long strides — not slipping at all. Towards Connor and me, she pushed an air mattress.

At the beach, Connor scampered away, but I collapsed, shaking, gasping for air. I looked around to thank this woman, but she was gone.

"Which way did she go?" I asked my parents. They looked around and shrugged. We searched the water, the beach, the park — as before, we were totally alone.

I felt a light tap on my shoulder.

Kyle stood next to me, his hands cupped. He unfurled his fingers to expose a dandelion, no bigger than a lemon drop.

"I picked this for you," he said, blinking back tears.

No stem, just the flower. I pinched the yellow blossom between my thumb and forefinger. My mouth twitched.

Instead of crying, though, a big laugh exploded from within me.

Kyle giggled, which only made me laugh even harder.

Connor joined in, and we laughed, for no reason other than it just felt good being alive and together.

"What about the s'mores, Mommy?" Kyle asked.

"Yeah, Mom," Connor said. "Can we have them... now?"

I saw my children in a way I hadn't for a while — their faces so full of love and life.

"I bet if you look in the edge of the woods, you'll find those marshmallow sticks," I said.

They squealed, which now sounded like music to my ears.

I'd never really believed in miracles. But nothing else explains what happened that day. Since then, though, I thank God every day for giving me a second chance — His own version of s'more.

http://www.chickensoup.com/

A Toe-tal Disaster

By Mark Rickerby

Humor is merely tragedy standing on its head with its pants torn.

~Irvin S. Cobb

I was always a realist when it came to love. I didn't believe in destiny or the idea of soul mates. I considered it a lot of superstitious hooey. That is, until it happened to me... a date that went so horribly wrong, the only possible explanation was that our union was cursed.

When I first saw her, I was dumbstruck. She seemed to be my dream woman in every way. Everything she said and did was just so... wow. She could have worn a potato sack and it would have looked like high fashion to me. She could have read an insurance policy and I would have savored every word that poured from her sweet lips.

After ogling her with the glazed expression of a barn animal for a few weeks, I finally got up the nerve to ask her out on a date. I was ecstatic when she said yes. I walked home ten feet off the ground.

The first sign that something was amiss came when I called to confirm our date. She said she had severely stubbed her big toe and was thinking about canceling. It wasn't broken, she said, but it had swollen to twice its normal size. My heart sank, thinking she had changed her mind and made up the toe injury as an excuse. However, when I said she would be sitting most of the night — in a car, restaurant, and theater — she agreed to keep our date.

Sure enough, when I came to pick her up, she was wearing open sandals and the big toe of her right foot was heavily bandaged.

The first sign of the curse came about halfway into dinner. It was one of those restaurants with singing waiters. One broke into song so I lifted my chair to turn around, not noticing that my date had extended her leg under my chair to rest her toe. As I set down the heavy, wooden chair, one of the legs and all of my weight came down squarely on her injured big toe. She let out a yell that was louder than the singer's amplified voice. The other diners thought she was launching into a duet with him. I apologized profusely, but she was in so much pain, she couldn't respond. Eventually, she recovered and forgave me. After all, I couldn't see her unnaturally outstretched leg under my chair. But I still felt like a putz.

After dinner, we drove to the theater. At least we would be safe there, I thought. No such luck. As the theater filled up, a large woman shimmying along our aisle to her seat stepped on the same toe with her heel. My date screamed for the second time that night. This was becoming downright mysterious. I was starting to think someone had a voodoo doll of her and was repeatedly stabbing the big toe with a pin.

I didn't think her toe could swell any more than it already had. I was wrong. When the lights came up in the theater and I got a good look at it, I almost screamed, too. It looked like something out of a cartoon. I suggested taking her to the emergency room. She refused, saying she hated hospitals. However, my growing concern must have struck some chord in her heart because she asked if we could go to my place. I had mentioned that there was a swimming pool at my apartment complex, and she thought submerging her toe in the water might make it feel better. I was glad she wanted to spend more time together despite the bumpy start we were having.

It was a warm, summer night and the front yard grass was still wet from sprinklers. She took off her sandals and walked across the cool grass.

"Ahh, that feels nice," she said, finally feeling some relief from the pain. I was as relieved as she was until she kicked a sprinkler — yes, with the same big toe — and screamed in agony yet again.

"Ah, come on!" I yelled to whatever force was calling down such misery on her unfortunate toe.

I picked her up and carried her to the pool. She sat on the edge, put both feet in the cool water and said, "I don't usually drink, but I think a little alcohol might numb the pain a little."

I told her I would bring her something.

"Make it a double," she said.

We sat at the pool's edge and gradually fell into lively conversation. She even forgot about her toe. Eventually, we moved to lounge chairs. After an hour or so, I realized that I hadn't let my dog Sparky out of the apartment all evening. I excused myself and went to get him. She saw me walking him to the grass and said, "Oh, he's so cute! Bring him over here!"

Then the curse struck again. To my horror, Sparky, who had never bitten anyone before, walked directly over to her and chomped down on her bandaged toe. Maybe he smelled blood through the gauze and thought it was a sausage wrapped in butcher's paper. She let out a blood-curdling scream for the fourth time that night, the kind of scream one might hear in a 1950s B-grade horror film.

Startled by her scream, Sparky took off and I ran after him, worried he might run into the street. By the time I caught him and returned, she was livid.

"Why didn't you warn me your dog was so vicious?" she yelled.

I told her Sparky had never bitten anyone before but she did not find it comforting to know she was the first.

"Please just take me home," she said. "I've had enough toe injuries for one night."

I couldn't understand why she was insinuating that her now obvious toe curse was my fault. I mean, the chair leg, the clumsy movie patron and the sprinkler I could understand, but my little Sparky latching onto that particular toe, and with such cyborg-like commitment, was proof enough for me that she and I were in some sort of Twilight Zone episode. I half-expected Rod Serling to show up and start narrating it.

With a heavy heart, I drove her and her toe home. She stuck her foot out of the window to elevate it. I begged her to bring it back inside to prevent some other freak accident, like a vulture swooping down on it. After everything I had witnessed that night, anything was possible.

I left several messages for her in the following weeks but she didn't return my calls. A month or so later, for a laugh, I sent her a pair of steel-toed boots to protect her cursed toe. She called to thank me and we made plans to go out again.

On our next date, she wore the boots. It was a wonderful evening, a fresh start. When I took her home, she got out of the car and slammed her thumb in the door.

http://www.chickensoup.com/

Punt, Pass, Propose

By Courtney Conover

Love — a wildly misunderstood although highly desirable malfunction of the heart which weakens the brain, causes eyes to sparkle, cheeks to glow, blood pressure to rise and the lips to pucker.

~Author Unknown

I didn't want to go. It wasn't that I was disinterested, more like disheartened. I was twenty-seven, single, and could see a pattern developing: Girl meets guy, girl gets to know guy, girl is introduced to guy's index of neurosis, girl remains single.

But being the hopeless (okay, relentless) romantic that I am, I truly wanted to believe that this evening would indeed be different. A week prior I had met a book publisher named Marian, who, during our chance encounter, had sworn that she knew the perfect guy for me after talking with me for no more than fifteen minutes. Marian, a self-professed yenta who unabashedly boasted that her first two matchmaking efforts had led to the altar, then produced a photo of her with two former NFL football players, one of whom was the very recognizable (and very married) Detroit Lions Hall of Fame running back Barry Sanders. The other was one of Marian's clients, who also happened to be one of Sander's offensive linemen.

"This is Scott," Marian said as she pointed to the tall (and, yes, handsome) gentleman on the right. "You guys will be good together." Marian spoke with both authority and compassion, as if I had no say in the matter, yet it would be for my own good. I gave a meek protest. A pompous athlete was the last thing I needed, but Marian wouldn't hear of it.

"Hush," she interrupted. "He's different. His foundation is holding a strolling dinner next Friday to raise money for children's literacy. Put on a nice dress. Come. It'll be fun."

I didn't know how to decline.

A week later, I arrived at the entrance of Somerset Collection, a high-end shopping center that would serve as the site of the fundraiser. I rooted around in my purse for a tube of lip gloss, a blatant attempt at stalling. The party was in full swing and the cacophony of guests mingling amid the sounds of smooth jazz was audible from the sidewalk. I stalled some more and proceeded to check my cell phone for any text messages. Not that I was expecting any.

This was absurd. I'd ripped off Band-Aids faster than this. Realizing that I could stay out here until my toes froze or I could act like an adult and face the music — and my yenta, for that matter — I braced myself and went in.

Marian was the first person I laid eyes on, and she wasted no time getting to the nitty-gritty. "You're here," she said, lifting her glass of merlot. She wore a bright red dress and an even brighter smile. I tucked my purse under my armpit and ran my hands down the front of my white and gold gown. "C'mon," she said and grabbed my hand.

I saw Scott before he saw me. He was huddled (no pun intended) around a handful of gentlemen who were so tall and broad, they could have easily given the Pittsburgh Steelers' Steel Curtain a run for their money. One of them gave Scott a nudge, and Scott turned to face me. Clad in a perfectly tailored classic black tuxedo, he was even more beautiful than I had recalled from the photo, and for a split second, I was convinced that my knees had turned to Jell-O.

It all happened so fast: Scott's pals got lost, Marian formally introduced us, and then she disappeared, too. Out of nowhere, a waiter deposited a glass of white wine in my hand. I took a sip — much too dry — and set it down on a nearby end table. Scott and I engaged in polite, rudimentary chatter, the details of which danced over my head like clouds in the sky. The next thing I knew Scott and I had photographers in our face. "Mr. Conover, we'd like to get a photo of you and your girlfriend, please," said the lead photographer of one of Metro Detroit's premier lifestyle magazines.

Both immensely flattered and utterly embarrassed, I glanced up at Scott to gauge his reaction. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder and smiled for the camera. And then something totally unpredictable happened: I relaxed. The rest of the evening was a mix of effusive laughter, fine chocolate, and a sense of wonderment I had yet to experience on a first date.

At the end of the night, Scott summoned me into Mont Blanc pen boutique, an event sponsor. "Here, try this pen," he said with a coy smile. He handed me the Meisterstück he had received as a gift from the company. "Why don't you write down your phone number?"

And then it started. A real, genuine... wait for it... relationship. Scott had returned to his home state of New Jersey after retiring from the Lions, so we did the long distance thing for about three years. It was hardly stressful, I think, because we knew this was it. The real McCoy.

It's funny how things come full circle. That's precisely what happened nearly two years after we'd met. Scott flew in for a Sunday afternoon Detroit Lions charity luncheon that was to be held at a hotel half a mile down the road from Somerset Collection. While we were en route, I looked to my right and saw one of Scott's former teammates driving in the next lane.

"Look, it's George!" I said. "He must be on his way to the lunch, too." Scott's jaw tightened, and he hit the gas. Hard. That was my first inclination that something wasn't right. The second, in hindsight, was that George was not wearing a suit — or even a nice shirt — but an I've-been-working-in-the-yard-all-day-type tank top. The third was that Scott turned left at the light — the opposite direction of the hotel — and right into the parking lot of Somerset Collection. But this time Scott quelled my suspicion by stating that we were stopping by Mont Blanc before the luncheon so he could get his Meisterstück cleaned and ready to go for the autographs he'd sign at the lunch, which seemed plausible.

But it was all a ruse.

We entered the boutique hand in hand and walked right up to the counter. Scott then pulled the pen and a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. He handed the pen to the store's associate and the piece of paper to me. I stared at it in disbelief: It was the paper I had written my phone number on the night we met. I stepped away from the counter to look up at Scott, but he wasn't towering over me like usual because he was on bended knee.

"Courtney..." he began. "Will you marry me?"

Time stood still. I couldn't believe my ears, I couldn't believe that I didn't see this coming, and, most of all, I couldn't believe my good fortune.

I was unable to move, but, thankfully, I was able to say what I felt: "Yes."

Never before — and not since — has an impromptu trip to the mall been so exhilarating.

http://www.chickensoup.com/

Sam's Sulks

By Joyce Stark

A cat, after being scolded, goes about its business. A dog slinks off into a corner and pretends to be doing a serious self-reappraisal.

~Robert Brault

Sam wasn't just a big black Labrador, he was absolutely huge. As I am only five feet tall, my husband, Eric, used to joke that Sam's legs were longer than mine. It was Sam that taught me a very important lesson about myself, even if he was probably concentrating more on his treats and his pride.

Eric and I had only been married for a couple of years when we got Sam as a puppy. I suppose like most people in the first few years of marriage, there are always adjustments to be made. Sam was huge, but gentle and such a character that it would be easy to think we learned our lessons from all his good points. It wasn't quite that way, but he certainly did show me that I had a bit of growing up to do. Until we got Sam, I never knew that dogs could have a sense of humor, but he actually used to play tricks on me.

We live on the coast and since our neighbors had to work weekends, we used to take their little boy, Gavin, down to the beach for the day. Sam had watched me dig holes for Gavin, and decided it was time to join in. I was so busy building a sandcastle for Gavin that I never saw, and Eric never enlightened me, that Sam was busy digging behind me. He dug a deep hole behind me so that when I sat back and put a hand out to steady myself, I tipped back into the hole. Everyone nearby on the beach had been watching, and the sight of my short legs waving in the air brought the beach to a standstill. Sam took off and ran huge rings round me to make sure he wasn't in trouble. Laughing at his tricks on me was never a problem. I thought it was funny too.

Sam, however, could not stand to be laughed at and would go into very serious "sulks" when that happened. One very cold winter, we were taking him out for a walk and didn't realize our front door path was completely iced over. Sam bounded outside as usual, but the next minute his long legs were flying all over the place as he tried to stay upright. Almost in "Bambi" style he slid down the path on his side and bumped into our hedge. None of this happened with any great impact, it was almost done in slow motion, so we knew he wasn't hurt, and it was so comical, we both burst out laughing. Sam's pride was hurt and when we got back home he went into his "sulk" corner and only came out to eat and for walks for two days.

Even worse was the incident with a pop group called Boney M who were popular in the United Kingdom at that time. Sam was already beginning to recognize certain words and "bone" was one of them. He was lying in the living room, stretched out under a small coffee table, while we were watching a pop programme on television. When the DJ said something about the next record being "A big hit for BONEY M," Sam's shot upright, banging his head underneath the little coffee table. It wasn't a serious "bang" and so we both laughed. That sulk lasted three days.

In bed that night, I said to Eric, "It surprises me that a dog as intelligent and as good-natured as Sam takes our laughing at him so seriously. You would think he would know how much we love him."

There was a slight pause before Eric said quietly, "People can be like that too. Some people can't take criticism, even though it's given out of love too."

I laughed and pretended not to know that he was subtly trying to tell me, since that was my failing. When we were first married, it was always okay for me to criticise Eric and he would just shrug. The first time he said that something I cooked had no taste, I did a "Sam" for two days. And once when I tried to open a wine bottle with his fancy bottle opener, only to find it was a screw top, he thought it was hilarious. Eric laughed for ages and I sulked for days.

I lay in bed making the comparison and realized that although I took exception to criticism from Eric less than before, that was because he didn't give it so much. I realized too that he probably secretly laughed at my big mistakes, rather than annoy me. Eric liked to keep the peace but I knew he really shouldn't have to do that.

I thought about Sam and all the ways he was so brilliant. His sulking was his only fault. Sam, however, was a dog, whereas I was supposed to know better. I vowed that night to not only accept criticism, but openly invite Eric to make it every now and again. At first he was wary of that, coming from me, and offered it warily and ready for fireworks. As he saw his subtle comment had worked, we talked about it openly and I explained that I had learned my lesson not only from his comment, but really from Sam.

"I'm not sure that Sam's sulks are entirely about hurt pride. He is a very crafty dog," Eric said.

"What do you mean?" I asked him.

"Well, I think they might have started out that way, but whenever he sulks, both you and I fuss over him. He gets lots of attention and you give him something special to eat to bring him out of his mood."

I smiled at Sam as he lay on the rug and asked him, "Are you really that smart?"

His huge innocent brown eyes looked up at me. He raised one ear and I could almost hear him say, "Who me? I'm just a dog!"

http://www.chickensoup.com/

Why Not?

By Joyce Terrell

Rejoice always, pray constantly, and in all circumstances give thanks.

~The Desert Fathers

Growing up in a small town in Mississippi, church was a major part of everyday life. Everything revolved around it, even social activities.

Due to illness, my mother couldn't take me to church much, but my Grandmother Wilmer made sure I was there every Wednesday night and most of the day Sunday. As a child, I was mesmerized by the congregation. During altar prayer, everyone would be thanking God, clapping their hands and working themselves into a frenzy with every word the pastor said.

"Thank you, God for all you have done for us and what you have brought us through!"

Amens and Hallelujahs could be heard all around. The pastor would step out of the pulpit, wiping sweat from his forehead, headed straight for my grandmother who was set to send up her portion of loud praises. As he got closer to her, the spirit seemed to engulf the whole congregation — praises were all through the church.

"Lord, you didn't have to do it, but you did and for that we thank you! Can I get an Amen, sister?" he said, grabbing my grandma's hand and shaking it.

"Amen, Amen. Yes Lord!" she shouted, running up and down the aisle until finally falling to the floor. I don't know if she fell from the Holy Spirit or if she just wore herself out. But I could certainly understand her praises.

For as long as I could remember, she was always considered blessed and highly favored in the Lord by her church members and friends. She was the first African American on her street to move, and bought her house with cash. Well respected in the neighborhood, she was always the leader of neighborhood watches and summer bake sales.

As a young girl, I decided that I, too, wanted to be a church lady like Grandma, shouting and thanking the Lord the way she did. From then on, I became very active in church, trying to emulate my grandmother. But things just didn't seem to go right for me. God didn't seem to want to answer any of my prayers. I would sit on the same pew every Sunday, and feel nothing spiritually. What had I done so wrong that the Holy Spirit, which seemed to fill my grandma's soul, would elude me all together?

I finally gave up. I stopped going to church and moved six hours away.

Things only got worse. My mother had finally succumbed to her illness. And at twenty-six, I was a divorced mother with two toddlers, working a minimum wage job.

I was so angry with God, I got into my own personal shouting match, shaking my fist, asking how could he forget me when I tried so hard all my life to serve him and do right? How could everything I did turn out so wrong?

I exhausted myself shouting, and went to lie down. I tried to remember the happiness I felt as a child going to church, but it seemed far away.

The phone rang.

"Hello?" I said in a whisper, hoping it was not someone I owed money.

"Joyce?" It was Grandma. "Is that you? What's wrong, baby?"

The tears started. "Life, Grandma. I am a failure. I just can't do this. Why can't I keep it together like you?" For the next thirty minutes, I went on and on about how bad things were.

"What in the world can be so wrong that it's causing you to give up?" she asked.

"Grandma, you wouldn't understand. You have your own house so you don't have to worry about rent. Your monthly pension is more than enough so you don't have to worry about money. Auntie gets her own money. (My grandmother's oldest daughter was born with Down syndrome.) You worry about nothing. It seems if God threw all the blessings at you and walked away when it came to me."

She listened, but she was still old school. "You quit your blaspheming, Joyce White. If you quit, not only are you disappointing yourself, you will instill quitting into your children. It's not written anywhere life is going to be easy. I should know. I had some tough times when I was young, but God saw me through."

"Tough times when, Grandma?" I asked. "I know for the last forty years you haven't paid rent to anyone."

"Do you think I've always had this house? You think my life has always been this way?"

"Yes ma'am," I said truthfully.

"But you don't know how I got this house."

"No ma'am. I guess I never thought about it."

"My nineteen-year-old son was killed in Vietnam. I got this house with the money the Army gave me. I had to lose a child to get a decent home. And before I got this house, I raised four children in a three-room house so run down they put a condemned sign on it. I felt despair just like you, but I had no place to go. You know what we did? We took the sign down and lived there until I could do better."

I was stunned.

"I have lost three of my four children, your mother included. They were supposed to help me take care of your Auntie. It was easy for me at first, but, at eighty, it gets harder every day.

"As far as my monthly pension, that's not something that was given to me. I put in forty years at a processing plant, working my fingers to the bone to earn that."

Now I felt ashamed. I never knew she had been through so much. When my mom died, and my aunt six months later, I guess I was caught up in my own pain. I didn't realize she had lost her children.

"Grandma, with all that's happened to you, why are you always so happy in church?" I asked.

"Why not?" she said. "Baby, sometimes, you have to 'why not' yourself to happiness. Why not praise God? It's not doing any good to be mad at him. Why not shout praises? It keeps you from crying. Why not say Hallelujah? It keeps your spirit happy. Even when you don't feel like it, say, 'Thank you Jesus.' Just try it. I will send you a little something to tide you over until you can do better."

"Thank you so much, Grandma. I needed that."

"I know you did. Talk to you later." She hung up without another word.

"Just thank him anyway," I said, repeating my grandmother's words aloud. "Even if you don't feel like it."

I closed my eyes. "Thank you, Jesus," I whispered. "Thank you, Lord." The more I said it, the more I meant it. "Thank you, Lord." I stood up and walked from room to room. "Thank you, Lord!"

Grandma was right. Tears welled up in my eyes. God hadn't eluded me. I had eluded him because I was mad at my own failures and losses. All this time, the blessing was in thanking him anyway. Now I understood the people at my childhood church. They were not praising God because things were good. They were praising God until things got better.

The following Sunday, I decided to go to church. I made the six-hour drive to my hometown to attend church with my grandma. When the pastor called for altar prayer, I followed my grandmother to the front of the pulpit, along with others.

"I just want to say, thank you Lord for all you've done!" pastor shouted, with a loud response from the members.

I looked around to see some with their eyes closed but mouths full of praise. Others with their hands in the air, and barely audible.

Why not?

"Thank you Lord!" I said as loud as I could.

Then it happened. As I continued my praise, I felt what I had been looking for all this time. The Holy Spirit. Now I knew just how everyone else felt when they found their own personal peace with God, and it was wonderful.

My grandmother looked at me and smiled. She knew I was having a "why not?" moment.

http://www.chickensoup.com/