Lying in her hospital bed with the intravenous tubes still in her hands, Carol asked the visiting doctor, who was standing in for her own surgeon, when she would be released. "Will I be home for Christmas, Doctor?" she asked.
"I don't know," he replied cautiously.
"Will I be able to get my new prosthesis?" she asked.
"Well," the doctor cautioned, "I don't believe you can get it yet."
But when her own doctor returned, he checked her over. That same day Carol called me at my office. "Daddy,
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I have good news," she announced.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Doctor Masters is an angel," she exclaimed. "He said I can come home for Christmas!"
On December 16, a Saturday night, Carol was released from the hospital. I was told to stay home and await a surprise. My wife went to pick her up. I saw the lights of the car as it rolled up the driveway, and I ran to the front door. My wife barred my way and said, "Bob, you have to go back in and wait. Carol wants you to wait by the Christmas tree."
So I waited nervously by the Christmas tree, counting the seemingly interminable seconds. Then I heard the front door open and the squeak of rubber on the wooden floor. I knew the sound came from the rubber tips of Carol's crutches. She stepped into the open door, ten feet away from my seat by the Christmas tree. She had gone straight from the hospital to the beauty parlor, where her hair stylist gave her a beautiful permanent. There she stood with lovely curls framing her face. Then I looked down and saw two shoes, two ankles, two legs and a beautiful girl.
She had come home and, because of it, made that Christmas my most memorable.
Reverend Robert Schuller
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My Real Father
I came across a quotation the other day: "He who raises a child is to be called its father, not the man who only gave it birth." How true this is! I only wish I had realized it sooner, for my failure to do so caused every person in my family a lot of unnecessary grief, including me.
My mom married the man I knew as Dad when I was four years old, and even then I felt this animosity toward him that was incredible, especially for a child so young. My dad tried so hard to be a good father to me, and I responded with spite and anger. He showered me with love, and I spit in his eye. Oh, he legally adopted me, and I called him Dad, but in my heart, I was a fatherless child. This incredible anger only grew when we moved from Ohio, where I had relatives on every street corner, to South Dakota, where I knew nobody. When I reflect now on my terrible behavior, I feel such shame. Just because he loved my mother, he was stuck with a little brat whose every move was calculated to bring him grief. But he didn't give up on me as a lesser man might have.
The strange thing is, I had come to love this man, but I didn't know how to stop my hateful behavior. I can only
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be glad that eventually, I grew out of it.
When people find out I'm adopted, their first question is always, "Who's your real father? Do you know him?" My answer is, "Yes, I know him. I live with him."
My dad is the man who refused to spank me, even though I deserved it. He's fed me and clothed me and loved me for thirteen years. He's there when I cry, and when I feel sick. Dad can always fix it with something out of his magical medicine collection. He worries about me if I'm out late. He bought me my first car, my first prom dress. He's the one who is proud of me when I get a good report card or win an honor or just handle a difficult situation in a mature way. He's my father, my dad and my daddy in every way except the one that doesn't count.
And as soon as my daddy gets home, I'm going to tell him, for the first time, how much I love him and how much I appreciate that he didn't give up on me . . . even when I had given up on myself.
Anonymous
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Making Dad Proud
It was about 7:30 as I pulled into the driveway on that hot July evening. I shut the door of my Jeep and packed my stuff into the house. I passed the ancient, brick-red Chevrolet with the cancerous case of rust. That meant Dad was home.
I opened the front door, dropped my bag on the floor and started to fix myself something to drink. As I thumbed through the mail on the kitchen counter, a faint rumbling from the backyard grew louder, then dissipated into near obscurity again. Dad was mowing the lawn.
From the paperwork on the couch, it was evident that he had not been home from work long. Sometimes I just don't understand how he does it. As if being a father and husband weren't enough, he manages a full-time job, church activities and carpentry jobs for friends and family. On most nights, he stays up later than I do and wakes up at the crack of dawn to leave for work. Nevertheless, he can tap his energy reserve when challenged to a game of Nintendo or the rare pickup basketball contest. Gray temples and a slight paunch season his thirty-five-year-old frame with traces of sagacity. If he is old before his time, it is because he has had so little time to be young.
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Dad's premature journey into the adult world was, in a way, my fault. There's not much a high school senior with a pregnant wife can do but grow up. Sacrificing the things and life to which he was accustomed, he took on a full-time job bagging groceries and stocking shelves at Sureway during the night. School took up his days. This might explain his tendency toward late-night television viewing. I mention all this so that you may better understand, or at least attempt to understand, May 22, 1994.
On that Sunday evening, I sat between my parents in a pew at First Assembly of God. We patiently waited as my youth pastor explained to the congregation the meaning of True Love Waits, a nationwide and nondenominational campaign for sexual abstinence until marriage. I had gone through about six weeks of sermons, videos and presentations about love, sex, dating and marriage. I was here to make a commitment to God, myself and my future spouse. The participants of the program were brought forward and presented with rings, symbols of our commitment that were to be presented to our husbands/wives on our wedding nights.
As I returned to my pew, hands folded and head bowed in prayer, I felt a weathered and callused hand close over mine. I looked at my father. This man, who had always remained stoic during emotional moments, had eyes that were glazed over with tears. A single tear fell, and then another, as he wrapped his arms around me. Without a single word, he communicated volumes. That moment told me that he was proud. I think it told him that he had not sacrificed all those things for nothing. That maybe it was a chance for him to start over. A chance, for a while, to be young.
Josh Nally
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The Perfect Family
Divorce. That's a word I dreaded more than any other word in the English dictionary.
All my life, I thought I had the perfect family. Perfect parents, two great sisters and a younger brother. We all got along well. But during the last several years, my parents had started to fight more and more.
My dad came home less and less, working more hours than ever in Vermont. And now here we all were, sitting in the television room as a family, with my parents saying they had an announcement to make. I began to cringe.
There it was: that nightmare word, the one that made me sick to my stomach. They were, they announced, getting a divorce. The big D word. My sisters and brother and I gaped at each other. How many times had I asked my mom and dad: "Are you getting a divorce?" How many times had they assured me that would never happen and given me hugs and kisses?
"This is some sort of April Fool's joke, right?" I said.
My mom's eyes welled with tears and she held me in her arms.
"No, Marc, I'm sorry," she whispered.
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I felt betrayed. How could they do this to us? Most of all, I wanted to know what we had done wrong. What had I done wrong?
My mother could see the dread in my eyes, the fear, the hurt and the pain. It all welled within my belly and I felt sick. She promised she
would take care of me, of us. All of us.
But how could I believe her now? My family had collapsed before my eyes. We were splintered. Shattered. There would be no more perfect family. And of course, things would get worse rather than better. They'd get a lot worse.
My mom told me that we would have to leave our home. The home I'd lived in all my life.
I felt like I was losing everything. My family. My home. My dad. The good news: My mother would have custody of all of us and my father wouldn't dispute it.
We moved into a tiny home with my mom's parents. At first, I wasn't very happy. The house was small. We were all squished in together. Sometimes I felt there wasn't enough room to breathe. There was one thing, however: We loved each other. My grandparents, Mom, sisters, brother and visiting aunts and uncles tried to do everything to fill the house with warmth and caring. My grandparents paid special attention to all us kids. I'd never felt so close to them in my life.
They asked me about school and were actually interested. They asked me about my friends, my grades. We sat at the kitchen table and talked often. They could never replace my father, but they spread their warmth to all of us.
Still, I carried a lot of guilt. I couldn't understand what bad thing happened to split up my parents. At times, I agonized over it, lying in bed, wondering in a cloud-like state what possibly could have been the reason that my parents quit loving each other. Was it something I had done?
And then more unexpected news: We learned my father was gay.
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I was sure as word got around that the other kids would laugh and make fun of me. Some did. But, there were a lot of kids, however, who didn't say a word. They still hung around me and could care less what my dad did. They liked me before and they liked me still. I had learned who my real friends were, and the ones I lost were not the kind of people I wanted in my life anyway.
I also learned that I was really loved by my family. They supported me. They cared about me. My grandparents adored me. Eventually, we were able to move out from their home and get a condominium. I started junior high school and started doing well.
I have since learned to redefine that funny concept I had about a perfect family.
Maybe a perfect family really means a lot of love and a lot of support. Maybe it really means giving, sharing and caring. Maybe I still have a perfect family after all.
Marc St. Pierre
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6
LEARNING LESSONS
I am always ready to learn; but I do not always like being taught.
Winston Churchill
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Making Sarah Cry
He stood among his friends from school,
He joined their childhood games
Laughing as they played kickball
And when they called poor Sarah names.
Sarah was unlike the rest;
She was slow and not as smart,
And it would seem to all his friends
She was born without a heart.
And so he gladly joined their fun
Of making Sarah cry.
But somewhere deep within his heart,
He never knew just why.
For he could hear his mother's voice,
Her lessons of right and wrong
Playing over and over inside his head
Just like a favorite song.
''Treat others with respect, son,
The way you'd want them treating you.
And remember, when you hurt others,
Someday, someone might hurt you."
He knew his mother wouldn't understand
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The purpose of their game
Of teasing Sarah, who made them laugh
As her own tears fell like rain.
The funny faces that she made
And the way she'd stomp her feet
Whenever they mocked the way she walked
Or the stutter when she'd speak.
To him she must deserve it
Because she never tried to hide.
And if she truly wanted to be left alone,
Then she should stay inside.
But every day she'd do the same:
She'd come outside to play,
And stand there, tears upon her face,
Too upset to run away.
The game would soon be over
As tears dropped from her eyes,
For the purpose of their fun
Was making Sarah cry.
It was nearly two whole months
He hadn't seen his friends.
He was certain they all must wonder
What happened and where he'd been
So he felt a little nervous
As he limped his way to class.
He hoped no one would notice,
He prayed no one would ask
About that awful day:
The day his bike met with a car,
Leaving him with a dreadful limp
And a jagged-looking scar.
So he held his breath a little
As he hobbled into the room,
Where inside he saw a "Welcome Back" banner
And lots of red balloons.
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He felt a smile cross his face
As his friends all smiled, too
And he couldn't wait to play outside
His favorite thing to do.
So the second that he stepped outdoors
And saw his friends all waiting there,
He expected a few pats on the back
Instead, they all stood back and stared.
He felt his face grow hotter
As he limped to join their side
To play a game of kickball
And of making Sarah cry.
An awkward smile crossed his face
When he heard somebody laugh
And heard the words, "Hey freak,
Where'd you get the ugly mask?"
He turned, expecting Sarah,
But Sarah could not be seen.
It was the scar upon his own face
That caused such words so mean.
He joined in their growing laughter,
Trying hard to not give in
To the awful urge inside to cry
Or the quivering of his chin.
They are only teasing,
He made himself believe.
They are still my friends;
They'd never think of hurting me.
But the cruel remarks continued
About the scar and then his limp.
And he knew if he shed a single tear
They'd label him a wimp.
And so the hurtful words went on,
And in his heart he wondered why.
But he knew without a doubt
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The game would never end, until they made him cry.
And just when a tear had formed,
He heard a voice speak out from behind.
"Leave him alone you bullies,
Because he's a friend of mine."
He turned to see poor Sarah,
Determination on her face,
Sticking up for one of her own tormentors
And willing to take his place.
And when his friends did just that,
Trying their best to make poor Sarah cry,
This time he didn't join in,
And at last understood exactly why.
"Treat others with respect, son,
The way you'd want them treating you.
And remember, when you hurt others,
Someday, someone might hurt you."
It took a lot of courage
But he knew he must be strong,
For at last he saw the difference
Between what's right and wrong.