Dark Winter

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom

BY: Lucas Youmans

Are we not like two volumes of one book?
~Marceline Desbordes-Valmore

I opened my eyes, only to see darkness. A cool whisper of wind drifted through my window. All was dark in my bedroom, except for my windowsill that was illuminated by a soft outdoor light. The black sky was decorated with snowflakes, each drifting toward the cold, waiting ground. Silence touched every corner of my room. Dawn was yet to come, so I decided to go and make myself a cup of hot chocolate. As the water boiled, I gazed out the kitchen window and quietly said, "Winter truly is my favorite season." I pressed my hand up against the frosty window. I poured the steaming water into my mug, along with a teaspoon of cocoa powder. I caught a final glance of my handprint as I dragged my feet along the cold tile floor toward my front door. I turned the metal knob, and took a step onto the damp, wooden porch.

A brisk current of wind pushed against my cheek. I sat down on the shining black bench, curving my neck backwards to stare at the stars. Their silvery glow reflected off my driveway's pavement. The bitter cold nipped at my ankles, but I didn't mind. Here, in this moonlit moment, I had no one to impress. The echoing stress that once filled my mind had drifted away, into the depths of the sky. I finished my hot chocolate and tiptoed back inside so as not to wake anyone.

To my surprise, my mom walked out of the kitchen, passing me by as I headed for the dishwasher to put away my mug. As she passed me, she shot a fierce beam of happiness straight from her eyes to mine, with the corners of her mouth pulling upwards. It was a short stare of hope and love, the kind you can't fake. I looked upwards to the kitchen window, and saw a second handprint, slightly larger than mine, placed beside the one I had made minutes earlier. Together, the two handprints started to fade into the dark night.

http://www.beliefnet.com

The Perfect Gift

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Christmas Magic

BY: Sandra Wood

Love is, above all, the gift of oneself.
~Jean Anouilh

Two weeks before Christmas, I left my suburban neighborhood with a small group of friends, and followed an urban minister through the streets of Los Angeles. "Silver bells, silver bells. It's Christmas time in the city...." I sang to myself as we walked busy sidewalks. Contrary to the lyrics of the classic carol by Livingston and Evans, I did not see "children laughing and people passing, meeting smile after smile."

Instead, I saw hundreds of homeless people, shattered by addiction and abuse, crowding the streets of a wealthy city. They carried plastic bags containing their meager possessions, while blocks away, busy shoppers rushed home with treasures from designer boutiques.

The contrast was sobering and did nothing to improve my holiday funk. I longed for God to provide a divine interruption and remind me of the real reason for celebration.

On the second day of our reality tour, the guide invited us to observe a mobile street ministry called Metro Kidz. We followed their lunch wagon, painted with holy graffiti, as it circled poor neighborhoods. Bright music blared from the speakers and drew hundreds of local children to a quiet cul-de-sac. Ranging in age from toddlers to teens, they raced to hug the pastor as if he were the Pied Piper. He opened his arms and braced himself for a wave of energy. Within minutes, volunteers spread plastic tarps on the asphalt and a human huddle formed on the ground.

"Who wants to play some games?" the young pastor yelled to the attentive crowd.

"I do, I do," said one young boy who popped to his feet with confidence.

"Let me, let me," a chorus of voices responded.

Their joy was contagious and I started to smile on the inside.

"Okay," the pastor said. "We'll play some games and pass out some prizes. Then I want to tell the Christmas story. How many have ever heard the story of baby Jesus?"

Almost every brown arm shot into the air.

I was seated cross-legged between wiggling, giggling children when a small boy crawled into my lap and fell asleep. His candy cane smeared sticky sweetness all over my jeans. A warm weight pressed against my side and I turned to find a pretty young lady with dark curly hair. Her braids were clipped with a rainbow of many colors and framed her large brown eyes.

"Hello, my name is Sandy. What's your name?" I asked.

"Erika," she whispered shyly and glanced down.

"How old are you?" I asked, and put my arm around her shoulder.

"Five," she told me with a smile.

"Do you want to play one of the relay games?" I queried.

She grabbed my arm, shook her head vigorously and said, "No please."

"That's okay, we can just sit here and watch together," I said and felt her relax.

Experienced volunteers helped the children have silly fun. Prizes of food, toys, candy and books were given to the competitors for as many categories as the leaders could concoct. Winners snatched the rewards and raised them overhead like victory trophies.

"Look what I got!" they yelled to their peers.

Finally, it was time to hear the Christmas story and to learn a new memory verse.

"Listen up," the pastor said to hundreds of squirming kids. "We have a few more rewards to give away. Adults will watch the group and pick out eight boys and girls to receive a quiet prize for the best listening skills during the story."

A sudden hush came over the crowd, but lasted only a few seconds. The harder the kids tried to be quiet, the more they wanted to laugh. A giggle started inside of me and I had to swallow a snort before it escaped.

Seated among poor children in the streets of Los Angeles, I felt joy! I felt celebration. I listened to the story of two parents who were forced to seek shelter in a stable, because there was no room for them at the inn. I felt the sleeping boy in my lap and could picture a child, wrapped in swaddling clothes, embraced at the breast of his mother.

Erika listened carefully to the brief version of Christmas Eve and never moved an inch. She watched, and waited patiently for the memory verse competition.

"Today's memory verse is from James 1:17. I'll read the words and you repeat after me," the pastor instructed. "Every good and perfect gift comes from God the Father," he said in English and then repeated the verse in Spanish.

"Every good and perfect gift comes from God the Father," they repeated.

Moments later, an adult volunteer tapped Erika on the shoulder.

"Thank you for listening so well, for so long. You have earned one of our quiet prizes," she said and handed the little girl a gift wrapped in red and green tissue paper.

"Thank you," Erika responded and hugged the gift without another word.

I watched her face grow a big smile. Other children tore the paper off their prizes to see what treasure they had earned, but not Erika. Instead, she looked down at the child still asleep in my lap, pressed her lips close to my ear, and whispered words that took my breath away.

"Now I have something to give my brother for Christmas," she said. Without examining the contents, or knowing if there would be something else for her, Erika gave her gift away.

Tears welled in my eyes when I recognized that my own prayer for a divine interruption had just been answered. Erika's Christ-like generosity, and unselfish love for her brother, showed me the true spirit of Christmas. At five years old, Erika understood that love is the perfect gift, and that the best gift of all is the chance to give love away.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/12/The-Perfect-Gift.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Isaac's New Family

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Divorce and Recovery

BY: Megan Venner

A new baby is like the beginning of all things -- wonder, hope, a dream of possibilities.
~Eda J. Le Shan

It was Christmas Eve. My two-month-old son was up well past his bedtime and surprisingly happy for such a late hour. The smell of Tortiere, my family's traditional Christmas Eve dinner, still lingered in the air mingling with the pine of the tree and evoking all the memories of a lifetime of family holidays.

The job of entertaining my young son was left largely to my parents, my dad stretching out with him on the floor as he had done so many nights with me as a child. My mind was occupied. I was waiting nervously for my husband's return. Later this Christmas Eve, he was bringing a special visitor to my parents' home. My eleven-year-old stepdaughter, Samantha, had just flown in from her mother's house thousands of miles away.

A lot of thought had gone into this evening. It was the first time Samantha would meet her baby brother. A move across the country when I was pregnant meant she was not there when Isaac was born, and school commitments meant she couldn't visit soon afterwards. Christmas was to be our first chance and, thanks to a late Christmas break and flight schedules, she wasn't to arrive until nearly midnight on Christmas Eve.

This was the moment we had lost sleep over. Being a stepparent leaves you precariously balanced at the best of times, and introducing a baby threatened a shift of tectonic proportions. It was going to be the first time Samantha would have to share her father. At home, her mom had two young boys, but she was used to being the center of attention at our place. We had done everything we could think of to ease the transition. We had picked a special time and way to tell her I was pregnant, we had included her in the plans for the baby's room and discussions about names, and we constantly talked about how lucky little Isaac was to have a great big sister like her. Still, it didn't seem enough.

She arrived. Arriving with a mammoth suitcase, she brushed past me, barely saying hello, and headed straight for her brother. That's when it happened.

It was the moment we really became a family. It wasn't anything my husband or I did. It was two-month-old Isaac. Samantha settled down to play and when she tickled him, Isaac laughed -- for the very first time. All that planning, all that worry -- and it was a helpless little infant who made it happen. In one moment, that little laugh cancelled out all the complications of divorce, blended families, and stepchildren. We were just us -- a family. He made us whole that night, and for that, I will always be grateful. Most would say it was just coincidence, but I choose to believe Isaac was saving that first laugh. Acting on instinct, Isaac's joy came out the moment his new family was complete.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/12/Isaacs-New-Family.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Resilience

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Linda Tabbert as told to Debbie Harrell

Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit.
~Bern Williams

Shortly after my husband Ken's diagnosis of kidney failure, we were told the only way to extend his life would be an organ transplant. In the meantime, regular dialysis treatments were to begin immediately. Our "new normal" began with the surgical placement of a port in his chest, and just hours after the surgery, my husband went directly to his first "dialysis run." That heart-wrenching first day of dialysis was the only time I ever saw my heroic husband weep. Just three weeks later, Thanksgiving Day happened to be a dialysis day, so instead of the usual big family gathering, our family of three chose a simple meal at home accompanied by a simple prayer of thanks, "Thank you dear God for time together."

In the weeks following, our perspective and our emotions swung from high to low like a pendulum almost daily. While the situation we faced pulled us together as a family, it drained our time and our energy. One possibility that kept us buoyed was the hope of an organ transplant. Suddenly, making memories with family and friends compelled us to set aside the trivial in favor of somehow emotionally extending our life together.

The phone call with news of a kidney match finally came in the early morning hours one snowy December day. The university hospital several hours away meant we needed to leave immediately, and despite a blizzard we arrived at the hospital by mid-morning. While Ken was being prepped for surgery, a nurse brought in a Styrofoam box bearing large orange letters that spelled, "Human Organ for Transplant." They literally put the kidney, in what looked like a cooler for a six-pack of pop, on the foot of the bed! With shock and suppressed giggles, Ken and I looked at the box and then at each other.

With comical disbelief, I sputtered, "Do you believe this!" A very sobering event was lightened by the sweet sound of my husband's chuckling. The laughter we shared was a precious gift before they wheeled him to surgery. A few hours after our kiss and saying, "See ya soon," the kidney had been transplanted and immediately began producing urine.

That Christmas was one of the most wonderful of any I remember. Our son, David, was home from college, Ken was still recovering, and every other day there was a snow storm. The gratitude in our huddled hearts rivaled the warmth in our fireplace. We spent many weeks in a perpetual state of awe. Our future together had been restored because of an organ donation. To this day, our family is mindful of the fact that because someone else's life had ended, Ken's could continue. We never take for granted our ability to celebrate an extended future together. Somewhere an organ donor's family is grieving an empty place at their family gatherings, and every time my husband swallows his medication or has blood drawn, we humbly remember that.

Ken's doctors told us that the chances of him rejecting the transplant will remain slim as long as he continues to take his medications at precise intervals. Blood samples collected every other month for the rest of his life will continue to be monitored for signs of rejection by the University of Michigan and Mayo Clinic. Gratefully we reflect on the network of a caring medical staff, family and friends who continue to surround us, and we now seek opportunities to walk alongside others going through devastation. Rebounding from life's tremendous challenges requires resilience, but oft times, resilience requires some assistance. Offering and receiving.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/12/Resilience.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

How Mark Martin Turned Me into a NASCAR Fan

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: NASCAR

By Lee Warren

The final restart of the 2005 NASCAR Sprint Cup Series season occurred with 11 laps to go in the Ford 400 at Homestead-Miami Speedway. During the final run, Greg Biffle, Dave Blaney, and Mark Martin battled for the lead. At one point during the run, they were three-wide going into Turn 2. Biffle eventually shot between Blaney and Martin, grabbing the lead. Blaney was on old tires so he began to fade while Martin charged hard after Biffle. Martin and Biffle were side by side as the white flag flew, signaling one lap to go.

They were still side by side coming out of Turn 2 and they raced down the back straightaway. Neither driver could shake the other and they entered Turn 3 door to door, just inches apart. Martin dipped to the bottom of the track while Biffle went up high, taking a slight lead. Martin charged back in Turn 4 and they raced to the finish line. Biffle crossed the line 0.17 seconds ahead of Martin to win the race.

I don't think I've ever seen such an exciting finish to a sporting event. The funny thing was, I didn't know who many of the drivers were and I didn't understand racing strategy or what it meant to race a competitor clean.

NASCAR was new to me. A few months prior, a publisher came to me with an idea for a sports book. The editor told me which sports he wanted me to write about and one of them was NASCAR. I told him I had never followed the sport so writing about it wasn't going to be easy. But I had some time, so I began to research it.

Once I had an understanding of the points system and a basic grasp of the lingo used in the sport, I decided to watch the last three races of the 2005 season, not having any idea what was about to happen. I didn't have a favorite driver in mind as I watched the first two races and I didn't have one in mind as I watched the Ford 400. But my heart was racing after the exciting finish in Miami.

Then Martin got out of his car for his post-race interview.

"Man, it was close," Martin said. "I thought we were going to pull it off. We were just inches short. I guess maybe we needed another lap -- or maybe I'd have crashed trying. I raced Greg hard and I raced him clean and vice versa. And he was in front when it was over."

I was fascinated by a sport that provided such high drama while also honoring a code of racing each other cleanly. Of course, I learned later that not every driver adheres to the code quite so strictly, but I had an instant respect for Martin. At that moment I became a NASCAR and a Mark Martin fan and I've been following both ever since.

The more I read about Martin, the more I learned that what happened that night in Miami is the norm for him. He has finished second in the overall standings five times in his NASCAR Sprint Cup career that dates back to 1981. He also finished third three times -- all of which often prompts analysts to refer to him as the best driver to never win a championship.

If you asked his competitors to sum up how they feel about him, the vast majority would simply say "respect." Although now that he's driving for Hendrick Motorsports, he might just end up with both respect and a championship. But I imagine that having the respect of his fellow competitors means more to him.

That's why I'm proud to consider myself one of his fans.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/How-Mark-Martin-Turned-Me-into-a-NASCAR-Fan.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term

It Was Colder Than I Thought

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book

BY: Y. John Lee

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.
~John Ruskin

A sane man doesn't expect to play golf in Wisconsin in the middle of the winter. But the particular winter in question had seen little snow, though it had been plenty cold. Without snow, outside activities are limited in Wisconsin. Cabin fever had set in, and bad. So one Sunday, when the mercury in my porch thermometer inched just above freezing, I decided it was golf weather. I put on several layers of clothing, got my clubs out of the basement, told my wife and three children I'd be back in a few hours.

I decided to play the back nine first since it was more sheltered from the whipping winds. The greens were staked to keep off cross-country skiers, but the tees were open. The ground was frozen but I did manage to force the tip of a tee into the ground.

Number 10 is a par 4. The tee is elevated above a creek that feeds into a small lake hidden from view by fir trees.

After a few warm-up swings I whacked the ball pretty well, considering both my lack of recent practice and blood circulation. The low liner easily cleared the creek but was heading for a sand trap on the right side of the fairway. The ball didn't even slow down when it hit the trap. It bounced hard and high off the nearly petrified sand and down the fairway, finally skating to a halt just short of the green.

After getting that much roll, I remember thinking, this was going to be fun. As I crossed over the creek bridge, I glanced over at the lake to my right. It was frozen solid. Out in the middle were three guys in orange overalls, ice fishing. One of them saw me at the same time I saw him. For that moment, we just stared at each other. Simultaneously we smiled, doffed our woolen caps at one another. I stepped off the bridge onto the fairway and headed towards the green. He returned his attention to his hole in the ice, and I mine. I imagine he was as hopeful as I was.

It was colder than I thought.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/11/It-Was-Colder-Than-I-Thought.aspx

The Preacher's Kid

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dad

BY: Patti Callahan Henry

To speak and to speak well are two things. A fool may talk, but a wise man speaks.
~Ben Jonson


The preacher's kid. Ah yes, the stuff of movies and stories and jokes: the PK. I'm also a mother, an author, a wife, a friend, even a nurse, but I have been this one thing since I was born and will be when I die: my father's daughter.


Sometimes we don't know why we love someone or something or somewhere -- we just do. Love that is. It's okay not to know all the reasons why, but I do know at least part of the reason I'm now a novelist, a piece of the reason I love stories: telling them, listening to them, reading them, taking them apart and putting them back together, and that reason is the preaching. All those sermons. All those Bible studies and Wednesday night services and parables and youth group bonfire lessons. There were too many to count.


There are the harder things that come with this PK title: moving towns, being watched by a thousand parishioners, going to church four to five times a week, enduring religious confusion. Then there are also gifts, and mine was this: I learned the power of story. Because really, what does a preacher do? Tells the same story over and over in as many ways as possible. The bottom line in every sermon is always the same: God loves you. He sent his Son to die for you. That might get a little boring after a while, right? So the preacher must find new and interesting ways to get to the same endpoint every single time. Sure, there's variation in the characters and disciples and plagues and sins, but it's always back to this: God's redeeming, relentless love.


Who really wants to sit in a pew for an hour and listen to a lecture except by the best preachers, the ones people come to hear, who tell us a story? Does it matter if the story is true? Well, yes... sort of, but maybe not always in the most literal sense. What are parables but truth hidden in story? What really matters is The Truth, not whether the particulars of the story are facts. Dad would get so carried away with the story that he'd teach the congregation the Greek word for the English word (as if they cared) and then what that word really meant. He wanted everyone to know what it all really meant, and he somehow knew that this Truth was inside all those words. He might have failed in other avenues of life, but here he never wavered -- wrapping words around faith and trust in an unfailing God.


And there it is. The power of story.


His other gift of story to me is less obvious. When I was twelve years old, God apparently told my dad to move the family from Philadelphia to Fort Lauderdale and start a new church (I didn't hear this particular marching order, so I still doubt it). Now God and I didn't exactly agree on this subject, so we had a long talk (God and I, not Dad and I) and with me God was silent on the subject. So we moved. In the process of finding the right place to live and the right place to plant the church, I attended four different schools for seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth grades until we finally landed where we stayed, in Coral Springs, Florida.


The desperation born of adolescent loneliness sent me into novels and stories. Libraries and small quiet rooms with a book in my hands became my sanctuaries. These books were my best friends, my confidantes. These stories understood the world beyond south Florida, beyond loneliness and into dreams. These books carried my heart and me to better places.


Then there were the days I'd be bored while the cool kids (meaning they had friends) were driving around in their Firebirds and T-top Camaros, while they had dates and went to football games. This is when I'd browse through Dad's library. Here is where I found C.S. Lewis. Not literally, of course. Mr. Lewis had departed from this world the year I arrived. But his words were there just as if he sat with me. I read The Screwtape Letters and understood the truest power of story -- how sometimes the thing that needs to be said is best said with fiction.


When I finished my first novel, Between the Tides, the last person I had in mind to thank was my dad. I'm the one who rose at four in the morning to write while my babies slept; I'm the one who toiled away for years on the art and craft of words to write a single novel. I'm the one who fell in love with words, and the way they sound and move and come together.


But there is a beginning for all loves: a first encounter; a first moment; a beginning. There is always a beginning. And my love affair with story and words began with and because of my dad.


So let me thank Dad for not only showing me the power of story, but also offering me the chance to lose and then find myself in its magic.

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