Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (26 page)

I was truly inspired by this woman. You know how every once in a while, you meet someone that touches your soul, as if you were blessed to have known them. Delores was that person for me. She was a petite lady in her early 60s, with tanned skin and a smile that lit up her whole face. Her favorite phrase was, “Are we having fun yet?”

Delores always wore bright colorful outfits with hats and pins or necklaces that her grandchildren had made. She was very sentimental, and it seemed that she always had a tear in her eye over something: a hug from a child, an inspiring song or watching a beautiful sunset. Delores radiated a faith about her. You always felt good about yourself and others when she was around. She found something positive in everyone, and sometimes that’s hard to do. I remember her saying, “God made us and is in all of us...you just have to search a little harder in some people.” Anyone that knew her knew where her priorities were: God, family, friends and loving life. She was actively involved in her church and community, she was a Registered Nurse, and she and her husband, Rich, raised six beautiful children.

Every year over the Fourth of July, Delores planned a big celebration with a boat parade, talent show, raising of the flag, candy hunt for the little kids, volleyball, potluck, fireworks and a campfire sing-along. Oh sure, there were always mumbles and grumbles from people who just wanted to “vacation,” but by the end of the day, everyone had participated and, from the smiles and laughter, I would say truly enjoyed themselves.

In the fall of 1991, Delores was diagnosed with cancer. Of course, everyone was devastated by the news. Yet, somehow, I felt that everything was going to be okay. Each year at the lake, we kept thinking that this would be her last “Fourth of July,” yet she kept coming back with her colorful red, white and blue hats, planning the celebration once again, and of course asking, “Are we having fun yet?”

By the fall of 1994, Delores was confined to a wheelchair and had to be fed intravenously. We all knew that death was close. One of her daughters told us that Delores had invited her priest over one day and told him, “You know, Father, I have never been scared of dying because I know where I’m going, but I just wasn’t ready to go until my family was ready...and I think they are ready now.” Then she went on to let him know that she really should plan her wake. Her priest had replied, “Sure, Delores, whatever you’d like to do.” As the priest started to talk about the formalities of the wake and funeral, Delores interrupted him and said, “No, Father, you don’t understand, I want to be there at my wake!”

Two weeks before she passed away, Delores had her “Irish wake,” complete with family and friends, Irish toddies, singing, dancing and laughter. Delores sat in the center of the room in her wheelchair, dressed in green with a green Irish hat, and a pin that said, “Kiss me, I’m Irish.” What a celebration of life!

A couple of months after Delores’ death, her family was sitting around the kitchen table feeling pretty blue and really missing her. Mark, one of Delores’ sons, said, “You know, I haven’t felt like going to church much anymore. How does anyone really know that there’s a God and a heaven?”

Just then, there was a loud BANG! Everyone jumped, and Mark ran over and picked up a plaque that had fallen off the wall. The plaque had been there as long as anyone could remember. It said: “Delores’ Kitchen.”

Everyone sat there, stunned. Then someone started to giggle, and we all burst out laughing. We could all see Delores, wearing one of her silly old hats, smiling down on us and saying, “Are we having fun yet?”

Kim Miller

9
HIGHER
WISDOM

M
iracles are natural; when they do not occur, something has gone wrong.

Helen Schucman

Asking for Miracles

A number of years ago, author and poet Maya Angelou learned that her only child,Guy,was scheduled for emergency surgery. He had broken his neck in an accident several years earlier, and now complications were arising. So Maya asked for a miracle. Here’s how she tells the story.

I went directly to San Francisco to be with Guy. As soon as surgery got under way early the next morning, I drove out to Mission Dolores and I prayed. I had gone there before in a time of trouble—when I was pregnant with Guy and needed help to be allowed to enroll late in a summer school program so that I could finish my high-school education. I had prayed before the statue of Mary then and my prayers were answered. Now I was praying for the life of my son.

When I got back to the hospital six hours later, Guy’s doctor was waiting for me. “Success,” he said. It was the word I most wanted to hear. I immediately called my sister to tell her the good news. Guy woke up shortly after that. It was late afternoon by then, and everything seemed fine. I stayed around the hospital talking with him and then went back to my hotel.

At midnight the doctor called me. “Ms. Angelou,” he said, “we’re losing Guy. We’ve got him back in surgery and we’re losing him. You stay there and we’ll call you.”

Of course, I could not stay in the hotel. I went directly to the hospital, but I didn’t go to the surgical floor. Instead, I went to the floor where his room was, and I walked the hall. I walked along past all those half-opened doors, and at times while I was walking I would suddenly feel I was standing on wet sand that was sifting out from under my feet. Then I’d say: “GRAB YOUR LIFE. HOLD ON TO IT. HOLD ON.” Loud. For three hours I walked and talked. Then I felt solid.

The doctors came up from surgery. “Ms. Angelou,” they said, “we’re sorry. He’s alive, but he’s paralyzed from his neck down.” I whispered, “I see. I see.” I went down to the intensive care unit and paced in and out waiting for my son to wake up. By 7 A.M. he was awake, and I went in and stood looking down at him. Tubes were coming from everywhere. “Mother,” he said, “the thing I most feared has happened. I’m paralyzed.”

“It would seem so,” I answered.

“I’m your only child,” he continued, “and I know you love me, but I refuse to live as a talking head. If there’s no chance for recovery, I want to ask you to do something that no one should ever have to ask a mother.” The tears were just rolling down his face. “If there’s no chance for me to recover, please pull the plug and let me go.”

“In that case,” I said, “TOTAL RECOVERY, I SEE TOTAL RECOVERY. I SEE YOU WALKING, STANDING, PLAYING BASKETBALL AND SWIMMING. NOW QUIT IT RIGHT NOW. I MEAN IT.” That’s what I said. Guy started laughing. He said, “Mother, please control yourself. There are some very sick people in here.”

The doctors came to talk with me. They said, “Ms. Angelou, Guy has had a blood clot sitting on his spinal cord for eight hours. The cord is so delicate that we don’t dare breathe on it. He will never be able to move.”

I said, “I’m not asking you, I’m
telling
you. My son will walk out of this hospital and I thank God for it—now!”

One of the doctors started to say, “We all have to...”

And I said, “You can’t tell me. I’m going somewhere so far, so beyond you, you’re not even in it!” And every hour after that I’d say, “TOTAL RECOVERY. I THANK YOU FOR IT. I’M CLAIMING IT FOR THIS BOY. THANK YOU. TOTAL RECOVERY.”

The next two days were busy. I called Dolly McPherson, my chosen sister, and she got the whole prayer group at my church together. We had a Jewish sister-friend, and she called people from her synagogue. A Catholic friend called the people she knew in her parish. “Go get everybody, go,” I said. “Do what you can do.”

The second night, I was lying on a couch in the ICU waiting room when a nurse came in. She said, “Ms. Angelou, Guy’s moved his toes.” Together we walked to Guy’s room. She reached over and pulled the blanket off his feet and Guy moved his toes. I said, “THANK YOU, GOD. DIDN’T I ASK YOU FOR IT AND DIDN’T YOU GIVE IT TO ME. THANK YOU FOR IT. THANK YOU, GOD.”

The next morning when I went in to see Guy, he said, “Mama, thank you for your faith. I’ll walk out of the hospital.” And that is exactly what he did a few months later. I know that prayer changes things. I
know.
I don’t question. I
know.

Maya Angelou
As told to Sherry Ruth Anderson
and Patricia Hopkins

The Wise Woman’s Stone

A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream. The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food. The hungry traveler saw the precious stone in the wise woman’s bag, admired it, and asked the wise woman to give it to him. The wise woman did so without hesitation.

The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the jewel was worth enough to give him security for the rest of his life.

But a few days later he came back, searching for the wise woman. When he found her, he returned the stone and said, “I have been thinking. I know how valuable this stone is, but I give it back to you in the hope that you can give me something much more precious. If you can, give me what you have within you that enabled you to give me the stone.”

The Best of Bits & Pieces

Let It Be

I was on the phone the morning of May 13, 1993, when my secretary handed me a note saying that my sister Judy was holding on the other line. I remember thinking it odd that she didn’t just leave a message, but I picked up her call with a cheery, “Hi!”

I heard my sister sobbing, as if her heart were broken, as she struggled to gain enough composure to give me her news. A litany of possible tragedies ran through my mind. Had something happened to Aunt Chris or Uncle Leo, our much loved surrogate parents now in their 80s? Judy’s husband was out of town. God, I hoped nothing had happened to him! Maybe it wasn’t anything that horrible— possibly something had happened with Judy’s job.

Nothing could have prepared me for the words Judy finally spoke. “Oh, Sunny, our Tommy was killed in a car wreck this morning.”

It couldn’t be true. Tommy, my beloved nephew, Judy’s only son, was just finishing up his next-to-last semester of graduate studies at the University of Missouri. An athlete, he had chosen to study sports marketing. Tommy’s two sisters, Jen and Lisa, had always had a case of hero worship for their big brother. We
all
adored this tall, handsome young man with his easy laugh and gentle nature. Tommy’s whole life stretched out before him, and my mind wanted to reject the words I had just heard. I almost asked, “Are you sure?” But even as I thought it, I realized Judy would not have called me otherwise.

My memories of the next few days are a haze of unreality. Lynn, our other sister, and I stayed with Judy and her family during that time, and we all clung to each other for support. I didn’t know what hurt worse: the loss of Tommy or seeing my sister act bravely when I knew her world was shattered.

The day we made funeral arrangements was especially hard. No mother should ever have the awful job of selecting a coffin for her child. Judy had so wanted to see her boy one last time, to touch his hand or brush back his hair. But the funeral director had told us she would not be able to see him. Her good-byes would have to be said to that lovingly selected coffin.

That same afternoon, I stood in the front yard of my sister’s home and asked my nephew to send us a sign that he was okay...to somehow let us know that he had gone on to something even more wonderful than the life we had envisioned for him here. “Sweetheart, can you let us know that you’re all right?”

I can’t say that I even believed in such things as “signs.” But when the heart is in enough pain it will seek comfort in its own way. Tommy’s favorite baseball team was the St. Louis Cardinals, so I asked him to send us a cardinal. As I look back on the moment, standing in that yard so full of Tommy’s childhood, it was really just a fleeting thought. “Please let us know you’re okay. A cardinal will be the sign I’ll watch for.”

Judy had carefully planned her son’s funeral to be a celebration of his life. At my request, she had included Paul McCartney’s beautiful song, “Let It Be.” His cousins served as altar boys and bravely read scripture. The young priest who said the Mass fought tears throughout the morning.

At one particular moment, as the priest paused to regain his composure, a bird suddenly began singing somewhere outside. It was a loud, insistent song that lasted through the remainder of the service.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon, though, that Tommy’s message registered with any of us. A close friend called us to comment on the beauty of the funeral Mass, and then said, “When that bird began singing so loudly, I jerked my head around and saw the most beautiful cardinal sitting in the window of the church!”

I had my sign.

Two weeks later, Paul McCartney came to our city for a Memorial Day concert. We had already bought tickets for Tommy and several other family members, and decided to go ahead with our plans. On the morning of the concert, as my sister Lynn was dressing for work and listening to her usual radio station, she heard two disk jockeys talking about the interview they hoped to get that day with the famous former Beatle.

Without thinking, she did something completely out of character—she phoned the radio station and suddenly found herself telling the story of Tommy and our tragedy, and of his great love for the Beatles. Could they get the story to Paul? They couldn’t promise, but they’d see what they could do.

That night, we all settled in for the outdoor concert in the clear, crisp evening air, cuddled together with our sweaters and each other for warmth. Over 30,000 had gathered for the star-billed evening. Paul McCartney opened with a song that he performed against the backdrop of an enormous fireworks display. Then, when the song ended, he waited for silence and said, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, our next song is for a very special family in our audience. This is for Tommy’s family.” Then to my two sisters, my nephews and nieces and me, Paul McCartney sang “Let It Be.”