A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul
I am not there.
I do not sleep.
Author Unknown
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The Golden Crane
As a teacher of origami (the ancient Japanese art of paper folding) at the LaFarge Lifelong Learning Institute in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Art Beaudry was asked to represent the school at an exhibit at a large mall in Milwaukee.
He decided to take along a couple hundred folded paper cranes to pass out to people who stopped at his booth.
Before that day, however, something strange happeneda voice told him to find a piece of gold foil paper and make a gold origami crane. The strange voice was so insistent that Art actually found himself rummaging through his collection of origami papers at home until he found one flat, shiny piece of gold foil.
''Why am I doing this?" he asked himself. Art had never worked with the shiny gold paper; it didn't fold as easily or neatly as the crisp multicolored papers. But that little voice kept nudging. Art harrumphed and tried to ignore the voice. "Why gold foil anyway? Paper is much easier to work with," he grumbled.
The voice continued. "Do it! And you must give it away tomorrow to a special person."
By now Art was getting a little cranky. "What special person?" he asked the voice.
"You'll know which one," the voice said.
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That evening Art very carefully folded and shaped the unforgiving gold foil until it became as graceful and delicate as a real crane about to take flight. He packed the exquisite bird in the box along with about 200 colorful paper cranes he'd made over the previous few weeks.
The next day at the mall dozens upon dozens of people stopped by Art's booth to ask questions about origami. He demonstrated the art. He folded, unfolded and refolded. He explained the intricate details, the need for sharp creases.
Then there was a woman standing in front of Art. The special person. Art had never seen her before, and she hadn't said a word as she watched him carefully fold a bright pink piece of paper into a crane with pointed, graceful wings.
Art glanced up at her face, and before he knew what he was doing, his hands were down in the big box that contained the supply of paper cranes. There it was, the delicate gold-foil bird he'd labored over the night before. He retrieved it and carefully placed it in the woman's hand.
"I don't know why, but there's a very loud voice inside me telling me I'm supposed to give you this golden crane. The crane is the ancient symbol of peace," Art said simply.
The woman didn't say a word as she slowly cupped her small hand around the fragile bird as if it were alive. When Art looked up at her face, he saw tears filling her eyes, ready to spill out.
Finally, the woman took a deep breath and said, "My husband died three weeks ago. This is the first time I've been out. Today . . ." she wiped her eyes with her free hand, still gently cradling the golden crane with the other.
She spoke very quietly. "Today is our golden wedding anniversary."
Then this stranger said in a clear voice, "Thank you for this beautiful gift. Now I know that my husband is at
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peace. Don't you see? That voice you heard, it's the voice of God and this beautiful crane is a gift from Him. It's the most wonderful 50th wedding anniversary present I could have received. Thank you for listening to your heart."
And that's how Art learned to listen very carefully when a little voice within him tells him to do something he may not understand at the time.
Patricia Lorenz
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If l had only Known
For everything you have missed, you have gained something else.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
When Reba McEntire recorded the song "If I Had Only Known," people wanted to know how the song came to be written. The song might never have been created if I could have received my driver's license the same day all my friends did.
In Clovis, New Mexico, where I was raised, you can get your driver's license at 15, but only if you've successfully completed Driver's Education. Nearly everybody in my class turned 15 during the ninth grade. On the last day of school when they passed their Driver's Ed test, they could get their licenses. The excitement and anticipation on that final day of junior high was almost unbearable to us. I'm sure it was completely unbearable to our teachers. Even though I wouldn't turn 15 until we started 10th grade, I was thrilled that my friends would be driving. Never again would we be hauled around like cattle by our mothers. At last we would be Free.
My dad saw the situation differently, as dads so often do. He was a loving father, and very protective. When I
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got home from school that day, chattering away about the fun things Dena, Lori, Debi, Kristi, and Johnna and I were planning, my dad sat me down for one of those dreaded talks that begin with, "This is going to hurt me a lot worse than it's going to hurt you." He didn't think my friends would be safe drivers yet. He was afraid I would wind up in a car accident. He said he didn't want me to go places with them driving until we started school again in the fall.
My heart dropped as fast as that one big tear fell to my jawline. I could see what my dad could not. I saw myself spending the long, precious days of summer alone. Wrestling a lump in my throat the size of a basketball, I tried to reason, using the only thing teenagers can think of, like, "But Dad, it's not fair" and "But Dad, all the other kids get to." As always, it was no use. He had laid down the law. I could still go places with my friends, but only if their mothers drove us.
Remembering what it was like to be 15, take a wild guess at how many teenage girls with new driver's licenses would ask their mothers to drive them, just so the girl down the street could go. The answer is zero, nada, zip, none. My only hope for seeing my friends was to sit on the front lawn in the hot sun, pretending to read Seventeen magazine. I thought that if they noticed how lonely I was, they'd stop and talk before zipping out of the neighborhood in their moms' cars. Most days, they didn't.
I could've disobeyed my dad. I could've sneaked out of the house to meet the girls and go driving. I chose not to. I spent those summer days disappointed and disheartened, unnaturally separated from my friends at a time when friends mean everything. My experience that summer leads me to believe, though, that there is sometimes a reward for integrity in the face of hardship. Sometimes, an angel is moved by a brave, sad face. My angel was my great-aunt, my Aunt Dorothy. A phone
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call from her later that summer changed everything.
Dorothy was a bookkeeper out at Doc Stewart Chevrolet. Everybody said that she and her sister Katheryne were the most beautiful girls in eastern New Mexico when they were younger. As they grew older, it became clear that their beauty was not just on the surface, but from deep within. Aunt Dorothy always wore a big smile with her round brown glasses and wavy blonde hair. She loved people with such enthusiasm that you couldn't help feeling better about yourself around her. She had never called me before, but she called that day to ask if I'd like to help out at the dealership.
My mom, who was on summer break from teaching, drove me out there early every morning so I could work with Aunt Dorothy and the secretariesCreola, Sonya and Lynn.
Those women treated me so big. Most mornings, they complimented me on my outfits, playfully saying they hated me because I could eat three chocolate donuts for breakfast and stay skinny. After a week or two, Creola mentioned that I was always singing. When she said that, I stopped, but they got me to start again because they said too many grown-ups are afraid to sing while they work. They wanted to know what I thought about deep stuff like destiny, religion and politics. What a hoot it would be now to hear what I said. I'm sure that when I went to get my morning Dr. Pepper, they shared the secret chuckles that all grown-ups have over the opinions of a teenager they love.
Creola, Sonya and Lynn didn't care whether I could drive. I earned their respect by my ability (or maybe it was just my eager willingness) to tackle any task. I carried heavy boxes of folders u
p the tiny stairway to the attic. I cleaned out dusty old cabinets, bulging with unorganized files. I learned all the important grown-up stuff, like how
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to curve your fingers when you reach down into a file, so you won't drive a staple under your fingernail. Like how to shoot purchase orders up the suction tube to the parts department, and how to tell if one of the salesmen was having an affair.
The best part of my job was that after I finished my work, I could play on the typewriter, teaching myself how to type. Since I wanted to be a writer someday, my dad said typing would be important. I'd take a nice, clean sheet of Doc Stewart Chevrolet stationery and type silly stuff as fast as I could think it. My name is Jana Lee Stanfield. Stars shibing right abode me [sic]. Never will I have chicken feet for breakfast.
Aunt Dorothy often took me with her to lunch. Our favorite spot was Twin Cronnie. Don't ask me what a cronnie is. All I can tell you is that the place was a drivein with car-hops and it had a big sign with two hot dogs jitterbugging.
We'd order chicken-fried steak fingers in big boxes with gravy, french fries and Texas toast. Sitting in her car, we'd eat lunch and talk about important things, like what high school was like in 1943, and how Uncle Joe lost part of his lung in the war, and why my cousin Judy got married so young. Sometimes a carload of my friends would drive up. Even though I longed to be with them, I was proud that I had a job and I was proud that Aunt Dorothy was my friend.
By the end of that summer, I saved enough money to buy all my own clothes for school. I bought little flowered T-shirts and baggy, high-waisted pants in three colors with narrow belts. A few days before school started, I cut my hair off short like the girls in Seventeen magazine. All of us girls know that a drastic change in your hair is a symbol of a change in your life.
I started high school feeling different in a real good
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wayolder and stronger and more confident. The most amazing thing happened. For the first time in my life, I became popular at my school. I barely got my driver's license before I got Homecoming Court, Student Council and then the honor that meant so much to me after those lonely days, Class Favorite.
You know how a teenager's life goes. After that summer I didn't have much time to see Aunt Dorothy. I'd stop by maybe once a year to take her out for steak fingers, and to give Creola, Sonya and Lynn the satisfaction of knowing that all those chocolate donuts caught up with me.
When I finally graduated from college, Aunt Dorothy and Uncle Joe were there cheering. Aunt Dorothy gave me a beautiful filigree bracelet she got on their vacation. Underneath the cotton was a gift even more precious to me. Folded up small was a dusty old sheet of Doc Stewart stationery. My name is Jana Lee Stanfield. Stars shibing right abode me. Never will I have chicken feet for breakfast.
I was living in Nashville six years later, trying without much success to be a songwriter when Aunt Dorothy was diagnosed with cancer. She fought it so bravely, hating to lose her pretty blonde hair, but never losing her warm smile, peeking out from that thick blonde wig. It was Christmas when I saw her last. Not long after that, I got a call from my cousin Judy. Aunt Dorothy was slipping away quickly, but was still well enough to talk a little on the phone if I wanted to say good-bye. Judy gave me Aunt Dorothy's number at the hospital in New Mexico.
Holding that small slip of paper with her number, I thought about how the smallest thing a person does with love can make the biggest difference in our lives. Calling Aunt Dorothy that day was one of the most painful things I have ever experienced. I told her how much I loved her. I thanked her for reaching out to me when I needed somebody I thanked her for always seeing the
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best in everyone she cared about. I didn't want to hang up. I wanted to hang on. I wanted that moment to last. I wanted to stop the clock and go back to spend more time with her.
After Aunt Dorothy and I said our last 'I love you," I hung up the phone and sobbed into the silence of my empty apartment. I thought about all the people who touch our lives with their kindness and then disappear before we ever thank them or tell them how much they mean to us.
On a lonely Sunday a few weeks later, the words to "If I Had Only Known" came in a flood of tears. Since I didn't know much about writing melodies yet, l took the unfinished lyrics to the most talented songwriter I knew, Craig Morris, and asked if he could craft something beautiful from my simple words.
In the same way that Aunt Dorothy turned my life around when I was 14, she had turned it around again by inspiring "If I Had Only Known."
If I had only known it was our last walk in the rain
I'd keep you out for hours in the storm
I would hold your hand, like a lifeline to my heart
And underneath the thunder we'd be warm
If I had only known it was our last walk in the rain
If I had only known I'd never hear your voice again
I'd memorize each thing you ever said
And on these lonely nights, I could think of them once
more
And keep your words alive inside my head
If I had only known I'd never hear your voice again
You were the treasure in my heart
You were the one who always stood beside me
So unaware, I foolishly believed that you would always
be there
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But then there came a day when I closed my eyes
And you slipped away
If I had only known it was my last night by your side
I'd pray a miracle would stop the dawn
And when you smiled at me, I would look into your eyes
And make sure you know my love for you goes on and on
If I had only known, If I had only known
The love I would've shown
If I had only known
Reba McEntire recorded the song in remembrance of her band members who were killed in a plane crash. It has since been used to raise money for St. Jude's Children's Hospital, to educate teenagers about the dangers of underage drinking, and to bring attention to the needs of AIDS patients. It has been sung and quoted at countless funerals and even a high school graduation. The song's popularity in the movie 8 Seconds made it possible for me to start doing concerts with a positive message in elementary schools, middle schools and high schools all over the country. If I had only known.
Jana Stanfield
"If I Had Only Known" by Craig Morris/Jana Stanfield
©1991, Alabama Band Music (a division of Wildcountry, Inc.)/Jana Stantunes.Used by permission.
All rights reserved.
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A Trucker's Last Letter
Steamboat Mountain is a man-killer, and truckers who haul the Alaska Highway treat it with respect, particularly in the winter. The road 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 beforeI always figured they'd seen so much death and despair they were
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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 burned 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.