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A Teacher’s Story

There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright 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, “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Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school.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.”

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a 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 perfume. She stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.

Teddy stayed after school that day 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 arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, second in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
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 soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.

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 the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoller, 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 going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson, did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”

The Most Beautiful Heart

One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.

Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, “Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine.” The crowd and the young man looked at the old man’s heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn’t fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.

The people stared — how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man’s heart and saw its state and laughed. “You must be joking,” he said. “Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “Yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love — I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren’t exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared. Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn’t returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges — giving love is taking a chance.

Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space in my heart. So now do you see what true beauty is? ”

The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands.

The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man’s heart. It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man’s heart flowed into his. They embraced and walked away side by side.

The Colors of the Rainbow

Once upon a time the colors of the world started to quarrel: all claimed that they were the most important, the most useful, the favorite.

Green said: "Clearly I am the most important. I am the sign of life and of hope. I was chosen for the grass, trees, leaves- without me, all animals would die. Look over the countryside and you will see that I am in the majority.

Blue interrupted: "You only think about the earth, but consider the sky and the sea. It is the water that is the basis of life and drawn up by the clouds from the deep sea. The sky gives space and peace and serenity. Without my peace, you would all be nothing"

Yellow chuckled: "You are all so serious! I bring laughter, gaiety, and warmth into the world. The sun is yellow, the moon is yellow, the stars are yellow. Every time you look at a sunflower, the whole world starts to Smile. Without me there would be no fun!"

Orange started next to blow her trumpet: "I am the color of Health and Strength. I may be scarce, but I am precious for I serve the needs of human life. I carry the most important vitamins. Think of carrots, pumpkins, oranges, mangoes and pawpaw. I don't hang around all the time, but when I fill the sky at sunrise or sunset, my beauty is so striking that no one gives another thought to any of you."

Red could stand it no longer: He shouted out, "I am the ruler of all of you- I am blood- life's blood! I am the color of danger and of bravery. I am willing to fight for a cause. I bring fire into the blood. Without me, the earth would be as empty as the moon! I am the color of passion and love the red rose, the poinsettia and the poppy."

Purple rose up to his full height: He was very tall and spoke with great pomp:" I am the color of royalty and power. Kings, Chiefs, and Bishops have always chosen me for I am the sign of authority and wisdom. People do not question me they listen and obey"

Finally, Indigo spoke, much more quietly than all the others, but with just as much determination: Think Of Me. I am the color of silence. You hardly notice me, but without me you all become superficial. I represent thought and reflection, twilight and deep water. You need be for balance and contrast, for prayer and inner peace"

And so the color went on boasting, each convinced of his or her own superiority. Their quarreling became louder and louder. Suddenly there was a startling flash of bright lightening- thunder rolled and boomed, Rain started to pour down relentlessly. The colors crouched down in fear, drawing close to one another for comfort. In the midst of the clamor, Rain began to speak, "You foolish colors, fighting amongst yourselves, each trying to dominate the rest. Don't you know that you were each made for a special purpose, unique and different? Join hands with one another and come to me. Doing as they were told ,the color united and joined hands. The rain continued, "From now on, when it rains, each of you will stretch across the sky in a great bow of color as a reminder that you can all live in peace. The rainbow is a sign of hope of tomorrow." And as Whenever a good rain washes the world and a Rainbow appears in the sky let us remember to appreciate one another.

Away in a Manger

　　One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back seat: "Dad," began my five-year-old son, Patrick, "how come I"ve never seen you cry?"

　　Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn"t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.

　　I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.

　　For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.

　　Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.

　　So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God"s way of healing people when they"re sad. "I"m glad you can cry whenever you"re sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."

　　Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.

　　"I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of "Away in a Manger" during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.

　　My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son"s first solo.

　　Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."

　　Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.

　　"Okay," Patrick said. "I"ll do it."

　　From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner"s Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.

　　For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.

　　Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.

　　Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.

　　There was eternity in Patrick"s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.

　　His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.

　　After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."

　　As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.

　　I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.

　　He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.

　　"Patrick, do you remember when you asked me why you had never seen me cry?"

　　He nodded.

　　"Well, I"m crying now."

　　"Why, Dad?"

　　"Your singing was so wonderful it made me cry."

　　Patrick smiled proudly and flew into my arms.

　　"Sometimes," my son said into my shoulder, "life is so beautiful you have to cry."

　　Our moment together was over too soon. Untold treasures awaited our five-year-old beneath the tree at home, but I wasn"t ready for the traditional plunge into Christmas just yet. I handed Catherine the keys and set off for the mile-long hike home.

　　The night was cold and crisp. I crossed a park and admired the full moon hanging low over a neighborhood brightly lit in the colors of the season. As I turned toward home, I met a car moving slowly down the street, a family taking in the area"s Christmas lights. Someone rolled down a window.

　　"Merry Christmas," a child"s voice yelled out to me.

　　"Merry Christmas," I yelled back. And the tears began to flow all over again.

Away in a Manger

　　One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back seat: "Dad," began my five-year-old son, Patrick, "how come I"ve never seen you cry?"

　　Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn"t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.

　　I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.

　　For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.

　　Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.

　　So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God"s way of healing people when they"re sad. "I"m glad you can cry whenever you"re sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."

　　Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.

　　"I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of "Away in a Manger" during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.

　　My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son"s first solo.

　　Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."

　　Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.

　　"Okay," Patrick said. "I"ll do it."

　　From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner"s Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.

　　For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.

　　Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.

　　Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.

　　There was eternity in Patrick"s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.

　　His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.

　　After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."

　　As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.

　　I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.

　　He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.

　　"Patrick, do you remember when you asked me why you had never seen me cry?"

　　He nodded.

　　"Well, I"m crying now."

　　"Why, Dad?"

　　"Your singing was so wonderful it made me cry."

　　Patrick smiled proudly and flew into my arms.

　　"Sometimes," my son said into my shoulder, "life is so beautiful you have to cry."

　　Our moment together was over too soon. Untold treasures awaited our five-year-old beneath the tree at home, but I wasn"t ready for the traditional plunge into Christmas just yet. I handed Catherine the keys and set off for the mile-long hike home.

　　The night was cold and crisp. I crossed a park and admired the full moon hanging low over a neighborhood brightly lit in the colors of the season. As I turned toward home, I met a car moving slowly down the street, a family taking in the area"s Christmas lights. Someone rolled down a window.

　　"Merry Christmas," a child"s voice yelled out to me.

　　"Merry Christmas," I yelled back. And the tears began to flow all over again.

Does Love Exist

Most of us long for relationships in which we are loved and accepted just the way we are. Our hearts' desire is to give and receive love in relationships that make us feel that even if others disagree with what we do or say, they still love us. They accept us. They appreciate our contributions to the world. While it would be wonder
ful to have these types of relationships with all people, we know that that's hard to do. We can, however, have them with some others, but only when we first have them with ourselves-and, ironically, this is often the hardest relationship of all.

One of the reasons many of us find it hard to love ourselves is because we do not realize that we are already loved in the most divine way. God loves us, totally and unconditionally.

It's hard for many of us to believe this fact because we know how imperfect we are, and we believe we have to be perfect before God will love us. The truth is that God's love makes us perfect, even with our imperfections. By knowing this truth intellectually and believing it spiritually, we not only love ourselves more; we love others more as well.

Do you love yourself? You may think you do, but do you really? There's only one way to find out-by taking a closer look at what you think, say, and do. You may not like some of what you find, but if you're serious about really loving yourself, you can use this insight to do some positive inner work.

Here are three ways I've found for gaining greater personal insight for deeper love.

Listen to your words and listen even more closely to your thoughts. Why? Because your words and your thoughts will determine your actions. One of the things that has helped me to listen to my thoughts has been to keep a journal. It is not necessary for you to write in it everyday, but it helps to record various insights you gain as you go about living your life. Instead of using a big notebook, you might use a small note pad that you can keep in your purse or pocket for easy access to record your thoughts as they occur to you. (I've found that if I don't immediately write down ideas and insights as they come, it's hard to remember them later, at least with the same degree of clarity.) Whichever method you choose, what's most important is that you write your thoughts down. It will help you know what's in your heart.

Be honest with yourself by paying attention to your actions. Actions speak louder than words, and they always tell the truth. What do your actions say about you? If you say you love your job, but your actions say otherwise, which do you think is more true - your words or your actions? On the other hand, if you say you're not good at a certain job, but your actions say otherwise, that's also important. What do you do with this insight? You can use it to make more beneficial choices in your life. By being honest with yourself based on your previous actions, your actions moving forward will be based on truth instead of just what you tell yourself.

Take time out during the day for quiet time to listen to your inner voice. I call this inner voice the voice of God. This is similar to point number one, but it takes it a step further - beyond the natural mind to the supernatural heart. You may want to use your quiet time to meditate or pray. However you use this time, the key is to shut out all of the noise around you by focusing deep within yourself. Breathing deeply during quiet time will also help you focus. I know it's hard to find quiet time during a particularly busy day, but it's so important - even if it's just 10 minutes a day and you have to sneak away to get it. Quiet time can really make a difference in your life. It enables you to hear God speaking to your heart reminding you of His perfect love for you.

Despite what your subconscious may be telling you, you can have love with no limits. The key is to unconditionally love yourself first.

To Beth’s First-Grade Teacher

I didn't know the man in front of me that morning. But I did notice that we both walked a little straighter, a little more proudly, as our daughters held our hands. We were proud but apprehensive on that important day. Our girls were beginning first grade. We were about to give them up, for a while at least, to the institution we call school. As we entered the building, he looked at me. Our eyes met just for a minute, but that was enough. Our love for our daughters, our hopes for their future, our concern for their well-being welled up in our eyes.

You, their teacher, met us at the door. You introduced yourself and showed the girls to their seats. We gave them each a good-bye kiss, and then we walked out the door. We didn't talk to each other on the way back to the parking lot and on to our respective jobs. We were too involved thinking about you.

There were so many things we wanted to tell you, Teacher. Too many things were left unsaid. So I'm writing to you. I'd like to tell you the things we didn't have time for that first morning.

I hope you noticed Beth's dress. She looked beautiful in it. Now I know you might think that's a father's prejudice, but she thinks she looks beautiful in it, and that's what's really important. Did you know we spent a full week searching the shopping malls for just the right dress for that special occasion? She wouldn't show you, but I'm sure she'd like you to know that she picked that dress because of the way it unfurled as she danced in front of the mirrors in the clothing store. The minute she tried it on, she knew she'd found her special dress. I wonder if you noticed. Just a word from you would make that dress all the more wondrous.

Her shoes tell a lot about Beth and a lot about her family. At least they're worth a minute of your time. Yes, they're blue shoes with one strap. Solid, well-made shoes, not too stylish, you know the kind. What you don't know is how we argued about getting the kind of shoes she said all the girls would be wearing. We said no to plastic shoes in purple or pink or orange.

Beth was worried that the other kids would laugh at her baby shoes. In the end she tried the solid blue ones on and, with a smile, told us she always did like strap shoes. That's the first-born, eager to please. She's like the shoes – solid and reliable. How she'd love it if you mentioned those straps.

I hope you quickly notice that Beth is shy. She'll talk her head off when she gets to know you, but you'll have to make the first move. Don't mistake her quietness for lack of intelligence. Beth can read any children's book you put in front of her. She learned reading the way it should be taught. She learned it naturally, snuggled up in her bed with her mother and me reading her stories at naptime, at bedtime and at cuddling times throughout the day. To Beth, books are synonymous with good times and loving family. Please don't change her love of reading by making the learning of it a burdensome chore. It has taken us all her life to instill in her the joy of books and learning.

Did you know that Beth and her friends played school all summer in preparation for their first day? I should tell you about her class. Everybody in her class wrote something every day. She encouraged the other kids who said they couldn't think of anything to write about. She helped them with their spelling. She came to me upset one day. She said you might be disappointed in her because she didn't know how to spell 'subtraction.' She can do that now. If you would only ask her. Her play school this summer was filled with positive reinforcement and the quiet voice of a reassuring teacher. I hope that her fantasy world will be translated into reality in your classroom.

I know you're busy with all the things that a teacher does at the beginning of the school year, so I'll make this letter short. But I did want you to know about the night before that first day. We got her lunch packed in the Care Bear lunch box. We got the backpack ready with the school supplies. We laid out her special dress and shoes, read a story, and then I shut off the lights. I gave her a kiss and started to walk out of the room. She called me back in and asked me if I knew that God wrote letters to people and put them in their minds.

I told her I never had heard that, but I asked if she had received a letter. She had. She said the letter told her that her first day of school was going to be one of the best days of her life. I wiped away a tear as I thought: Please let it be so.

Later that night I discovered a note Beth left for me. It read, 'I'm so lucky to have you for a dad.' Well, Beth's first-grade teacher, I think you're so lucky to have her as a student. We're all counting on you. Every one of us who left our children and our dreams with you that day. As you take our youngsters by the hand, stand a little taller and walk a little prouder. Being a teacher carries with it an awesome responsibility.

I Still Choose "Mom"

I watched through blurred vision as my husband, Chuck, walked away with his ex-wife.

The heaviness in all our hearts was almost unbearable. Turning back to my stepson"s casket I somehow helped my children pluck a rose from the brother spray to press in their Bibles. With tears streaming down my face, I rested my hand on the son spray. I no longer knew my place.

God, I silently screamed, how did I fit in Conan"s life?

From the moment I"d met my stepson, I was in awe of this angelic little boy whose bright, blond hair seemed to glow with a heavenly radiance. At only a year-and-a-half, he was built like a three-year-old. Solid and stocky, sleeping curled in my lap, his tiny heart beat against mine, and a maternal bonding began stirring inside me.

Within a year I became a stepmother to Conan and his older sister, Lori. Soon after that, a visit to the doctor revealed some disheartening news.

"You have an infertility disease," the doctor had said. "You might not ever have children of your own."

At twenty-two, that news was shattering. I had
always wanted to be a mother. Suddenly, I realized being a stepmother might be as close as I would get, and I became even more involved in their lives.

But thankfully, four years later we joyfully discovered I was pregnant. Chase was born, then two years later we were blessed with our daughter, Chelsea.

I loved being both a mom and a stepmother, but as in any blended family, it had its ups and downs. Chuck"s ex-wife had custody of his kids and gave them more freedom than we gave our children. Needing to be consistent with our rules, I"m certain we appeared overly strict to his kids. On their weekend visitations, I usually felt like an old nag.

As a second wife, I was jealous of my stepchildren"s mother. I complained about her and her husband within earshot of my stepkids, and even grumbled about buying my stepchildren extras on top of paying child support. Somehow I overlooked the important fact that my stepchildren were the innocent ones thrust into a blended family.

Then one day at a gathering of my own family, I watched as my mother went up to my stepmother and gave her a hug. I turned and saw my father and stepfather laughing together. Having always appreciated the cooperative relationship my parents and stepparents had, it occurred to me that Chuck"s children longed for the same. So Chuck and I decided to work hard at bridging gaps instead of creating them.

It wasn"t easy, and changes didn"t come overnight, but they did come. By the time Conan was fifteen, a peace had settled between parents and stepparents. Instead of griping about child-support payments, we voluntarily increased them. And finally Conan"s mom gave us copies of his report cards and football schedules.

I was proud of my kids and stepkids. After graduation, my stepdaughter married, and she and her husband built a house together. At seventeen, Conan had become a sensible, intelligent young man. With rugged good looks and a deep, baritone voice, I wondered what fortunate girl would snatch him up.

But then came that phone call, changing our lives forever - Conan was killed instantly by a drunk driver.

Over the years we"d been married, Chuck had reassured me that I was a parent to his children, too. He sought my opinion in matters concerning them and relied on me to make their Christmases and birthdays special. I enjoyed doing those things and looked upon myself as their second mother.

But in his grief immediately upon Conan"s death, Chuck suddenly stopped seeking my opinion and began turning to his ex-wife. I knew they had to make many final decisions together, and I realized later that he was trying to spare me from the gruesome details, but for the first time, I began to feel like an outsider instead of a parent.

I also knew the driver responsible for the accident had to be prosecuted, which meant Chuck and his ex-wife would have to stay in contact. Those ugly jealousies from the past began to resurface when, night after night, he talked to her, seldom discussing their conversations with me.

And it stung when friends inquired only about Chuck"s coping, or sent sympathy cards addressed just to him, forgetting about me and even our two children. Some belittled my grieving because I was "just" a stepparent. Did anyone realize my loss and pain? I"d had strong maternal feelings for Conan; he considered me his second mother - or did he? As the weeks turned into months, that question haunted me, dominating my thoughts. I became driven to understand just what my role had been.

I rummaged through boxes of photos and dug out old journals, searching the house for mementos, even Christmas ornaments he had made.

There were several comforting journal excerpts, one describing Mother"s Day phone calls from Conan to me, and a beautiful white poinsettia he gave me at Christmas. And I cherished the memories old photos brought back - his loving bear hugs after cooking his favorite meal - or a kiss for simply doing his laundry. As comforting as these things were, they still weren"t enough.

One beautiful spring day, almost a year after he died, I was lovingly caressing the pressed rose from his grave that I kept in my Bible. Suddenly, I felt compelled to visit his grave alone. I had never done that before, but I desperately needed some answers.

Arriving at the gravesite, I remembered Chuck mentioning that the permanent headstone had recently arrived. Chuck had told Conan"s mom to select what she wanted. As I looked down on the shiny marble surface, I noticed she had chosen a bronze sports emblem, along with a picture of Conan that had been permanently embedded under a thick layer of glass.

I bent down and lovingly ran my fingers over his engraved name and the dates commemorating his short life. Through a mist of tears, memories of a rambunctious, fun-loving little boy filled my heart. The child I"d mothered part-time for so many years may not have come through my body, but I had been chosen by God to provide a maternal influence in his life. Not to take his mother"s place, but to be just a "step" away. I suddenly felt very honored to have been chosen.

"It was a privilege to be your stepmother," I whispered out loud, bending to kiss his picture.

Finally, a sense of peace was beginning. With a heavy sigh, I got up to leave. But as I turned to walk away, the sun glistened on the border of the headstone, causing me to look back.

"Oh my gosh! How could I have not noticed it before?"

The entire border of the headstone was trimmed in gold shafts of wheat . . . exactly like a gold shaft-of-wheat pin Conan had given me years ago. Chills ran up and down my spine. I hadn"t seen that pin in years.

Somehow, I just knew it was the missing link. I had to find that pin.

The ride home was a blur. I was so excited. Finally, I was upstairs in my bedroom tearing apart my jewelry box. Where was it? Dumping the contents on the bed, I frantically tossed earrings and pins to and fro.

Nothing.

God, this is important. Please help me find it, I prayed.

Turning from the bed I felt compelled to search my dresser. Rummaging through drawer after drawer proved futile, until finally, in the last drawer, clear in the back I felt it. It was a small, white box with my name scribbled on top in a child"s handwriting. Prying it open, I was instantly transported back in time.

Conan had been about ten years old, and it was the night before going on vacation to Florida. He was going with us, and I was packing in my room when I heard a knock on my door. Conan stood there, his eyes downcast and his hands behind his back.

"What is it, son?" I asked, concerned by this unexpected visit.
Shuffling his feet, he quickly mumbled, "I don"t know why I don"t call you "Mom" very often, even though I call my stepdad "Dad.""

I hugged him and reassured him he was free to call me whatever he was comfortable with. Then suddenly, with a wry smile on his pudgy face, he handed me the small, white box.

"You choose," he said, and darted from the room.

Assuming I"d find two items inside the box, I opened it. Instead, I found the single gold wheat pin he"d bought at a garage sale with his own money.

Scribbled inside the lid of the box were the words, "I Love You. To Mom or Connie."

That had been almost a decade ago, yet as I pushed the spilled contents of my jewelry box aside and slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, it felt like yesterday.

Thank you, God, for finding this pin, and for the closure that comes with it.

Wiping the tears from my face, I reflected on an angelic little boy whose heart beat close to mine.

I still choose "Mom."

Attitude Is Everything

Jerry was the kind of guy you love to hate. He was always in a good mood and always had something positive to say. When someone would ask him how he was doing, he would reply, "If I were any better, I would be twins!"

He was a unique manager because he had several waiters who had followed him around from restaurant to restaurant. The reason the waiters followed Jerry was because of his attitude. He was a natural motivator. If an employee was having a bad day, Jerry was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation.

Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Jerry and asked him, "I don"t get it! You can"t be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?"

Jerry replied, "Each morning I wake up and say to myself, "Jerry, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood." I choose to be in a good mood. Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it. Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life."

"Yeah, right, it"s not that easy," I protested.

"Yes, it is," Jerry said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It"s your choice how you live life."

I reflected on what Jerry said. Soon thereafter, I left the restaurant industry to start my own business. We lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it.

Several years later, I heard that Jerry did something you are never supposed to do in a restaurant business: he left the back door open one morning and was held up at gunpoint by three armed robbers. While trying to open the safe his hand, shaking from nervousness, slipped off the combination The robbers panicked and shot him.

Luckily, Jerry was found relatively quickly and rushed to the local trauma center. After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Jerry was released from the hospital with fragments of the bullets still in his body.

I saw Jerry about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied, "If I were any better, I"d be twins. Wanna see my scars?" I declined to see his wounds, but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the robbery took place.

"The first thing that went through my mind was that I should have locked the back door," Jerry replied. "Then, as I lay on the floor, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live, or I could choose to die. I chose to live."

"Weren"t you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked.

Jerry continued, "The paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the emergency room and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read, "He"s a dead man." "I knew I needed to take action."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Well, there was a big, burly nurse shouting questions at me," said Jerry.

"She asked if I was allergic to anything. "Yes," I replied. The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, "Bullets!"

Over their laughter, I told them. "I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead."

Jerry lived thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude. I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully.

Attitude, after all, is everything.

The Important Things in Life

Sometimes people come into your life and you know right away that they were meant to be there, to serve some sort of purpose, teach you a lesson, or to help you figure out who you are or who you want to become.

You never know who these people may be - a roommate, a neighbor, a professor, a friend, a lover, or even a complete stranger - but when you lock eyes with them, you know at that very moment they will affect your life in some profound way.

Sometimes things happen to you that may seem horrible, painful, and unfair at first, but in reflection you find that without overcoming those obstacles you would have never realized your potential, strength, willpower, or heart.

Illness, injury, love, lost moments of true greatness, and sheer stupidity all occur to test the limits of your soul. Without these small tests, whatever they may be, life would be like a smoothly paved straight flat road to nowhere. It would be safe and comfortable, but dull and utterly pointless.

The people you meet who affect your life, and the success and downfalls you experience, help to create who you are and who you become. Even the bad experiences can be learned from. In fact, they are sometimes the most important ones.

If someone loves you, give love back to them in whatever way you can, not only because they love you, but because in a way, they are teaching you to love and how to open your heart and eyes to things.

If someone hurts you, betrays you, or breaks your heart, forgive them, for they have helped you learn about trust and the importance of being cautious to whom you open your heart.

Make every day count. Appreciate every moment and take from those moments everything that you possibly can for you may never be able to experience it again. Talk to people that you have never talked to before, and listen to what they have to say.

Let yourself fall in love, break free, and set your sights high. Hold your head up because you have every right to. Tell yourself you are a great individual and believe in yourself, for if you don"t believe in yourself, it will be hard for others to believe in you.

You can make anything you wish of your life. Create your own life and then go out and live it with absolutely no regrets.

And if you love someone tell them, for you never know what tomorrow may have in store.