All the Good Things

He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in Morris, Minn.  All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was one in a million.  Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive attitude that made even his occasional mischieviousness delightful. 

Mark talked incessantly.  I had to remind him again and again that talking without permission was not acceptable.  What impressed me so much, though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for misbehaving -  "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!"  I didn't know what to make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many times a day. 

One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too often, and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake.  I looked at him and said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!" 

It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it. 

I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning.  I walked to my desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth.  I then returned to the front of the room.  As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing he winked at me.  That did it!  I started laughing.  The class cheered as I walked back to Mark's desk, removed the tape and shrugged my shoulders. 

His first words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister." 

At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again.  He was more handsome than ever and just as polite.  Since he had to listen carefully to my instructions in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as he had in the third. 

One Friday, things just didn't feel right.  We had worked hard on a new concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated with themselves - and edgy with one another.  I had to stop this crankiness before it got out of hand.  So I asked them to list the names of he other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name.  Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. 

It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. 

Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister.  Have a good weekend." 

That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. 

On Monday I gave each student his or her list.  Before long, the entire class was smiling.  "Really?"  I heard whispered.  "I never knew that meant anything to anyone!"   "I didn't know others liked me so much!" 

No one ever mentioned those papers in class again.  I never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose.  The students were happy with themselves and one another again. 

That group of students moved on.  Several years later, after I returned from vacation, my parents met me at the airport.  As we were driving home, Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip - the weather, my experiences in general.  There was a light lull in the conversation. Mother  gave Dad a side-ways glance and simply says, "Dad?"  My father cleared his  throat as he usually did before something important.  "The Eklunds called last night," he began.  "Really?" I said.  "I haven't heard from them in years.  I wonder how Mark is." 

Dad responded quietly.  "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend." 

To this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me about Mark. I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before.  Mark looked so handsome, so mature.  All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I would give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me. 

The church was packed with Mark's friends.  Chuck's sister sang "The Battle Hymn of the Republic."  Why did it have to rain on the day of the funeral? 

It was difficult enough at the graveside.  The pastor said the usual prayers, and the bugler played taps.  One by one those who loved Mark took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water. 

I was the last one to bless the coffin.  As I stood there, one of the soldiers who had acted as pallbearer came up to me.  "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked.  I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark talked about you a lot," he said. 

After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chucks farmhouse for lunch.  Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting for me.  "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed.  We thought you might recognize it." 

Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.  "Thank you so much for doing that" Mark's mother said.  "As you can see, Mark  treasured it." 

Mark's classmates started to gather around us.  Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list.  It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."  Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put this in our wedding album."  "I have mine too," Marilyn said.  "It's in my diary."  Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group.  "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash.  "I think we all saved our lists. 

That's when I finally sat down and cried.  I cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again. 

Some time ago, a friend of mine punished his 3-year-old daughter for wasting a roll of gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he became infuriated when the child tried to decorate a box . Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift to her father  the next morning and said, "This is for you, Daddy."  He was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction, but his anger flared again when he found that the box was empty. He yelled at her, "Don't you know that  when you give someone a present, there's supposed to be something inside of it?" The little girl looked up at him with tears in her eyes and  said, "Oh,Daddy it's not empty.  I blew kisses into the box. All for you, Daddy." The father was crushed.  He put his arms around  his little girl, and he begged her forgiveness. My friend told me that he kept that gold box by his bed for years. Whenever he  was discouraged, he would take out an imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child who had put it there. 

In the days when an ice cream sundae cost much less, a 10-year old boy entered a hotel coffee shop and sat at a table. A  waitress put a glass of water in front of him.  "How much is an  ice cream sundae?" "Fifty cents," replied the waitress.  The little boy pulled his hand out of his pocket and studied a number of coins in it. "How much is a dish of plain ice cream?" he inquired. Some people were now waiting for a table and the waitress  was a bit impatient. "Thirty-five cents," she said brusquely. 

The little boy again counted the coins. "I’ll have the plain  ice cream," he said. The waitress brought the ice cream, put the bill on the table, and walked away. The boy finished the ice cream, paid the  cashier and departed. When the waitress came back, she began wiping down the table and then swallowed hard at what she saw. There, placed neatly beside the empty dish, were two nickels and five pennies - her tip. 

It's Never Too Late

Several years ago, while attending a communications course, I experienced a most unusual  process. The instructor asked us to list anything in our past that we felt ashamed of, guilty about,regretted, or incomplete about. The next week he invited participants to read their lists aloud. This seemed like a very private process, but there's always some brave soul in the crowd who will volunteer. As people read their lists, mine grew longer. After three weeks, I had 101 items on my list. The instructor then suggested that we find ways to make amends, apologize to people, or take some action to right any wrongdoing. I was seriously wondering how this could ever improve my communications, having visions of alienating just about everyone from my life. 
  The next week, the man next to me raised his hand and volunteered this story: 
  "While making my list, I remembered an incident from high school. I grew up in a small town in Iowa. There was a sheriff in town that none of us kids liked. One night, my two buddies and I decided to play a trick on Sheriff Brown. After drinking a few beers, we found a can of red paint, climbed the tall water tank in the middle of town, and wrote, on the tank, in bright red letters: Sheriff Brown is an s.o.b. The next day, the town arose to see our glorious sign. Within two hours, Sheriff Brown had my two pals and me in his office. My friends confessed and I lied, denying the truth. No one ever found out. 
  "Nearly 20 years later, Sheriff Brown's name appears on my list. I didn't even know if he was still alive. Last weekend, I dialed information in my hometown back in Iowa. Sure enough, there was a Roger Brown still listed. I dialed his number. After a few rings, I heard: `Hello?' I said: `Sheriff Brown?' Pause. `Yup.' `Well, this is Jimmy Calkins. And I want you to know that I did it.' Pause. `I knew it!' he yelled back. We had a good laugh and a lively discussion. His closing words were: `Jimmy, I always felt badly for you because your buddies got it off their chest, and I knew you were carrying it around all these years. I want to thank you for calling me...for your sake.'" 

Jimmy inspired me to clear up all 101 items on my list. It took me almost two years, but became the springboard and true inspiration for my career as a conflict mediator. No matter how difficult the conflict, crisis or situation, I always remember that it's never too late to clear up the past and begin resolution. 

A Story of Love

 "Can I see my baby?" the happy new mother asked.  When the bundle was nestled in her arms and she moved the fold of cloth  to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The doctor turned  quickly and  looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without  ears. 

 Time proved that the baby's hearing was perfect. It was only his  appearance that was marred. When he rushed home from school one day and  flung himself into his mother's arms, she sighed, knowing that his life  was to be a succession of heartbreaks. He blurted out the tragedy. "A  boy, a big boy...called me a freak." 

 He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow  students, he might have been class president, but for that. He  developed a gift, a talent for literature and music. "But you might   mingle with other young people," his mother reproved him, but felt a   kindness in her heart. 

 The boy's father had a session with the family physician. Could nothing  be done? " I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they  could be procured" the doctor decided. Whereupon the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man. 

 Two years went by. Then, "You are going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it's a secret" said the father. 

 The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs. Later he married and entered the diplomatic service. 

 "But I must know!" He urged his father. "Who gave so much for me? I could never do enough for him." 

 "I do not believe you could," said the father, "but the agreement was that you are not to know...not yet." 

 The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come...one of the darkest days that ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over his mother's casket. 

 Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish-brown hair to reveal...that the mother had no outer ears. 

 "Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut," he whispered  gently, "and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful, did they?" 

Live life to the fullest

My brother-in-law opened the bottom drawer of my sister's bureau and  lifted out a tissue-wrapped package. "This," he said, "is not a slip.  This is lingerie." He discarded the tissue and handed me the slip. It  was exquisite; silk, handmade and trimmed with a cobweb of lace. The price tag with an astronomical figure on it was still attached. "Jan  bought this the first time we went to New York, at least 8 or 9 years  ago. She never wore it. She was saving it for a special occasion. Well, I guess this is the occasion." He took the slip from me and put  it on the bed with the other clothes we were taking to the mortician.  His hands lingered on the soft material for a moment, then he slammed the drawer shut and turned to me. "Don't ever save anything for a special occasion. Every day you're alive is a special occasion." I remembered those words through the funeral and the days that followed when I helped him and my niece attend to all the sad chores that  follow an unexpected death. I thought about them on the plane returning to California from the Midwestern town where my sister's  family lives. I thought about all the things that she hadn't seen or heard or done. I thought about the things that she had done without realising that they were special. I'm still thinking about his words, and they've changed my life. I'm reading more and dusting less. I'm sitting on the deck and admiring the view without fussing about the weeds in the garden. I'm spending more time with my family and friends and less time in committee meetings. Whenever possible, life should be a pattern of experience to savor, not endure. I'm trying to recognise these moments now and cherish them. I'm not "saving" anything; we use our good china and crystal for every special event-such as losing a pound, getting the sink unstopped, the first camellia blossom. I wear my good blazer to the market if I feel like it. My theory is if I look prosperous, I can shell out $28.49 for one small bag of groceries without wincing. I'm not saving my good perfume for special parties; clerks in hardware stores and tellers in banks have noses that function as well as my party-going friends. "Someday" and "one of these days" are losing their grip on my vocabulary. If it's worth seeing or hearing or doing, I want to see and hear and do it now. I'm not sure what my sister would have done had she known that she wouldn't be here for the tomorrow we all take for granted. I think she  would have called family members and a few close friends. She might have called a few former friends to apologise and mend fences for past squabbles. I like to think she would have gone out for a Chinese dinner, her favourite food. I'm guessing-I'll never know. It's those little things left undone that would make me angry if I knew that my hours were limited. Angry because I put off seeing good Friends whom I was going to get in touch with-someday. Angry because I hadn't written certain letters that I intended to write-one of these days. Angry and sorry that I didn't tell my husband and daughter often enough how much I truly love them. I'm trying very hard not to put off, hold back, or save anything that would add laughter and luster to our lives. And every morning when I open my eyes, I tell myself that it is special. Every day, every minute, every breath truly is...a gift from God. If  you've received this it is because someone cares for you and it means there is probably at least someone for whom you care. If you're too busy to take the few minutes that it would take right now to forward this to ten people, would it be the first time you didn't do that little thing that would make a difference in your relationships? I can tell you it certainly won't be the last. 

A Simple Act of Love

When I was growing up, my father always stopped what he was doing and listened while I'd breathlessly fill him in on my day. For him, no subject was off-limits. When I was a lanky and awkward 13, Dad coached me on how to stand and walk like a lady. At 17 and madly in love, I sought his advice on pursuing a new student at school. "Keep the conversation neutral," he counseled. "And ask him about his car." 
  I followed his suggestions and gave him daily progress reports: "Terry walked me to my locker!" Guess what? Terry held my hand!" Dad! He asked me out!" Terry and I went steady for over a year, and soon Dad was joking, "I can tell you how to get a man; the hard part is getting rid of him." 
  By the time I graduated from college, I was ready to spread my wings. I got a job teaching special education at a school in Coachella, California, a desert town about 170 miles from home. 
It was no dream job. Low-income housing across the street from the school was a haven for drug users. Street gangs hung around the school after dark. Many of my charges, emotionally disturbed 10-to 14-year-old boys, had been arrested for shoplifting, car theft or arson. 
  "Be careful," Dad warned me during one of my frequent weekend visits home. He was concerned about my living alone, but I was 23, enthusiastic and naive, and I needed to be on my own. Besides, teaching jobs were tight in 1974, and I felt lucky to have one.   "Don't worry," I reassured him, as I loaded up the car to start my trip back to the desert and my job.   Several evenings later I stayed after school to rearrange my classroom. Finished, I turned out the light and closed the door. Then I headed toward the gate. It was locked! I looked around. Everyone - teachers, custodians, secretaries - had gone home and, not realizing I was still there, stranded me on the school grounds. I glanced at my watch - it was almost 6p.m. I had been so engrossed in my work that I hadn't noticed the time. 

  After checking all the exits, I found just enough room to squeeze under a gate in the rear of the school. I pushed my purse through first, lay on my back and slowly edged through.   I retrieved my purse and walked toward my car, parked in a field behind the building. Eerie shadows fell across the schoolyard. 

  Suddenly, I heard voices. I glanced around and saw at least eight high-school-age boys following me. They were half a block away. Even in the near darkness I could see they were wearing gang insignia. 

  "Hey!" one called out. "You a teacher?"   "Nah, she's too young - must be an aide!" another said.   As I walked faster, they continued taunting me. "Hey! She's kinda cute!"   Quickening my pace, I reached into my shoulder bag to get my key ring. If I have the keys in my hands, I thought, I can unlock the car and get in before...My heart was pounding.  Frantically, I felt all over the inside of my handbag. But the key ring wasn't there!   "Hey! Let's get the lady!" one boy shouted.   Dear God, please help me, I prayed silently. Suddenly, my fingers wrapped around a loose key in my purse. I didn't even know if it was for my car, but I took it out and clutched it firmly.   I jogged across the grass to my car and tried the key. It worked! I opened the door, slid in and locked it - just as the teenagers surrounded the car, kicking the sides and banging on  the roof. Trembling, I started the engine and drove away.   Later, some teachers went back to the school with me. With flashlights, we found the key ring on the ground by the gate, where it had fallen as I slid through.   When I returned to my apartment, the phone was ringing. It was Dad. I didn't tell him about my ordeal; I didn't want to worry him. 
  "Oh, I forgot to tell you!" he said. "I had an extra car key made and slipped it into your pocketbook - just in case you ever need it." 

  Today, I keep that key in my dresser drawer and treasure it. Whenever I hold it in my hand, I am reminded of all the wonderful things Dad has done for me over the years. I realize that, although he is now 68 and I am 40, I still look to him for wisdom, guidance and reassurance. Most of all, I marvel at the fact that his thoughtful gesture of making the extra key may have saved my life. And I understand how a simple act of love can make extraordinary things happen. 

Teddy Stoddard

Jean Thompson stood in front of her fifth-grade class on the very  first   day of school in the fall and told the children a lie.  Like most   teachers, she looked at her pupils and said that she loved them all  the  same, that she would treat them all alike.  And that was impossible  because there in front of her, slumped in his seat on the third row,was a  little boy named Teddy Stoddard. 

 Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed he didn't  play well with the other children, that his clothes were unkempt and that  he constantly needed a bath.  And Teddy was unpleasant.  It got to the point during the first few months that she would actually  take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's  and then marking the F at the top of the paper biggest of all. Because  Teddy was a sullen little boy, no one else seemed to enjoy him, either. 

 At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each  child's records and put Teddy's off until last.  When she opened his  file, she was in for a surprise. 

 His first-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright, inquisitive child with  a ready laugh.  He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around." 

 His second-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student well-liked  by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal  illness and life at home must be a struggle." 

 His third-grade teacher wrote, "Teddy continues to work hard but his  mother's death has been hard on him.  He tries to do his best but his  father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him  if some steps aren't taken." 

 Teddy's fourth-grade  teacher wrote, "Teddy is  withdrawn and doesn't  show much interest in  school. He doesn't have many friends and sometimes  sleeps in class. He is tardy and could become a problem." 

 By now Mrs. Thompson realized the problem but Christmas was coming fast.  It was all she could do, with the school play and all, until the day  before the holidays began and she was suddenly forced to focus on Teddy  Stoddard. 

 Her children brought her presents, all in beautiful ribbon and bright  paper, except for Teddy's, which was clumsily wrapped in the heavy,brown  paper of a scissored grocery bag. 

 Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents.  Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone  bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was  one-quarter full of cologne. She stifled the children's laughter when she  exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of  the perfume behind the other wrist. 

 Teddy Stoddard stayed behind just long enough to  say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my mom used to."  After the children left she  cried for at least an hour. 

 On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and speaking.   Instead, she began to teach children.  Jean Thompson paid particular  attention to one they all called "Teddy."  As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive.  The more she encouraged him, the faster he 
 responded. 

 On days there would be an important test, Mrs. Thompson would remember that cologne.  By the end of the year he had become one of the smartest  children in the class and...well, he had also become the "pet" of the  teacher who had once vowed to love all of her children exactly the 
 same. 

 A year later she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her  that of all the teachers he'd had in elementary school, she was his  favorite. 

 Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote  that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was still  his favorite teacher of all time.  Four years after that, she got another  letter, saying that while things had been tough at times,  he'd stayed in  school, had stuck with it, and would graduate from college with the  highest of honors.  He assured Mrs. Thompson she was still his favorite  teacher. 

 Then four more years passed and yet another letter came.  This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a  little further. The letter explained that she was still his favorite  teacher but that now his name was a little longer.  The letter was  signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, M.D. 

 The story doesn't end there. You see, there was yet another letter that  Spring.  Teddy said he'd met this girl and was to be married.  He  explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was  wondering...well, if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the pew usually  reserved for the mother of the groom. 

 And guess what, she wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones  missing.  And I bet on that special day, Jean Thompson smelled just  like... well, just like the way Teddy remembered his mother smelling on  their last Christmas together. 

  THE MORAL : 
 You never can tell what type of impact you may make on another's life by  your actions or lack of action.  Consider this fact in your venture thru  life. 

Keep on Singing

Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on the way,   she did what she could to help her 3-year-old son, Michael, prepare for a    new sibling.  They find out that the new baby is going to be a girl, and day   after day, night after night, Michael sings to his sister in  Mommy's tummy. 

The pregnancy progresses normally for Karen, an active member of the Panther   Creek United Methodist Church in Morristown, Tennessee.  Then the labor   pains come.  Every five minutes ... every minute.  But complications arise   during delivery.   Hours of  labor.  Would a C-section be required? 

Finally, Michael's little sister is born.  But she is in serious condition.   With siren howling in the night, the ambulance rushes the infant to the   neonatal intensive care unit at St. Mary's Hospital, Knoxville, Tennessee. 

The days inch by.  The little girl gets worse.  The pediatric specialist   tells the parents, "There is very little hope.  Be prepared for the worst.   "Karen and her husband contact a local cemetery about a burial plot. 

They have fixed up a special room in their home for the new baby - now they   plan a funeral. 

Michael, keeps begging his parents to let him see his sister, "I want to   sing to her," he says.  Week  two in intensive care.  It looks as if a   funeral will come before the week is over.  Michael keeps nagging about   singing to his sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care.  But   Karen makes up her mind.  She will take Michael whether they like it or not.   If he doesn't  see his sister now, he may never see her alive. 

She dresses him in an oversized scrub suit & marches him into ICU.  He looks   like a walking laundry basket, but the head nurse recognizes him as a child   & bellows, "Get that kid out of here now!  No children are allowed in ICU." 

The mother rises up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered lady   glares steel-eyed into the head nurse's face, her lips a firm line.  "He is   not leaving until he sings to his sister!" 

Karen tows Michael to his sister's bedside.   He gazes at the tiny infant   losing the battle to live.   And he begins to sing.   In the pure hearted   voice of a 3 year-old, Michael sings: 

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are   gray --- " 

Instantly the baby girl responds. The pulse rate becomes calm and steady. 

Keep on singing, Michael. 

"You never know, dear, how much I love you, Please don't take my sunshine   away---" 

The ragged, strained breathing becomes as smooth as a kitten's purr. 

Keep on singing, Michael. 

"The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed  I held you in my   arms..." 

Michael's little sister relaxes as rest, healing rest, seems to sweep over   her. 

Keep on singing, Michael. 

Tears conquer the face of the bossy head nurse.  Karen glows. 

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  Please don't, take my sunshine   away." 

Funeral plans are scrapped.  The next, day -- the very next day - the little   girl is well enough to go home!  Woman's Day magazine called it "the miracle   of a brother's song."  The medical staff just called it a miracle.  Karen   called it a miracle of God's love.