I Have Survived Essay Writing Contest
Third Place & Reader's Choice Winner
Date Posted: 2/4/2005 8:00:55 PM
Author: Zirma Guevarra
"Hey Mommy, what are you staring at? Are you listening, Mom?"
"I said, after watching Enteng Kabisote, let us pass by at Dad's favorite record store and buy him a new CD."
"Shhhh... All right, Josh...," I whispered. "Mom heard you loud and clear," I replied.
Josh just turned 5 years old last December 25. Those five years of being a Mom to a very handsome, sweet and smart kid is probably the most exciting and fulfilling stage of my life.
I'll be 28 years old this Feb. 14. At my age, I can recognize all the anime characters -- from Ghost Fighter to Ragnarok, to Lupin to Mask Ryder. Josh loves watching television and most of the time, I am his TV buddy. Whenever I would arrive home from work, he is always ready with his never-ending stories of what he did at school and what had happened to Mask Rider Ryuki.
Some of my morning rituals, though repetitive, are never boring. I usually wake up at 5AM, take shower, prepare Josh's uniform, and make sure all his stuff are inside his bag including his baon. Then I would wake up his yaya and ask her to give Josh a bath, while I prepare myself for the office. In between putting on my blush-on and lipstick, I would always hear Josh giggling, yelling and making fun of his Yaya Ella. In most times, I would get jealous of Ella, they get along well.
Josh is much like his dad, they are both makulit. At his young age, Josh loves listening to music and oftentimes mimics all rockers he sees on MTV. Before Josh disrupted my thoughts about the CD he wished to buy for his Dad, I was in a trance, pondering the first time I met Kelvin...
It was Valentines Day of 1997 when I first laid eyes on him, it was also my 20th birthday then. I found myself sitting alone in one of the waiting sheds of the campus, when I noticed him walking directly to my direction. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Every stride he made toward my place made me nervous. His good looks and boyish features became too evident as he came closer. I was so conscious that I stood up and tried to walk away until he called out, "Mariz, wait!" I stood still, thinking, "how did this guy whom I never met before know my name?" As I turned my head and looked back, he smiled and uttered, "Happy Valentines". He then handed me a red rose. I smiled back, sat down and we talked.
I learned that Kelvin was an admirer, who befriended one of my classmates to get to know me as well. He confessed that he, together with my classmates, really planned that particular day -- I found out it was the reason I sat alone, waiting without my usual tropa.
We talked for almost an hour -- we were comfortable conversing. I learned that we were both on our junior year, he was taking up ECE while I, Business Ad. We both studied at PLM.
Kelvin and I became very close -- he loved poetry and music; I liked cross stitching. He was always the first one to laugh whenever he delivered a joke. As for me, I often laughed at his jokes because he laughed like a gorilla. We became inseparable since the first time we met. Kelvin became the closest person to me aside from my family. On the eve of my graduation, after more than a year of friendship / courtship, he became my first boyfriend.
In 1998, I graduated from college, and Kelvin was on his 5th year in ECE then.
I remember during the graduation rites at PICC, Kelvin was hesitant to come and see me receive my diploma because that will also be the first time for him to meet my family. I forced him though. I introduced Kelvin to my family, oh, I could not forget that scenario. He was so
nervous and pale.
June of 1998, I was employed in one of the top corporations in Ortigas, while Kelvin was on his last year in Engineering. At that time, we saw to it that our relationship will not be tested by
the temptations of the corporate world and tried our best to fight his insecurity of still "being a student". Every relationship, as they say, has its ups and downs. Kelvin started to show signs of jealousy and insecurity. We seldom went out on dates, he always had excuses. Behind all his aloofness, I knew then that he just did not want me to spend money on our dates. His pride was slowly tearing our relationship apart during those times. There were couple of nights I spent crying instead of resting. My co-workers were asking me to give up Kelvin, they insisted that life and love in college was different when starts working in the corporate world.
October 26, 1998, Kelvin's birthday. I surprised him while he and his study group were busy finishing their case study on Microprocessor Clock Speed. I showed up wearing my old college uniform. He was shocked and he stared long at my old uniform, then he embraced me so hard that I raced for my breath. When he let go, I saw tears in his eyes. He kept repeating how much he loved me and that he was sorry for pushing me away. He confessed that, he was so jealous and insecure that he wanted me to find some other guy that could treat me out in any restaurant I wanted; buy me anything I pleased; or fetch me with nice cars; and shower me with gifts. Then I found myself crying for I never had known then how much I loved Kelvin, until I knew how sensitive he was. How he wished to give me the WORLD, when I only longed for a single red
rose.
February 14, 1999, on my 22nd birthday, he gave me one red rose; same as what he gave me when we first met two years before. And I swore then, that was the only thing I wished to receive.
Thursday, April 1, 1999, Kelvin fetched me from work. He bragged all afternoon, he said he will graduate on the 30th, Friday. He kept on asking me to address him as Engineer Kelvin Regalado. I did. That night, we made love for the first time. It was passionate and unforgettable.
April 18, 1999, our 2nd anniversary, Kelvin composed this poem in front of me.
Star shine's bright on a darkest night...
being with you makes every thing right...
here is my heart with love as pure as white...
here are my arms that will hug with all my might...
at the bottom of the lighthouse maybe the darkest,
amidst fears and sorrows...
I'll be abreast atop mountains and hills maybe the loneliest
but if you find yourself there...
close your eyes think of me... I'll be there, my dearest...
Exactly a week before Kelvin's graduation, at around 5:30 in the afternoon, I received a message from my beeper, it was from his younger brother, Jethro. The message said, "Kuya is at PGH, emergency room". I hurriedly jumped into the first available taxi, I was literally crying a river. I was accustomed to be greeted with smiles by Kelvin's family, but that night was different. They were all crying, and I needed not any word from them to know what was happening. Jethro nonetheless, told me the whole story -- The police came to their house and brought them to the hospital because Kelvin was shot in a pawnshop hold-up incident and that his condition was critical. Jethro narrated that while Kelvin was pawning his necklace which he received from his aunt as an advanced graduation gift, two hold-uppers suddenly showed up and shot both guard and Kelvin. Jethro's last narration dropped like a bomb on my ears. Apparently, Kelvin told Jethro why he wanted to pawn the necklace. "Alam mo Jethro, ayos tong gift ni Tita, isasanla ko muna, para ipambili ko ng singsing, ako magreregalo kay Mariz sa graduation ko."
April 24, 1999, Kelvin died. Up to now I can't find the words to express how I felt then.
April 30, 1999, all of us whom he'd touched, whom he'd shared jokes with; all those who had read his poems, who had heard his songs, were marching not toward PICC for his graduation, but to his funeral. It was the worst breakup.
Two months after Kelvin died, I was diagnosed as pregnant. I cried and cried until tears rolled out empty. My family spoke no word, they pitied me. I thought they would kill me, be ashamed of me, but that did not happen. Both my family and Kelvin's supported me and showed how much they loved me.
December 25, 1999, instead of humming Christmas songs and crying over the thoughts of not celebrating it with Kelvin, I gave birth to a boy I named Josh. Since then, the happiness that Josh and I share is beyond what his dad could have planned for me.
I am no longer particular with dates and time, I don't even wear a watch, and I just make each day with my kid a day to cherish. Each day at the office is an opportunity to give Josh a better life, education and future.
It all started with one red rose.
And until there is a rose, I will never be hopeless.
"Hey mommy, are you crying?"
"No son."
"Magaling ba si Enteng?"
"Di ka naman nanunuod, mommy eh."
"Lika ka na, bili na tayo ng CD para ke Daddy."
"Ayos, Mommy, tiyak mapapagalitan na naman si Daddy ni San Pedro dahil
malakas na naman yun kung magpatugtog."
"Di ba Mommy?"
"Opo."
Friday, November 28, 2008
Don't Let It End This Way
By Sue Kidd
The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M.
I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.
As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.
He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind.
I touched his hand, waiting.
He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up.
I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face.
He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. "Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing fast - too fast.
"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.
I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 - year - old face.
Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"
I dug a scrap of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table.
I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed. Her soft voice answered.
"Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and - "
"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he?"
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing.
Silence. I bit my lip.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.
"He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken in almost a year. We had a terrible argument on my 21st birthday, over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."
As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She had hung up.
I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door.
Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.
"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat." The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed.
Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest.
With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and breathed. He could not die!
"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way."
The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing.
I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."
"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead.
A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.
How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside - everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?
When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall.
Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone.
I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.
"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.
"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said.
God, please help her, I thought.
Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door.
We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets.
I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too.
~Daddy
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.
"Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever.
Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare.
I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."
The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M.
I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.
As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.
He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind.
I touched his hand, waiting.
He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up.
I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face.
He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. "Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing fast - too fast.
"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.
I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 - year - old face.
Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"
I dug a scrap of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table.
I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed. Her soft voice answered.
"Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and - "
"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he?"
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing.
Silence. I bit my lip.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.
"He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken in almost a year. We had a terrible argument on my 21st birthday, over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."
As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She had hung up.
I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door.
Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.
"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat." The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed.
Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest.
With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and breathed. He could not die!
"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way."
The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing.
I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."
"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead.
A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.
How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside - everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?
When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall.
Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone.
I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.
"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.
"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said.
God, please help her, I thought.
Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door.
We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets.
I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too.
~Daddy
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.
"Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever.
Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare.
I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."
The Bridge
(author unknown)
There was once a bridge which spanned a large river. During most of the day the bridge sat with its length running up and down the river paralleled with the banks, allowing ships to pass through freely on both sides of the bridge.
But at certain times each day, a train would come along and the bridge would be turned sideways across the river, allowing a train to cross it. A switchman sat in a small shack on one side of the river where he operated the controls to turn the bridge and lock it into place as the train crossed.
One evening as the switchman was waiting for the last train of the day to come, he looked off into the distance through the dimming twilight and caught sight of the train lights. He stepped to the control and waited until the train was within a prescribed distance when he was to turn the bridge. He turned the bridge into position, but, to his horror, he found the locking control did not work.
If the bridge was not securely in position it would wobble back and forth at the ends when the train came onto it, causing the train to jump the track and go crashing into the river. This would be a passenger train with many people aboard.
He left the bridge, turned across the river, and hurried across the bridge to the other side of the river where there was a lever switch he could hold to operate the lock manually.
He would have to hold the lever back firmly as the train crossed. He could hear the rumble of the train now, and he took hold of the lever and leaned backward to apply his weight to it, locking the bridge. He kept applying the pressure to keep the mechanism locked. Many lives depended on this man's strength.
Then, coming across the bridge from the direction of his control shack, he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. "Daddy, where are you?" His four-year-old son was crossing the bridge to look for him.
His first impulse was to cry out to the child, "Run! Run!" But the train was too close; the tiny legs would never make it across the bridge in time. The man almost left his lever to run and snatch up his son and carry him to safety. But he realized that he could not get back to the lever.
Either the people on the train or his little son must die. He took a moment to make his decision.
The train sped safely and swiftly on its way, and no one aboard was even aware of the tiny broken body thrown mercilessly into the river by the on rushing train. Nor were they aware of the pitiful figure of the sobbing man, still clinging tightly to the locking lever long after the train had passed.
They did not see him walking home more slowly than he had ever walked: to tell his wife how their son had brutally died.
Now if you comprehend the emotions which went this man's heart, you can begin to understand the feelings of our Father in Heaven when He sacrificed His Son to bridge the gap between us and eternal life.
Can there be any wonder that He caused the earth to tremble and the skies to darken when His Son died? How does He feel when we speed along through life without giving a thought to what was done for us through Jesus Christ?
When was the last time we thanked Him for the sacrifice of His Son?
There was once a bridge which spanned a large river. During most of the day the bridge sat with its length running up and down the river paralleled with the banks, allowing ships to pass through freely on both sides of the bridge.
But at certain times each day, a train would come along and the bridge would be turned sideways across the river, allowing a train to cross it. A switchman sat in a small shack on one side of the river where he operated the controls to turn the bridge and lock it into place as the train crossed.
One evening as the switchman was waiting for the last train of the day to come, he looked off into the distance through the dimming twilight and caught sight of the train lights. He stepped to the control and waited until the train was within a prescribed distance when he was to turn the bridge. He turned the bridge into position, but, to his horror, he found the locking control did not work.
If the bridge was not securely in position it would wobble back and forth at the ends when the train came onto it, causing the train to jump the track and go crashing into the river. This would be a passenger train with many people aboard.
He left the bridge, turned across the river, and hurried across the bridge to the other side of the river where there was a lever switch he could hold to operate the lock manually.
He would have to hold the lever back firmly as the train crossed. He could hear the rumble of the train now, and he took hold of the lever and leaned backward to apply his weight to it, locking the bridge. He kept applying the pressure to keep the mechanism locked. Many lives depended on this man's strength.
Then, coming across the bridge from the direction of his control shack, he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. "Daddy, where are you?" His four-year-old son was crossing the bridge to look for him.
His first impulse was to cry out to the child, "Run! Run!" But the train was too close; the tiny legs would never make it across the bridge in time. The man almost left his lever to run and snatch up his son and carry him to safety. But he realized that he could not get back to the lever.
Either the people on the train or his little son must die. He took a moment to make his decision.
The train sped safely and swiftly on its way, and no one aboard was even aware of the tiny broken body thrown mercilessly into the river by the on rushing train. Nor were they aware of the pitiful figure of the sobbing man, still clinging tightly to the locking lever long after the train had passed.
They did not see him walking home more slowly than he had ever walked: to tell his wife how their son had brutally died.
Now if you comprehend the emotions which went this man's heart, you can begin to understand the feelings of our Father in Heaven when He sacrificed His Son to bridge the gap between us and eternal life.
Can there be any wonder that He caused the earth to tremble and the skies to darken when His Son died? How does He feel when we speed along through life without giving a thought to what was done for us through Jesus Christ?
When was the last time we thanked Him for the sacrifice of His Son?
A Trucker's Last Letter
By Rud Kendall
Steamboat Mountain is a man-killer, and truckers who haul the Alaska Highway treat it with respect. Particularly in the winter, the raod curves and twists over the mountain and sheer cliffs drop away sharply from the icy road. Countless trucks and truckers have been lost there and many more will follow their last tracks.
On one trip up the highway, I came upon the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and several wreckers winching the remains of a semi up the steep cliff. I parked my rig and went over to the quiet group of truckers who were watching the wreckage slowly come into sight.
One of the Mounties walked over to us and spoke quietly
"I'm sorry, " he said, "the driver was dead when we found him. He must have gone over the side two days ago when we had a bad snowstorm. There weren't many tracks. It was just a fluke that we noticed the sun shining off some chrome."
He shook his head slowly and reached into his parka pocket.
"Here, maybe you guys should read this. I guess he lived for a couple of hours until the cold got to him."
I'd never seen tears in a cop's eyes before - I always figured they'd seen so much death and despair they were immune to it, but he wiped tears away as he handed me the letter. As I read it, I began to weep. Each driver silently read the words, then quietly walked back to his rig. The words were bunred into my memory and now, years later, that letter is still as vivid as if I were holding it before me. I want to share that letter with you and your families.
December, 1974
My Darling Wife,
This is a letter that no man ever wants to write, but I'm lucky enough to have some time to say what I've forgotten to say so many times. I love you, sweetheart.
You used to kid me that I loved the truck more than you because I spent more time with her. I do love this piece of iron - she's been good to me. She's seen me through tough times and tough places. I could always count on her in a long haul and she was speedy in the stretches. She never let me down.
But you want to know something? I love you for the same reasons. You've seen me through the tough times and places, too.
Remember the first truck? That run down 'ol' cornbinder' that kept us broke all the time but always made just enough money to keep us eating? You went out and got a job so that we could pay the rent and the bills. Every cent I made went into the truck while your money kept us in food with a roof over our heads.
I remember that I complained about the truck, but I don't remember you ever complaining when you came home tired from work and I asked for money to go on the road again. If you did complain, I guess I didn't hear you. I was too wrapped up with my problems to think of yours.
I think now of all the things you gave up for me. The clothes, the holidays, the parties, the friends. You never complained and somehow I never remembered to thank you for being you.
When I sat having coffee with the boys, I always talked about my truck, my rig, my payments. I guess I forgot you were my partner even if you weren't in the cab with me. It was your sacrifices and determination as much as mine that finally got the new truck.
I was so proud of that truck I was bursting. I was proud of you too, but I never told you that. I took it for granted you knew, but if I had spent as much time talking with you as I did polishing chrome, perhaps I would have.
In all the years I've pounded the pavement, I always knew your prayers rode with me. But this time they weren't enough.
I'm hurt and it's bad. I've made my last mile and I want to say the things that should have been said so many times before. The things that were forgotten because I was too concerned about the truck and the job.
I'm thinking about the lonely nights you spent alone, wondering where I was and how things were going. I'm thinking of all the times I thought of calling you just to say hello and somehow didn't get around to. I'm thinking of the peace of mind I had knowing that you were at home with the kids, waiting for me.
The family dinners where you spent all your time telling your folks why I couldn't make it. I was busy changing oil; I was busy looking for parts; I was sleeping because I was leaving early the next morning. There was always a reason, but somehow they don't seem very important to me right now.
When we were married, you didn't know how to change a light bulb. Within a couple of years, you were fixing the furnace during a blizzard while I was waiting for a load in Florida. You became a pretty good mechanic, helping me with repairs, and I was mighty proud of you when you jumped into the cab and backed up over the rose bushes.
I was proud of you when I pulled into the yard and saw you sleeping in the car waiting for me. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon you always looked like a movie star to me. You're beautiful, you know. I guess I haven't told you that lately, but you are.
I made lots of mistakes in my life, but if I only ever made one good decision, it was when I asked you to marry me. You never could understand what it was that kept me trucking. I couldn't either, but it was my way of life and you stuck with me. Good times, bad times, you were always there. I love you, sweetheart, and I love the kids.
My body hurts but my heart hurts even more. You won't be there when I end this trip. For the first time since we've been together, I'm really alone and it scares me. I need you so badly, and I know it's too late.
It's funny I guess, but what I have now is the truck. The damned truck that ruled our lives for so long. This twisted hunk of steel that I lived in and with for so many years. But it can't return my love. Only you can do that.
You're a thousand miles away but I feel you here with me. I can see your face and feel your love and I'm scared to make the final run alone.
Tell the kids that I love them very much and don't let the boys drive any truck for a living.
I guess that's about it, honey. My God, but I love you very much. Take care of yourself and always remember that I loved you more than anything in life. I just forgot to tell you.
I love you, Bill
Steamboat Mountain is a man-killer, and truckers who haul the Alaska Highway treat it with respect. Particularly in the winter, the raod curves and twists over the mountain and sheer cliffs drop away sharply from the icy road. Countless trucks and truckers have been lost there and many more will follow their last tracks.
On one trip up the highway, I came upon the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and several wreckers winching the remains of a semi up the steep cliff. I parked my rig and went over to the quiet group of truckers who were watching the wreckage slowly come into sight.
One of the Mounties walked over to us and spoke quietly
"I'm sorry, " he said, "the driver was dead when we found him. He must have gone over the side two days ago when we had a bad snowstorm. There weren't many tracks. It was just a fluke that we noticed the sun shining off some chrome."
He shook his head slowly and reached into his parka pocket.
"Here, maybe you guys should read this. I guess he lived for a couple of hours until the cold got to him."
I'd never seen tears in a cop's eyes before - I always figured they'd seen so much death and despair they were immune to it, but he wiped tears away as he handed me the letter. As I read it, I began to weep. Each driver silently read the words, then quietly walked back to his rig. The words were bunred into my memory and now, years later, that letter is still as vivid as if I were holding it before me. I want to share that letter with you and your families.
December, 1974
My Darling Wife,
This is a letter that no man ever wants to write, but I'm lucky enough to have some time to say what I've forgotten to say so many times. I love you, sweetheart.
You used to kid me that I loved the truck more than you because I spent more time with her. I do love this piece of iron - she's been good to me. She's seen me through tough times and tough places. I could always count on her in a long haul and she was speedy in the stretches. She never let me down.
But you want to know something? I love you for the same reasons. You've seen me through the tough times and places, too.
Remember the first truck? That run down 'ol' cornbinder' that kept us broke all the time but always made just enough money to keep us eating? You went out and got a job so that we could pay the rent and the bills. Every cent I made went into the truck while your money kept us in food with a roof over our heads.
I remember that I complained about the truck, but I don't remember you ever complaining when you came home tired from work and I asked for money to go on the road again. If you did complain, I guess I didn't hear you. I was too wrapped up with my problems to think of yours.
I think now of all the things you gave up for me. The clothes, the holidays, the parties, the friends. You never complained and somehow I never remembered to thank you for being you.
When I sat having coffee with the boys, I always talked about my truck, my rig, my payments. I guess I forgot you were my partner even if you weren't in the cab with me. It was your sacrifices and determination as much as mine that finally got the new truck.
I was so proud of that truck I was bursting. I was proud of you too, but I never told you that. I took it for granted you knew, but if I had spent as much time talking with you as I did polishing chrome, perhaps I would have.
In all the years I've pounded the pavement, I always knew your prayers rode with me. But this time they weren't enough.
I'm hurt and it's bad. I've made my last mile and I want to say the things that should have been said so many times before. The things that were forgotten because I was too concerned about the truck and the job.
I'm thinking about the lonely nights you spent alone, wondering where I was and how things were going. I'm thinking of all the times I thought of calling you just to say hello and somehow didn't get around to. I'm thinking of the peace of mind I had knowing that you were at home with the kids, waiting for me.
The family dinners where you spent all your time telling your folks why I couldn't make it. I was busy changing oil; I was busy looking for parts; I was sleeping because I was leaving early the next morning. There was always a reason, but somehow they don't seem very important to me right now.
When we were married, you didn't know how to change a light bulb. Within a couple of years, you were fixing the furnace during a blizzard while I was waiting for a load in Florida. You became a pretty good mechanic, helping me with repairs, and I was mighty proud of you when you jumped into the cab and backed up over the rose bushes.
I was proud of you when I pulled into the yard and saw you sleeping in the car waiting for me. Whether it was two in the morning or two in the afternoon you always looked like a movie star to me. You're beautiful, you know. I guess I haven't told you that lately, but you are.
I made lots of mistakes in my life, but if I only ever made one good decision, it was when I asked you to marry me. You never could understand what it was that kept me trucking. I couldn't either, but it was my way of life and you stuck with me. Good times, bad times, you were always there. I love you, sweetheart, and I love the kids.
My body hurts but my heart hurts even more. You won't be there when I end this trip. For the first time since we've been together, I'm really alone and it scares me. I need you so badly, and I know it's too late.
It's funny I guess, but what I have now is the truck. The damned truck that ruled our lives for so long. This twisted hunk of steel that I lived in and with for so many years. But it can't return my love. Only you can do that.
You're a thousand miles away but I feel you here with me. I can see your face and feel your love and I'm scared to make the final run alone.
Tell the kids that I love them very much and don't let the boys drive any truck for a living.
I guess that's about it, honey. My God, but I love you very much. Take care of yourself and always remember that I loved you more than anything in life. I just forgot to tell you.
I love you, Bill
An Elf's Tale
By Tyree Dillingham
It was six o’clock at the mall, and I was as exhausted as an elf on Christmas Eve. In fact, I was an elf and it was Christmas Eve. That December of my sixteenth year, I’d been working two jobs to help my parents with my school tuition and to make a little extra holiday money. My second job was as an elf for Santa to help with kids’ photos. Between my two jobs, I’d worked twelve hours straight the day before; on Christmas Eve, things were so busy at Santaland that I hadn’t even had a coffee break all day. But this was it -- only minutes more, and I’d have survived!
I looked over at Shelly, our manager, and she gave me an encouraging smile. She was the reason I’d made it through. She’d been thrown in as manager halfway through the season, and she’d made all the difference in the world. My job had changed from stress-filled to challenging. Instead of yelling at her workers to keep us in line, she encouraged us and stood behind us. She made us pull together as a team. Especially when things were their craziest, she always had a smile and an encouraging word. Under her leadership, we’d achieved the highest number of mall photo sales in California.
I knew it was a difficult holiday season for her -- she’d recently suffered a miscarriage. I hoped she knew how great she was and what a difference she’d made to all her workers, and to all the little children who’d come to have their pictures taken.
Our booth was open until seven; at six, things started to slow down and I finally took a break. Although I didn’t have much money, I really wanted to buy a little gift for Shelly so that she’d know we appreciated her. I got to a store that sold soap and lotion just as they put the grate down. “Sorry, we’re closed!” barked the clerk, who looked as tired as I was and didn’t sound sorry at all.
I looked around and, to my dismay, found that all the stores had closed. I’d been so tired I hadn’t noticed.
I was really bummed. I had been working all day and had missed buying her a present by one minute.
On my way back to the Santa booth, I saw that Nordstrom was still open. Fearful that they, too, would close at any moment, I hurried inside and followed the signs toward the Gift Gallery. As I rushed through the store, I began to feel very conspicuous. It seemed the other shoppers were all very well-dressed and wealthy -- and here I was a broke teenager in an elf costume. How could I even think I’d find something in such a posh store for under fifteen dollars?
I self-consciously jingled my way into the Gift Gallery. A woman sales associate, who also looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion runway, came over and asked if she could help me. As she did, everyone in the department turned and stared.
As quietly as possible, I said, “No, that’s okay. Just help somebody else.”
She looked right at me and smiled. “No,” she said. “I want to help you.”
I told the woman who I was buying for and why, then I sheepishly admitted I only had fifteen dollars to spend. She looked as pleased and thoughtful as if I’d just asked to spend $1500. By now, the department had emptied, but she carefully went around, selecting a few things that would make a nice basket. The total came to $14.09.
The store was closing; as she rang up the purchase, the lights were turned off.
I was thinking that if I could take them home and wrap them, I could make them really pretty but I didn’t have time.
As if reading my mind, the saleslady asked, “Do you need this wrapped?”
“Yes,” I said.
By now the store was closed. Over the intercom, a voice asked if there were still customers in the store. I knew this woman was probably as eager to get home on Christmas Eve as everybody else, and here she was stuck waiting on some kid with a measly purchase.
But she was gone in the back room a long time. When she returned, she brought out the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. It was all wrapped up in silver and gold, and looked as if I’d spent fifty dollars on it -- at least. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy!
When I thanked her, she said, “You elves are out in the mall spreading joy to so many people, I just wanted to bring a little joy to you.”
“Merry Christmas, Shelly,” I said back at the booth. My manager gasped when she saw the present; she was so touched and happy that she started crying. I hoped it gave a happy start to her Christmas.
All through the holidays, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness and effort of the saleswoman, and how much joy she had brought to me, and in turn to my manager. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter to the store and let them know about it. About a week later, I got a reply from the store, thanking me for writing.
I thought that was the end of it, until mid-January.
That’s when I got a call from Stephanie, the sales associate. She wanted to take me to lunch. Me, a fifteen-dollar, sixteen-year-old customer.
When we met, Stephanie gave me a hug, and a present, and told me this story.
She had walked into a recent employee meeting to find herself on the list of nominees to be named the Nordstrom All-Star. She was confused but excited, as she had never before been nominated. At the point in the meeting when the winner was announced, they called Stephanie -- she’d won! When she went up front to accept the award, her manager read my letter out loud. Everyone gave her a huge round of applause.
Winning meant that her picture was put up in the store lobby, she got new business cards with Nordstrom All-Star written on them, a 14-karat gold pin, a 100-dollar award, and was invited to represent her department at the regional meeting.
At the regional meeting, they read my letter and everyone gave Stephanie a standing ovation. “This is what we want all of our employees to be like!” said the manager who read the letter. She got to meet three of the Nordstrom brothers, who were each very complimentary.
I was already a little overwhelmed when Stephanie took my hand. “But that’s not the best part, Tyree,” she said. “The day of that first store meeting, I took a list of the nominees, and put your letter behind it, with the 100-dollar bill behind that. I took it home and gave it to my father. He read everything and looked at me and said, “When do you find out who won?”
“I said, ‘I won, Dad.’”
“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Stephanie, I’m really proud of you.’”
Quietly, she said, “My dad has never said he was proud of me.”
I think I’ll remember that moment all my life. That was when I realized what a powerful gift appreciation can be. Shelly’s appreciation of her workers had set into motion a chain of events -- Stephanie’s beautiful basket, my letter, Nordstrom’s award -- that had changed at least three lives.
Though I’d heard it all my life, it was the Christmas when I was an elf -- and a broke teenager -- that I truly came to understand that the littlest things can make the biggest difference.
It was six o’clock at the mall, and I was as exhausted as an elf on Christmas Eve. In fact, I was an elf and it was Christmas Eve. That December of my sixteenth year, I’d been working two jobs to help my parents with my school tuition and to make a little extra holiday money. My second job was as an elf for Santa to help with kids’ photos. Between my two jobs, I’d worked twelve hours straight the day before; on Christmas Eve, things were so busy at Santaland that I hadn’t even had a coffee break all day. But this was it -- only minutes more, and I’d have survived!
I looked over at Shelly, our manager, and she gave me an encouraging smile. She was the reason I’d made it through. She’d been thrown in as manager halfway through the season, and she’d made all the difference in the world. My job had changed from stress-filled to challenging. Instead of yelling at her workers to keep us in line, she encouraged us and stood behind us. She made us pull together as a team. Especially when things were their craziest, she always had a smile and an encouraging word. Under her leadership, we’d achieved the highest number of mall photo sales in California.
I knew it was a difficult holiday season for her -- she’d recently suffered a miscarriage. I hoped she knew how great she was and what a difference she’d made to all her workers, and to all the little children who’d come to have their pictures taken.
Our booth was open until seven; at six, things started to slow down and I finally took a break. Although I didn’t have much money, I really wanted to buy a little gift for Shelly so that she’d know we appreciated her. I got to a store that sold soap and lotion just as they put the grate down. “Sorry, we’re closed!” barked the clerk, who looked as tired as I was and didn’t sound sorry at all.
I looked around and, to my dismay, found that all the stores had closed. I’d been so tired I hadn’t noticed.
I was really bummed. I had been working all day and had missed buying her a present by one minute.
On my way back to the Santa booth, I saw that Nordstrom was still open. Fearful that they, too, would close at any moment, I hurried inside and followed the signs toward the Gift Gallery. As I rushed through the store, I began to feel very conspicuous. It seemed the other shoppers were all very well-dressed and wealthy -- and here I was a broke teenager in an elf costume. How could I even think I’d find something in such a posh store for under fifteen dollars?
I self-consciously jingled my way into the Gift Gallery. A woman sales associate, who also looked as if she’d just stepped off a fashion runway, came over and asked if she could help me. As she did, everyone in the department turned and stared.
As quietly as possible, I said, “No, that’s okay. Just help somebody else.”
She looked right at me and smiled. “No,” she said. “I want to help you.”
I told the woman who I was buying for and why, then I sheepishly admitted I only had fifteen dollars to spend. She looked as pleased and thoughtful as if I’d just asked to spend $1500. By now, the department had emptied, but she carefully went around, selecting a few things that would make a nice basket. The total came to $14.09.
The store was closing; as she rang up the purchase, the lights were turned off.
I was thinking that if I could take them home and wrap them, I could make them really pretty but I didn’t have time.
As if reading my mind, the saleslady asked, “Do you need this wrapped?”
“Yes,” I said.
By now the store was closed. Over the intercom, a voice asked if there were still customers in the store. I knew this woman was probably as eager to get home on Christmas Eve as everybody else, and here she was stuck waiting on some kid with a measly purchase.
But she was gone in the back room a long time. When she returned, she brought out the most beautiful basket I’d ever seen. It was all wrapped up in silver and gold, and looked as if I’d spent fifty dollars on it -- at least. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy!
When I thanked her, she said, “You elves are out in the mall spreading joy to so many people, I just wanted to bring a little joy to you.”
“Merry Christmas, Shelly,” I said back at the booth. My manager gasped when she saw the present; she was so touched and happy that she started crying. I hoped it gave a happy start to her Christmas.
All through the holidays, I couldn’t stop thinking about the kindness and effort of the saleswoman, and how much joy she had brought to me, and in turn to my manager. I thought the least I could do was to write a letter to the store and let them know about it. About a week later, I got a reply from the store, thanking me for writing.
I thought that was the end of it, until mid-January.
That’s when I got a call from Stephanie, the sales associate. She wanted to take me to lunch. Me, a fifteen-dollar, sixteen-year-old customer.
When we met, Stephanie gave me a hug, and a present, and told me this story.
She had walked into a recent employee meeting to find herself on the list of nominees to be named the Nordstrom All-Star. She was confused but excited, as she had never before been nominated. At the point in the meeting when the winner was announced, they called Stephanie -- she’d won! When she went up front to accept the award, her manager read my letter out loud. Everyone gave her a huge round of applause.
Winning meant that her picture was put up in the store lobby, she got new business cards with Nordstrom All-Star written on them, a 14-karat gold pin, a 100-dollar award, and was invited to represent her department at the regional meeting.
At the regional meeting, they read my letter and everyone gave Stephanie a standing ovation. “This is what we want all of our employees to be like!” said the manager who read the letter. She got to meet three of the Nordstrom brothers, who were each very complimentary.
I was already a little overwhelmed when Stephanie took my hand. “But that’s not the best part, Tyree,” she said. “The day of that first store meeting, I took a list of the nominees, and put your letter behind it, with the 100-dollar bill behind that. I took it home and gave it to my father. He read everything and looked at me and said, “When do you find out who won?”
“I said, ‘I won, Dad.’”
“He looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Stephanie, I’m really proud of you.’”
Quietly, she said, “My dad has never said he was proud of me.”
I think I’ll remember that moment all my life. That was when I realized what a powerful gift appreciation can be. Shelly’s appreciation of her workers had set into motion a chain of events -- Stephanie’s beautiful basket, my letter, Nordstrom’s award -- that had changed at least three lives.
Though I’d heard it all my life, it was the Christmas when I was an elf -- and a broke teenager -- that I truly came to understand that the littlest things can make the biggest difference.
When It Rains, It's Four
(from email)
We' ve been friends for a long time ago. We come from the same alma mother. Actually, our paths crossed one time on another. But it's only now that I gave him a second look. I realized that beauty is in the eyes. The pulpbits of my heart went fast, really fast. Cute pala siya. And then, he came over with me.
He said, "I hope you don't mine. Can I get your number?"
Nag-worry ako. What if he doesn't give it back?
He explained naman na it's so we could keep intact daw.
Sabi ko, "Connect me if I'm wrong but are you asking me ouch?"
"The!?!!??". .. ang sarcastic na sagot nya.
Aba! The nerd! Parang siya pa ang galit! Persona ingrata!!! Ang kapal niya! I cried buckles of tears.
Na-guilty yata siya. Sabi niya, isipin mo na lang na this is a blessing in the sky. Irregardless daw of his feelings, we should go ouch na rin.
Now, we're so in love. Mute and epidemic na ang past. Thanks God we swallowed our fried. Kasi, I'm 33 na and I'm running our time. After 2 weeks, he plopped the question. "Will you marriage me?" I'm in a state of shocked. Kasi mantakin mo, when it rains, it's four! This is true good to be true. So siyempre, I said yes. Love is a many splendor.
Pero nung inaayos ko na ang aming kasal, everything swell to pieces. Nag-di-dinner kami noon nang biglang sa harap ng aming table, may babaeng humirit ng, "Well, well, well. Look do we have here." What the fuss! The nerd ng babaeng yon! She said they were still on. So I told her, whatever is that, cut me some slacks! I didn't want this to get our hand kaya I had to sip it in the bud.
She accused me of steeling her boyfriend. As is!!! I don't want to portrait the role of the other woman. Gosh, tell me to the marines!
I told her, "Please, mine you own business!" Who would believe her anyway?
Dahil it's not my problem anymore but her problem anymore, tumigil na rin siya ng panggugulo. Everything is coming up daisies. I'm so happy. Even my boyfriend said liketwice. He's so supportive. Sabi niya, "Look at is this way. She's our of our lives."
Kaya advise ko sa inyo - take the risk. You can never can tell. Just burn the bridge when you get there. Life is shorts. If you make a mistake, we'll just pray for the internal and external repose of your soul. I second emotion.
We' ve been friends for a long time ago. We come from the same alma mother. Actually, our paths crossed one time on another. But it's only now that I gave him a second look. I realized that beauty is in the eyes. The pulpbits of my heart went fast, really fast. Cute pala siya. And then, he came over with me.
He said, "I hope you don't mine. Can I get your number?"
Nag-worry ako. What if he doesn't give it back?
He explained naman na it's so we could keep intact daw.
Sabi ko, "Connect me if I'm wrong but are you asking me ouch?"
"The!?!!??". .. ang sarcastic na sagot nya.
Aba! The nerd! Parang siya pa ang galit! Persona ingrata!!! Ang kapal niya! I cried buckles of tears.
Na-guilty yata siya. Sabi niya, isipin mo na lang na this is a blessing in the sky. Irregardless daw of his feelings, we should go ouch na rin.
Now, we're so in love. Mute and epidemic na ang past. Thanks God we swallowed our fried. Kasi, I'm 33 na and I'm running our time. After 2 weeks, he plopped the question. "Will you marriage me?" I'm in a state of shocked. Kasi mantakin mo, when it rains, it's four! This is true good to be true. So siyempre, I said yes. Love is a many splendor.
Pero nung inaayos ko na ang aming kasal, everything swell to pieces. Nag-di-dinner kami noon nang biglang sa harap ng aming table, may babaeng humirit ng, "Well, well, well. Look do we have here." What the fuss! The nerd ng babaeng yon! She said they were still on. So I told her, whatever is that, cut me some slacks! I didn't want this to get our hand kaya I had to sip it in the bud.
She accused me of steeling her boyfriend. As is!!! I don't want to portrait the role of the other woman. Gosh, tell me to the marines!
I told her, "Please, mine you own business!" Who would believe her anyway?
Dahil it's not my problem anymore but her problem anymore, tumigil na rin siya ng panggugulo. Everything is coming up daisies. I'm so happy. Even my boyfriend said liketwice. He's so supportive. Sabi niya, "Look at is this way. She's our of our lives."
Kaya advise ko sa inyo - take the risk. You can never can tell. Just burn the bridge when you get there. Life is shorts. If you make a mistake, we'll just pray for the internal and external repose of your soul. I second emotion.
Can I Borrow $25?
A man came home from work late, tired and irritated, to find his 5-year old son waiting for him at the door.
SON: 'Daddy, may I ask you a question?'
DAD: 'Yeah sure, what it is?' replied the man.
SON: 'Daddy, how much do you make an hour?'
DAD: 'That's none of your business. Why do you ask such a thing?' the man said angrily.
SON: 'I just want to know. Please tell me, how much do you make an hour?'
DAD: 'If you must know, I make $50 an hour.'
SON: 'Oh,' the little boy replied, with his head down.
SON: 'Daddy, may I please borrow $25?'
The father was furious, 'If the only reason you asked that is so ! you can borrow some money to buy a silly toy or some other nonsense, then you march yourself straight to your room and go to bed. Think about why you are being so selfish. I don't work hard everyday for such childish frivolities.'
The little boy quietly went to his room and shut the door.
The man sat down and started to get even angrier about the little boy's questions. How dare he ask such questions only to get some money?
After about an hour or so, the man had calmed down, and started to think:
Maybe there was something he really needed to buy with that $25.00 and he really didn't ask for money very often The man went to the door of the little boy's room and opened the door.
'Are you asleep, son?' He asked.
'No daddy, I'm awake,' replied the boy.
'I've been thinking, maybe I was too hard on you earlier' said the man. 'It's been a long day and I took out my aggravation on you. Here's the $25 you asked for.'
T! he little boy sat straight up, smiling. 'Oh, thank you daddy!' he yell ed. Then, reaching under his pillow he pulled out some crumpled up bills.
The man saw that the boy already had money, started to get angry again.
The little boy slowly counted out his money , and then looked up at his father.
'Why do you want more money if you already have some?' the father grumbled.
'Because I didn't have enough, but now I do,' the little boy replied.
'Daddy, I have $50 now. Can I buy an hour of your time? Please come home early tomorrow. I would like to have dinner with you.'
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little son, and he begged for his forgiveness.
~~~
It's just a short reminder to all of you working so hard in life. We should not let time slip through our fingers without having spent some time with those who really matter to us, those close to our hearts. Do remember to share that $50 worth of your time with someone you love.
If we die tomorrow, the company that we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of hours. But the family & friends we leave behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives.
(from email)
SON: 'Daddy, may I ask you a question?'
DAD: 'Yeah sure, what it is?' replied the man.
SON: 'Daddy, how much do you make an hour?'
DAD: 'That's none of your business. Why do you ask such a thing?' the man said angrily.
SON: 'I just want to know. Please tell me, how much do you make an hour?'
DAD: 'If you must know, I make $50 an hour.'
SON: 'Oh,' the little boy replied, with his head down.
SON: 'Daddy, may I please borrow $25?'
The father was furious, 'If the only reason you asked that is so ! you can borrow some money to buy a silly toy or some other nonsense, then you march yourself straight to your room and go to bed. Think about why you are being so selfish. I don't work hard everyday for such childish frivolities.'
The little boy quietly went to his room and shut the door.
The man sat down and started to get even angrier about the little boy's questions. How dare he ask such questions only to get some money?
After about an hour or so, the man had calmed down, and started to think:
Maybe there was something he really needed to buy with that $25.00 and he really didn't ask for money very often The man went to the door of the little boy's room and opened the door.
'Are you asleep, son?' He asked.
'No daddy, I'm awake,' replied the boy.
'I've been thinking, maybe I was too hard on you earlier' said the man. 'It's been a long day and I took out my aggravation on you. Here's the $25 you asked for.'
T! he little boy sat straight up, smiling. 'Oh, thank you daddy!' he yell ed. Then, reaching under his pillow he pulled out some crumpled up bills.
The man saw that the boy already had money, started to get angry again.
The little boy slowly counted out his money , and then looked up at his father.
'Why do you want more money if you already have some?' the father grumbled.
'Because I didn't have enough, but now I do,' the little boy replied.
'Daddy, I have $50 now. Can I buy an hour of your time? Please come home early tomorrow. I would like to have dinner with you.'
The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little son, and he begged for his forgiveness.
~~~
It's just a short reminder to all of you working so hard in life. We should not let time slip through our fingers without having spent some time with those who really matter to us, those close to our hearts. Do remember to share that $50 worth of your time with someone you love.
If we die tomorrow, the company that we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of hours. But the family & friends we leave behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives.
(from email)
A Blog Post by Singapore's Youngest Millionaire
On Money
By Adam Khoo
Some of you may already know that I travel around the region pretty frequently, having to visit and conduct seminars at my offices in Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand and Suzhou (China). I am in the airport almost every other week so I get to bump into many people who have attended my seminars or have read my books.
Recently, someone came up to me on a plane to KL and looked rather shocked. He asked, ËoHow come a millionaire like you is travelling economy? My reply was, Thats why I am a millionaire. He still looked pretty confused. This again confirms that greatest lie ever told about wealth (which I wrote about in my latest book Secrets of Self-Made Millionaire) . Many people have been brainwashed to think that millionaires have to wear Gucci, Hugo Boss, Rolex, and sit on first class in air travel. This is why so many people never become rich because the moment that earn more money, they think that it is only natural that they spend more, putting them back to square one.
The truth is that most self-made millionaires are frugal and only spend on what is necessary and of value. That is why they are able to accumulate and multiply their wealth so much faster. Over the last 7 years, I have saved about 80% of my income while today I save only about 60% (because I have my wife, mother in law, 2 maids, 2 kids, etc. to support). Still, it is way above most people who save 10% of their income (if they are lucky). I refuse to buy a first class ticket or to buy a $300 shirt because I think that it is a complete waste of money. However, I happily pay $1,300 to send my 2-year old daughter to Julia Gabriel Speech and Drama without thinking twice.
When I joined the YEO (Young Entrepreneurs Organization) a few years back (YEO is an exclusive club open to those who are under 40 and make over $1m a year in their own business) I discovered that those who were self-made thought like me. Many of them with net worths well over $5m, travelled economy class and some even drove Toyotas and Nissans (not Audis, Mercs, BMWs).
I noticed that it was only those who never had to work hard to build their own wealth (there were also a few ministers and tycoons sons in the club) who spent like there was no tomorrow. Somehow, when you did not have to build everything from scratch, you do not really value money. This is precisely the reason why a familys wealth (no matter how much) rarely lasts past the third generation. Thank God my rich dad (oh no! I sound like Kiyosaki) foresaw this terrible possibility and refused to give me a cent to start my business.
Then some people ask me, What is the point in making so much money if you dont enjoy it? The thing is that I dont really find happiness in buying branded clothes, jewellery or sitting first class. Even if buying something makes me happy it is only for a while, it does not last. Material happiness never lasts, it just give you a quick fix. After a while you feel lousy again and have to buy the next thing which you think will make you happy. I always think that if you need material things to make you happy, then you live a pretty sad and unfulfilled life.
Instead, what makes ME happy is when I see my children laughing and playing and learning so fast. What makes me happy is when I see my companies and trainers reaching more and more people every year in so many more countries. What makes me really happy is when I read all the emails about how my books and seminars have touched and inspired someones life. What makes me really happy is reading all your wonderful posts about how this BLOG is inspiring you. This happiness makes me feel really good for a long time, much much more than what a Rolex would do for me.
I think the point I want to put across is that happiness must come from doing your lifes work (be in teaching, building homes, designing, trading, winning tournaments etc.) and the money that comes is only a by-product. If you hate what you are doing and rely on the money you earn to make you happy by buying stuff, then I think that you are living a life of meaninglessness.
By Adam Khoo
Some of you may already know that I travel around the region pretty frequently, having to visit and conduct seminars at my offices in Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand and Suzhou (China). I am in the airport almost every other week so I get to bump into many people who have attended my seminars or have read my books.
Recently, someone came up to me on a plane to KL and looked rather shocked. He asked, ËoHow come a millionaire like you is travelling economy? My reply was, Thats why I am a millionaire. He still looked pretty confused. This again confirms that greatest lie ever told about wealth (which I wrote about in my latest book Secrets of Self-Made Millionaire) . Many people have been brainwashed to think that millionaires have to wear Gucci, Hugo Boss, Rolex, and sit on first class in air travel. This is why so many people never become rich because the moment that earn more money, they think that it is only natural that they spend more, putting them back to square one.
The truth is that most self-made millionaires are frugal and only spend on what is necessary and of value. That is why they are able to accumulate and multiply their wealth so much faster. Over the last 7 years, I have saved about 80% of my income while today I save only about 60% (because I have my wife, mother in law, 2 maids, 2 kids, etc. to support). Still, it is way above most people who save 10% of their income (if they are lucky). I refuse to buy a first class ticket or to buy a $300 shirt because I think that it is a complete waste of money. However, I happily pay $1,300 to send my 2-year old daughter to Julia Gabriel Speech and Drama without thinking twice.
When I joined the YEO (Young Entrepreneurs Organization) a few years back (YEO is an exclusive club open to those who are under 40 and make over $1m a year in their own business) I discovered that those who were self-made thought like me. Many of them with net worths well over $5m, travelled economy class and some even drove Toyotas and Nissans (not Audis, Mercs, BMWs).
I noticed that it was only those who never had to work hard to build their own wealth (there were also a few ministers and tycoons sons in the club) who spent like there was no tomorrow. Somehow, when you did not have to build everything from scratch, you do not really value money. This is precisely the reason why a familys wealth (no matter how much) rarely lasts past the third generation. Thank God my rich dad (oh no! I sound like Kiyosaki) foresaw this terrible possibility and refused to give me a cent to start my business.
Then some people ask me, What is the point in making so much money if you dont enjoy it? The thing is that I dont really find happiness in buying branded clothes, jewellery or sitting first class. Even if buying something makes me happy it is only for a while, it does not last. Material happiness never lasts, it just give you a quick fix. After a while you feel lousy again and have to buy the next thing which you think will make you happy. I always think that if you need material things to make you happy, then you live a pretty sad and unfulfilled life.
Instead, what makes ME happy is when I see my children laughing and playing and learning so fast. What makes me happy is when I see my companies and trainers reaching more and more people every year in so many more countries. What makes me really happy is when I read all the emails about how my books and seminars have touched and inspired someones life. What makes me really happy is reading all your wonderful posts about how this BLOG is inspiring you. This happiness makes me feel really good for a long time, much much more than what a Rolex would do for me.
I think the point I want to put across is that happiness must come from doing your lifes work (be in teaching, building homes, designing, trading, winning tournaments etc.) and the money that comes is only a by-product. If you hate what you are doing and rely on the money you earn to make you happy by buying stuff, then I think that you are living a life of meaninglessness.
A Slice of Life
By Carol McAdoo Rehme
Jean heaved another world-weary sigh. Tucking a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear, she frowned at the teetering tower of Christmas cards waiting to be signed. What was the point? How could she sign only one name? A "couple" required two people, and she was just one.
The legal separation from Don had left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she would skip the cards this year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had canceled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. Christmas was to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.
The doorbell's insistent ring startled her. Padding to the door in her thick socks, Jean cracked it open against the frigid December night. She peered into the empty darkness of the porch. Instead of a friendly face -- something she could use about now -- she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the railing. From whom? she wondered. And why?
Under the bright kitchen light, she pulled out handfuls of shredded gold tinsel, feeling for a gift. Instead, her fingers plucked an envelope from the bottom. Tucked inside was a typed letter. It was a...story?
The little boy was new to the Denmark orphanage, and Christmas was drawing near, Jean read. Already caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.
From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous tree that would appear in the hall on Christmas Eve and of the scores of candles that would light its branches. He heard stories of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible each year.
The little boy's eyes opened wide at the mere thought of all that splendor. The only Christmas tree he had ever seen was through the fogged windows of other people's homes. There was even more, the children insisted. More? Oh, yes! Instead of the orphanage's regular fare of gruel, they would be served fragrant stew and crusty, hot bread that special night.
Last, and best of all, the little boy learned, each of them would receive a holiday treat. He would join the line of children to get his very own....
Jean turned the page. Instead of a continuation, she was startled to read: "Everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, wouldn't you agree? Watch for Part II." She refolded the paper while a faint smile teased the corner of her mouth.
The next day was so busy that Jean forgot all about the story. That evening, she rushed home from work. If she hurried, she'd probably have enough time to decorate the mantle. She pulled out the box of garland, only to drop it when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she found herself looking at a red gift bag. She reached for it eagerly and pulled out the piece of paper.
...to get his very own orange, Jean read. An orange? That's a treat? she thought incredulously.
An orange! Of his very own? Yes, the others assured him. There would be one apiece. The boy closed his eyes against the wonder of it all. A tree. Candles. A filling meal. And an orange of his very own.
He knew the smell, tangy sweet, but only the smell. He had sniffed oranges at the merchant's stall in the marketplace. Once he had even dared to rub a single finger over the brilliant, pocked skin. He fancied for days that his hand still smelled of orange. But to taste one, to eat one? Heaven.
The story ended abruptly, but Jean didn't mind. She knew more would follow.
The next evening, Jean waited anxiously for the sound of the doorbell. She wasn't disappointed. This time, though, the embossed gold bag was heavier than the others had been. She tore into the envelope resting on top of the tissue paper.
Christmas Eve was all the children had been promised. The piney scent of fir competed with the aroma of lamb stew and homey yeast bread. Scores of candles diffused the room with golden halos. The boy watched in amazement as each child in turn eagerly claimed an orange and politely said "thank you."
The line moved quickly, and he found himself in front of the towering tree and the equally imposing headmaster.
"Too bad, young man, too bad. But the count was in before you arrived. It seems there are no more oranges. Next year. Yes, next year you will receive an orange."
Brokenhearted, the orphan raced up the stairs empty-handed to bury both his face and his tears beneath his pillow.
Wait! This wasn't how she wanted the story to go. Jean felt the boy's pain, his aloneness.
The boy felt a gentle tap on his back. He tried to still his sobs. The tap became more insistent until, at last, he pulled his head from under the pillow.
He smelled it before he saw it. A cloth napkin rested on the mattress. Tucked inside was a peeled orange, tangy sweet. It was made of segments saved from the others. A slice donated from each child. Together they added up to make one whole, complete fruit.
An orange of his very own.
Jean swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. From the bottom of the gift bag she pulled out an orange -- a foil-covered chocolate orange--already separated into segments. And for the first time in weeks, she smiled. Really smiled.
She set about making copies of the story, wrapping individual slices of the chocolate orange. There was Mrs. Potter across the street, spending her first Christmas alone in 58 years. There was Melanie down the block, facing her second round of radiation. Her running partner, Jan, single-parenting a difficult teen. Lonely Mr. Bradford losing his eyesight, and Sue, sole care-giver to an aging mother....
A piece from her might help make one whole.
Jean heaved another world-weary sigh. Tucking a strand of shiny black hair behind her ear, she frowned at the teetering tower of Christmas cards waiting to be signed. What was the point? How could she sign only one name? A "couple" required two people, and she was just one.
The legal separation from Don had left her feeling vacant and incomplete. Maybe she would skip the cards this year. And the holiday decorating. Truthfully, even a tree felt like more than she could manage. She had canceled out of the caroling party and the church nativity pageant. Christmas was to be shared, and she had no one to share it with.
The doorbell's insistent ring startled her. Padding to the door in her thick socks, Jean cracked it open against the frigid December night. She peered into the empty darkness of the porch. Instead of a friendly face -- something she could use about now -- she found only a jaunty green gift bag perched on the railing. From whom? she wondered. And why?
Under the bright kitchen light, she pulled out handfuls of shredded gold tinsel, feeling for a gift. Instead, her fingers plucked an envelope from the bottom. Tucked inside was a typed letter. It was a...story?
The little boy was new to the Denmark orphanage, and Christmas was drawing near, Jean read. Already caught up in the tale, she settled into a kitchen chair.
From the other children, he heard tales of a wondrous tree that would appear in the hall on Christmas Eve and of the scores of candles that would light its branches. He heard stories of the mysterious benefactor who made it possible each year.
The little boy's eyes opened wide at the mere thought of all that splendor. The only Christmas tree he had ever seen was through the fogged windows of other people's homes. There was even more, the children insisted. More? Oh, yes! Instead of the orphanage's regular fare of gruel, they would be served fragrant stew and crusty, hot bread that special night.
Last, and best of all, the little boy learned, each of them would receive a holiday treat. He would join the line of children to get his very own....
Jean turned the page. Instead of a continuation, she was startled to read: "Everyone needs to celebrate Christmas, wouldn't you agree? Watch for Part II." She refolded the paper while a faint smile teased the corner of her mouth.
The next day was so busy that Jean forgot all about the story. That evening, she rushed home from work. If she hurried, she'd probably have enough time to decorate the mantle. She pulled out the box of garland, only to drop it when the doorbell rang. Opening the door, she found herself looking at a red gift bag. She reached for it eagerly and pulled out the piece of paper.
...to get his very own orange, Jean read. An orange? That's a treat? she thought incredulously.
An orange! Of his very own? Yes, the others assured him. There would be one apiece. The boy closed his eyes against the wonder of it all. A tree. Candles. A filling meal. And an orange of his very own.
He knew the smell, tangy sweet, but only the smell. He had sniffed oranges at the merchant's stall in the marketplace. Once he had even dared to rub a single finger over the brilliant, pocked skin. He fancied for days that his hand still smelled of orange. But to taste one, to eat one? Heaven.
The story ended abruptly, but Jean didn't mind. She knew more would follow.
The next evening, Jean waited anxiously for the sound of the doorbell. She wasn't disappointed. This time, though, the embossed gold bag was heavier than the others had been. She tore into the envelope resting on top of the tissue paper.
Christmas Eve was all the children had been promised. The piney scent of fir competed with the aroma of lamb stew and homey yeast bread. Scores of candles diffused the room with golden halos. The boy watched in amazement as each child in turn eagerly claimed an orange and politely said "thank you."
The line moved quickly, and he found himself in front of the towering tree and the equally imposing headmaster.
"Too bad, young man, too bad. But the count was in before you arrived. It seems there are no more oranges. Next year. Yes, next year you will receive an orange."
Brokenhearted, the orphan raced up the stairs empty-handed to bury both his face and his tears beneath his pillow.
Wait! This wasn't how she wanted the story to go. Jean felt the boy's pain, his aloneness.
The boy felt a gentle tap on his back. He tried to still his sobs. The tap became more insistent until, at last, he pulled his head from under the pillow.
He smelled it before he saw it. A cloth napkin rested on the mattress. Tucked inside was a peeled orange, tangy sweet. It was made of segments saved from the others. A slice donated from each child. Together they added up to make one whole, complete fruit.
An orange of his very own.
Jean swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. From the bottom of the gift bag she pulled out an orange -- a foil-covered chocolate orange--already separated into segments. And for the first time in weeks, she smiled. Really smiled.
She set about making copies of the story, wrapping individual slices of the chocolate orange. There was Mrs. Potter across the street, spending her first Christmas alone in 58 years. There was Melanie down the block, facing her second round of radiation. Her running partner, Jan, single-parenting a difficult teen. Lonely Mr. Bradford losing his eyesight, and Sue, sole care-giver to an aging mother....
A piece from her might help make one whole.
And A Little Child Shall Lead Them
by Audrey Conway
The setting was a McDonald’s restaurant in a small community in central Pennsylvania.
Most of us think of dining at McDonald’s as “fast food.” Not so for a lonely, retired eighty-year-old woman, whose physical and mental health was waning. Each day, she arrived early in the morning and sat at a back booth until late afternoon, seeking companionship and hoping to be included in the conversations of nearby patrons.
June was her name, and home was a second-floor apartment in the nearby college town.
Despite the steep steps that were becoming increasingly difficult for her, the pleasant ambience of McDonald’s drew her to the corner she called her “home away from home.”
Each day this proud woman sat bundled up in the same back corner, wearing a familiar babushka on her head, her eyes always hidden behind dark sunglasses, her heavy coat buttoned.
During the fall of 2001, my four-year-old granddaughter, Catie, attended preschool three days a week; I picked her up each day at the sitter’s and took her to lunch before I dropped her off at school. Most children love “Mickey D’s,” and Catie was no exception!
Catie’s favorite seat was one table away from June on the same bench seat.
I must admit I became tired of eating hamburgers, and I would often ask Catie, “Could we please go somewhere else today?” Her answer was always an adamant: “No, Nana, I have to see June.” Each day as we approached the parking lot, Catie’s eyes would search for June’s battered 1975 Monte Carlo, with the cluttered interior containing June’s “treasures.” When she spotted June’s car in the handicapped space, she was elated. As soon as I got her out of her car seat, she would race ahead of me, bounding through the restaurant, craning her neck to see if June was in her spot. If she was, they played a little game. Catie would pretend to hide behind a display, peek around the corner, then race into June’s arms. Many patrons watched for Catie and smiled tenderly as this adorable little blond child clasped her friend tightly, proving to all that friendship transcends age. As I reflect on this relationship, I realize that God planned for these two to meet and to bond.
Over the months, Catie would bring June small gifts: a key chain from her first trip to Disney World, a bouquet of flowers hand-carried to her apartment when June was sick, a mug for her birthday with a photo of Catie perched on June’s lap in their favorite corner of McDonald’s.
Unfortunately, in the fall of 2002, just as Catie entered kindergarten, June’s health deteriorated to the point where she had to have dialysis treatments three times a week.
Many days, her seat would be empty when we arrived at McDonald’s. Catie always asked one of the clerks about her friend. Sometimes, the manager or one of the workers, who had also befriended June, would give us an update. Near Christmastime, Catie and I received the news that June had gone to a nursing home.
When we first found June’s room, she was lying in bed with her eyes closed. June seemed to sense our presence, and, as her eyes opened, she spotted Catie. Catie walked over to the bed, June sat up and they hugged. Tears filled my eyes as I realized the power of the moment. They talked a mile a minute, and June showed Catie the birdfeeder outside her window. This visit was a ray of sunshine for June, whose life was far from sunny. Her diabetes was worsening; her beloved car had to be sold; and the outlook for the future was bleak.
Before we left that day, June opened Catie’s Christmas present, a pink fleece blanket to keep June’s feet warm. She loved it, and they hugged tightly once again. Over the next few months, school kept Catie busy, yet each time we went to McDonald’s, Catie’s eyes were drawn to that back corner.
Before Easter, I received a phone call from a McDonald’s employee telling me that June’s health was failing; they were going to have to amputate her leg. Catie sent a card to June, telling her she would pray for her. Soon, we got even worse news: June had passed away.
Catie would be in school on the day of June’s funeral, but we sent two pink roses with some babies’ breath. The morning of the visitation, I walked into the funeral home to pay my respects. Only two small flower arrangements were visible, and the people there were few. As I walked down the aisle, a woman who identified herself as June’s niece approached me, wondering who I was. When I told her that I was the grandmother of Catie—June’s friend from McDonald’s—she grabbed my hand and led me to the casket.
There lay this peaceful angel with her white babushka on her head and with Catie’s two pink roses in her hands. I soon learned from her niece that roses had been June’s favorite flowers. The pink fleece blanket covered her legs, and on top of the blanket were Catie’s card and the photo of the two of them in the corner booth at McDonald’s, Catie sitting on June’s lap and June resplendent in her trademark dark glasses and babushka. Tears flowed from my eyes. In that moment, I truly came to see what a gift God had given the world in my granddaughter, whose genuine love had wholly embraced this lonely, elderly woman.
While taking Catie to school the day of June’s funeral, we talked about my saying goodbye to June for her. She asked me about the memorial card that was lying on the seat next to me. I read it to her, and we talked about their birthdays both being in June, but that this year, June would be in heaven for hers. As she got out of the car, she wondered if she could take the card to school and I told her that was fine. She bounded up the sidewalk with her friend Carly, who asked her what she had in her hand. I heard her explain, “This is my best friend, June.”
The setting was a McDonald’s restaurant in a small community in central Pennsylvania.
Most of us think of dining at McDonald’s as “fast food.” Not so for a lonely, retired eighty-year-old woman, whose physical and mental health was waning. Each day, she arrived early in the morning and sat at a back booth until late afternoon, seeking companionship and hoping to be included in the conversations of nearby patrons.
June was her name, and home was a second-floor apartment in the nearby college town.
Despite the steep steps that were becoming increasingly difficult for her, the pleasant ambience of McDonald’s drew her to the corner she called her “home away from home.”
Each day this proud woman sat bundled up in the same back corner, wearing a familiar babushka on her head, her eyes always hidden behind dark sunglasses, her heavy coat buttoned.
During the fall of 2001, my four-year-old granddaughter, Catie, attended preschool three days a week; I picked her up each day at the sitter’s and took her to lunch before I dropped her off at school. Most children love “Mickey D’s,” and Catie was no exception!
Catie’s favorite seat was one table away from June on the same bench seat.
I must admit I became tired of eating hamburgers, and I would often ask Catie, “Could we please go somewhere else today?” Her answer was always an adamant: “No, Nana, I have to see June.” Each day as we approached the parking lot, Catie’s eyes would search for June’s battered 1975 Monte Carlo, with the cluttered interior containing June’s “treasures.” When she spotted June’s car in the handicapped space, she was elated. As soon as I got her out of her car seat, she would race ahead of me, bounding through the restaurant, craning her neck to see if June was in her spot. If she was, they played a little game. Catie would pretend to hide behind a display, peek around the corner, then race into June’s arms. Many patrons watched for Catie and smiled tenderly as this adorable little blond child clasped her friend tightly, proving to all that friendship transcends age. As I reflect on this relationship, I realize that God planned for these two to meet and to bond.
Over the months, Catie would bring June small gifts: a key chain from her first trip to Disney World, a bouquet of flowers hand-carried to her apartment when June was sick, a mug for her birthday with a photo of Catie perched on June’s lap in their favorite corner of McDonald’s.
Unfortunately, in the fall of 2002, just as Catie entered kindergarten, June’s health deteriorated to the point where she had to have dialysis treatments three times a week.
Many days, her seat would be empty when we arrived at McDonald’s. Catie always asked one of the clerks about her friend. Sometimes, the manager or one of the workers, who had also befriended June, would give us an update. Near Christmastime, Catie and I received the news that June had gone to a nursing home.
When we first found June’s room, she was lying in bed with her eyes closed. June seemed to sense our presence, and, as her eyes opened, she spotted Catie. Catie walked over to the bed, June sat up and they hugged. Tears filled my eyes as I realized the power of the moment. They talked a mile a minute, and June showed Catie the birdfeeder outside her window. This visit was a ray of sunshine for June, whose life was far from sunny. Her diabetes was worsening; her beloved car had to be sold; and the outlook for the future was bleak.
Before we left that day, June opened Catie’s Christmas present, a pink fleece blanket to keep June’s feet warm. She loved it, and they hugged tightly once again. Over the next few months, school kept Catie busy, yet each time we went to McDonald’s, Catie’s eyes were drawn to that back corner.
Before Easter, I received a phone call from a McDonald’s employee telling me that June’s health was failing; they were going to have to amputate her leg. Catie sent a card to June, telling her she would pray for her. Soon, we got even worse news: June had passed away.
Catie would be in school on the day of June’s funeral, but we sent two pink roses with some babies’ breath. The morning of the visitation, I walked into the funeral home to pay my respects. Only two small flower arrangements were visible, and the people there were few. As I walked down the aisle, a woman who identified herself as June’s niece approached me, wondering who I was. When I told her that I was the grandmother of Catie—June’s friend from McDonald’s—she grabbed my hand and led me to the casket.
There lay this peaceful angel with her white babushka on her head and with Catie’s two pink roses in her hands. I soon learned from her niece that roses had been June’s favorite flowers. The pink fleece blanket covered her legs, and on top of the blanket were Catie’s card and the photo of the two of them in the corner booth at McDonald’s, Catie sitting on June’s lap and June resplendent in her trademark dark glasses and babushka. Tears flowed from my eyes. In that moment, I truly came to see what a gift God had given the world in my granddaughter, whose genuine love had wholly embraced this lonely, elderly woman.
While taking Catie to school the day of June’s funeral, we talked about my saying goodbye to June for her. She asked me about the memorial card that was lying on the seat next to me. I read it to her, and we talked about their birthdays both being in June, but that this year, June would be in heaven for hers. As she got out of the car, she wondered if she could take the card to school and I told her that was fine. She bounded up the sidewalk with her friend Carly, who asked her what she had in her hand. I heard her explain, “This is my best friend, June.”