This is a fairy tale for adults. It tells the story of a circle that was missing a piece. A large triangular wedge had been cut out of it. The circle wanted to be whole with nothing missing, so it went around looking for its missing piece. 

 But because it was incomplete and therefore could only roll very  slowly, it admired the flowers along the way. It chatted with worms. It enjoyed the sunshine. It found lots of different pieces, but noneof them fit. 

 So it left them all by the side of the road and continued searching. Then one day the circle found a piece that fit perfectly. It was so happy. Now it could be whole, with nothing missing. It incorporated the missing piece into itself and began to roll. Now that it was a perfect circle, it could roll very fast, too fast to notice the flowers or talk to the worms. When it realised how different the world seemed when it rolled so quickly by, it stopped, left its found piece by the side of the road and rolled slowly away. 

 Moral of the story 

 In some strange sense we are more whole when we are missing something. 

 The man who has everything is in some ways a poor man. He will never know what it feels like to yearn, to hope, to nourish his soul with the dream of something better. He will never know the experience of having someone who loves him give him something he has always wanted and never had. 

 There is a wholeness about the person who has to come to terms with his own limitations, who has been brave enough to let go of his unrealistic dreams and not feel like a failure for doing so. There is a wholeness about the man or woman who has learned that he or she is strong enough to go through a tragedy and survive, who can lose someone and still feel like a complete person. You have been through the worst and come through intact. 

 Life is not a trap set for us by God so that he can condemn us for failing. When we accept that imperfection is a part of human being, and that we can continue rolling through life and appreciating it, we will achieve a wholeness that others can only aspire to. 

 And at the end, if we are brave enough to love, strong enough to forgive, generous enough to rejoice in another's happiness, and wise enough to know there is enough love to go around for us all, then we can achieve a fulfilment that no other living creature will ever know. 

 When heaven is going to do something beautiful, He begins with a difficulty... 

A Legacy Of Love 

As a young man, Al was a skilled artist, a potter. He had a wife and two fine sons. One night, his oldest son developed a severe stomachache. Thinking it was only some common intestinal disorder, neither Al nor his wife took the condition very seriously. But the malady was actually acute appendicitis, and the boy died suddenly that night. 

 Knowing the death could have been prevented if he had only realized the seriousness of the situation, Al's emotional health deteriorated under the enormous burden of his guilt. To make matters worse his wife left him a short time later, leaving him  alone with his six-year-old younger son. The hurt and pain of the two situations were more than Al could handle, and he turned to alcohol to help him cope. In time Al became an alcoholic. As the alcoholism progressed, Al began to lose everything he possessed - his home, his land, his art objects, everything. Eventually Al died alone is a San Francisco motel room. 

 When I heard of Al's death, I reacted with the same disdain the world shows for one who ends his life with nothing material to show for it. "What a complete failure!" I thought.  "What a  totally wasted life!" 

As time went by, I began to re-evaluate my earlier harsh  judgment. You see, I knew Al's now adult son, Ernie. He is one of the kindest, most caring, most loving men I have ever known. I watched Ernie with his children and saw the free flow of love  between them. I knew that kindness and caring had to come from  somewhere. 

I hadn't heard Ernie talk much about his father. It is so  hard to defend an alcoholic. One day I worked up my courage to ask him. "I'm really puzzled by something," I said. "I know your  father was basically the only one to raise you. What on earth did  he do that you became such a special person?" 

Ernie sat quietly and reflected for a few moments. Then he said, "From my earliest memories as a child until I left home at 18, Al came into my room every night, gave me a kiss and said, `I love you, son." 

 Tears came to my eyes as I realized what a fool I had been to judge Al as a failure. He had not left any material possessions behind. But he had been a kind loving father, and he left behind one of the finest, most giving men I have ever known. 

Grandma's Gift 

There's a story I read to which some of you may be able to relate about a woman's remembrances of her grandmother,  Gagi. At the time of her grandfather's death, at 90 years of age, her grandparents had been married for over 50 years. Gagi  felt the loss deeply. The central focus had been taken from her life, and she retreated from the world, entering into an  extended period of mourning. Her grieving lasted nearly five years, and during that time, her granddaughter visited her  every week or two. One day she visited Gagi expecting to find her in her usual state of quiescence. Instead, she found her  sitting in her wheelchair beaming. 

When she didn't comment quickly enough about the obvious change in her demeanor,  Gagi confronted her: "Don't you want to know why I'm so happy?  Aren't you even curious?" She went on to explain: "Last  night I got an answer. I finally know why God took my husband and left me behind to live without him. Your grandfather  knew that the secret of life is love, and he lived it every day. He had become unconditional love in action. I have known about unconditional love, but I haven't fully lived it. That's why he got to go first, and I had to stay behind. All this time I thought I was being punished for something, but last night I found out that I was left behind as a gift from God. He let me stay so that I too could turn my life into love. You see, you can't learn the lesson after you die. Love has to be lived here on earth. Once you leave, it's too late. So I was given the gift of life so that I can learn to live love here and now." 

On one of  her subsequent visits, Gagi told her of something that had happened to her that day. "This morning, your uncle was upset and angry with me over something I had done. I didn't even flinch. I received his anger, wrapped it in love and returned it  with joy." Her eyes twinkled as she added, "It was even kind of fun, and his anger dissolved." Though age continued on its  course, Gagi's life was vigorously renewed. In the last days of her life, the granddaughter visited her often in the hospital. 

 As she walked toward her room one day, the nurse on duty looked into her eyes and said, "Your grandmother is a very  special lady, you know...she's a light." Yes, love and joy lit up her life and she became a light for others until the end.

A Mother's Courage

It has been seven years since my son, Ryan White, died. Ryan had hemophilia, and he contracted AIDS from a blood product that hemophiliacs make to help their blood clot properly. This was before anyone really knew very much about AIDS. He was only 13 years old when lie was diagnosed. The doctors told us then that Ryan would be lucky if he lived another six months 

Ryan lived six more years and was "the kid who put a face to the AIDS disease and helped to educate the nation,President Clinton said that about my Ryan on the day that he signed the authorization of the Ryan White CARE Act. the Act provides medical and support services, medicine, home nursing and outpatient care to hundreds of thousands of people in America living with HIV I know Ryan would be so happy that his life, and his death, have helped so many people . 

In the beginning, when we first found out that Ryan had a fatal disease, I was totally and utterly devastated. I was a single mother of two kids who meant everything to ate, and my son, my first-born, was-going to die. I didn't think we could go on. Then, on top of that nightmare we had to deal with the ignorance, fear and hatred that surrounded AIDS at that time. Ryan wanted to go back to school but the school wouldn't allow him to return .. Parents were afraid their children could catch AIDS from being in the same room with Ryan. We fought for him to go to school and we won, but the community hostility and pressure were too much for our family. We decided to move to another town. 

At Ryan's new high school it was a completely different story. The students actually went out of their way to welcome him: They organized AIDS education classes and arranged counseling to conquer any fear that still remained in any students. Educating the Public about this disease became Ryan's life his concern Ryan became an international spokesperson for AIDS, appearing on television and in magazines and newspapers around the world. This helped to give meaning to what had happened to our family and ease some of our pain. We learned to live with AIDS. The Nightmare of the disease is that it brings you one powerful infection after another . I thought every cough every fever might be his last. with AIDS, you never know whether a symptom Is serious or mild. The patient is sick and then gets well, and no sooner does he get well than he gets sick again. 

Ryan was almost always in a good mood. Even when he had to go to the hospital, he'd try to give me a smile when I walked in the door However, sometimes if he couldn't do something Go to a particular concert, or meet some exciting people, or travel to an  interesting place because tie was too sick or too tied up with school, he'd get pouty and upset Then I might scold him. He'd feel contrite and apologize right away. Maybe write me a note or send a card. 

A sick person would have to be downright saintly never to give in to crankiness. And if you're the one giving care, you can't ever take an angry outburst personally because it's really the illness spreading or the medication speaking and not the true, loving heart inside. 

One day Ryan just grabbed my hand and started swinging it."Now, Ryan, when you do something nice as this, you must want something. 

"I don't want anything. Can't a son hold his mother's. hand?" 

"Come on now, Ryan ..." 

"No, really, Mom. I want to thank you for all you've done for me. Standing by me like you've done. 

No one can ever take those words away from me. No one can ever take away what I felt that day as a mother. 

I remember someone once asked me, "How do you live, Jeanne, day to day, knowing that your son is going to die?" 

I answered, "We don't think about death. We don't have time for it. If you allow it into your life, it will eat you up. You have to go on with your life making the most of every day and every hour. 

Finally the time came when Ryan's body couldn't keep going. When Ryan was dying, the hospital staff must have thought we were insane. Here's this comatose kid, on life support, with a half-crazy mother calling his name, talking to him while he slept. He probably couldn't hear a thing, we brought him music. He couldn't see a thing, but we stood precariously on chairs, hanging decorative posters and banners on the walls above the screens and the wires and the beeping monitors. We didn't want to give up on him. Yet as I stood there watching Ryan's thin little body, I knew there was nothing more anybody could do, Before he drifted into unconsciousness, Ryan had told me, "if you think there's a chance, Mom, go for it" We did. Until the last second, we went for everything we could. 

I leaned down close to him and whispered, "It's okay, son. You can let go" 

Then he died. They revived him for a few minutes. Momentarily he would die again. I knew that perfectly well. I knew there was no chance. But still, to have to call the battle lost . it was a moment of inexpressible sorrow for me and my family. If you want, you can tell them no more," a close friend said. It's up to you, Jeanne." 

I talked to my parents and to Ryan's sister. Andrea. Then I told the doctors, No more." 

Dr. Marty KIeirnan, who had taken care of Ryan from the beginning, who helped him live for almost six years when other physicians predicted he would die in six months, went out and made the announcement that my boy had passed away in his sleep, without pain. 

The sparkle was gone. 

Now, seven years later, the sparkle is slowly returning. My state of mind is like the dawn these days. I look forward to everything I love being married. My new husband, Roy, has made my life fun again. My daughter, Andrea, has grown into a strong, smart, beautifulperson. I look forward to everything our life has in store for the adventures, travels,grandchildren. On the edge of the  sky just beyond a cloud, I think I really see the end of the plague of AIDS.Every day, people whose lives once seemed to be finished are bursting with new health The cure is coming It's almost here. I feel that I will live to see it. what greater gift can anyone receive than this sense of happy anticipation? 

The garden has been my therapy. Here among the flowers and the bright fruit, when the light is blinding and everything is fresh and wet and the leaves are beaded up with dewdrops, I work in the household of nature and refresh my spirit it seems to me that every weed I pull is a bit of grief I am learning to set aside, a tear I've weeded out so that good cheer can grow again 

I see in the faces of the flowers all the friends I have lost I see my son's face They are beautiful in the new morning, opening like smiles and shining with hope. 

Thank you, God, for another day. Jeanne White 

Hi, Cornelius

 I had been writing a newspaper column for almost 20 years. As part of my work I had seen some of the darkest and unhappiest aspects of human  nature, and I had written about them. It was beginning to get to me. 

There were nights when I would go home from work and question the  very nature of humanity, and wonder if there was any answer to the remitting cruelty I was observing and writing about so often. Part of this had to do with a particular case I had been covering. The case involved one of the worst crimes I had ever encountered. A beautiful, bright-eyed, four-year-old boy name Lattie McGee had been systematically tortured over the course of a long Chicago summer. He had been beaten, he had been starved, he had been hanged upside down in a locked and darkened closet for nights on end. 

 All that summer his life dwindled agonizingly away in that closet, and no one knew he was there; no one heard his muffled cries. After his  death, when the police discovered what had been done to him, I wrote column after column about the people who had murdered him. So many cases  of impoverished children from forgotten neighborhoods get lost in the  court system. I wanted to make sure that Lattie McGee received justice, or something close to it. 

With all the public interest in Lattie because of the columns, the story of his brother, whose name was Cornelius Abraham, did not receive as much attention. The same things that were done to Lattie were done to  Cornelius, too. Somehow he survived. He watched his brother slowly being  killed and was unable to stop the killers. Cornelius' brave testimony in  court is what helped to convict them. 

By the end of the trial Cornelius had just turned nine. He was a thin, extremely quiet boy; with his little brother dead and his mother and her boyfriend in prison, he was living with other relatives. The two great loves of his life were reading and basketball. 

In one of the columns I had written about Lattie, I had mentioned Cornelius' passion for basketball. Steve Schanwald, a vice president of the Chicago Bulls, had read the column and left a message at my office.  Though tickets to Bulls' games were without exception sold out, Schanwald  said that if Cornelius would like to come to a game he would be sure there were tickets available. Jim Bigoness, the Cook County assistant state's attorney who had delicately prepared Cornelius' testimony for the trial, and I took him to the game. 

To every Chicago youngster who follows basketball, the stadium was a  shrine. Think of where Cornelius once was, locked up and tormented and hurt. And now he was in the stadium, about to see his first Bulls game.  We walked down a stairway, until we were in a lower-level hallway. Cornelius stood between us. Then a door opened and a man came out.  Cornelius looked up, and his eyes filled with a combination of wonder and awe and total disbelief.  Cornelius tried to say something; his mouth was moving but no words would come out. He tried to speak and then the man helped out by speaking first. 

"Hi, Cornelius," the man said. "I'm Michael Jordan."  Jordan knelt down and spoke quietly with Cornelius. He made some  jokes and told some stories about basketball and he didn't rush. You have to understand - for a long time the only adults Cornelius had any contact  with were adults who wanted to hurt and  humiliate him. And now Michael Jordan was saying, "Are you going to cheer for us today? We're going to  need it." 

Jordan went back into the locker room to finish dressing for the  game. Bigoness and I walked Cornelius back upstairs to the court. There  was one more surprise waiting.  Cornelius was given a red shirt of the kind worn by the Bulls' ball boys. He retrieved balls for the players from both teams as they warmed  up.  Then, as the game was about to begin, he was led to Jordan's seat on  the Bulls' bench. That's where he was going to sit - right next to Jordan's seat. During the minutes of the game when Jordan was out and  resting, Cornelius would be sitting with him; when Jordan was on the  court, Cornelius would be saving his seat for him. At one point late in the game Jordan took a pass and sailed into the air and slammed home a  basket. And there, just a few feet away, was Cornelius Abraham, laughing out loud with joy. 

I wanted to thank Jordan for taking the time to be so nice to  Cornelius. The meeting between them, I had learned, had been something  that Jordan had volunteered for; he had been aware of the Lattie McGee case, and when he had heard that the Bulls were giving Cornelius tickets  to the game, he had let it be known that he was available. 

After the game, in the locker room after the last sportswriter left, Jordan got up to retrieve his gym bag and head for home. As he walked  toward the door of the locker room he saw me and stopped, and I said, "I just wanted to tell you how much Cornelius appreciated what you did for him." 

For a second I had the strange but undeniable impression that perhaps this was a man who didn't get  thanked all that often - or at least  that there were so many people endlessly lining up to beseech him for one thing or another that all he was accustomed to was the long file of faces  in front of him wanting an autograph, a favor, a moment of his time, faces that would immediately be replaced by more faces with more entreaties. He stood there waiting, as if he was so used to ceaselessly being asked for things that he thought my thanks on Cornelius' behalf might be the inevitable preface to petitioning him for something else. 

 When I didn't say anything, he said, "That's why you  came back down here?" 

"Well I don't think you know how much today meant to Cornelius," I said. 

 "No, I'm just surprised that you came back down to tell me," he said. 

"My mom would kill me if I didn't," I said, smiling. "She tried to raise me right." 

 He smiled back, "Mine, too," he said.We shook hands and I turned to leave and I heard him say, "Do you come out to a lot of games?" 

"First one," I said. 

 "Well, you ought to come back," he said. 

He's Not My Stepfather!

My mother died when I was eight years old. It was very sad for everyone. Six months later, my father met Cathy. She had two kids, Megan and Griffin. I loved them from the very first time I saw them. I didn't realize how much  though. 

A year and a half later, my father married. They were very much in love. At the wedding, I realized how much I loved Megan and Griffin. From then on, until we found a new house big enough for our new family, we kept switching back and forth between our house and Cathy's house as we were merging our two families. One night we  were at Cathy's and we were lining up to give Cathy kisses. Griffin was last in line. After he kissed Cathy, she said,  "Grif, give your stepfather a kiss." 
 

 And Griffin, very angrily, said, "He's not my stepfather! He's my dad!"

The Birthday Present 

A week after my son started first grade, he came home with the news that Roger, the only African American in the class, was his playground partner. I swallowed and said, "That's nice. How long before someone else gets him for a partner?" 

 "Oh, I've got him for good," replied Bill. 

In another week, I had news that Bill had asked if Roger could be his desk partner. 

Unless you were born and reared in the Deep South, as I was, you cannot know what this means. I went for an appointment with the teacher, She met me with tired cynical eyes. "Well, I suppose you want a new desk partner for your child, too," she  said. "Can you wait a few minutes? I have another mother coming in right now." 

I looked up to see a woman my age. My heart raced as I realized she must be Roger's mother. She had a quiet dignity and  much poise, but neither trait could cover the anxiety I heard in her questions: "How's Roger doing? I hope he is keeping up
with the other children? If he isn't, just let me know." 

She hesitated as she made herself ask, "Is he giving you any trouble of any kind? I mean, what with his having to change desks so much?" I felt the terrible tension in her, for she knew the answer. But I was proud of that first-grade teacher for her gentle reply: "No, Roger is not giving me any trouble. I try to move all the children around the first few weeks until each has  just the right partner." I introduced myself and said that my son was to be Roger's new partner and I hoped they would like each other. Even then I knew it was only a surface wish, not a deep-felt one. But it helped her, I could see. 

Twice Roger invited Bill to come home with him, but I found excuses. Then came the heartache that I will always suffer. 

On my birthday Bill came home from school with a grimy piece of paper folded into a very small square. Unfolding it, I  found three flowers and "Happy Birthday" crayoned on the paper and a nickel. 

"That's from Roger," said Bill. "It's his milk money. When I said today was your birthday, he made me bring it to you. He said you are his friend, because you're the only mother who didn't make him get another desk partner." 

Double Duty

 As a member of a "dog family," I had long been conditioned to believe that cats simply didn't possess the ability or desire to be loving companions. This belief was so deeply ingrained that, while I didn’t actually dislike cats, I found  them, for the most part, uninteresting. 

Arriving home from work one afternoon, I discovered a cat at my doorstep. I ignored him, but apparently he was  not offended, because he was there again the following day. 

"I'll pet you," I told him, "but there's no way you're coming in." 

Then one night soon after, as the rain beat down and thunder clapped, I heard a faint meow. I couldn't take it  anymore; I became a cat owner. 

My new roommate, now named Shotzy, quickly became more than just a stray cat to feed. I liked the way his soft  purring greeted me every morning and the way he nudged his head against my leg when I came home each day. His  playful antics made me laugh, and soon Shotzy seemed more like a longtime friend than a pet I hadn't really wanted.

Although I suspected Shotzy had been an outdoor cat for a good portion of his life, he seemed perfectly content to stay inside, except for one remarkable exception. As if an alarm had gone off, at about 6 o'clock every night he'd cry to go out. Then, almost exactly one hour later, he'd be back. He did this for several months before I finally
discovered what he had been up to. 

One day a neighbor who knew about Shotzy showing up at my doorstep told me she thought the cat might belong to an elderly woman who lived down the street. Worried that I had mistakenly adopted someone's pet, I took Shotzy to the woman's house the next day. 

When a white-haired woman opened the door, Shotzy bolted from my arms, ran into the house and made himself at home in a big recliner. The woman just threw her head back and laughed, saying, "Jimmy always did love his chair."

My heart sank — my Shotzy was obviously her Jimmy. 

I explained I had taken him in and only discovered the day before that he may have already had a home. Again, the old woman chuckled. She invited me in and explained that the cat did not belong to her. 

"But, I thought you called him Jimmy," I questioned. 

The woman, who said her name was Mary, explained that Jimmy was her husband’s name. He had died about a year before, just a few months after being diagnosed with cancer. 

Before Jimmy died, he and Mary would eat dinner at 5 o'clock every night. Afterward, they would retire to the living room, Jimmy to his favorite chair, to talk about the day's events. The couple had followed that routine every night for the 60 years they were married. After Jimmy's death, with no other family nearby, Mary said she just felt lost. And more than anything, she missed their nightly after-dinner talks. 

Then one night a stray cat meowed demandingly at her screen door. When she cracked open the door to shoo him away, he ran straight to Jimmy's chair and made himself comfortable, as if he had lived there forever. 

Mary, who had never had a pet in her life, found herself smiling at the animal. She gave him a little milk and then he cuddled on her lap. She talked to him about her life, but mostly about Jimmy. At about 7 o'clock, at which time she normally turned on the TV and made herself some hot tea, the creature slipped off her lap and went to the door. At 6 o’clock the next evening, the cat was back. Soon, Shotzy and Mary had their own routine. 

"Now, I believe in the Good Lord," Mary told me. "I don't know about all that reincarnation stuff, but sometimes it feels just like I'm talking to Jimmy when that little cat is here. I know that sounds strange, and I guess it doesn’t really matter; what’s important is that the cat is a real comfort to me. But it’s interesting to think on, all the same." 

So Mary and I continued to share Shotzy. At my house, he revealed to me the many daily joys that come with living with a cat. At Mary’s, his presence served to fill the six o’clock hour with happy companionship. 

Our marvelous cat seemed to have an uncanny knack for always being in the right place at the right time.

Dogs Just Wanna Have Fun

My husband, Daniel, and I travel frequently. When we first got our dog, Buddha-tu (we call him Buddhi), we were concerned that he would be lonely or perhaps feel that we’d abandoned him when we left him at home during our trips away. 

When we left, we always had someone stay in our house and look after Buddhi, so we knew he was well taken care of, but we still felt guilty. I even used to leave my husband’s T-shirt for Buddhi to sleep with and made sure he got extra goodies each day we were gone. Still, I used to wonder what he made of the whole thing — did he miss his lovin’s, "his rub-a-dubs and belly pats," sleeping by our bed, taking walks with us — and who was going to play ball with him while we were away? Was our absence too traumatic for him? I supposed I would never know. 

But then one night when we called home, Buddhi made it quite clear what he missed the most when we were gone. 

We reached our housesitter, Barbara, and had her put us on the speakerphone, so that we could talk to Buddhi. He immediately started barking and howling when he heard our voices. We were jabbering at Buddhi like a pair of  fools, when we noticed we couldn’t hear him anymore. Barbara told us that he had run out of the room. 

"What was he doing?," I wondered uneasily. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to call home — perhaps Buddhi was confused and was searching the house for us. When he couldn’t find us, would he become upset and try to get outside to continue the search? What if he tried to jump through a window? My imagination was running
away with me and I couldn’t stop it. I thought, "Poor baby, he misses us so much, hearing our voices had just made it worse." I urged Barbara to go and find him. My husband and I decided to try and coax him back into the room by continuing to talk to him. 

Barbara ran after him to see what was going on and almost tripped over him as he raced back into the room, holding something in his mouth. He bounded to the phone, where we were still spouting endearments in a highly embarrassing manner. 

We heard Barbara laughing in the background and then she picked up the phone and told us that Buddhi had approached the phone, and had stood for a moment, head cocked. Then he carefully put his front paws up on the desk and set down the object in his mouth. It was his favorite ball. He put it directly on top of the speakerphone and stepped back — waiting for us to throw it.