An Unexpected Lesson

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teacher Tales

BY: Michael Lampert

The art of teaching is the art of assisting discovery.
~Mark Van Doren

Jack had the grip of a muscle man. When he shook your hand it felt like every bone inside would break. The kids knew it too, and feared for their lives when the mood struck him to give out giant bear hugs. He spent his spare time in physics class ripping apart telephone books with his bare hands. Everything about him was strong and assured. Challenging him in physics was a constant play in kinesthetic learning.

When it came to Newton's second law, one push from Jack was all it took to get the hovercraft going at relativistic speeds, or when we karate-chopped boards, Jack led the class by breaking eight boards stacked high. Demonstrating momentum conservation was a favorite for Jack because he could crush a cinder block on my chest with a sledgehammer as I lay between beds of sharpened nails. Jack was a joy to teach because he could pretty much do anything, so I was surprised with his reaction one day when I challenged him with a lesson on pulleys.

Our topic for the week was how pulleys and ropes can be used to increase your mechanical advantage. Jack was excited because he knew it meant he would get to push and pull things. To get the point across we went outside to do a "pulley" tug of war; it was to be Jack against the entire class, with only a few pulleys to help him. The class was sure this time there was no way Jack could outgun them, but Jack rigged up his side perfectly and to their dismay he confidently won the match.

But now it was time to get to the formality of learning and to apply what we learned through written work. Each year I end the unit with a lesson that I call "Thematic Pulleys." It is my chance to use the right and left sides of the brain together. I ask the kids to integrate art and physics into a theme using pulleys. They solve a problem of their own design, drawing it artistically on paper, yet with absolute physical accuracy. The kids come up with the most amazing drawings, some suspend spaghetti dinners with meatball pulleys on noodle ropes, or "Monopulley" game pieces with the prices of real estate representing weights, or others go for a "Beatles" theme, with records being the pulleys hanging the instruments and players of the band. The beauty of the designs are endless, entertaining and simply brilliant.

Jack sat and pondered the assignment. "Mr. Lampert," he said, "I can't draw." I was somewhat taken aback; this was the kid who I thought could do anything. This was Big Jack, self assured Jack, rip-a-telephone-book-in-half Jack. But a delicate drawing was just not his cup of tea. I assured him he could do the assignment and mused to myself, "I wonder what he will do now?" I had hit a weakness inside him, and as a teacher, I was excited to see how he would respond.

The day the assignment was due there was no Jack. Everyone turned in their work except Jack. I was curious what had happened but went home that afternoon rather tired from the week and I ended up crashing solidly on the couch, fast asleep. I awoke at dusk to a "clippity-cloppity" sound approaching down the driveway. There was a loud knock at the front door. I cracked it open slightly, quite curious about the ruckus. Suddenly a horse shoved its head right into the house! I heard a "Whoa there!" from behind the horse, and there was Jack. "Hey Lampert!" he sheepishly said, "I have something to show you. I brought you a horse to ride; mine is tied up over by the basketball hoop. Come on, saddle up!"

"Okay, this is pretty cool," I thought. I had not ridden a horse in over twenty years, so this could be fun. I got my courage up, and after Jack apologized for the mess the horse made on the driveway, we went riding a short way up the hill to his barn. As we entered, I saw hanging on the wall a whiteboard with Jack's rudimentary drawings of pulleys, ropes and various mathematical calculations. This was a good sign. He had obviously been busy doing physics today.

We dismounted and walked to the middle of the arena. There I was impressed to see what Jack had been working on. Suspended from a high girder was a strong rope winding through several pulleys; at the end was a pallet loaded with at least four hundred pounds of hay and old tractor parts. Jack said to me "Okay, Lampert, hop on!" He explained to me how he had figured out the exact lifting force needed and then, with just one arm, Jack grinned as he pulled the entire weight and me up and down with ease. "What do you say Lampert? Is that an A?" he asked in seriousness. "Jack, that's an A-plus!" I said proudly as he let me down.

I was quite taken aback by Jack's work, and as I rode home I reflected on the lesson, realizing that I had learned a lot that evening. Around me was the beauty of the horses, the open fields, the red sky and the peace of the Oregon countryside. While earlier I had mused to myself about how Jack might solve his shortcomings integrating art and physics, here Jack had clearly stepped up to the challenge. He created a masterpiece that went above and beyond the requirements for the assignment. He demonstrated that students can and will solve pretty much anything you present them. Jack was strong physically, but more importantly he was strong-willed.

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

Heathcliff in Jeans

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Campus Chronicles

BY: Angela Polidoro

My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath --
a source of little visible delight, but necessary.
~From Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë

When I was a teenager, I was a hopeless romantic. I was a Romeo and Juliet, Heathcliff and Catherine, liebestod (love in death) sort of romantic. Love wasn't real unless it was a dark passion. After reading Wuthering Heights far too many times, my idea of the perfect love was the ruggedly handsome Heathcliff, banging his head against a tree trunk, begging his love to haunt him for the rest of his days. What could be better than a man who loves even your ghost?

I went to an extremely small international high school in Nairobi, with only twenty-five guys in my senior class. Needless to say, there wasn't much of a selection, and I graduated without having any romantic experiences. College would be the place where I would realize my romantic destiny.

When I got to freshman orientation, I ended up spending a lot of time with the son of one my dad's former colleagues. Short and more than a little goofy, I couldn't imagine him shouting my name into the sunset, his face strained with the intensity of his passion. But he did pay me a fair share of flattering attention, and I decided to give him a shot. When he kissed me a few days later, injecting his tongue into my mouth and letting it sit there like a paralyzed slug, I realized that he was no Heathcliff. Perhaps, love just wasn't as grand as my favorite authors had convinced me it would be.

The rest of the year didn't yield any promising entanglements -- most of my suitors were frat boys or, in at least one case, an unfortunately creepy guy who wrote poems about me. I would be returning to Kenya for the summer and I didn't have a single romantic story to spin to my high school friends.

Of course, that was when I met him -- the night before leaving for the entire summer. We'll call him Heathcliff. Tall and dark-haired, Heathcliff had a wounded past, which only made him more intriguing. Though I had only just met him, I wanted to soothe him and help heal his deep wounds. We talked through the night and went on a leisurely midnight drive through the rural roads surrounding our school. And it certainly didn't hurt my growing infatuation that, upon discovering I had not yet learned to drive, he immediately insisted I get behind the wheel of his car. "Ah, this is it," I thought. "This is what Emily Brontë was thinking of." And it was -- the thrilling, exuberant, and frightening high I had been waiting for. When he kissed me at the end of the night and told me that he looked forward to spending time with me the next year, I could swear I almost swooned.

And then I had to leave... for the entire summer. When I finally returned to the U.S., I couldn't wait to reconnect with Heathcliff, who I had only spoken to a few times over the summer. I had grand plans for our reunion -- I imagined that our first midnight drive would be repeated countless times. I dialed his number on my cell phone with trembling fingers. No guy had ever made me feel this way before -- no one had made me experience this aching sense of anticipation and desire.

When Heathcliff finally answered his phone, though, I could tell something was off. He didn't seem to be the same cool, witty, sensitive guy who had charmed me so many months past. He claimed that he was now the owner of two businesses that he had formed over the summer. Because of this, he would not be returning to college. He was too busy running his business and cruising around in his brand new Camaro. Not only did Heathcliff not sound like the guy I had been dreaming about for months, he also didn't sound like a completely sane person. I left our conversation feeling confused and not a little bit stupid. Had I imagined everything? Did I create Heathcliff from thin air?

In spite of this, I wasn't quite willing to give up. I tried to justify his odd behavior: Maybe the phone call had been a fluke? Maybe he was just joking around and I was too dense to get it? I called and left him a message, pledging to myself that I would give up if I didn't hear anything back.

One day, my friend, Sarah, called with some juicy gossip. She'd talked to Heathcliff's old roommate, who said that he had spent the entire summer on drugs -- hard ones. Of course, instead of convincing me to stay away from him, this news made me want to help him all the more.

A few weeks later, I got a call, and when I heard the husky voice at the end of the line, I knew immediately who it was. Heathcliff! My heart sped up. He explained that he had spent the past month in the hospital. He had bipolar disorder and his summer had been consumed by a long, manic free-for-all. He had done drugs and spent money he didn't have (that explained the Camaro). He said he'd turned things around now.

We started dating. I was certain that my love would turn him around. I gave him all I had, telling him my every secret and even arranging to bring him to Kenya for a month over the summer. Though his unstable behavior often made me cry, loving him meant being in pain, and I had convinced myself at the tender age of nineteen that losing him would mean the end of me.

A year later, he broke my heart, not only by rejecting my love, but by starting to do drugs and party again. And though at first I thought I couldn't live without him, I eventually moved on. I didn't embrace a life of revenge and anger, I didn't commit suicide, and I didn't join a nunnery. Instead, I lived one day at a time, discovering for myself what it was to be an adult and what it was to be a person on my own terms instead of someone else's. I lost my first passionate love, and I am happier for it.

I learned that Heathcliff is not all he's cracked up to be.

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

The Best Coloring Book Ever

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom

BY: Rebecca Olker

Simply having children does not make mothers.
~John A. Shedd

"Mom, I need a new coloring book." I was sure my mother would understand. Anyone looking at my old coloring books could see that I couldn't continue to use them. Using each crayon in my sixty-four-count box, I had sampled every page.

With barely a glance she said, "They're fine, Becky. Go on and play." My neighborhood friend, Denise, and I slowly made our way back to my bedroom. I knew I was meant to be an artist. I loved to color. I was just never able to translate the beauty I saw in my mind through the crayons onto the page. What I really wanted was a sketchpad, a true artist's pallet. Not the scratch paper Dad brought home from work, with writing on one side. I wanted a blank slate.

I slowly flipped through the pages, hoping to find a fresh place to start. I wanted to create perfection, just the right combination of colors, blended and shaded. My dream was to create the kind of picture with which people could identify. Until then, I would settle for just being able to stay inside the lines of a pre-printed picture.

I was still flipping through the pages with the blind hope of a child, when I glanced up to see my mother in the doorway to my room. "Hey, I found a coloring book for you," she said. Denise and I grabbed all the crayons we could carry and ran after my mother. We followed her down the hall and all the way to the family room at the other end of the house. We were so excited we were giggling like, well, like little girls. So, where was it? It had to be super special for us to have to use it in the family room!

"See this wall? That is your coloring book. But only this wall, understand?" We froze. This had to be a trap. I may not have figured out all of life's rules at that young age, but there were a few I had down pat. Don't draw on the walls was one of the biggies. I couldn't move. I just stared at my mother and wondered why she was trying to trick me. She gave me a little shove toward the wall. I looked at my crayons. If this was really going to happen, this would be my masterpiece -- a blank wall, all for me. I slowly drew a line then quickly looked to see if my mother had changed her mind. She just smiled and went back into the kitchen. I became engrossed. For hours I colored, drew, created.

Being the fourth of five children in a neighborhood full of children, word quickly spread. Soon the room was full of kids of all ages, vying for space to leave their own mark on the wall. Being allowed to draw on a wall was so unheard of it was like being allowed to eat ice cream for breakfast. My mother quickly blocked off a small space for my older sister to draw on when she came home. I wasn't worried about losing the space. I was sure a teenager would think that this was baby stuff and walk away. But age made no difference that day. Even my older brothers, who were normally "too cool" for such things, were eagerly grabbing crayons to scribble and draw. The room was filled with laughter and shouts of "look at this!" and "give me some room." All too soon, there were no empty spaces left to fill.

Thanks to my mother, my dream of drawing on a blank canvas was realized. She gave me this unique opportunity to draw outside the confines of a coloring book and to experience the magic that is possible when we are not restricted by boundaries. I learned later that my parents were remodeling the house and that my canvas was the wall destined to be knocked out. After the demolition crew came and went, most of us combed through the debris of plaster and drywall trying to find our pictures, remembering, and perhaps, reliving the joy.

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

My Cancer Triathlon

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cancer Book

BY: Susie Leonard Weller

I awoke from my first colonoscopy exam to hear the five words no one wants to hear.

"You have a cancerous tumor."

I was initially more distressed about the possibility of needing a colostomy than dealing with Stage III colorectal cancer.

My surgeon's goal was to alleviate the blockage in my colon before surgery and to ease the side effects of radiation and chemotherapy. She promised me "better living with a colostomy."

After my initial diagnosis, I'd been enjoying the blissful delusion that a quick surgery would take care of everything. I'd recover during Christmas break and return to teaching just after New Year's Day. Who would have thought that it would prove to be just a warm-up compared to what was coming?

I'd been propelled into the cancer triathlon: radiate, medicate, and operate.

I wasn't prepared for this endurance contest. I am grateful that my family, friends, and co-workers jumped in to help me get in shape for the race of my life.

But first, I needed a cover for my colostomy bag that would feel soft and not so sweaty. Since my version of sewing includes a stapler and duct tape, I was particularly grateful that my husband, Mark, had the skills to sew me a customized colostomy cover. He turned a well-worn flannel pillowcase into a soft bag, complete with Velcro fasteners. The diamond on my wedding ring may sparkle, but nothing compares to soft flannel next to my skin.

I was ready for the first milestone -- a tattoo on my backside. The radiation staff wanted a marker to focus their beam. I hoped I wasn't setting a precedent and told my children this was no reason for them to get one, too.

For six weeks I attended a new spa treatment center I called the "Cancer Clinique." Two attendants enthusiastically greeted me each morning and had me lie face down on a white linen sheet before giving me my unique treatment. After I'd exposed my delicate areas, they demurely draped me with a towel and the whirring began. A slight sense of warmth enveloped me and then it was time to go. I was getting a sunburn but without the benefits of a total tan. I've always enjoyed the sun, but I'm no longer appreciating the effects of radiation.

Simultaneously, I began training for my second event -- wearing a chemo pump for forty-two days and nights. Although it fit in a fanny pack and the infusion lines hid discreetly under my clothes, attached to the port in my chest, living with a pump 24/7 wasn't easy. Try sleeping with a three-and-a-half pound metal pack around your waist or showering while tethered to a three-foot line.


And the chemo drug itself was no picnic. It's abbreviated as 5-FU. (What can I say? The name says it all.) Perhaps the drug marketers should disclose what it really means: fatigued, flue-like, frail, frazzled, and fearful.

Like all athletes, I needed a break from training. My friend gave me a ticket to the U.S. Men's Ice Skating Championship in Spokane, WA. I was enjoying a night of superb skating when during the first intermission I heard a strange, beeping sound. My chemo pump was in alarm mode and the screen message kept blinking.

"High tension." Was that describing my blood pressure or the machine?

I called my home health care nurse.

"Get home immediately; there might be a clot."

Normally, the chemo pump has a reassuring click and whirring sound that goes off every hour. But at that point it sounded like a muffled ambulance siren going off every minute during the eighteen-mile drive back home. Thankfully, it was just a kink in the electrical line.

Earlier in the week, I'd purchased a "Chocolate Crisis Center Meltdown Bar."

Who knew it would come in so handy? I soothed myself munching on chocolate while watching the rest of the skating routines from my couch.

After completing the radiation and chemo components, I prepared for my third event -- the big surgery. I e-mailed everyone I knew to ask for prayers, especially the SOS prayer, also known as "Save Our Sphincter." Not only was my surgeon going to remove the cancerous tumor and do a hysterectomy, she was optimistic about re-attaching my colon. After living with a colostomy for six months, I was hopeful too.

My biggest job had been to run the race the best way I could. Now, it was time to let God handle the rest.

I'm grateful for a successful surgery and for a surgeon with small hands to maneuver in tight places. Most of all, I appreciate my support team. Triathletes get all the attention, but it's those behind the scenes who make their participation possible.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/My-Cancer-Triathlon.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Throw Away the Key

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive

BY: Deborah Shouse

Locks keep out only the honest.
~Jewish Proverb

My godparents Bel and Max met in England during World War II. They became mess hall friends for nutrition's sake: Max liked only meat and Bel liked only vegetables. They began their relationship by swapping foods from their mess trays. Soon they were sharing other parts of their lives.

When they moved into a rickety old house in Berkeley, California, Max carried Bel across the threshold. Then he said, "Hand me your house key."

She did, and he took both their keys and threw them out into the yard.

"I want to live in a home that's open to whoever needs it," he declared.

And so they did. Their home was never locked. Friends wandered in and out, stopping for dinner, taking a cold chicken leg from the refrigerator or curling up in an easy chair for a quiet read. Supper time was always a mish mash of opinions and people: the Kurdish student and the Israeli dissident, the Dallas lawyer and the manufacturer's rep from Denver, the rabbi without a congregation from Brooklyn and the priest with the small church in Santa Fe.

Still, Bel had grown up in Chicago and knew well the value of locked doors.

The unlocked house both exhilarated and terrified her. Sometimes she would lie awake in bed, expecting what her mother would have called "the worst." Robbery, rape and death raced through her mind. And all because her meshuggeneh husband refused to lock the doors.

One Friday night, well past midnight, Bel heard a door open. She heard footsteps and then stumbling. Her hands turned icy and she clutched the covers. She wanted to scream, but her voice dried up in her throat. Then she wanted to be quiet, so the robber would take what he wanted and leave. Downstairs, the furniture scraped and a drawer opened. She nudged Max, but he didn't wake up. She pushed the covers into her mouth so she wouldn't cry out. Then she heard the squeak of the screen door and the closing of the outer door. She shook Max's shoulder. "Max, someone was just downstairs. I think we've been robbed."

"Are we all right?" Max asked sleepily.

"Yes," Bel said.

"Then let's go back to sleep. We'll assess the damage in the morning."

The next morning, Bel could hardly bear to go downstairs. She took one cautious glance at the living room and saw only its familiar rumpled sofas and stack of papers beside the easy chair. The kitchen drawers were all intact; the refrigerator still stocked with leftovers. The Friday night candlesticks were still on the dining room table, her grandmother's sterling was still in the sideboard. Only one thing was out of place: a fresh loaf of challah bread rested on a doily in the center of the dining room table.

"Max, did you buy that challah?"

Max shook his head.

As they settled at the table and drank their morning coffee, Bel said, "Max, we have to lock the house. Something bad could happen to us."

"Or, something good," Max said, as he bit into a piece of fresh buttered bread.

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

Tears in the Bathroom Stall

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Preteens Talk

BY: Cheryl Kremer

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter
And those who matter don't mind.
~Dr. Seuss

As a sixth grader, I began noticing how other kids were separating into cliques. There were the geeks, the jocks, and the popular cool kids. I wasn't sure where I belonged. And I think that was the problem.

Our teacher had assigned "secret buddies" for the coming week. The purpose of this assignment was to do nice things for your buddy without letting them know who was doing it. We could leave encouraging notes on their desk or mysteriously leave a card in their backpack or book. Our teacher wrote each kid's name on a piece of paper and threw them into a bucket, then we each closed our eyes and drew the name of the classmate who we were to secretly befriend and support over the next five school days.

By the middle of the week, everyone, including me, had turned this assignment into a contest to see whose secret buddy could leave the best gift. Instead of encouraging notes, we left stationery sets on our buddy's desk. Instead of giving compliments, we were giving bubble gum, lollipops and even money. It seemed that everyone was getting cool presents from their buddy. Everyone except me, that is.

My buddy followed our teacher's directions without a fault. I received handmade cards, notes with nice thoughts and countless smiley face pictures proclaiming that I was one of the nicest girls in the class. My buddy seemed to think highly of me from the notes that were left, but the lack of gifts made me wonder what was up with whoever had pulled my name.

On the last morning of our assignment, I walked into my classroom and noticed that there was a package on my desk. At last, my buddy had grasped the idea that everyone else had! I ripped open the tissue paper and just stared down at my desk. There sat a canister of perfumed powder. The girls sitting near me giggled and went off about the "old lady" gift I had received. To make matters worse, the powder had already been opened. I felt my face turn red as I shoved it into my desk.

I tried to forget about the embarrassing gift, but when I was in the bathroom before recess, the same girls who had seen me open the powder started talking trash about my secret buddy for giving it to me. I quickly joined in. "How lame," I heard myself saying. "What could my buddy be thinking by giving me such a stupid gift? My grandmother wouldn't even want it."
The girls laughed at my remarks and filed out of the bathroom. I stayed to wash my hands and let the water run through my fingers as I thought about what I had just said. It wasn't normally like me to say mean things like that about someone.

As I turned off the water, I heard a creak. I turned around to see one of the bathroom stall doors open. A girl from my class took two steps out of the stall and looked up at me. There were tears streaming down her face.

"I'm your secret buddy," she whispered to me. "I'm sorry about the gift." Then she ran out of the bathroom. Her sobs stayed with me long after the door had closed.

My secret buddy was a girl named Rochelle, a girl who came from a poor family. She and her siblings were targets at school for those who felt they were better just because their parents had money. Yet through all the teasing and harassment, Rochelle never had a bad word to say back to anyone. She just took the horrible treatment silently.

I was sick to my stomach as my cruel words ran through my mind. She had heard every single thing that had been said. And, once again, she silently took it in. How could I have been so mean?

It took me a few days, but I finally found the courage to face up to Rochelle and apologize. She told me that she had felt bad all week about not being able to leave any cool gifts for me. Her family could not afford it. So finally, her mother had given up the one thing that was a luxury to her so that Rochelle would have something to give. Her mother had assured her that the nice girl Rochelle had talked about would like the powder. Rochelle couldn't wait to get to school that morning and put it on my desk.

And I had ruined everything for her.

What could I say to Rochelle? How could she ever forgive me for making fun of her?

Along with my apologies, I told her the truth. I admitted that I had only said those things to be cool, to try to fit in. I didn't know where I belonged, I explained.

Rochelle looked me in the eyes and said that she understood. She had been trying to fit in, too. "We aren't that different from each other, are we?" She smiled. Her simple words, spoken from her heart, found their way straight into mine.

Up until then, like everyone else, I had avoided the "Rochelles" of the world. But after that day, I gained respect and admiration for people like Rochelle -- people who give from the heart.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/08/Tears-in-the-Bathroom-Stall.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Counting Our Blessings

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive

By Jane McBride Choate

Why not learn to enjoy the little things — there are so many of them.
~Author Unknown

"We're not getting a paycheck this week."

I wasn't particularly alarmed by my husband's words. After all, he had gone without a salary in the past, and we had always made do. Mentally, I congratulated ourselves that we had no debt outside the mortgage on our home.

With two partners, my husband owned a small engineering firm. When times were tight, he and his partners went without paychecks, making certain their employees were paid. I was grateful to be married to such an honorable man.

Two weeks passed, then four, then six, all with no salary in sight. The bills arrived with depressing regularity, though, and we lived off our savings, a spotty food storage, and faith in the Lord.

The fall of 2008 marked an economic downturn for the entire country. Caught in the spiral, clients who had always paid on time in the past now failed to pay their bills.

Christmas approached and I wondered how we would find the means to buy even small presents. I didn't mention this to my husband, knowing he had worry enough on his mind. I searched bargain bins and put my creativity to work.

In the meantime, I joined freecycle.com, an international organization devoted to preventing more items from ending up in already overburdened landfills. As a freecycle member, I could post items online that I no longer needed or wanted and other members could respond. In the same way, I could answer others' posts if I saw something I needed.

Four weeks into our doing without a salary, I noticed two messages listing pantry items. I e-mailed back immediately, saying that my family could really use the food.

In freecycle, the first person to answer a listing is usually the one who receives it. When I noticed the time the listings were posted, my heart sank. Several hours had passed.

Surely the items had already been taken.

To my surprise and delight, both freecyclers e-mailed me, saying that the food was mine. They gave me their addresses, and we arranged a pick-up time.

I went through the boxes of food like a child opening presents on Christmas morning. Cans of vegetables. Potato flakes. A cake mix. Even fresh fruit. My husband, teenage daughter (the only child remaining at home), and I feasted that night!

A quick friendship developed between an older lady and myself. She gave me other foodstuffs when she had more than she needed. I drove her to various stores and did errands for her, as she was unable to drive. We sent each other inspirational messages and discovered we had much in common, including a deep faith in our Creator.

My membership in freecycle encouraged me to clean out clothes, books, and household goods that we no longer used. As I uncluttered my house, I felt as though I were also uncluttering my soul, ridding it of old grudges, resentments, and fears.

I wrote our four adult children, explaining our situation.

I also mentioned that we would be cutting back on Christmas presents that year and suggested they do the same. As a gentle hint, I told them that the best present they could give their father and me was to get out of debt.

In previous years, I had kept a gratitude journal. Every day I had recorded things, both large and small, for which I was grateful. As frequently happens with good habits, this one slipped away in the busy-ness of life. I revived it, listing five things every night as I wrote in my journal.

Small occurrences found their way into my gratitude journal. A shiny penny found during a walk. A letter from a friend. An unexpected phone call from a long-distance relative. A hug from my usually standoffish teenage daughter. The feeling of sunshine on my face.

Everyday things became a cause for rejoicing. When was the last time I had been thankful for a washing machine and dryer?

When had I last given thanks for friends who listened to my complaints without sharing their own? (Shamed, I resolved to mend that nasty habit.) When had I last thanked God for a strong body, even though it wasn't in the shape or condition I desired?




My priorities began to shift. I stopped thinking of what I didn't have and began to think more of what I did. At the same time, I looked around and realized that others were suffering as well. I took time to send notes to friends and church members who needed an extra dose of love. I prayed more and complained less. I counted my blessings.

Our financial situation hadn't changed, but my attitude had.

Nearly eight weeks had passed since my husband had received a paycheck and Christmas was upon us. I had managed to buy and make modest presents for family and friends. I refused to give in to the temptation to apologize for the humbleness of the gifts, knowing those who loved me would understand and accept my offerings.

One evening my husband returned home, a wide grin stretching across his face. "Money came in the mail." He went on to explain that one of his customers, also a victim of the slow economy, had sent a long overdue check.

We had gone nearly two months without a paycheck. Not only had we survived, we had thrived.

I took stock of our lives: we had friends, family, and faith. We were rich indeed.

http://www.chickensoup.com/bulletin.asp?newsid=newsletter-101023-2