A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul

  The question that confronted me was, "What do I do for a child who is losing his mother?" The only thought that came to my mind was, "Love him . . . show him you care . . . cry with him." It seemed as though the whole bottom was coming out of his young life, and I could do little to help him. Choking back my tears, I said to the group, "Let us say a prayer for Troy and his mother." A more fervent prayer never floated to heaven. After some time, Troy looked up at me and said, "I think I will be okay now." He had exhausted his supply of tears; he released the burden in his heart. Later that afternoon, Troy's mother died.

  When I went to the funeral parlor, Troy rushed to greet me. It was as though he had been waiting for me, that he expected I would come. He fell into my arms and just rested there awhile. He seemed to gain strength and courage, and then he led me to the coffin. There he was able to look into the face of his mother, to face death even though he might never be able to understand the mystery of it.

  That night I went to bed thanking God that he had given me the good sense to set aside my reading plan and to hold the broken heart of a child in my own heart.

  Sister Carleen Brennan

  Page 167

  In Praise of Teachers

  What sculpture is to a block of marble, education is to the soul.

  Joseph Addison

  In 1972, I returned to Miami Beach High School to speak to the drama class. Afterward I asked the drama teacher if any of my English teachers are still there. Irene Roberts, he tells me, is in class just down the hall.

  I was no one special in Miss Roberts' classjust another jock who did okay work. I don't recall any one special bit of wisdom she passed on. Yet I cannot forget her respect for language, for ideas and for her students. I realize now, many years later, that she is the quintessential selfless teacher. I'd like to say something to her, I say, but I don't want to pull her from a class. Nonsense, he says, she'll be delighted to see you.

  The drama teacher brings Miss Roberts into the hallway where stands this 32-year-old man she last saw at 18. ''I'm Mark Medoff," I tell her. "You were my 12th-grade English teacher in 1958." She cocks her head at me, as if this angle might conjure me in her memory. And then,

  Page 168

  though armed with a message I want to deliver in some perfect torrent of words, I can't think up anything more memorable than this: "I want you to know," I say, "you were important to me."

  And there in the hallway, this slight and lovely woman, now nearing retirement age, this teacher who doesn't remember me, begins to weep; and she encircles me in her arms.

  Remembering this moment, I begin to sense that everything I will ever know, everything I will ever pass to my students, to my children, is an inseparable part of an ongoing legacy of our shared wonder and eternal hope that we can, must, make ourselves better.

  Irene Roberts holds me briefly in her arms and through her tears whispers against my cheek, "Thank you." And then, with the briefest of looks into my forgotten face, she disappears back into her classroom, returns to what she has done thousands of days through all the years of my absence.

  On reflection, maybe those were, after all, just the right words to say to Irene Roberts. Maybe they are the very words I would like to speak to all those teachers I carry through my life as part of me, the very words I would like spoken to me one day by some returning student: "I want you to know you were important to me."

  Mark Medoff

  Page 169

  The Greatest Teacher of My Life

  Parents learn a lot from their children about coping with life.

  Muriel Spark

  I had already been a teacher for 15 years when I met my greatest teacher. It wasn't in a classroom but in a hospital. She was my daughter Kelsey.

  Kelsey was born with cerebral palsy, and at age five she faced a battle with cancer that she later won. She has taught me many vivid lessons about courage and determination, and I'm a better person forever because of her patience with me.

  When she was four, she wanted to learn to tie her shoes just as her best friend had done. I was stumped. Because of her cerebral palsy, Kelsey has very little use of the fingers on her left hand. If I couldn't tie a shoe singlehandedly, how was I going to teach her?

  After three and a half years of persistence, Kelsey finally did it. I remember that first day of summer vacation, when she was seven and a half years old, as I watched and encouraged her. When she took her hand

  Page 170

  away to reveal two neatly worked loops, she beamed from ear to ear and I cried for joy. And the truth is, no one ever asks Kelsey how old she was when she learned to tie her shoes. I learned about determination from her accomplishmentand much more. Pace wasn't going to be the important thing in Kelsey's lifeaccomplishing her goals within her own timetable would be what mattered most.

  Throughout her cancer treatment, Kelsey took charge of her circumstances through creative play. In the hospital, the game was always "restaurant," with Kelsey playing waitress and the rest of us cast as customers. For hours on end, she lost herself in the drama, as if we weren't in the hospital at all, but out in the world away from doctors and testsa world Kelsey was certain she would be a part of someday.

  At home, where she felt safer exploring deeper feelings, the play turned to "hospital." In this game Kelsey was doctor-in-charge for a change. Her game included medical terms even we adults didn't understand. We'd just play along, knowing that Kelsey had found a way to cope.

  When she was six, she wanted to take ballet lessons. I'm embarrassed to admit how much this frightened me. Her muscles were weak from chemotherapy, she had poor balance, and her weight had slipped to 34 pounds. I wasn't just afraid for her body, but for her feelings. She had no fear at this point and wore a patch over one eye, so I worried about the teasing she might get from the rest of the dance class. But I didn't know how to tell Kelsey all of this, and she wouldn't let up, so I enrolled her in a ballet school.

  Kelsey danced with abandon! Did she fall? Of course. Was she awkward? Very. But she was never self-conscious or inhibited, throwing herself into the process, completely unaffected by what she couldn't do. The sheer joy of dancing was enough. Every person who saw Kelsey

  Page 171

  dance came away with something special. She danced for four years. When she quit, it was only to announce that she wanted to take horseback riding lessons instead. This time I enrolled her without hesitating.

  In fifth grade, Kelsey excitedly brought home a registration form for intramural basketball. Now this was going to be a major challenge for her. She could run only slowly, she's short, and she still had the use of only one hand. Bells of caution went off inside my head again, but I had learned to ignore them. The excitement in her eyes emphatically canceled out all the drawbacks, and we signed her up.

  After the first practice the coach said that he was afraid to let her play in a game. When he explained how she might get hurt, I could see visions of lawsuits dancing in his head. But every child who plays sports takes risks, I reasoned with him, and if her risk was greater, her need to belong was greater still. After a few discussions and a little more encouragement, he decided to let her play. For two years, Kelsey played harder than any girl in the league. And while she never made a basket during a game, she brought other gifts that were more valuable to her teammates. In two years, I never once saw a player treat her as anything other than an asset. And after weeks of trying, when Kelsey finally made her first basket during practice, every girl in the entire gymfrom both teamsstopped and applauded.

  On game days, when we stopped at the grocery store, Kelsey quickly shed her winter coat and flung it into the grocery cart. It took me a while to realize why. She was so proud of her team shirt, she didn't want it to go unnoticed. Now Kelsey wasn't just winning her own personal triumphs, she was part of a team, too.

  Today, Kelsey is a happy, healthy seventh grader, still lapping up life, trying new challenges, and still teaching

  Page 172

&nb
sp; her friends and parents a lot about persistence, the power of belief and compassion.

  Kelsey, I'll never have a greater teacher!

  Dauna Easley

  Page 175

  questions, raising issues that none of my teachers had ever raised before. He challenged us to think and to think deeply. Social issues, political issues, personal issues all were grist for the mill in this class. It was a class in methods of teaching social studies and it was far-ranging. The teachers I had in high school taught social studieshistory, geography, economics and so on, as rote subjects, lists of facts and names and dates to be memorized and returned to paper on exams. Rarely had anyone asked us to think.

  At first, I thought he was going to propagandize us for or against something, but not Professor Simon. Instead, he simply asked us to think explore, research, question and then come up with our own responses. Frankly, I became even more uncomfortable. There was something delightful, refreshing and inviting about his teaching, but since I had rarely experienced this style, I had no "coping strategies" to help me deal with him. I knew how to do well in a class: sit up front, tell the teacher how much you "enjoyed" the lecture, turn in neat typed papers written according to a formula and memorize, memorize, memorize! This class was clearly something different. I couldn't use these time-worn, time-tested methods to pass.

  The second Tuesday came. I wrote on my card, "A stitch in time gathers no moss." Again, not trusting him, I covered myself with humor, which had always been my best defense against unwanted closeness. The next day the card came back with this note: "You seem to have a sense of humor. Is this an important part of your life?"

  What did he want? What was going on here? I couldn't remember a teacher caring personally about me since elementary school. What did this man want?

  Now, I raced down the hallway, 10 minutes late to class. Just outside the door, I took an index card from my notebook and wrote my name and the date on it. Desperate for something to write on it, I could only think

  Page 176

  about the fight I'd just had with my dad. "I am the son of an idiot!" I wrote and then dashed into the room. He stood, conducting a discussion, near the door. Looking up at me, he reached out for the card and I handed it to him and took my seat.

  The moment I reached my seat, I felt overwhelmed with dread. What had I done? I gave him that card! Oh, no! I didn't mean to let that out. Now he'll know about my anger, about my dad, about my life! I don't remember anything about the rest of that class session. All I could think about was the card.

  I had difficulty sleeping that night, filled with a nameless dread. What could these cards be all about? Why did I tell him that about my dad? Suppose he contacts my dad? What business is it of his anyway?

  Wednesday morning arrived and I reluctantly got ready for school. When I got to the class, I was early. I wanted to sit in back and hide as best I could. The class began and Dr. Simon began giving back the thought cards. He put mine on the desk face down as was his usual practice. I picked it up, almost unable to turn it over.

  When I looked at the face of the card, he had written, "What does the 'son of an idiot' do with the rest of his life?" It felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I had spent a lot of time hanging out in the student union cafeteria talking with other young men about the problems I had "because of my parents." And they, too, shared the same sort of material with me. No one challenged anyone to take responsibility for himself. No, we all accepted the parent-blaming game with relief. Everything was our parents' fault. If we did poorly on tests, blame Mom. If we just missed getting a student-aid job, blame Dad. I constantly complained about my folks and all the guys nodded sagely. These folks who were paying the tuition were certainly an interfering bunch of fools, weren't they?

  Page 177

  Sidney Simon's innocent-seeming question punctured that balloon. It got right to the heart of the issue: Whose problem is it? Whose responsibility are you?

  I skipped going to the student union that day and went straight home, strangely depressed, chastened. All evening I thought about it and about something my mother had said: ''The millionaire calls himself a 'self-made man,' but if he gets arrested, he blames his abusive parents."

  I wish I could say that I experienced a magical transformation but it wasn't true. However, Dr. Simon's comment was insidious. It kept coming up in my mind over the next few weeks. Again and again, as I heard myself blaming my father for this or that, a little internal voice said, "Okay, suppose your father is all those bad things you said. How long do you think you can get away with blaming him for your life?"

  Slowly, inexorably, my thinking shifted. I heard myself blaming a lot. After a while, I realized that I had created a life in which I was not a central figure! I was the object of the action, not the subject. That felt even more uncomfortable than any feeling I had in Dr. Sireoh's class. I didn't want to be a puppet. I wanted to be an actor, not a re-actor. The process of growth wasn't easy or fast. It took over a year before people noticed that I was taking responsibility for my own actions, my own choices, my own feelings. I was surprised at how my grades improved in all my subjects. I was astounded at the increase in the numberand qualityof my friends. I was equally astonished by how much smarter my father seemed.

  All through this process, I kept sending in my thought cards. Later, I took another course with this unique teacher. I worked harder for him than I had in any other class I had ever taken. With each thought card came more unsettling questions for thought.

  Page 178

  Several years later, I was astounded at my own progress. From a struggling, marginal student I became a successful student and then a successful high school teacher. I went from constant anger and constant avoidance of the necessary work in my life to someone who was energized, excited, purposeful and even joyful.

  My relationship with my father also improved dramatically. Instead of controlling, now I saw him as concerned and caring. I recognized that he didn't have "smooth" ways of parenting me but that his intentions were very loving. The fights diminished and finally disappeared. I learned to see my father as a smart, wise and loving man. And it all started with a question, an innocent-seeming question.

  Hanoch McCarty

  Page 179

  5

  ON DEATH AND DYING

  Life is eternal; and love is immortal; and death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.

  Rossiter Worthington Raymond

  Page 180

  A Treasure in Time

  They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies.

  William Penn

  Interstate 40 stretched endlessly before me. I was coming home from the first family reunion without Bob, held in June of 1995. Memories of our short nine years of marriage flooded through me.

  We both worked for the Social Security Administration and three years previously accepted positions in a field office in Oklahoma City, a transfer we needed for any future advancements. In February 1995, a 10-week training session for a promotion sent me to Dallas, Texas; a session cut short by the news of a bomb ripping through the Alfred P. Murrah Building in Oklahoma City.

  My Bob was in that building.

  When Bob and I first met, he was putting together a tape of love songs titled "20 Years of Loving You," gleaned from albums and 45s borrowed from friends, some of whom were unattached women with their own agenda.

  Page 181

  I offered him the use of my record collection and asked him to use my favorite, Stevie Wonder's "I Just Called to Say I Love You."

  By the time Bob finished the tape, we had been dating for several weeks. One Saturday, he called and said he had a surprise for me. As I got in the car and we headed for the highway, he took out a cassette and slid his finished tape into the tape deck. My own voice, taken from a message I once left on his answering machine, came out of the speaker: "I just called . . . " The tape then faded into the mus
ic of Stevie Wonder. "This one is especially for you," he said.