A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul

  When we stopped, I helped my father back into the bed, as he was now near exhaustion. With a firm grasp, he took my hand, looked straight into my eyes and said, "Thank you, my son. I am so glad that you are here with me tonight. It means so much to me." He died the following day on Christmas.

  The last dance was God's gift to me on that Christmas Evea gift of happiness and wisdom as I found out just

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  how strong and purposeful a love between a father and son can be.

  Well, Pop, I do love you, and I look forward to our next dance in God's ballroom.

  Rick Nelles

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  My Daddy

  When I was three, my father passed away. But when I was seven, my mother remarried. And I became the luckiest little girl in the world. You see, I got to pick my daddy. After Mom and "Dad" had dated for a while, I said to my mother, "He's the one. We'll take him."

  I got to be flower girl when Mommy and Daddy got married. That alone was wonderful. How many people can say they were in their parents' wedding (and actually walked down the aisle)?

  My daddy had such pride in his family. (Two years later our family grew by one little sister.) People who barely knew us would say to my mother, "Charlie always looks so proud to be with you and the kids." It wasn't just materialistic. Daddy was proud of our intelligence, our beliefs, our common sense and our love of people (as well as my cute smile).

  Right before I turned 17, something awful happened. My daddy got sick. After several days of tests, the doctors couldn't find anything wrong. "If we, the omnipotent, can't find anythinghe must be well." They told Dad to return to work.

  The next day he came home from work with tears streaming down his face. That's when we knew he was deathly ill. I had never seen my father cry before. Dad

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  thought crying was a sign of weakness. (Which made for an interesting relationship, sinceas a hormonal teenagerI cried at everything, including Hallmark commercials.)

  Finally, we got Dad admitted into the hospital. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. The doctors said that he could go at any time. But we knew better. We knew he had at least three more weeks. You see, my sister's birthday was the next week and mine was in three. My father would defy deathpraying to God for strengthto hang on until after those events. He would not let us go through the rest of our lives with such a terrible memory on our birthdays.

  The fact that life must go on is never more evident than when someone is dying. Dad wanted desperately for us to keep living our lives. We wanted desperately for him to remain a part of it. We compromised. We agreed to continue doing our ''normal" activities, but Dad was going to be an active part of thoseeven from the hospital.

  After one of our daily visits, the man sharing Dad's room followed Mom into the hallway. "Charlie is always so quiet and positive when you are here. I don't think you realize how much pain he is in. He uses all of his strength and endurance to hide it."

  My mother replied, "I know he is hiding it, but that is his way. He would never want us to suffer, and he knows how much it pains us to see him hurting."

  For Mother's Day, we took all our gifts to the hospital. Dad met us in the lobby (since my little sister was too young to be allowed in his room). I bought a gift for Dad to give to Mom. We had a wonderful little party in our corner of the lobby.

  The next week was my sister's birthday. Dad wasn't well enough to come downstairs, so we celebrated with cake and presents in the waiting area on his floor.

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  My prom was the following weekend. After the customary pictures at my house and my date's, we went to the hospital. Yes, I walked through the hospital in a fulllength gown with a hoop. (I barely fit in the elevator.) I was a little embarrassed. But not when I saw the look on my daddy's face. He had waited so many years to see his little girl go to her first prom.

  My sister's annual dance recital always had a dress rehearsal the day before the event. That's when family members could take pictures. Naturally, after the rehearsal we went to the hospital. My sister paraded through the hallways in her dance costume. Then she did her dance for Dad. He smiled throughoutalthough all that tapping was excruciatingly painful to his head.

  My birthday came. We sneaked my sister into Dad's room, since he couldn't leave. (The nurses kindly looked in the other direction.) And again, we celebrated. But Dad was not in good shape. It was time for him to go, but he was holding out.

  That night, the hospital called. Dad had taken a serious turn for the worse. A few days later, my daddy died.

  One of the hardest lessons to learn from death is that life must go on. Dad insisted that we never stop living our lives. To the end, he was concerned about us and proud of us. His last request? That he be buried with a picture of his family in his pocket.

  Kelly J. Watkins

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  Where do the Sparrows go when They Die?

  A question I often asked myself as a child was, "Where do the sparrows go when they die?" I didn't know the answer then and I still wonder about it. Now I see a dead bird silenced by some evil force, and I know he didn't die. Something killed him: the elements took him away, a lost soul in the night.

  When I was six, my best friend was a boy on my street. We used to play in my sandbox, talking of things long forgotten by grownupslike never growing up, or the monsters under our beds and in dark closets. His name was Tommy, but I called him Sparrow because he was small for his age. It's ironic to think of that name now because he died, too.

  I remember the day I found out Tommy was dying. I waited in the sandbox for him, half-heartedly building the castle we began the day before. Without Tommy I was only half, so I waited for what seemed like forever, and it began to rain. Then I heard a distant ring from the house. About 10 minutes later my mother came out, sheltered by her umbrella but her face wet just the same. We walked to the house. Just before we entered, I turned around and watched the rain beat down the sand castle Tommy and I built.

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  Once I was inside and had a cup of hot chocolate in my belly, my mother called me to the table. She put her hands on mine. They were shaking. I immediately felt it: something had happened to Tommy. She said doctors had performed some blood tests awhile back. When they received the test results, something showed up wrong. That something was leukemia. I didn't know what it was and I looked at my mother with confused eyes, but with a knowing and heavy heart. She said that people who had what Tommy gotno: what got Tommyhad to go away. I didn't want him to go away. I wanted him to stay, with me.

  The next day I had to see Tommy. I had to see if it was all true, so I had the bus driver drop me off at his house instead of mine. When I reached the door, Tommy's mom said that he didn't want to see me. She had no idea how easily she could hurt a little girl. She broke my heart like a piece of cheap glass. I ran home in tears. After I returned home, Tommy called. He said to meet him at the sandbox after our parents went to bed, so I did.

  He didn't look different, maybe a little paler, but it was Tommy. He did want to see me. We talked of those subjects incomprehensible to adults, and all the while we rebuilt our sand castle. Tommy said we could live in one just like it and never grow up. I believed him wholeheartedly. There we fell asleep, engulfed in true friendship, surrounded by warm sand and watched by our sand castle.

  I woke up just before dawn. Our sandbox was like a desolate island surrounded by a sea of grass, interrupted only by the back patio and the street. A child's imagination is never-ending. The dew gave the imaginary sea a reflective shimmer, and I remember reaching out to touch the dew to see if it would make the make-believe water ripple, but it did not. I turned around, and Tommy jolted

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  me back to reality. He was already awake, staring at the castle. I joined him, and there we sat, locked in the awesome magic the sand castle held for two small children.

  Tommy broke the silence and said, "I'm going to the castle now." We moved
like robots, as if we knew what we were doing, and I guess in some small way we did. Tommy laid his head on my lap and said drowsily, "I'm going to the castle now. Come visit; I'll be lonely." I promised him with all my heart that I would. Then he closed his eyes, and my Sparrow flew away to where I knew at that moment all the other sparrows went when they died. And there he left me, holding a soulless, crippled little bird in my arms.

  I went back to Tommy's grave 20 years later and placed a small toy castle on it. On the castle I had engraved, "To Tommy, my Sparrow. I'll come to our castle someday, forever."

  When I am ready, I'll go back to the place where our sandbox was and imagine our sand castle. Then my soul like Tommy's, will turn into a sparrow and will fly back to the castle, and to Tommy, and to all the other little lost sparrows. A six-year-old again, who will never grow up.

  Casey Kokoska

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  The Courage not to Fight

  Twilight shadows stole softly across the floor of my new apartment as I nursed my infant son, absorbed in the flesh wonder of motherhood. Long after I finished nursing, I held him close, hearing his tiny breathing, smelling his baby smell. Our small living room turned from mellow to cool dusk. I snapped on the lamp, bathing the room and us in a glow of happiness.

  "This is our home, Wilson, cozy and safe," I whispered, kissing his soft cheek. Recently I'd separated from my husband and moved from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to Mount Kisco, New York.

  At last my life was getting settled. I'd found a job as a domestic where I could keep Wilson with me. Our apartment was in a large complex, convenient to shopping and with wonderful neighbors. There was a big grassy lot and a playground. Important things for Wilson and his older sister, Yolaine, as they grew.

  I was still holding this sweet burden of mine when he fell asleep. As I leaned back to rest, suddenly I jumped. A voice, soft and gentle, said, You will only have Wilson for a short time. Teach him about God.

  My heart was pounding. "Was that you, Lord?" I asked, knowing it was. Shifting a sleeping Wilson to one arm, I went to the window and pulled the cord on the drapes.

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  Would I see an angel? There was only the dark silhouette of the maple tree blowing in the October wind. I hurried to the phone and called my mother.

  Her calm, familiar voice reassured me. "Don't worry," she said. "Short time could mean a normal life span because the Bible says, 'A day with the Lord is as a thousand years.' Perhaps God has a special purpose for Wilson and wants you to start teaching him right away."

  Of course! I began singing to him and talking to him of Jesus' love.

  When Wilson was two he was diagnosed as having hemophilia. It would be hard and often painful for my son, especially since he was so active. But we could live with it.

  Then when Wilson was four I got shattering news. Through an infusion of blood protein, he contracted the virus that causes AIDS. The doctor had tears as he told me. I looked this caring man in the eye and said, "My son will be the one in a million to beat this." The doctor didn't answer, but neither would he dash my hope. We immediately began with the drug AZT, which has prolonged the lives of many AIDS patients.

  For five years Wilson continued with his normal routine. Then the virus struck. Still I couldn't believe he would die. I prayed hard.

  During the last few months of second grade, Wilson began to downslide. He loved school. His teachers were great and wanted him there, despite his physical problems. He was an outgoing child who was popular with all the kids as well.

  One day the school nurse called me at my desk where I was a receptionist at Mount Kisco Medical Group. Wilson had a seizure. He was going down the steps at recess and hit the wall, breaking his glasses. Would I please come right away?

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  I found him lying on a cot in the nurse's office, his face swollen and bruised. He was dazed but managed a feeble smile and tried to sit up. He was a fighter. I slipped his broken glasses in my purse, knowing they could easily be fixed, and wishing all of life was that simple. "Come on, honey," I said, my arm supporting him, "the doctor will adjust your medicine and it will be all right."

  And it was. For a little while Wilson was back to his old selfalmost. I'd watch him through the bedroom window of our apartment, where kids, just home from school were gathering. They were skateboarding and after that, chasing one another around the jungle gym. There was a catch in my throat as Wilson drifted to the sidelines and sat lethargically on the grass, while Yolaine followed and kept an eye on him. After a while I heard his footsteps, weak and shuffling, on the outside stairs. I opened the door. "Wilson . . ."

  "I'm all right, just tired," he said in his little-boy voice that belied man-size courage. As he reached for a book and slumped on the couch, I wondered if there were any limits to his bravery. There were.

  Mid-June came, the last two weeks of school, and Wilson had to drop out. A crushing blow. He was running a high fever that wouldn't break and the doctor had him hospitalized.

  Einstein Hospital in New York City's Bronx is an old, plain building fighting its age and looks with fresh paint. Wilson was in the pediatric bed next to a deep-sill window overlooking the street. It had a chair that folded back for me to sleep in at night. I used my vacation and sick time from work to stay with Wilson.

  The next day my son was lying weak in bed, having just returned from a bone marrow scan. The doctor still hadn't found the cause of his fever. Fluid from an IV unit was dripping into Wilson's arm. I reached for my worn

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  Bible and opened it to where Jesus gathered the children on his lap. I read to Wilson, picturing those little ones climbing all over Jesus, His strong carpenter's arms holding them protectively and His eyes burning with love. I thought of those hands that healed all who came to Him when He was on earth, and I sent up another prayer.

  Then came an ice-cold shock. Wilson looked up at me and said, "I know I'm dying, but I don't want to leave you yet."

  I went numb. With all his medical problemshepatitis, blood transfusions three or four times a week, limbs locking painfully from internal bleeding, seizureshe had never ever mentioned dying or giving up. Until now. He was a fighter, and it was important that he keep on fighting if he was going to live.

  "Honey, you're not dying," I said. "You're sick, but we're going to fight to make you better. You're going to keep on taking your medicine. You'll get out of the hospital and . . ."

  I stopped. His eyes, glued to mine, were pleading. Suddenly I saw the depth of his terror, the awful weight of dying. Of leaving me, his family, friends, his room that meant so much to him, going out of his body and moving to an alien place called heaven. Unlike the visits to his uncle in Philadelphia, there would be no phone calls home. Total separation. I laid the Bible aside and stroked his thin arm. "Jesus loves you, even more than I do," I said. He fell asleep. I sat still in my chair, looking out the window at a lazy summer day. "Jesus," I began, remembering how easily Wilson prayed, about everything small and great, "I can't believe that he's going to die. But if it comes to that, help my son to know that heaven is wonderful like Your Word says. Help him not to be afraid."

  Summer passed in a blur of hospital trips, ups and downs, hope and despair. Before I knew it, the nip of fall had arrived and the leaves were flaming . . . then withering