All I Would Ever Need

I had always felt like a misfit in school. My friends,
although good and true friends, were not in the crowd of
popular kids in school. Besides, I was sure I was funny
looking. I just didn't fit the mold.
Parading constantly before my eyes was "the fun group"
- the popular kids - always laughing and whispering, never
sad or depressed, skipping their way through school, the
best of friends. Teachers loved them, boys loved them, the
whole school loved them. I worshipped them and wanted to be
just like them. I dreamed of the day that they would accept
me.
My dream came true when I turned fourteen and I tried
out for the cheerleading squad. To my surprise, I was
chosen. Almost instantly, I was thrust into the "in crowd."
I felt like a butterfly coming out of a cocoon. I changed
my hair and the way I dressed. Everyone thought the change
in me was fantastic - new clothes, a new group of friends
and a new outlook on life.
Almost overnight, the whole school knew who I was, or
at least they knew my name. There were parties and
sleepovers, and of course, cheering at the games. I was
finally one of the popular kids. Everyone I had hoped to
know, I knew. Everything I had wanted to be, I was.
Something strange was happening to me, however. The
more I was included with the "in crowd," the more confused I
became. In reality, these people were far from perfect.
They talked behind each other's backs while they pretended
to be best friends. They rarely had a truly good time but
smiled and faked it. They cared about what I was wearing
and who I was seen with. But they didn't care about who I
was, what I believed in, what my dreams were or what made me
who I was. It was a shock to see them as they really were,
instead of as I had "thought" they were.
I began to feel a huge sense of loss and
disappointment. But worst of all, I realized that I was
becoming just like them, and I didn't like what was
happening at all. I had to get my life back in order.
I concentrated first on finding out who my real friends
were - the ones who listened and who really cared about me.
They were the only ones who really mattered. I stayed with
cheerleading because I really enjoyed it. But I stopped
hanging around with only the popular kids, and I widened my
circle of friends. I found out that my real friends had
never left me. They were simply waiting for me to come to
my senses. I finally realized that my original friends were
all I would ever need.

from Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul
Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty
Hansen and Irene Dunlap

When You Thought I Wasn't Looking

When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you hang my another one.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you feed a
stray cat, and I thought it was good to be kind to animals.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw you make my
favorite cake for me, and I knew that little things are
special things.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I heard you say a
prayer, and I believed there is a God I could always talk
to.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I felt you kiss me
good night, and I felt loved.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw tears come
from your eyes, and I learned that sometimes things hurt,
but it's all right to cry.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I saw that you cared
and I wanted to be everything that I could be.
When you thought I wasn't looking, I looked ... and
wanted to say thanks for all the things I saw when you
thought I wasn't looking.

By Author Unknown
from A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Hanoch
McCarty & Meladee McCarty

My Hero

It is Thursday. I hate Thursday. Today, multitudes of
parents and children make long trips in order to arrive at
this destination ... hell. It is a crowded and noisy place.
It is a place where people do not smile, a place where pain
and fear lurk around every corner. I exit the elevator on
the fourth floor, turn the far-too-familiar corner, and sit
in the uncomfortable chair. People are all around me, yet I
am alone. Although my journey has just begun for today, it
is not an unfamiliar one. I have been here many times
before. Twenty-one grooves in each tile. I have counted them
often. I settle myself in my chair because I know it may be
some time before my name is called. Suddenly, I hear a
strange sound. It is a laugh. I can hardly believe it, for
no one laughs on Thursday. Thursday is chemo day on 4B.
I scan the crowded reception area, looking for the
source of the laughter. I note child after child, parent
after parent. They all look the same - tired and frightened.
I am certain each is thinking the same thought: Why is the
treatment worse than the disease? My eyes lock on one
particular mother who is holding her baby, a boy of about
eight months. The laugh is his. He is bouncing on his
mother's knee. It is obvious this is the child's favorite
game. The mother's face is one big smile. She relishes the
brief moments of happiness in her son's short life. She
realizes it may be a while before he has the strength to
smile again. He, too, has been chosen to suffer an unfair
and uncertain fate. My eyes fill with tears.
I shift in my seat to get a better view of the baby. I
stare at his small, bald head. Baldness is not unusual in an
infant, but I know why he is hairless. Suddenly I become
angry with myself. I despise it when people stare at me;
however, here I am sharing the stares I abhor.
I shift my weight once again and sink more deeply into
the groove of my chair. A rush of emotions - anger, fear,
sadness, pity - surge through me. I remain deeply engrossed
in my thoughts for a long time. A booming voice interrupts
my reverie. It is the nurse summoning mother and baby into
hell. Simultaneously the bouncing and laughing cease. The
mother picks up her son. As they walk past me, I look at the
baby once more. He is completely calm. His eyes are bright
and there is an expression of complete trust on his tiny
face. I know that I will never forget that expression.
This is but one of many Thursdays. However, on this
particular Thursday, many months into a seemingly endless
series of treatments, I learned a lesson from a little baby.
He changed my life. He taught me that anger, tears and
sadness are only for those who have given up. He also taught
me to trust. This I will carry with me always. Today, my
little hero is doing fine. His last treatment is in sight
and his future looks bright. I can honestly say that I am a
little surprised. That bright-eyed baby appeared so pale and
sick that day. However, that was before I learned to trust.
Everyone, some sooner than others, must endure his or
her own personal "hell on earth." It is important to keep
searching for the small joys, although they are sometimes
the most elusive. Trust that these joys will appear,
sometimes unexpectedly, and often in life's darkest moments
... for instance, in the smile on a baby's face.

By Katie Gill
from Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty
Aubery & Nancy Mitchell, R.N.

The Donor

My grown daughter, Sara, and I were very good friends.
She lived with her family in a nearby town which allowed us
to see each other very often. In between visits we wrote or
talked on the phone.
When she called me, she always said, "Hi, Mom, it's me,"
and I'd say, "Hi, Me, how are you today?" She often signed
her letters simply, "Me." Sometimes I'd call her "Me" just
to tease.
Then my poor Sara died suddenly, without warning, from
a brain hemorrhage. Needless to say, I was devastated! There
can be no worse pain for a parent than to lose a beloved
child. It took all my considerable faith to keep going.
We decided to donate her organs so at least that much
good could come from such an otherwise tragic situation. In
due time, I heard from the Organ Retrieval Group telling me
where all her organs went. No names were mentioned, of
course.
About one year later, I received a beautiful letter
from the young man who received her pancreas and kidney.
What a difference it made in his life!
Praise God! And since he couldn't use his own name,
guess how he signed his letter: "Me"!
My cup runneth over.

By Mary M. Jelinek
from A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Hanoch
McCarty & Meladee McCarty