Paint Brush

I keep my paint brush with me
Whereever I may go,
In case I need to cover up
So the real me doesn't show.
Afraid of what you'll do-that
You might laugh or say mean things.
I'm afraid I might lose you.

I'd like to remove all my paint coats
To show you the real, true ,me,
But I want you to try and understand,
I need you to accept what you see.
So if you'll be patient and close your eyes,
I'll strip off all my coats real slow.
Please understand how much it hurts
To let the real me show.

Now my coats are all stripped off.
I feel naked, bare and cold,
And if you still love me with all that you see,
You are my friend, pure as gold.
I need to save my paintbrush, though,
And hold it in my hand,
I want to keep it handy
In case someone doesn't understand.
So please protect me, my dear friend
And thanks for loving me true,
But please let me keep my paint brush with me
Until I love me, too.

By Bettie B. Youngs
From Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul

Dare to Dream

Life! What a precious gift from God. What a blessing to be
alive in a wonderful, vibrant world of unlimited possibilities.
Then, adversity strikes, and this "gift" feels more like a curse.
"Why? Why me?" we ask. Yet we never get an answer, or do we?
After contracting Hodgkin's disease at age seven and being given
six months to live, I triumphed over the odds. Call it luck,
hope, faith or courage, there are thousands of survivors! Winners
like us know the answer - "Why not us? We can handle it!" I'm not
dying of cancer. I'm living with cancer. God doesn't make junk,
regardless of what comes our way, and I don't have to be afraid
anymore.

In my sophomore year of high school, the class was scheduled
to run the mile. I will always remember that day because due to
the swelling and scars from surgery on my leg, for two solid
years I had not worn shorts. I was afraid of the teasing. So, for
two years I lived in fear. Yet that day, it didn't matter. I was
ready - shorts, heart and mind. I no sooner got to the starting
line before I heard the loud whispers. "Gross!" "How fat!" "How
ugly!" I blocked it out.
Then the coach yelled, "Ready. Set. Go!" I jetted out of
there like an airplane, faster than anyone for the first 20 feet.
I didn't know much about pacing then, but it was okay because I
was determined to finish first. As we came around the first of
four laps, there were students all over the track. By the end of
the second lap, many of the students had already quit. They had
given up and were on the ground gasping for air. As I started the
third lap, only a few of my classmates were left on the track,
and I began limping. By the time I hit the fourth lap, I was
alone. Then it hit me. I realized that nobody had given up.
Instead, everyone had already finished. As I ran that last lap, I
cried. I realized that every boy and girl in my class had beat
me, and 12 minutes, 42 seconds after starting, I crossed the
finish line. I fell to the ground and shed oceans. I was so
embarrassed.

Suddenly my coach ran up to me and picked me up, yelling,
"You did it. Manuel! Manuel, you finished, son. You finished!" He
looked me straight in the eye waving a piece of paper in his
hand. It was my goal for the day, which I had forgotten. I had
given it to him before class. He read it aloud to everyone. It
simply said, "I Manuel Diotte, will finish the mile run tomorrow,
come what may. No pain or frustration will stop me. For I am more
than capable of finishing, and with God as my strength, I will
finish." Signed, Manuel Diotte - with a little smiling face
inside the D, as I always sign my name. My heart lifted. My tears
went away, and I had a smile on my face as if I had eaten a
banana sideways. My classmates applauded and gave me my first
standing ovation. It was then I realized winning isn't always
finishing first. Sometimes winning is just finishing.

By Manuel Diotte
from Chicken Soup for the Surviving Soul

The Window

There were once two men, both seriously ill, in the same
small room of a great hospital. Quite a small room, it had one
window looking out on the world. One of the men, as part of his
treatment, was allowed to sit up in bed for an hour in the
afternoon (something to do with draining the fluid from his
lungs). His bed was next to the window. But the other man had to
spend all his time flat on his back.
Every afternoon when the man next to the window was propped
up for his hour, he would pass the time by describing what he
could see outside. The window apparently overlooked a park where
there was a lake. There were ducks and swans in the lake, and
children came to throw them bread and sail model boats. Young
lovers walked hand in hand beneath the trees, and there were
flowers and stretches of grass, games of softball. And at the
back, behind the fringe of trees, was a fine view of the city
skyline.
The man on his back would listen to the other man describe
all of this, enjoying every minute. He heard how a child nearly
fell into the lake, and how beautiful the girls were in their
summer dresses. His friend's descriptions eventually made him
feel he could almost see what was happening outside.
Then one fine afternoon, the thought struck him: Why should
the man next to the window have all the pleasure of seeing what
was going on? Why shouldn't he get the chance? He felt ashamed,
but the more he tried not to think like that, the worse he wanted
a change. He'd do anything! One night as he stared at the
ceiling, the other man suddenly woke up, coughing and choking,
his hands groping for the button that would bring the nurse
running. But the man watched without moving - even when the sound
of breathing stopped. In the morning, the nurse found the other
man dead, and quietly took his body away.
As soon as it seemed decent, the man asked if he could be
switched to the bed next to the window. So they moved him, tucked
him in, and made him quite comfortable. The minute they left, he
propped himself up on one elbow, painfully and laboriously, and
looked out the window.
It faced a blank wall.

By Author Unknown
Submitted by Ronald Dahlsten and Harriette Lindsey
from A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

Two Nickels and Five Pennies

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.

From The Best of Bits & Pieces
from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
More Chicken Soup for the Soul

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