Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul (9 page)

Watching for the Miracle

A
ll things are possible until they are proved impossible.

Pearl S. Buck

Cindy Plumpton’s brother had been missing now for almost nine months.

The Plumpton family, which included Cindy, then twelve, her fourteen-year-old brother, Kirk, and their parents, were spending their traditional summer vacation at their cabin in the Colorado mountains. The cabins were fairly secluded, separated from each other by trees. Because they knew all the families who had cabins close by, Cindy and Kirk had many friends there. Kirk’s best friend lived in the cabin next door. As he often did, Kirk had dinner at his friend’s place one evening. Just before dusk, he began to walk the hundred yards back to his family’s cabin. He never made it.

The state police, volunteers and his family combed those mountains for any trace of what might have happened to Kirk, but when winter came and fresh snow blanketed the earth, they had to halt the search.

It was shortly after that when I met Cindy at our church. Although she was quiet at first, there was something special that drew me to her. We became Sunday-school friends. It wasn’t until she invited me over to her house several weeks later that she told me about her brother. She and I didn’t go to the same school, but we saw each other every weekend after that. Sometimes I slept over at her house, although her parents wouldn’t let her sleep over at mine.

On a warm, sunny Saturday in April, I called her to say that my mom had agreed to drive us to the park. We could pack a lunch and take our bikes and make a day of it. Cindy sounded as excited about the day as I was, so when I got to her house an hour later, I was puzzled when she said she couldn’t go. She said that she was sorry and hoped I would understand, but there was a rainbow today and she had to stay home and wait for the news.

“What news?” I asked.

“About my brother,” she said, almost too excited to speak. “He’s going to come home today.”

“What? They found him?” I asked excitedly.

“Not yet, but they will.” Then she explained. “Instead of wishing on stars, my brother used to wish on rainbows. He used to say that stars were nothing special; you could see the many old night. But when you saw a rainbow, that was a miracle. Seeing this rainbow means a miracle is going to happen today. Kirk’s coming home. So you see, I have to stay home and wait for him. You understand, don’t you?”

I saw only hope in her large brown eyes, and I nodded yes, I understood. We hugged, and together we stared out the window at the rainbow, with hope in our hearts.

Cindy and her family weren’t at church the next day. The reverend announced that the Plumptons had received a call from the police in another county telling them that they had found a boy who fit Kirk’s description. He had been wandering the street, severely bruised and only semiconscious. Cindy was right! The rainbow had brought Kirk home. Cindy’s family immediately drove the three hours to the hospital where the boy was staying.

That night on the TV news, we found out that the boy the police had found was not Kirk. Although his face was swollen purple, the minute the Plumptons entered his hospital room, they knewhe was not their son. The news report said that the boy was still unidentified and in a coma.

Even though the boy in the coma wasn’t Kirk, the Plumptons stayed by his bedside every day. They did not want him to be alone when he awoke from his coma, which he did five days later. It turned out the boy was a runaway. The Plumptons notified his parents, who lived in another state and had no idea that their missing boy had been found. The parents were overjoyed, and the Plumptons left only after a tearful reunion between the boy and his parents.

When Cindy finally returned home, I was afraid to visit her. I was afraid because I didn’t want to see the disappointment that I knew would be on her face. When I finally went to her house and entered her room, she was staring out the window.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t Kirk.” The words barely got past the lump in my throat.

“Me too,” she said. “But there’ll be another rainbow. I just know it.”

“How can you still believe in rainbows? It didn’t bring your brother home.”

“The boy they found is my brother’s age. His name is Paul, and he has a sister, too. I knew the rainbow would bring a miracle. It just wasn’t our miracle this time. But I’ll see another rainbow. I just know it.”

Together, we stared out the window, with hope in our hearts.

Korina L. Moss

Daddy’s Girl . . . At Long Last

H
ave you ever felt like nobody?
Just a tiny speck of air.
When everyone’s around you,
And you are just not there.

Karen Crawford, age 9

Daddy wanted a boy. He was so disappointed when I was born. And when Momma found out she couldn’t have any more children, Daddy was devastated.

He never tried to hide his disappointment from me. He was brutally honest. I guess I understood his feelings, living on a small farm in Iowa. He had hoped a boy would help him with the farm and eventually step into his shoes. But a girl . . .

I tried to do everything just to please Daddy. I could shimmy up a tree in the blink of an eye, throw a ball farther than any boy my age and look the town bully straight in the eye.

But still Daddy didn’t seem to notice. I would bring home straight As from school and other achievement awards. He was unmoved by that as well.

I was determined that I would win his love and admiration, no matter what.

I worked twice as hard doing my chores by getting up extra early in themorning. I milked our cows and gathered the eggs from our hens. Then I went to school.

Still Daddy seemed so unappreciative. Momma always tried to ease some of the frustration and hurt. “He’ll come around one day,” she’d say.

The year I turned thirteen was the one hundredth anniversary of the founding of our town. The town council decided to hold a parade, and they wanted a young lady to sit on a float and lead the parade. The families in the area were asked to send pictures of their children. Every parent in the area hoped that their daughter would be selected. Every parent except Daddy.

Momma sent in a picture of me. I was always so busy being the boy Daddy always wanted that I had never considered trying for the honor of leading the parade. I had no idea that Momma had sent in a picture of me, so it was quite a surprise when the selection committee stopped by one evening to tell us I’d been chosen. Momma was thrilled. As I expected, Daddy showed no interest in the matter.

The day of the big parade finally arrived. I was dressed in a beautiful white dress. At first I felt awkward—I’d hardly ever worn dresses. But soon I felt like a princess in a fairy tale.

As the parade passed down the main street of our town, I saw Momma and Daddy standing on the side. Momma was waving an American flag. But Daddy . . . well, he was just something else! There he stood, smiling like I’d never seen him smile before! As I passed him, I thought I saw tears in his eyes. At that moment, I knew I had finally gained his admiration—not as a replacement for the boy he’d always wanted, but as the young lady I really was.

Candace Goldapper

From the Heart

Jimmy was five when he and his parents adopted Neil. He still remembers that day in court when the judge called him up to the bench, all by himself, and said, “Today, it’s not just your mom and dad who accept the responsibility of raising another child. I’m counting on you, too, to share that obligation. Being a big brother means that this baby is going to look up to you and depend on you. Are you ready to take on that job?” Even though he was only in kindergarten at the time, Jimmy took the judge’s words very seriously.

Neil grew up thinking that being “adocted,” as he called it, was the coolest thing. His parents must have read every book in the library about how to explain such a complicated issue to a child, and they did a great job. Not only did he not feel bad about it, he felt even more special than if he weren’t adopted. At every opportunity, whether it be current events or a talent show or even a holiday celebration, he’d proudly stand up and tell the immediate world how he had a “tummy mom” and a “heart mom.” Sometimes it got to the point where Jimmy felt a little neglected.

When Neil was in second grade, he came across someone who had a different idea about what being adopted meant. Andy, a fifth-grader who rode the bus with Neil, didn’t have a lot of friends in school. He acted like a big shot with the younger kids on the school bus. One day, for no reason at all, he yelled out from the back of the bus, “Hey, Neil, you know what being adopted really means?”

Neil was nervous because Andy had never spoken directly to him before. Andy sounded mad, as if Neil had done something to make him angry. Neil knew better than to go into his show-and-tell routine, so he didn’t answer.

Then Andy snarled, “It means your real mother threw you in the garbage.” The bus got very quiet. “That’s right, the garbage. You were lucky someone came along and got you out before the trucks came and ground you up.”

Neil felt as if his heart had moved up to his throat. He tried to get off the bus at the next stop, even though it was blocks away from his house, but the driver wouldn’t let him. Everyone was talking, but he didn’t hear a word. The second the doors opened in front of his house, he ran out of the bus and through the front door.

Jimmy was already home from school. He and his mom were sitting in the kitchen. Neil’s milk and Oreos were waiting on the table.

“What’s wrong?” his mother asked sharply, in that way mothers have of knowing before they’re told that something bad has happened to their child.

Neil told them what Andy had said. His mother slumped in her chair, without any comforting phrases about “tummies and hearts” to offer. She knew that all the advice in all the books couldn’t erase the devastation on Neil’s face. When she reached out to hug him, he moved away. Instinctively, she sought her own comfort and grabbed the phone to call their dad.

Suddenly, Jimmy stood up. He walked around the table to where Neil was sobbing with his head in his hands.

“Neil,” he said quietly, “just think about what’s true. Babies aren’t adopted because nobody cares about them. Babies are only adopted when they are loved. Very much.”

Their mom stopped dialing the phone. Neil picked up his head. Some people say the truth hurts. But sometimes it cures, when it comes from the heart.

Marcia Byalick

A Brother’s Love

She pulled back on the ropes, making the homemade swing fly higher and closer to the leafy branches of the tall sycamore tree. The breeze swished cool against her cheeks. She was five years old, and, at that moment, stomping mad at her eleven-year-old brother, David.

How could he have been so mean?
she asked herself, remembering how he had made a face and called her a “big baby” at the breakfast table.
He hates me,
she thought,
just because I took the last muffin out from under his nose. He hates me!

The swing carried her up so high that she could see for miles. It was fun looking down at the farmyard below. Her red sweater flashed brightly in the morning sunlight. She stopped thinking about being mad at her brother and started to sing a swinging song.

On a distant hill behind the swing, a huge bull with long, sharp horns watched the red sweater flashing in the sunlight. The bull had broken out of his pasture. He was cranky and ready to charge at anything that moved. He snorted and scraped the ground with his hoof. Then he lowered his massive head and began lumbering across the field toward the red sweater he saw swinging back and forth beneath the sycamore tree.

Meanwhile, David was in the barnyard, feeding the chickens. He looked out and saw his little sister on the swing.
Sisters are a pain in the neck,
he thought. Then suddenly he saw the bull charging across the field, heading straight for his sister. Without a second thought, David screamed as loudly as he could, “Look out behind you! Get out of there!
Run!
”

His sister didn’t hear him; she just kept singing and swinging. The bull was halfway across the field and closing in fast. David’s heart pounded. It was now or never. He ran across the chicken yard, jumped the fence and dashed toward his sister. He ran faster than he had ever run before.

Grabbing one of the ropes, David jerked the swing to a stop, tumbling his sister sideways to the ground only a second before the snorting bull charged at the place she had been. She let out a terrified yell. The bull spun around, scraping the ground again with his hoof. He lowered his head to charge again.

David yanked on one sleeve of the red sweater and then the other. Pulling it off of his sister, he flung the sweater as far away as he could. The bull followed it. With horns and hooves, he ripped it into a hundred shreds of red yarn, while David half dragged, half carried his frightened sister to safety.

I was that little girl, and ever since that day, I just laugh when my brother calls me a “big baby.” He can’t fool me— I know he loves me. He doesn’t have to face a charging bull to prove it. But I’ll never forget the day he did.

Diana L. James

Secrets That Made Paul Special

T
he optimist sees the doughnut, the pessimist, the hole.

McLandburgh Wilson

Paul was my little brother, and he was special. He was different from me because he was blind, and he sat in a wheelchair. Lots of people knew he was different because he had his own school bus and had to go to a special school. But that’s not really why he was special.

Paul was special for the things just our family knew about—like introducing us to new friends. Lots of times when we walked with Paul, other kids came over and asked us why he was in his chair. They wanted to know why Paul couldn’t see, and I would tell them to shake Paul’s hand. Then we’d talk about other stuff.

Paul was a good listener. I could tell him all kinds of things, and he never got tired of listening to me. He laughed when I told him something funny, and he was the only one in our family who could keep a secret.

Paul helped me exercise. Sometimes when we’d go for a walk, we’d have to go uphill. Paul liked to feel the sun and wind on his face, and he liked to listen to the birds. When I pushed his chair to the woods at the top of the hill, I was really getting my exercise!

Paul helped us carry things. He never minded if I hung my backpack on the back of his chair or if Mom put her purse there. Sometimes he carried the packages we’d get when we went shopping. I think he felt like the driver!

Paul helped me hear small noises. When I was with him, I’d have to be quiet as a stone to hear the munching chipmunks and the talking trees that he heard.

Paul let me practice my reading. When I was his reader, I read at my own speed. Sometimes I had to stop to figure out a difficult word, but Paul didn’t mind. His favorite stories were about animals, especially worms.

When there was a special day in town, like the circus in summer or the one time when the president came in his helicopter, Paul would let me share his front-row seat.

In winter, Paul helped me keep my feet dry. When Paul went somewhere he had to use ramps instead of stairs. The snow was usually shoveled off the ramps, so we both kept our feet dry! Inside buildings, Paul gave me free elevator rides. Paul’s chair didn’t fit on the escalator, and boy, was I glad. I don’t like escalators!

Paul hardly ever complained. He went along with whatever the rest of us wanted to do. One time when he had a fever, he got crabby, but he never yelled or fought or asked me to switch the TV channel.

Paul let me put things in his lap. We played a kind of feel-and-tell game. Sometimes I put different toys there for him to feel, or I’d surprise him with our dog, Muffin. Once I put a crawly worm in his lap. He was always surprised when I let him hold something new. He made faces and sounds to let me know his guess.

Paul let me come with him on the rides at the fair. They have a handicapped-ride day, and all the kids in wheelchairs get to go on the rides for free. Since Paul couldn’t sit up by himself, I got to sit on one side of him so he wouldn’t fall over.

Paul was my friend. He couldn’t talk to me like most of my friends, and he couldn’t run outside or play hide-and-seek. But he was there for all the quiet times, and he had the best smile in the world.

Paul died in his sleep five years ago. Growing up as his sister was a blessing. He helped me to see that there is a positive side to every situation, if we simply make the choice to find it.

Judy M. Garty