Unwrapping the Present

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive

BY: Tsgoyna Tanzman

A happy person is not a person in a certain set of circumstances,
but rather a person with a certain set of attitudes.
~Hugh Downs


I lay snugly in bed trying, yet again, to figure out what to do with my life. "God, what would you have me do? Where would you have me go?"

Too impatient to wait for His response, my mind catalogued everything I expected to hear: "Fight World Hunger." "Save the Children." "Stop Global Warming."

Yet I distinctly heard, "Go to Costco."

"Excuse me? Costco? Really?"

Not that I underestimate the spiritual value of seventy-five rolls of toilet paper, but maybe my to-do list got tangled up in my spiritual call. So I tried again.

"God, what would you have me do today? Where would you have me go?"

No doubt about it -- "Costco" was His answer.

Frankly, I was relieved. Costco seemed infinitely more manageable than fighting world hunger, especially since I had to be home before 3:00 PM.

"If you have the nagging suspicion that you're wasting your life," Marianne Williamson, the spiritual teacher, once said, "it's because you are." Our house renovation, which had been my "job" for over a year, was finally finished and I now volunteered only minimally since my daughter had entered middle school. In short, I found myself suddenly out of work with that nagging suspicion Marianne talked about. Admittedly my ego yearned to own a cocktail-party sound bite that would impress when someone inevitably asked, "So what are you up to?"

"Uh... nothing."

In great need of an identity makeover, I'd begun reading spiritual books. What struck me was how often someone found her calling or purpose in life by waking each morning and asking God, "What would you have me do today? Where would you have me go?"

Truthfully it all seemed a little hooey. Could I really dial God 911 and get an answer?

But okay, I'd go with the flow. Maybe this Costco gig was my audition. If God saw that I could handle family hunger, he might give me a go at the world one day.

So I got out of bed and dressed for Costco.

Being Day One of my God-given duty, I approached my calling in, let's just say, a more godly way. Instead of weaving my shopping cart NASCAR-style through the aisles, running intersections, and whizzing through the less busy thoroughfares, I yielded. I turned off my cell phone and gave up being smug about multi-tasking, which I discovered enabled me to remember all of the items I came in for. But as I waited in the checkout line my foot tapped anxiously. I still had to go to the cleaners, the post office and the library and be home in thirty-five minutes. My heart raced faster. Breathe. Be here. Be present.

I redirected my thoughts to my feet and felt them ground me to the earth. As I breathed, tension evaporated. I became less stressed. I felt an opening of grace. I felt lighter.

I arrived home and unloaded my packed SUV. Normally, I'd moan about having to make multiple trips up two flights of stairs, including lugging a three-gallon jug of laundry detergent, but today I found gratitude. First, I was grateful I had the money to buy everything I did. Second, I was thankful my arms and legs were strong enough to haul my goods, and third, I was mindful we now had food for dinner and lunches and I could tackle the piles of laundry that had accumulated.

Gratitude was beginning to run rampant. The more present I became, the more I grasped how blessed I was. I was grateful I had appliances and that they worked. I was grateful every time I turned on the faucet and clean water came out. I was grateful I had a family to cook and clean for. Had my newly found gratitude not caused so much serenity, it could've been downright annoying.

"What's up with you?" my daughter asked, eyeing me suspiciously, as she dropped her book bag and kicked off her shoes. "You look weirdly happy."

I was happy. Not weirdly, just simply.

Being grateful -- can that be a calling? My life's purpose?

My husband arrived home earlier than expected.

"Hi," I chirped.

His face was slack and drained of color, his eyes glazed with that "I have something to tell you but I don't want to" expression.

"My job's been 'downsized.' I haven't been fired, but I don't have a job."

I felt the panic of the unknown future surging through my body. What's going to happen? What now? What if? My body tightened. I felt ill.

Okay, gratitude's pretty easy when your pocket's full and the sun is shining, but I wasn't ready for this so soon. Now what, God? This was only my first day on the job.

Then it hit me. God didn't send me to Costco to find toilet paper, and the gratitude thing was really just a warm-up. What he sent me to find was presence.

I'd gotten it wrong. It wasn't God, what would you have me do? It was God, what would you have me be?

Be present. Be in this moment. Be.

I took a grounding breath and hugged my husband, absorbing the warmth of his body. As I stood in that present moment unwrapped, uncontested and accepted for simply what is, I understood that all we ever truly have is the present. Maintaining gratitude, faith and presence were actions I could choose now. Faith is knowing the moon is always full even if I see only a sliver or none at all. And from this deep place of awareness I knew we were, and would be, all right.

Ex's and Oh's

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

BY: Natalie June Reilly
For the spirit of Christmas fulfils the greatest hunger of mankind.
~Loring A. Schuler



Love is a funny thing, isn't it? It comes in all shapes and sizes, and you just never know when or where you're going to find it. Sometimes you know exactly where to find it; sometimes it finds you, grabbing hold of your lapels and shaking some sense back into your ever-hardening heart. And then there are times when you find that love was right there where you left it -- not lost, really -- like your car keys or the husband you divorced nine years ago, a man you had one partial life and two beautiful children with.

It was Christmas Day 2008 when I unexpectedly found love again. Oh, it wasn't the romantic kind of love that can go from inferno to fizzle in sixty seconds; it was the old, familiar kind -- the slow burn -- that can only happen between two people who once shared a life, the kind of love that can only happen between those same two people who shared the experience of giving life to two beautiful children. That's the kind of love I'm talking about, and to be honest with you, I didn't even see it coming.

He was just walking me to my car -- Billy, that is, my ex-husband of nine years. I had just dropped our two teenage boys, Billy Boy and Alec, off at his house on Christmas morning. It's been our tradition since the divorce. After powering down breakfast and rifling through stockings at my place, I pack up the car with my boys and a couple of armloads of Christmas booty and head over to their dad's house, never bothering to change out of our pajamas.

It's at his house that we exchange gifts and pleasantries and then -- after a bundle of Christmas hugs and kisses from my kids -- I head back home with empty arms to spend the rest of the day with my mother. Oh, I know; it's not idyllic, but it's as close as we can get, considering.

Over the past couple of years our little tradition has included the new woman in Billy's life, Lisa. And even though I like her and she is good to my boys, it's a little disturbing when you find yourself sharing your family with another woman -- and on such a day as Christmas, too. But such is life when you're a broken family. You learn to deal with it. I suppose it was a little harder on me this year after having just lost my job; I guess you could say that I was already feeling a little emotional, seemingly alone and left out in the cold as it was.

"Natalie, you know that I love you, right?" Billy whispered from out of the blue as we ambled toward my Jeep. His eyes unexpectedly welled up with tears as he -- the consummate tough guy from Long Island -- stood barefoot on that cold sidewalk in December in his green flannel pajamas, wearing his heart on his sleeve. "I will always love you."

Apparently he was feeling a tad schmaltzy, too. I hadn't heard the words "I love you" fall from his lips in a long while and even though I was completely touched by them, it was the tears in those sentimental green eyes of his that caught me off guard, those familiar eyes that brought back so many wonderful Christmas memories.

"I know," I whispered, my heart catching in my throat, as I, too, stood outside in the early morning hours of that cold Christmas day in my red, snowman pajamas, tears welling up in my own green eyes. "I love you, too."

It's not quite the exchange one might come to expect between two ex-spouses with an ocean's worth of water under the bridge. But before I knew it, we were locked in a long embrace, both of us weeping uncontrollably. What is it about Christmas that brings people together, temporarily lowering their defenses, those protective walls we build around our hearts?

It was as if -- for just a moment -- we were all alone, the two of us, held together by the warmth of what was and what is now our family, either that or by the static cling from our flannel pajamas. Who could tell? In any case, we were encapsulated in a proverbial snow-globe moment and we were both a little shaken. Meanwhile, deep down inside -- in places I don't like to talk about at parties -- I knew that Lisa and the boys were waiting inside for him; she would be making breakfast and Christmas memories all her own with my family -- my children. That's not always an easy pill to swallow, even though I know in my heart I wouldn't change a thing -- even if I could.

"We have two great kids together, Nat, and I wouldn't have wanted to take this walk with anyone but you," Billy breathed, giving me that same sideways (deliberate) grin that both my boys give me when they really mean something.

"Ditto," I smiled back.

I reached up onto my tiptoes, my arms squeezing evermore tightly around his neck, hot tears streaming down my cool cheeks and into the thickness of his shoulder. His arms tightened around me, too. And with all the love and sentimentality that Christmas brings with it, as well as all of the love and sentimentality that balls up between two people over the course of eighteen years, Billy and I gave each other a warm peck on the lips and wished each other a happy Christmas.

And it was then -- as he tucked me into my car, shutting the door behind me -- that I realized that even though life has a way of breaking our hearts -- and even breaking apart our families at times -- love is never really lost. In fact it can be found in some of the simplest of places -- many of them locked tight in those Christmas memories both old and new.

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

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Smacked with the Obvious

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Sarah Hamaker

From a fallen tree, all make kindling.
~Spanish proverb


Brushing my teeth, I heard the scratching of what sounded like branches tickling the roof. I paused, wondering what it could be, given that no trees were close to our house. I attributed the sound to a stray branch that must have been flung onto our roof by Hurricane Isabel, which was blowing her way through our city in September 2003. Being pretty far inland, we were not too alarmed by this display of nature's fury.


Then I heard the faint sound of breaking glass. A split second later, the entire house shook. My husband and I stared at each other in frozen horror before bolting to check on our baby daughter asleep in her crib across the hall. The sound had jolted her awake -- never had a cry sounded so sweet -- and my husband gratefully snatched her up and darted back to the relative safety of our room.


Peeking down the darkened hallway, we could see remnants of our attic lying on the floor of our living room. After grabbing a few essentials, my husband ventured out, flipping on the hall light. We picked our way out of the house and into the still-raging hurricane.


My husband started the car while I hurried across the street to let a neighbor know we were okay and heading to a friend's home. Shaking but grateful to be alive, we drove away, skirting fallen trees and downed power lines.


The next morning, bright sunlight starkly displayed the storm's destruction. We returned home to see that a giant tulip poplar tree in the center of our yard had effectively split our house in two, crashing through our kitchen window with its long branches extending over the front of our house.


We had hoped to go inside to check on our cats, one of whom I had seen in the kitchen just moments before the tree fell, but we were uncertain of the house's stability. As we stood on the sidewalk gaping at the damage and wondering what to do, a local fire truck pulled up. The firefighters had heard about our house and informed us, with a note of awe, that our home had received the worst damage in the city. They volunteered to go inside to check for our cats, and we were thrilled when both felines were found unharmed, although plenty scared.


In the days and weeks that followed, we remembered the feeling of relief when we realized that everyone in our lives who mattered was unscathed -- me, my husband, our daughter and even our two pets. We clung to that memory as we navigated the long and sometimes exhausting road to recovery.


Family, friends and neighbors -- most of whom we hadn't yet met given that we had moved in only six months earlier -- expressed amazement at our calmness throughout the ordeal. Words cannot fully express how utterly grateful we were to God that He had spared our lives. Yes, we lost many things: books, toys, furniture, dishes, computers, and a fridge and freezer full of food. But those things were replaceable. Our home was rebuilt better than before -- and I even had the chance to make a few improvements during the reconstruction.


The damage inflicted by Hurricane Isabel -- the costliest and deadliest hurricane in the 2003 Atlantic season -- was temporary, but the opportunity to witness God's goodness in the midst of our trial is something we still cherish. When we meet neighbors for the first time, their eyes pop when they realize we live in "the house the tree fell through."


Every so often we pull out the photos of the tree's destruction and marvel at how blessed we were -- and still are. Whenever we begin to feel ungrateful or unsatisfied with what we have, those photos and memories offer a reminder of how we came through that trial. Especially during this time of economic uncertainty, reflecting on our close call with that tree makes us all the more thankful for our lives and for the things that matter most.

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

Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Tree Fell Through It

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Sarah Hamaker

From a fallen tree, all make kindling.
~Spanish proverb


Brushing my teeth, I heard the scratching of what sounded like branches tickling the roof. I paused, wondering what it could be, given that no trees were close to our house. I attributed the sound to a stray branch that must have been flung onto our roof by Hurricane Isabel, which was blowing her way through our city in September 2003. Being pretty far inland, we were not too alarmed by this display of nature's fury.


Then I heard the faint sound of breaking glass. A split second later, the entire house shook. My husband and I stared at each other in frozen horror before bolting to check on our baby daughter asleep in her crib across the hall. The sound had jolted her awake -- never had a cry sounded so sweet -- and my husband gratefully snatched her up and darted back to the relative safety of our room.


Peeking down the darkened hallway, we could see remnants of our attic lying on the floor of our living room. After grabbing a few essentials, my husband ventured out, flipping on the hall light. We picked our way out of the house and into the still-raging hurricane.


My husband started the car while I hurried across the street to let a neighbor know we were okay and heading to a friend's home. Shaking but grateful to be alive, we drove away, skirting fallen trees and downed power lines.


The next morning, bright sunlight starkly displayed the storm's destruction. We returned home to see that a giant tulip poplar tree in the center of our yard had effectively split our house in two, crashing through our kitchen window with its long branches extending over the front of our house.


We had hoped to go inside to check on our cats, one of whom I had seen in the kitchen just moments before the tree fell, but we were uncertain of the house's stability. As we stood on the sidewalk gaping at the damage and wondering what to do, a local fire truck pulled up. The firefighters had heard about our house and informed us, with a note of awe, that our home had received the worst damage in the city. They volunteered to go inside to check for our cats, and we were thrilled when both felines were found unharmed, although plenty scared.


In the days and weeks that followed, we remembered the feeling of relief when we realized that everyone in our lives who mattered was unscathed -- me, my husband, our daughter and even our two pets. We clung to that memory as we navigated the long and sometimes exhausting road to recovery.


Family, friends and neighbors -- most of whom we hadn't yet met given that we had moved in only six months earlier -- expressed amazement at our calmness throughout the ordeal. Words cannot fully express how utterly grateful we were to God that He had spared our lives. Yes, we lost many things: books, toys, furniture, dishes, computers, and a fridge and freezer full of food. But those things were replaceable. Our home was rebuilt better than before -- and I even had the chance to make a few improvements during the reconstruction.


The damage inflicted by Hurricane Isabel -- the costliest and deadliest hurricane in the 2003 Atlantic season -- was temporary, but the opportunity to witness God's goodness in the midst of our trial is something we still cherish. When we meet neighbors for the first time, their eyes pop when they realize we live in "the house the tree fell through."


Every so often we pull out the photos of the tree's destruction and marvel at how blessed we were -- and still are. Whenever we begin to feel ungrateful or unsatisfied with what we have, those photos and memories offer a reminder of how we came through that trial. Especially during this time of economic uncertainty, reflecting on our close call with that tree makes us all the more thankful for our lives and for the things that matter most.

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

Chicken Soup for the Soul: My New Life

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cancer Book

BY: Debra Manford

I live in Canada, in a small town called Atikokan in northwestern Ontario, surrounded by lakes, rivers, and streams. We have a human population of about 3,000, and a mosquito population of three billion. At the present time, we have a huge black bear wandering the streets and making a nuisance of itself. It was spotted about six houses down from me last night. That's just one of the many benefits of living in the wild, like having the nearest fully equipped hospital three hours away by car.

I am a fifty-three-year-old woman. I have two part-time jobs and always thought I had all the time in the world to go on trips and take a holiday or to make things right and get in touch with old friends. I always thought I had all the time in the world to do the things you plan on doing -- someday, tomorrow, next week, or perhaps next year.

In one day, with one phone call, my life has changed. I will never be the same person again and that is a strange, mixed-up feeling. I still have so much left to do!

I was too busy to visit the doctor on a yearly basis, too busy to listen to my body, too busy to be sick. Finally, I listened. My body was telling me that something was not right and I made an appointment for a physical. Ever since, I've been on a roller coaster of blood tests, urine tests, ultrasounds, and then, the phone call. They found a large tumor on my right kidney and are sending me for a scan to find out whether it is cancer or not.

I do not know what the diagnosis will be. To say that it does not matter would be a lie. Of course it matters, but probably not in the way most people would think.

When the doctor first called, I felt as though she had kicked me in the stomach. For a moment, I thought I would be sick. I definitely had to tell myself to breathe, and a million and one thoughts raced through my brain, fogging everything else she said after the word "tumor."
I realized I might not have all the time in the world, after all.

So, what do I do? I have decided I will live a fuller life, regardless of the outcome of my scan. Today, I will write a letter to my best friend and tell her how much her friendship means to me. Today, I will phone my sons and daughter, and tell them how very much they mean to me. And today, I will plant my flowers.


Is there a support group for people who wait?

***

The tumor is not in my kidney as they originally thought. I do not have kidney cancer. The tumor is confined to my adrenal gland, and as far as they can tell, there is no spreading. They will be removing the whole adrenal gland and doing a biopsy afterwards. It is my understanding that removing an adrenal gland is complicated, so I continue to have blood tests, urine tests, etc. Apparently, there is some medical preparation that needs to take place before this operation can happen; I am probably looking at two more months of waiting, depending upon whether this tumor is functioning or non-functioning. The doctor tells me adrenal cancer is very rare.

***

There is a certain amount of freedom in accepting what you cannot control. When I tried to explain this to my daughter, she became angry with me. I told her I was not afraid of death, just pain. I guess that is part of my faith. I have learned from this experience -- no matter how much you and your family love each other, there are certain thoughts that are difficult to share, for whatever reason. Some of my family members do not mention the word "cancer." They do not ask me how I feel because I guess they are more afraid than I am of what I am going to say. My mother and I, on the other hand, have discussed all the possibilities, good and bad, and I appreciate her honesty.

***

Today, when I woke and my feet hit the floor, I thanked God for the good life I have had, and hopefully, will continue to have, and I realized I don't do that often enough. Today, I think about how I am going to live the rest of my life as a more loving, giving, and thankful person. Strangely enough, mixed in with all the other emotions I have at the moment, I have joy. All in all, I feel more alive than ever.

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

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Sanctity of the Run

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Runners

BY: Luci L. Creery

Sweat cleanses from the inside. It comes from places a shower will never reach.
~George Sheehan


I ran competitively as a teenager. I was the daughter of a struggling single parent, and running was my escape from a broken home and the burden of never having enough money. Running was relatively cheap, and it took me places I would not have gone otherwise. I was even banking on a track scholarship to get me through college since my mom, then working as a minimum-wage clerk, clearly couldn't afford my tuition.


Then, at the beginning of my senior year, I was in a terrible car accident. Before I knew it, I was stranded in a hospital bed with a shattered lumbar, a cracked pelvis, a punctured lung, and several broken ribs. Needless to say, the accident quelled my dreams.

But life moved on, as it always does. My body slowly healed, and I struggled to finish high school and carve out a new identity for myself and forge new hobbies. I eventually worked my way through college, got married, and began having a family, another deep aspiration of mine. Growing up for the most part alone, I yearned for a home full of the bustle of family life.

As a mother of five, my life has moved from the open trail into the kitchen in a race to get meals whipped up before children begin a hunger howl. When I want to go running, I have to sneak out of my house. It's a rapid-fire affair of throwing on workout clothes (clean or otherwise), lacing up shoes as I'm going out the door, and darting off without anyone (except Dad) noticing I'm gone. The youngest of my brood gets miffed if he notices Mommy leaving without his approval or companionship.

I don't marathon run. I don't have a schedule or a ritual. For me, I usually look around the house and think, "Okay, everything's under control here... It's nice outside... I'm going running." And I dash off. I'm not training for official races; I'm training for my life.

I try to run three or four times a week. Aside from the obvious health reasons, I run to keep sane. I knew I wanted to be a mother, but I didn't know love in a big package comes with a price tag: emotional and mental instability. There's something grounding about the steady rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement accompanied by the sound of my breathing that is close to music -- close to meditation.

My house is a bustling den of undone chores. There's always that load of laundry that begs to be done and a meatloaf that needs to be made. There's always a diaper to change, a floor to mop, an argument to mediate, and a missing toy to find. And, if I still have time, there's a bathroom that needs my attention.
The demands can be overwhelming at times. I love my family immensely, but I don't love getting hit in the head with a phone by a baby who's just learned to use his arm. I love my boys, but I tire of piles of smelly socks and scattered unmentionables. I don't mind cleaning my house, but I do grow weary of toothpaste smeared lavishly on bathroom mirrors and unidentifiable sticky spots showing up on freshly-mopped kitchen floors.

So, when I'm feeling especially anxious and irritated, I take off. I run. Sometimes I run hard and fast, pumping my arms to push up hills as if to punish myself (or to escape a dog). Sometimes I jog slowly and luxuriously, enjoying the scent of blossoming peach trees and the feel of a spring breeze, or taking in the heavy wet scent of an approaching storm.

Sometimes when I run, I look up, enjoying puffy clouds, a glaring sun, or the ominous darkness of approaching storm clouds. Sometimes I look out at the horizon -- at the mountains blanketed in a green that never goes away -- and I am happily reminded of my diminutive existence. Sometimes I look down because of dangers lurking in the form of potholes, loose gravel, or stray rocks. Sometimes I delightedly notice lizards crossing my path or butterflies resting silently on oleander bushes. I see children riding their bikes, elderly couples walking their dogs, women in pairs wearing colorful track suits, walking and chatting. With all of these observations, I am reminded of the wonders of the world and the steady existence of life beyond whatever small calamity befalls mine.

When I get myself into a rhythm of striding and breathing, I begin to feel the invisible, heavy layers of stress shed. I leave them behind to eat my dust, and I am a lighter being, pushing on ahead. By the end of my run, I am wet with perspiration, my heart is beating rapidly, and I am feeling new and alive.

My life as a mother is like an endurance sport. My runs always remind me of what life is: always putting one foot in front of the other, even when I'm exhausted. It's about running up the hill, however daunting, and congratulating myself for not stopping. Life, like running, is about getting up and pushing on ahead, even if I've tripped on a pothole. It's about keeping the rhythm and setting a pace. It's about minding my injuries and allowing myself time to heal, but not letting injuries get the best of me. Running is like life; it is a glorious, albeit sometimes painful, act of always moving forward.

When I finish my runs, I return home happily to the energy and bustle of my lovely family. My house seems warmer and friendlier. My children are chatting and playing, and I smile and hold them close. They tell me they missed me and wonder where I ran. I tell them I've missed them, as well.

I feel refreshed, grounded, and sane. I feel victorious. My mind is clear and my heart is happy. Everything is right with the world, and I'm ready to tackle that laundry pile and scrub that bathroom.

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

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Fishing for Rainbow Trout

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: A Book of Miracles

By Brittany Newell

We live in a rainbow of chaos.
~Paul Cézanne


Okay, so maybe it was a little irresponsible for my dad to embark on a fishing trip and leave his pregnant wife alone at home. My mother was seven months swollen with twins. Other, more rational couples might've promised to stay side-by-side, but we babies weren't due until August, and this fishing trip was a graduation present for my brother. Before the little girl duo was to come into the world, the two males of the family needed to bond in the manliest way they knew -- fishing for rainbow trout.


So my dad bade goodbye to my very pregnant mother and set off for Oregon with my older brother. Perhaps Dad was oblivious to the foreshadowing of sudden rain and hot whistling winds, finding satisfaction in the masculine angst of raging seething rivers. Either way, it must have come as a shock to return to his lodge one evening and receive ten frantic messages left by my mother. It's hard to guess exactly what she babbled, for a hysterical woman in labor is not usually known for her eloquence, but my dad knew instantly he had to get home. He and my brother leapt into the car and rocketed down the road, racing off in less than five minutes for the fifteen-hour car ride to San Francisco.


Meanwhile, my mother felt her babies' impatience and rushed to her car. She was so enormous she couldn't even buckle her seatbelt and her stomach constantly set off the horn. Our neighbor had agreed to drive my mother to the hospital in case my dad was unavailable but Mom chose not to trouble her backup chauffeur and instead drove herself.


Meanwhile, my father and brother sped down the highway. Despite all efforts to surpass the speed limits as quietly and cautiously as possible, Dad was pulled over by a cop just as my mother teetered into the hospital. My parents' despair was mutual as Dad pleaded with an unsympathetic policeman and my mother hid in the elevator, embarrassed by her frazzled state.


At last, speeding ticket begrudgingly accepted, my dad was on the road again just as my mother leaned over and grasped the nurse's desk, mumbling, "I think something's wrong."


The nurse was a warm and no-nonsense woman. If her husband had asked to go on a fishing trip seven months into her pregnancy, she would have said, "You think some darn fish are more important than staying home and rubbing my feet? I don't have cravings for trout; I need chocolate ice cream!" The nurse told my mother to remove her pants and with one mighty sniff declared, "Honey, this ain't no false alarm. Your water broke!"
At the same time, massive rain clouds broke over Northern California, and a sudden downpour impaired my dad's speeding. This was enough to discourage anyone, for despite the near-slapstick calamity of our impromptu births, this premature labor was serious. There'd been another of us, my unknown brother, but our trio was reduced by a miscarriage before he even had a name.


As Dad's car flew through the rain, however, we decided we'd been patient long enough. My mother begged for painkillers. My father must have sensed her despair and agony. He sensed that he would never get to San Francisco in time for our births. Though the rain slowly let up, he knew he could never drive fast enough to make it... assuming we made it too. He was frightened and discouraged and tired. Just as his weary mind considered the worst possible scenario, he looked out the window and saw a glimmer on the horizon.


Across the sky stretched a double rainbow. Not one, but two radiant arcs, one on top of the other. My father stared long and hard at this double rainbow, two for his double dose of Gemini girls. He knew just by looking at that pair of rainbows that everything would be all right. This was a sign, and with hope restored he continued down the road, slowing his frantic speed to gaze at those rainbows a little longer.


He arrived at the hospital seven hours after we were born. Two months premature, I weighed three pounds, fifteen ounces; McKenzie was four pounds, three ounces. Though the double rainbow calmed my father, he was still terribly on edge until he saw us, our tiny wrinkled bodies warming under the orange glow of incubator lights. When Dad arrived, Mom awoke to hold us, and we smiled, brown eyes all around, except for my mother's glistening wet violet ones.


Dad's fishing trip had been cut short but he didn't mind. All he needed at that moment was the tenderness only two baby girls could give.


After that day, Dad never saw another double rainbow.

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