Valentine's Day dawned, and Chad was beside himself with excitement. He carefully stacked them up, put them in a bag, and bolted out the door. His mother decided to bake him his favorite cookies and serve them nice and warm with a cool glass of milk when he came home from school. She just knew he would be disappointed and maybe that would ease the pain a little. It hurt her to think that he wouldn't get many valentinesmaybe none at all.
That afternoon she had the cookies and milk on the table. When she heard the children outside, she looked
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out the window. Sure enough, there they came, laughing and having the best time. And, as always, there was Chad in the rear. He walked a little faster than usual. She fully expected him to burst into tears as soon as he got inside. His arms were empty, she noticed, and when the door opened she choked back the tears.
"Mommy has some cookies and milk for you," she said.
But he hardly heard her words. He just marched right on by, his face aglow, and all he could say was: "Not a one. Not a one."
Her heart sank.
And then he added, "I didn't forget a one, not a single one!"
Dale Galloway
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Teddy Bear
I was on the outskirts of a little Southern town, trying to reach my destination before the sun went down. The old CB was blaring away on channel 19 when there came a little boy's voice on the radio line. And he said, "Breaker 19, is anyone there? Come on back, truckers, and talk to Teddy Bear."
I keyed the mike and said, "You got it, Teddy Bear."
The little boy's voice came back on the air, "'Preciate the break. Who we got on the other end?" I told him my handle and then he began. "Now I'm not supposed to bother you fellas out there. Mom says you're busy and for me to stay off the air. But you see, I get lonely and it helps to talk 'cause that's about all I can do. I'm crippled and cannot walk."
I came back and told him to fire up that mike and I'd talk to him as long as he'd like.
"This was my dad's radio," the little boy said. "But I guess it's mine and mom's now 'cause my daddy's dead. Dad had a wreck about a month ago. He was trying to get home in a blinding snow. Mom has to work now to make ends meet. I'm not much help with my crippled feet. She
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says not to worry, that we'll make it all right. But I hear her crying sometimes late at night. Ya know, there's one thing I want more than anything else to see. Ah, I know you guys are too busy to bother with me. But, ya see, my dad used to take me for rides when he was home. But I guess that's all over now since my daddy's gone."
Not one breaker came in on the CB as that little crippled boy talked to me. I tried hard to swallow the lump; it just would not stay down as I thought about my boy in Greenville Town.
"Dad was going to take Mom and me with him later on this year. Why, I remember him saying, 'Someday this ol' truck will be yours, Teddy Bear.' But I know I will never get to ride in an 18-wheeler again. But this old base will keep me in touch with all my trucker friends. Teddy Bear's going to back out now and leave you alone 'cause it's almost time for Mom to come home. But you give me a shout when you're passing through and I'll be happy to come back to you."
Well, I came back and said, "Before you go 1010, what's your home 20, little CB friend?" Well, he gave me his address and I didn't hesitate one second 'cause this hot load of freight was just gonna have to wait. I turned that truck around on a dime and headed for Jackson Street 229. As I rounded the corner, I got one heck of a shock: 18-wheelers lined up for three city blocks. Why, I guess every trucker from miles around had caught Teddy Bear's call, and that little boy was having a ball. For as fast as one driver could carry him in, another would carry him to his truck and take off again. Well, you better believe I took my turn at riding Teddy Bear. And then I carried him back in and put him down in his chair. Buddy, if I never live to see happiness again, I want you to know I saw it that day in the face of that little man. We took up a collection before his momma came home. Each driver said
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good-bye and then they were all gone. He shook my hand with a mile-long grin and he said, "So long, trucker; I'll catch ya again."
I hit that interstate with tears in my eyes. I turned on the radio and got another surprise. "Breaker 19," came a voice on the air, "just one word of thanks from Momma Teddy Bear. We wish each and every one a special prayer for you, 'cause you just made my little boy's dream come true. I'll sign off now before I start to cry. May God ride with you; 104 and good-bye."
Dale Royal, Tommy Hill, Red Sovine and J. William Denny
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2
ON PARENTING
Teach Only love, for that is what you are!
A Course in Miracles
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Paco, Come Home
In a small town in Spain, a man named Jorge had a bitter argument with his young son Paco. The next day Jorge discovered that Paco's bed was emptyhe had run away from home.
Overcome with remorse, Jorge searched his soul and realized that his son was more important to him than anything else. He wanted to start over. Jorge went to a well-known store in the center of town and posted a large sign that read, "Paco, come home. I love you. Meet me here tomorrow morning."
The next morning Jorge went to the store, where he found no less than seven young boys named Paco who had also run away from home. They were all answering the call for love, each hoping it was his dad inviting him home with open arms.
Alan Cohen
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Tommy's Essay
A gray sweater hung limply on Tommy's empty desk, a reminder of the dejected boy who had just followed his classmates from our third-grade room. Soon Tommy's parents, who had recently separated, would arrive for a conference on his failing schoolwork and disruptive behavior. Neither parent knew that I had summoned the other.
Tommy, an only child, had always been happy, cooperative and an excellent student. How could I convince his father and mother that his recent failing grades represented a broken-hearted child's reaction to his adored parents' separation and pending divorce?
Tommy's mother entered and took one of the chairs I had placed near my desk. Soon the father arrived. Good! At least they were concerned enough to be prompt. A look of surprise and irritation passed between them, and then they pointedly ignored each other.
As I gave a detailed account of Tommy's behavior and schoolwork, I prayed for the right words to bring these two together, to help them see what they were doing to their son. But somehow the words wouldn't come. Perhaps if they saw one of his smudged, carelessly done papers.
I found a crumpled tear-stained sheet stuffed in the back of his desk, an English paper. Writing covered both
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sidesnot the assignment, but a single sentence scribbled over and over.
Silently I smoothed it out and gave it to Tommy's mother. She read it and then without a word handed it to her husband. He frowned. Then his face softened. He studied the scrawled words for what seemed an eternity.
At last he folded the paper carefully, placed it in his pocket, and reached for his wife's outstretched hand. She wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled up at him. My own eyes were brimming, but neither seemed to notice. He helped her with her coat and they left together.
In his own way God had given me the words to reunite that familyú He had guided me to the sheet of yellow copy paper covered with the anguished outpouring of a small boy's troubled heart.
The words, ''Dear Mother . . . Dear Daddy . . . I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you."
Jane Lindstrom
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Barney
A four-year-old girl was at the pediatrician's office for a check-up. As the doctor looked into her ears with an otoscope, he asked, "Do you think I'll find Big Bird in here?" The little girl stayed silent.
Next, the doctor took a tongue depressor and looked down her throat. He asked, "Do you think I'll find the Cookie
Monster down there?" Again, the little girl was silent.
Then the doctor put a stethoscope to her chest. As he listened to her heart beat, he asked, "Do you think I'll hear Barney in here?"
"Oh, no!" the little girl replied. "Jesus is in my heart. Barney's on my underpants."
Author Unknown
Submitted by Marilyn Thompsen
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Almie Rose
It was at least two months before Christmas, when nine-year-old Almie Rose told her father and me that she wanted a new bicycle. Her old Barbie bicycle was just too babyish, and besides, it needed a new tire.
As Christmas drew nearer, her desire for a bicycle seemed to fadeor so we thought, as she didn't mention it again. Merrily, we started purchasing the latest rageBaby-Sitter's Club dollsand beautiful story books, a doll house, a holiday dress and toys. Then, much to our surprise, on December 23rd she proudly announced that she "really wanted a bike more than anything else."
Now we didn't know what to do. It was just too late, what with all the details of preparing Christmas dinner and buying last-minute gifts, to take the time to select the "right bike" for our little girl. So here we wereChristmas Eve around 9:00 P.M., having just returned from a wonderful party, contemplating our evening aheadhours of wrapping children's presents, parents' presents, a brother's presents and friends' presents. With Almie Rose and her six-year-old brother, Dylan, nestled snug in their beds, we could now think only of the bicycle, the guilt and the idea that we were parents who would disappoint their child.
That's when my husband, Ron, was inspired. "What if I make a little bicycle out of clay and write a note that she
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could trade the clay model in for a real bike?" The theory, of course, being that since this is a high-ticket item and she is "such a big girl," it would be much better for her to pick it out. So he spent the next five hours painstakingly working with clay to create a miniature bike.
Three hours later, on Christmas morning, we were so excited for Almie Rose to open the little heart-shaped package with the beautiful red and white clay bike and the note. Finally, she opened and read the note aloud.
She looked at me and then at Ron and said, "So, does this mean that I trade in this bike that Daddy made me for a real one?"
Beaming, I said, "Yes."
Almie Rose had tears in her eyes when she replied, "I could never trade in this beautiful bicycle that Daddy made me. I'd rather keep this than get a real bike."
At that moment, we would have moved heaven and earth to buy her every bicycle on the planet!
Michelle Lawrence
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Why I Wear a Plastic Dinosaur
The soul is healed by being with children.
Fyodor Dostoyevski
Why would a leader of the community, a respected family man, shamelessly walk around with a plastic dinosaur attached to his suit?
The set-up occurred one day as I was pulling out of my driveway, in a hurry to run an errand. I spied my son running toward me, his tiny hand outstretched.
He smiled, his tender eyes aglow with excitement. "I've got a present for you, Daddy."
"Really?" I said, feigning interest, frustrated at the delay and hoping he would hurry up.
Then he slowly opened his fingers to reveal a five-year-old's treasure. "I found them for you, Daddy." In those small hands were a white marble, an old and bent metal race car, a broken rubber band and several other items I can't recall. How I wish now that I could remember all the little-boy treasures. "Take them, Daddythey're for you," he gushed with pride.
"I can't right now, Son. I've got to go somewhere. Why don't you go put them on top of the freezer in the garage for me?"
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His smile fell, but he obediently started walking into the garage, and I drove off. From the moment I started down the street I felt remorse. I made a mental note that when I returned I would accept my gift with more graciousness and gratitude.
When I returned, I found him. "Hey, Son, where are those neat toys you had for me?"
His expression was blank. "Well, I didn't think you wanted them so I gave them to Adam." Adam is a little boy who lives down the street, and I pictured him accepting these treasures with a great deal more gratitude and excitement than I had.
His decision hurt, but I deserved it. Not simply because it highlighted my thoughtless reaction to his gesture, but because it triggered memories of another little boy I remembered.
Childhood Hurt
It was his older sister's birthday, and the boy had been given two dollars to buy something for her at the old five-and-dime. He toured the toy department repeatedly without success.
It had to be very special. He finally spied it sitting on a shell fairly shouting for attention. A beautiful plastic bubble gum machine, filled with brightly colored, chewy treasures. He wanted to show it to her almost as soon as he brought it home, but valiantly resisted the urge.
Later, at the birthday party attended by her young friends, she began to open her new gifts. With every present opened she squealed with delight.
And with each squeal, the little boy felt more apprehensive. These girls were from wealthier families that could afford to spend far more than two dollars. Their gifts were expensive and shiny and talked and went
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potty. His little package grew increasingly smaller and more insignificant.
Yet he managed to remain eager to see her eyes sparkle as she opened his gift. After all, she hadn't received anything she could eat or collect pennies with.
She finally opened his gift and he immediately saw her momentary disappointment.
She was slightly embarrassed at it. Suddenly the beautiful bubble gum machine looked like the plastic, cheap toy it was. To maintain her standing among her peers, she couldn't acknowledge the gift with too much enthusiasm. There was momentary silence as she deliberated her response.
Then she smiled knowingly at her friends, and turned to her brother with a safely patronizing tone and said, "Thank you, it's just what I wanted." Several girls tried unsuccessfully to contain their giggles.
She quickly returned to her next birthday game, and the little boy looked away, hurt and confused. The toy that had seemed so wondrous in the five-and-dime now seemed small and cheap.
He slowly picked it up, walked outside to the back porch, and began to cry. His cheap little gift didn't belong with the other ones; it was merely an embarrassment.
The laughing and celebrating continued inside, which only increased his pain. Soon his mother appeared and asked why he was crying. He explained as best he could between muffled sobs.
She listened silently, then returned inside. In a few moments, his sister appeared alone. He could tell by her expression that she had been sent, but her genuine remorse reminded him that she hadn't intended to be mean or hurtful. She was only eight years old, and unaccustomed to the task of balancing the difficult demands of people's feelings and queen-for-a-day euphoria.
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She explained kindly in her grown-up eight-year-old way that she really did like his bubble-gum toy very much. He said he understood, and he did. She was just being nice.
Now it had come full circle. A new generation was faced with the same choice, except this new generation was mine. This little fellow would decide for himself whether it really is the thought that counts, and my response would play a large part in his decision.