Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (8 page)

Alice had been my neighbor when I was growing up. She’d lived alone, and how she’d welcomed me into her generous heart and wonderful big red brick home. Gracious hospitality was practically a reflex for Alice. She was an art teacher and always had a jumble of creative projects going at any given moment. I loved her old-timey furnishings and the cozy clutter of her “stuff”—her “make something out of nothing” works in progress: trinkets, stacks of books, and little gifts she kept on hand for friends who happened by.

The nursing home buzzed with activity and the latest technology and even had a homey parlor, kitchen, and dining room. But it wasn’t home. It was Alice’s worst fear come to life. The morning she was admitted, she shook her head in despair at residents lined up in the halls in wheelchairs, like cars stopped at a red light that never turned green. Overnight, her life was reduced to a bed and a body with vacant eyes that announced, “Nobody’s home anymore.”

The nursing home staff, however, orchestrated an amazingly successful respiratory rehabilitation program for Alice. As the months passed, we clung to a snippet of resurrected hope that someday she might return to the home she loved so. But Alice experienced several setbacks and ran out of money for medical expenses before that could happen. Everything she’d worked so hard for had to be liquidated to pay for her care. One devastating day, the Realtor’s “SOLD” sign appeared in Alice’s yard. In no time, an endless parade of estate sale shoppers were sorting through her “stuff” and carrying her dearly familiar treasures away.

It was like watching a funeral procession. This is supposed to happen after you’re dead, I agonized, not to someone you love who is still alive and dreaming of going home. I mourned not only for Alice’s loss but for mine as well. Never again would I feel the warmth of being a guest in her home.

For weeks I couldn’t bring myself to visit Alice. Grief stalked me at the oddest moments and was my constant companion in my job of styling homes for magazine photography. Then late one evening after a photo shoot at a charming Victorian cottage hear the nursing home, I dropped by to visit her. She was napping, and in the gathering blackness, her raised side rails resembled a prison cell. All of her worldly possessions were piled in bed with her—her purse, a box of tissues, partially completed sketches, stationery and pens. My eyes fell upon a big roll of address labels. They featured the address of the nursing home—not Alice’s home we both loved so. I choked back tears at the finality of the situation. Plain and simple, this was to be Alice’s permanent address until heaven. “Dear Lord,” I prayed. “Help us both... somehow.”

I tapped Alice’s shoulder to rouse her and switched on the lamp above her tiny bed. Her tightly permed gray curls framed gentle wrinkles. “It’s me—Roberta,” I whispered, trying to sound cheerful.

A smile flashed across Alice’s face, lighting up the darkness. It was strangely full of promise. “Let my siderail down, honey,” she asked. She drew her legs in closer to make room for me, then patted the nubby pink bedspread, smoothing a spot for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I squeezed in next to her open Bible and devotional book. They were stretched out at the foot of her bed like a welcome mat. “Saved you something from my dinner tray,” she said as she retrieved two vanilla wafers, tucked inside a brown paper towel, from her nightstand drawer.

“Alice, these are my favorite,” I gasped. “You remembered.”

“Well, look behind the curtain. I won you a little something at our party.” Nestled inside a gaily wrapped box that once held medical examination gloves was a pretty pot of potpourri. Alice stirred it with her finger to release its spicy scent. “Cinnamon,” she explained. “It will make your kitchen smell real good.”

That afternoon, I’d sipped gourmet coffee and nibbled fancy cookies at a table dressed in antique linens and lace, finely etched crystal, and delicate china. It was picture-perfect, and in a few months it would grace the pages of a glossy decorating magazine. But it didn’t come close to Alice’s loving gestures, her simple sharing of everything she had. All at once, the longing in my spirit was filled with a peaceful, new understanding that when your home is in your heart, it travels with you wherever you go.

Alice and I enjoyed one of our best visits ever, reminiscing about the old neighborhood and thanking the Lord for Alice’s new one. She was excited about leading a little crafts group, and I welcomed her advice about wall papering my bedroom. When it was time for me to leave her snug room, Alice hobbled beside me down the long hallway to the front door. “They take such good care of me here,” she reassured me. “Why I don’t even have to find someone to mow the grass.” As I headed to my car, Alice paused in the doorway, wearing the new housecoat I’d brought her. She waved and blew me a kiss. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her chuckling with her new family.

I smiled to myself. Alice’s heart was home. And thanks to answered prayer and some true hospitality, at long last, so was mine.

Roberta L. Messner

Reprinted by permission of Bil Keane.

A Tale of Two Cities

A traveler nearing a great city asked a woman seated by the wayside, “What are the people like in the city?”

“How were the people where you came from?”

“A terrible lot,” the traveler responded. “Mean, untrust worthy, detestable in all respects.”

“Ah,” said the woman, “you will find them the same in the city ahead.”

Scarcely was the first traveler gone when another one stopped and also inquired about the people in the city before him. Again the old woman asked about the people in the place the traveler had left.

“They were fine people; honest, industrious, and generous to a fault. I was sorry to leave,” declared the second traveler.

Responded the wise woman: “So you will find them in the city ahead.”

The Best of Bits & Pieces

Where Do the Mermaids Stand?

W
hat is right for one soul may not be right for another. It may mean having to stand on your own and do something strange in the eyes of others.

Eileen Caddy

Giants, Wizards and Dwarfs was the game to play.

Being left in charge of about 80 children 7 to 10 years old, while their parents were off doing parenty things, I mustered my troops in the church social hall and explained the game. It’s a large-scale version of Rock, Paper and Scissors, and involves some intellectual decision making. But the real purpose of the game is to make a lot of noise and run around chasing people until nobody knows which side you are on or who won.

Organizing a roomful of wired-up grade-schoolers into two teams, explaining the rudiments of the game, achieving consensus on group identity—all of this is no mean accomplishment, but we did it with a right good will and were ready to go.

The excitement of the chase had reached a critical mass. I yelled out: “You have to decide
now
which you are—a GIANT, a WIZARD or a DWARF!”

While the groups huddled in frenzied, whispered consultation, a tug came at my pant leg. A small child stands there looking up, and asks in a small concerned voice, “Where do the Mermaids stand?”

Where do the Mermaids stand?

A long pause. A
very
long pause. “Where do the Mermaids stand?” says I.

“Yes. You see, I am a Mermaid.”

“There are no such things as Mermaids.”

“Oh yes there is, I am one!”

She did not relate to being a Giant, a Wizard or a Dwarf. She knew her category, Mermaid, and was not about to leave the game and go over and stand against the wall where a loser would stand. She intended to participate, wherever Mermaids fit into the scheme of things, without giving up dignity or identity. She took it for granted that there was a place for Mermaids and that I would know just where.

Well, where
do
the Mermaids stand? All the Mermaids—all those who are different, who do not fit the norm, and who do not accept the available boxes and pigeonholes?

Answer that question and you can build a school, a nation or a world on it.

What was my answer at the moment? Every once in a while I say the right thing. “The Mermaid stands right here by the King of the Sea!” (Yes, right here by the King’s Fool, I thought to myself.)

So we stood there hand in hand, reviewing the troops of Wizards and Giants and Dwarfs as they rolled by in wild disarray.

It is not true, by the way, that Mermaids do not exist. I know at least one personally. I have held her hand.

Robert Fulghum
Submitted by Rashaun C. Geter

The Pirate

W
e don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

Anaïs Nin

One day Mrs. Smith was sitting in her doctor’s waiting room when a young boy and his mother entered the office. The young boy caught Mrs. Smith’s attention because he wore a patch over one eye. She marveled at how unaffected he seemed to be by the loss of an eye and watched as he followed his mother to a chair nearby.

The doctor’s office was very busy that day, so Mrs. Smith had an opportunity to chat with the boy’s mother while he played with his soldiers. At first he sat quietly, playing with the soldiers on the arm of the chair. Then he silently moved to the floor, glancing up at his mother.

Eventually, Mrs. Smith had an opportunity to ask the little boy what had happened to his eye. He considered her question for a long moment, then replied, lifting the patch, “There’s nothing wrong with my eye. I’m a pirate!” Then he returned to his game.

Mrs. Smith was there because she had lost her leg from the knee down in an auto accident. Her trip today was to determine whether it had healed enough to be fitted with a prosthetic. The loss had been devastating to her. Try as she would to be courageous, she felt like an invalid. Intellectually, she knew that this loss should not interfere with her life, but emotionally, she just couldn’t overcome this hurdle. Her doctor had suggested visualization, and she had tried it, but had been unable to envision an emotionally acceptable, lasting image. In her mind she saw herself as an invalid.

The word “pirate” changed her life. Instantly, she was transported. She saw herself dressed as Long John Silver, standing aboard a pirate ship. She stood with her legs planted wide apart—one pegged. Her hands were clenched at her hips, her head up and her shoulders back, as she smiled into a storm. Gale force winds whipped her coat and hair behind her. Cold spray blew across the deck balustrade as great waves broke against the ship. The vessel rocked and groaned under the storm’s force. Still she stood firmly—proud, undaunted.

In that moment, the invalid image was replaced and her courage returned. She regarded the young boy, busy with his soldiers.

A few minutes later, the nurse called her. As she balanced on her crutches, the young boy noticed her amputation. “Hey lady,” he called, “what’s wrong with your leg?” The young boy’s mother was mortified.

Mrs. Smith looked down at her shortened leg for a moment. Then she replied with a smile, “Nothing. I’m a pirate, too.”

Marjorie Wallé

So ...What DoYou Grow?

W
e are not rich by what we possess but rather by what we can do without.

Immanuel Kant

Sandy lives in an apartment so small that when she comes home from shopping at Goodwill, she has to decide what to move out to make room for her purchases. She struggles day-to-day to feed and clothe herself and her four-year-old daughter on money from freelance writing and odd jobs.

Her ex-husband has long since disappeared down some unknown highway, probably never to be heard from again. As often as not, her car decides it needs a day off and refuses to budge. That means bicycling (weather permitting), walking or bumming a ride from friends.

The things most Americans consider essential for survival— a television, microwave, boom box and high-priced sneakers—are far down Sandy’s list of “maybe someday” items.

Nutritious food, warm clothing, an efficiency apartment, student loan payments, books for her daughter, absolutely necessary medical care and an occasional movie matinee eat up what little cash there is to go around.

Sandy has knocked on more doors than she can recall, trying to land a decent job, but there is always something that doesn’t quite fit—too little experience or not the right kind, or hours that make child care impossible.