A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul

  When the crowd saw the prisoners, there were angry shouts of "Kill them! Kill them!" No doubt they were

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  thinking of the heavy bombings their city had suffered at the hands of the British and their allies. Nor did the crowd lack the means to carry out their intent. Many of the people had been gardening when they saw the enemy fall from the sky and had brought their pitchforks, shovels and other gardening implements with them.

  Reimund looked at the faces of the British prisoners. They were very young, maybe 19 or 20 years old. He could see that they were extremely frightened. He could also see that the two policemen, whose duty it was to protect the prisoners of war, were no match for the angry crowd with its pitchforks and shovels.

  Reimund knew he had to do something, and do it quickly. He ran to place himself between the prisoners and the crowd, turning to face the crowd and shouting to them to stop. Not wanting to hurt the little boy, the crowd held back for a moment, long enough for Reimund to tell them:

  ''Look at these prisoners. They are just young boys! They are no different from your own sons. They are only doing what your own sons are doingfighting for their country. If your sons were shot down in a foreign country and became prisoners of war, you wouldn't want the people there to kill your sons. So please don't hurt these boys."

  Reimund's fellow townspeople listened in amazement, and then shame. Finally, a woman said, "It took a little boy to tell us what is right and what is wrong." The crowd began to disperse.

  Reimund will never forget the look of tremendous relief and gratitude he then saw on the faces of the young British airmen. He hopes they have had long, happy lives, and that they haven't forgotten the little boy who saved them.

  Elaine McDonald

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  The Edge

  The night before I left for Israel was spent in the same kind of conversations that had filled the previous week. "But why Israel?" my father would ask, in the same tone he used when he asked "Why China?" or "Why Russia?" or "why" any other country I had announced I wanted to visit. "There's a war over there, you know,'' he would add. "Yes, Dad, I know. There are wars everywhere," I would answer. He would ask why I insisted on going to such dangerous places. Finally, I would hear the words I've heard all my life: "Well, you've never listened to me before. Why should I think you'd listen now?" In typical fashion, he would close his eyes, heave a long sigh and shake his head.

  When these "discussions" took place, my sister, Kristy, would always try to diffuse the tension. Although she realized long ago that it would never work, she'd try just the same. "Kath," she'd suggest, "why don't you go to England for summer school. It's not dangerous there." But as always, she didn't understand.

  None of my family has ever really understood me. I've never fit my family's idea of the way I should live my life. England was not exciting enough. I wanted to go somewhere and experience something different. My soul has always been restless to venture into unknown places. My mother has always said that I have "gypsy" in my blood.

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  My sister and I are three and a half years apart in age, but a world apart in the way we live our lives. She is conservative and quiet. I take too many risks, and the only time I'm really quiet is when I'm asleep. I've spent most of my adult life apologizing to my sister and the rest of my family for being different, for embarrassing them by something I wear, something I do or something I say.

  I'm the one who wears a hat with fruit all over it and a brightly colored outfit somewhere, when everyone else is dressed in simple black. I'm the one who tells the wrong joke at the dinner table. I'm the one who cries when we watch a sappy old movie. How embarrassing for them! Someone once told me that he didn't envy my job of having to be the emotions for the whole family.

  Since my sister is so different from meor since I'm so different from herwe aren't very close. The older we get, the busier we become, and the less we see of each other, even though we live only half a mile apart. When we do get together, I feel that she's holding her breath and waiting for me to do or say something "wrong," while I'm walking on eggshells and praying that I don't. But inevitably, I do.

  Because my sister seemed the least upset with my summer plans, I humbly asked her for a ride to the airport. "No problem," she said casually, "but don't tell Dad!" I smiled and agreed. It's not that our father is some kind of tyrant. We know that he loves us very much; that's evident from all the sacrifices he has made for us. I would not have gone to law school if it weren't for him. He's just worried and has a hard time separating his worry from his love.

  On the way to the airport the next day, my sister was quiet as usual. But for the first time since I'd decided to go, she started asking questions about my trip: where I was planning to travel, where I was going to stay. She seemed truly interested.

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  My family is not big on emotional goodbyes, so with a "have a good time" and a quick "love you too," my sister was gone. I was sad because I felt she just couldn't understand. I wished at that moment that she could come with me, but I knew she wouldn't.

  I checked in, took my seat and started to get organized. I glanced inside my bag which my sister had loaded in the trunk before we left for the airport. There, along with my passport, traveler's checks and other important items, was a small white envelope with "Kath" written on it in my sister's handwriting. I opened the envelope and found a bon voyage card. It was a lighthearted, funny card with a cartoon on the front. Most cards my family members give are funny cards, and this was no differentor so I thought.

  When I opened the card and read what was inside, I realized that my sisterwho I had decided just couldn't understandactually did understand. It seemed there was a small part of her that wished she were me, maybe a small part of her that always had wished she were me. The card was blank except for what my sister had written:

  I really admire you for experiencing life in such a full way. I love you.

  Your sister,

  Kristy

  On the other side of the card, she had written:

  Apollo stood on the high cliff;

  "Come to the edge," he said.

  "We can't," they said, ''It's too high."

  "Come to the edge," he said. "We can't," they said, "It's too high."

  "Come to the edge," he said.

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  "We can't," they said, "We'll fall."

  "Come to the edge," he said.

  And they came, and he pushed them,

  And they flew.

  That day my sister, for one brief moment, showed me a very precious side of herself, a side she had never shown before. Or maybe I had never looked deeply enough. With tears running down my cheeks, I turned and looked out the window toward the terminal. I saw my sister standing at the window smiling and waving to me. As the plane backed out of the gate, I saw her lips say "I love you." I smiled back because for the first time, I knew she really did.

  Kathleen Louise Smiley

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  6

  A MATTER OF ATTITUDE

  The meaning of things lies not in the things themselves, but in our attitude towards them.

  Antoine de Saint Exupéry

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  Our Deepest Fear

  Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

  Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

  It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us.

  We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant,

  gorgeous, talented, fabulous?

  Actually, who are you NOT to be?

  You are a child of God. Your playing small

  does not serve the World.

  There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that

  other people won't feel insecure around you.

  We were born to make manifest the glory of God

  that is within us.

  It is not just in some of us;

  it
is in everyone.

  As we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously

  give other people permission to do the same.

  As we are liberated from our own fear,

  our presence automatically liberates others.

  Marianne Williamson

  From A Return to Love

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  Whiners

  Fear less, hope more;

  Whine less, breathe more;

  Talk less, say more;

  Hate less, love more;

  And all good things are yours.

  Anonymous

  When my grandmother was raising me in Stamps, Arkansas, she had a particular routine when people who were known to be whiners entered her store. Whenever she saw a known complainer coming, she would call me from whatever I was doing and say conspiratorially, "Sister, come inside. Come." Of course I would obey.

  My grandmother would ask the customer, "How are you doing today, Brother Thomas?"

  And the person would reply, "Not so good." There would be a distinct whine in the voice. "Not so good today, Sister Henderson. You see, it's this summer. It's this summer heat. I just hate it. Oh, I hate it so much. It just frazzles me up and frazzles me down. I just hate the heat. It's almost killing me." Then my grandmother would stand stoically, her arms folded, and mumble, "Uh-huh, uh-huh." And she would cut her eyes at me to make

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  certain that I had heard the lamentation.

  At another time a whiner would mewl, "I hate plowing. That packed-down dirt ain't got no reasoning, and mules ain't got good sense. Sure ain't. It's killing me. I can't ever seem to get done. My feet and my hands stay sore, and I get dirt in my eyes and up my nose. I just can't stand it." And my grandmother, again stoically, with her arms folded, would say, "Uh-huh, uh-huh," and then look at me and nod.

  As soon as the complainer was out of the store, my grandmother would call me to stand in front of her. And then she would say the same thing she had said at least a thousand times, it seemed to me. "Sister, did you hear what Brother So-and-So or Sister Much-to-Do complained about? You heard that?" And I would nod. Mamma would continue, "Sister, there are people who went to sleep all over the world last night, poor and rich and white and black, but they will never wake again. Sister, those who expected to rise did not, their beds became their cooling boards, and their blankets became their winding sheets. And those dead folks would give anything, anything at all for just five minutes of this weather or 10 minutes of that plowing that person was grumbling about. So you watch yourself about complaining, Sister. What you're supposed to do when you don't like a thing is change it. If you can't change it, change the way you think about it. Don't complain."

  It is said that persons have few teachable moments in their lives. Mamma seemed to have caught me at each one I had between the ages of three and 13. Whining is not only graceless, but can be dangerous. It can alert a brute that a victim is in the neighborhood.

  Maya Angelou

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  Great Value in Disaster

  If your house is on fire, warm yourself by it.

  Spanish Proverb

  Thomas Edison's laboratory was virtually destroyed by fire in December, 1914. Although the damage exceeded $2 million, the buildings were only insured for $238,000 because they were made of concrete and thought to be fireproof. Much of Edison's life's work went up in spectacular flames that December night.

  At the height of the fire, Edison's 24-year-old son, Charles, frantically searched for his father among the smoke and debris. He finally found him, calmly watching the scene, his face glowing in the reflection, his white hair blowing in the wind.

  "My heart ached for him," said Charles. "He was 67no longer a young manand everything was going up in flames. When he saw me, he shouted, 'Charles, where's your mother?' When I told him I didn't know, he said, 'Find her. Bring her here. She will never see anything like this as long as she lives.'"

  The next morning, Edison looked at the ruins and said, "There is great value in disaster. All our mistakes are burned up. Thank God we can start anew."

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  Three weeks after the fire, Edison managed to deliver his first phonograph.

  The Sower' s Seeds

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  Good News

  Robert De Vincenzo, the great Argentine golfer, once won a tournament and, after receiving the check and smiling for the cameras, he went to the clubhouse and prepared to leave. Some time later, he walked alone to his car in the parking lot and was approached by a young woman. She congratulated him on his victory and then told him that her child was seriously ill and near death. She did not know how she could pay the doctor's bills and hospital expenses.

  De Vincenzo was touched by her story, and he took out a pen and endorsed his winning check for payment to the woman. "Make some good days for the baby," he said as he pressed the check into her hand.

  The next week he was having lunch in a country club when a Professional Golf Association official came to his table. "Some of the boys in the parking lot last week told me you met a young woman there after you won that tournament." De Vincenzo nodded. "Well," said the official "I have news for you. She's a phony. She has no sick baby. She's not even married. She fleeced you, my friend."

  "You mean there is no baby who is dying?" said De Vincenzo.

  "That's right," said the official.

  "That's the best news I've heard all week," De Vincenzo said.

  The Best of Bits & Pieces

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  Rolesand How We Play Them

  Whenever I'm disappointed with my spot in life, I stop and think about little Jamie Scott. Jamie was trying out for a part in a school play. His mother told me that he had his heart set on being in it, though she feared he would not be chosen. On the day the parts were announced, I went with her to collect him after school. Jamie rushed up to her, eyes shining with pride and excitement. ''Guess what, Mum," he shouted, and then said those words that remain a lesson to me: "I've been chosen to clap and cheer."

  Marie Curling

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  When we're Alone, We can Dance

  The little cruise ship was crowded with people, many of them retired, all of them off for three days of pleasure.

  Ahead of me in the carpeted passageway was a tiny woman in brown polyester slacks, her shoulders hunched, her white hair cut in a short, straight bob.

  From the ship's intercom came a familiar tune'Begin the Beguine" by Artie Shaw. And suddenly, a wonderful thing happened.

  The woman, unaware that anyone was behind her, began to shimmy and shake. She snapped her fingers. She swiveled her hips. She did a quick and graceful Lindy stepback, shuffle, slide.

  Then, as she reached the door to the dining salon, she paused, assembled her dignity, and stepped soberly through.

  She became a hunched old lady again.

  That visual fragment has returned to mind many times. I think of it now as I reach another birthdayand an age where most people would not believe that I still shimmy, too.

  Younger people think folks of my years are beyond music, romance, dancing, or dreams.

  They see us as age has shaped us: camouflaged by wrinkles, with thick waists and graying hair.

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  They don't see all the other people who live inside.

  We present a certain face to the world because custom dictates it. We are the wise old codgers, the dignified matrons.