Love in a Paper Sack

by Robert Fulghum, It was on Fire When I Lay Down On It

The Cardboard box is marked “The Good Stuff.” As I write, I can see the box where it is stored on a high shelf in my studio. I like being able to see it when I look up. The box contains those odds and ends of personal treasures that have survived many bouts of clean-it-out-and-throw-it-away that seize me from time to time. The box has passed through the screening done as I’ve moved from house to house and hauled stuff from attic to attic. A thief looking into the box would not take anything – he couldn’t get a dime for any of it. But if the house ever catches on fire, the box goes with me when I run. One of the keepsakes in the box is a small paper bag. Lunch size. Though the top is sealed with duct tape, staples, and several paperclips, there is a ragged rip in one side through which the contents may be seen.

This particular lunch sack has been in my care for maybe fourteen years. But it really belongs to my daughter, Molly. Soon after she came of school age, she became an enthusiastic participant in packing the morning lunches for herself, her brothers, and me. Each bag got a share of sandwiches, apples, milk money, and sometimes a note or a treat. One morning Molly handed me two bags as I was about to leave. One regular lunch sack. And the one with the duct tape and staples andpaper clips. “Why two bags?” “The other one is something else.” “What’s in it?” “Just some stuff – take it with you.” Not wanting to hold court over the matter, I stuffed both sacks into my briefcase, kissed the child, and rushed off.

At midday, while hurriedly scarfing down my real lunch, I tore open Molly’s bag and shook out the contents. Two hair ribbons, three small stones, a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny seashell, two animal crackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolate kisses, and thirteen pennies.

I smile. How charming. Rising to hustle off to all the important business of the afternoon, I swept the desk clean – into the wastebasket – leftover lunch, Molly’s junk, and all. There wasn’t anything in there I needed.

That evening Molly came to stand beside me while I was reading the paper. “Where’s the bag?” “What bag?” “You know, the one I gave you this morning.” “I left it at the office, why?” “I forgot to put this note in it.” She hands over the note. “Besides, I want it back?” “Why?” “Those are my things in the sack, Daddy, the ones I really like – I thought you might like to play with them, but now I want them back. You didn’t lose the bag, did you, Daddy?” Tears puddled in her eyes. “Oh no, I just forgot to bring it home.” I lied. “Bring it tomorrow,okay?” “Sure thing – don’t worry.” As she hugged my neck with relief, I unfolded the note that had not got into the sack: “I love you Daddy.”

Oh.

And also – uh-oh.

I looked long at the face of my child.

She was right - what was in the sack was “something else.”

Molly had given me her treasures. All that a seven-year-old held dear. Love in a paper sack. And I had missed it. Not only missed it, but had thrown it in the wastebasket because “there wasn’t anything in there I needed.” Dear God.

It was a long trip back to the office. But there was nothing else to be done. So I went. The pilgrimage of a penitent. Just ahead of the janitor, I picked up the wastebasket and poured the contents on my desk. I was sorting it all out when the janitor came in to do his chores. “Lose something?” “Yeah, my mind.” “It’s probably in there, all right. What’s it look like and I’ll help you find it?” I started not to tell him. But I couldn’t feel any more of a fool than I was already in fact, so I told him. He didn’t laugh. He smiled. “I got kids, too.” So the brotherhood of fools searched the trash and found the jewels and he smiled at me and I smiled at him. You are never alone in these things. Never.

After washing the mustard off the dinosaurs and spraying the whole thing with breath-freshener to kill the smell of onions, I carefully smoothed out the wadded ball of brown paper into a semifunctional bag and put the treasures inside and carried the whole thing home gingerly, like an injured kitten. The next evening I returned it to Molly, no questions asked, no explanations offered. The bag didn’t look so good but the stuff was all there and that’s what counted. After dinner I asked her to tell me about the stuff in the sack, and so she took it all out a piece at a time and placed the objects in a row on the dining room table. It took a long time to tell. Everything had a story a memory, or was attached to dreams and imaginary friends. Fairies had brought some of the things. And I had given her the chocolate kisses, and she had kept them for when she needed them. I managed to say, “I see” very wisely several times in the telling. And as a matter of fact, I did see.

To my surprise, Molly gave the bag to me once again several days later. Same ratty bag. Same stuff inside. I felt forgiven. And trusted. And loved. And a little more comfortable wearing the title of Father. Over several months the bag went with me from time to time. It was never clear to me why I did or did not get it on a given day. I began to think of it as the Daddy Prize and tried to be good the night before so I might be given it the next morning.

In time Molly turned her attention to other things… found other treasures… lost interest in the game.. grew up. Something. Me? I was left holding the bag. She gave it to me one morning and never asked for its return. And so I have it still.

Sometimes I think of all the times in this sweet life when I must have missed the affection I was being given. A friend calls this “standing knee-deep in the river and dying of thirst.”

So the worn paper sack is there in the box. Left over from a time when a child said. “Here - this is the best I’ve got. Take it – it’s yours. Such as I have, give I to thee.”

I missed it the first time. But it’s my bag now.

99 Balloons

Featured on Oprah. Praise the efforts of these parents!

5-year-old Savannah's Calm Call with 911

A man calls 911 when he gets chest pains. When he can't go on because he's struggling to breathe, his five-year-old daughter Savannah takes over. What ensues is a cute and heartwarming conversation.

Here is the entire call.

Sulat ni Nanay at Tatay

Ang sulat ni Nanay at Tatay. Warning: it will make you cry.

The Wooden Bowl

A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four-year-old grandson. The old man's hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.

The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather's shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.

The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess. "We must do something about Father," said the son. "I've had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor."

So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.

When the family glanced in Grandfather's direction, sometimes he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.

The four-year-old watched it all in silence.

One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor. He asked the child sweetly, "What are you making?" Just as sweetly, the boy responded, "Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up." The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.

The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.

That evening the husband took Grandfather's hand and gently led him back to the family table. For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.

Going Home (A short film on Dementia)

Watch this prize-winning video produced by Vinn Bay and Tee Boon Leng for a video competition as part of the ADI (Alzheimer's Disease International) conference in March 2009.

Made me cry.

For Whom Do We Live?

A sad commercial.

We often ask, why are we alive? What were we born for? Maybe those questions cannot not be answered but this instead: for whom do we live?

Two Choices

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves children with learning disabilities, the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question:

'When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does, is done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where it the natural order of things in my son?

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. 'I believe that when a child like Shay, who was mentally and physically disabled comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true human nature presents itself, and it comes in the way other people treat that child.'

Then he told the following story:

Shay and I had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball. Shay asked,

'Do you think they'll let me play?'

I knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their team, but as a father I also understood that if my son were allowed to play, it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

I approached one of the boys on the field and asked (not expecting much) if Shay could play. The boy looked around for guidance and said, 'We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning.'

Shay struggled over to the team's bench and, with a broad smile, put on a team shirt. I watched with a small tear in my eye and warmth in my heart. The boys saw my joy at my son being accepted.

In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.

In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be in the game and on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.

In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay's team scored again.

Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the game?

Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the Plate, the pitcher, recognizing that the other team was putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least make contact.

The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.

As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over.

The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman.

Shay would have been out and that would have been the end of the game.


Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the first baseman's head, out of reach of all team mates.

Everyone from the stands and both teams started yelling,

'Shay, run to first! Run to first!'

Never in his life had Shay ever run that far, but he made it to first base.

He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled,

'Run to second, run to second!'

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and struggling to make it to the base.

By the time Shay rounded towards second base, the right fielder had the ball. The smallest guy on their team who now had his first chance to be the hero for his team.

He could have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood the pitcher's intentions so he, too, intentionally threw the ball high and far over the third-baseman' s head.

Shay ran toward third base deliriously as the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, 'Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay'

Shay reached third base because the opposing shortstop ran to help him by turning him in the direction of third base, and shouted,

'Run to third! Shay, run to third!'

As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams, and the spectators, were on their feet screaming,

'Shay, run home! Run home!'

Shay ran to home, stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the grand slam and won the game for his team.

'That day', said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, 'the boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into this world'.

Shay didn't make it to another summer. He died that winter, having never forgotten being the hero and making me so happy, and coming home and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

The Price of a Child

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Wisdom of Dads

“Daddy, how much did I cost?”

Perched on my parents’ cedar chest in the bedroom, I listened to their casual talk about budgets and paychecks -- talk as relevant back in 1967 as it is today. My then-six-year-old mind concluded, wrongly, that my family was poor.

Dad stood at his dresser, looking at bills. He wore faded jeans, an undershirt and white canvas shoes stained grass-green from mowing our lawn. Mom folded laundry on the bed, making even towers of sun-dried clothes. I spotted my new shorts sets and thought about day camp.

Their money talk continued, and Dad joined me on the cedar chest. I plunked the springy metal watchband on Dad’s tan wrist, thinking that the white skin underneath reminded me of a fish belly. Just as I started to ask him to “make a muscle” so I could try pushing his flexed biceps down, a thought hit me like icy water from a garden hose: Dad had to pay for me.

While the story of my birth ranked as a bedtime favorite, I had never considered hospital bills, or the countless meals I’d eaten, or the price of summer clothes.

“Daddy,” I interrupted again, “how much did I cost?”

“Oh, let’s see.” He sighed in distraction and placed his watch on the safety of his dresser. “About a million dollars.”

A light went out inside me. A million dollars. Because of me, Dad worked two jobs. Because of me, he drove an old car, ate lunch at home and had his dress shoes resoled -- again.

With my eyes and chin down, I inched off the cedar chest and shuffled into the kitchen. From a shelf, I took my granny-shaped bank, which held every penny I owned -- seven dollars even. And not seven dollars in assorted change, but seven cool, shiny silver dollars, one for every birthday and one for the day I was born.

The bank’s rubber plug surrendered, and the coins poured into my hands. I had often played with these coins in secret, jostling them in a small drawstring bag in my roles as gypsy or runaway princess. They had always been put back in the bank, though, and I felt secure pleasure in just knowing they were there. But that day, the “clink” of returning each coin sounded hollow.

If the topic had changed when I returned to my parents’ bedroom, I didn’t notice. Tugging on Dad’s shirt, I held out my first payment on a million dollars.

“Here,” I sniffed. “Maybe this will help pay for me.”

“What?” Dad’s confused look matched my own. Didn’t he remember what he’d said? Didn’t the sight of me remind him of how much I cost?

My tear-filled eyes, which I couldn’t seem to take off the bank, finally made sense to him.

Dad knelt down and pulled me close. “You didn’t cost a million dollars, but you’re worth a million-million dollars. And if that’s what I’d have to pay for you, I’d do it. Now dry those eyes and put your bank away.”

Today, I often pull this memory out, turn it over and feel the warm satisfied weight of it in my heart. Back then, no price could be put on my worth to my dad. No price can be put on his worth to me now.

A Close Up Shot

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters

I plopped in my easy chair after lugging the last piece of equipment back to storage. It had been a grueling day -- another day of chasing a bride. That’s what we call it in the photography business. You play tag with the bride as she flits from the make-up table to hugs; from flowers to dresses; from the aisle to the cake; from reception to a limo.

All while you try to capture memorable photos.

It is demanding physically and emotionally. Months of detailed planning and preparation precede each wedding and everyone’s feelings float warily on the surface. For many, weddings mile-mark the beginning of an empty nest. Someone’s son and someone’s daughter are leaving home and parents behind in anticipation of forging a future and a home of their own. Because it’s the event of a lifetime, everything must be perfect. After all, there are no second chances for the photography -- it must be done right. And it must be done right the first time.

Everyone seems to know of a sad photographic experience at a wedding. That is why I triple check everything, have backup equipment, and force myself to keep a level head. My clients and even my wife compliment me on my ability to go with the flow and not get stressed during these highly stressful occasions.

Satisfied with the day’s results, I balked at the thought of the next bride, surprised to acknowledge that, after thirty years of honing my craft, I felt insecure.

This sitting would be tougher than most. It was a bridal portrait and the final image would be large and displayed on an easel at the wedding reception. Mothers-of-the-brides are infamous for their demanding reputations, distress over letting go of their daughters, and angst at the thought of the holes left in their lives. This particular MOB carried the added burden of being a relative.

Yes, a relative. They are always the most difficult. Relatives expect more. They expect perfect work. And they expect perfect work for free. Many photographers refuse to photograph family events. But I am a pro and pride myself on keeping all those tensions in check. Once I commit there’s no turning back.

Shouldering the responsibility, I load my car and drive to the site the bride chose. A glance upward confirms a cooperative sky as I hunch to inspect the gear packed into my trunk. I load film first -- sure don't want to make that simple mistake. Then I double-check the lighting systems, set up the tripod, and make test shots. All is well; all is calm. And I’m ready just as the bride arrives.

She looks so young. Too young to get married. “Are you sure you’re old enough to be legal?” I deadpan.

She looks startled, then grins. “Almost twenty-two,” she insists. “Legal and beyond!”

My brows shoot up and I shake my head doubtfully.

“Don’t you feel some guilt for leaving your parents?”

She shakes her head and giggles.

She’s giddy -- just like all the rest. She’s in wispy white -- just like all the rest. She’s accompanied by her faithful entourage -- just like all the rest. It’s her final picture as daughter, her first as a bride. And I can see by the expression on her face that she’s ready to grasp the kite-tail of her dreams and fly into her future.

I am fully prepared to make a beautiful portrait. I know the procedure so well -- place her feet just so, shift her weight, angle her shoulders, tilt her head, position her hand into graceful “Barbie doll fingers”… and then be ready for the perfect expression she and this picky MOB hope for.

Both of them have planned this image all their lives. They’re expecting that Cinderella look-and-feel they always envisioned. Well, this bride is drop-dead gorgeous. I nod in approval. It’s going to be a piece of cake.

I bend my head to look through the viewfinder. Something is dreadfully wrong with this picture. It’s out of focus. The bride looks odd, she looks too… young. I check the settings and try again. Now the bride is fuzzy.

“What’s going on?” I mutter.

Once more, I examine the camera. All is in order.

No, wait. The lens is fogged.

My heart flutters and I steady myself. Yet, no matter how hard I try to call on my years of professional training, I can’t seem to make this picture clear. A jagged breath catches in my throat and I suddenly understand the problem.

With a rueful sigh, I turn away and swipe roughly at the mist of tears blurring my optics. No pro worth his salt would let them be discovered.

I corral my emotions. “Turn a little. And, lean in,” I hear myself say in a surprisingly normal tone. “Now, a sweet smile, Sweetie,” I swallow hard. “A special smile just for your old… er… for your groom.” I force myself to separate my personal feelings from the image in the lens. “That’s it. That’s it. Yes… wow!"

Click.

Click, click, click.

I clear my throat and manage a broad beam in spite of myself. “What a beautiful, blushing bride.”

Another daughter leaving the nest to find her future. I shake my head ruefully. My daughter. This daddy’s little girl.

Just Five More Minutes

author unknown

While at the park one day, a woman sat down next to a man on a bench near a playground.

“That’s my son over there,” she said, pointing to a little boy in a red sweater who was gliding down the slide.

“He’s a fine looking boy” the man said. “That’s my daughter on the bike in the white dress.”

Then, looking at his watch, he called to his daughter. “What do you say we go, Melissa?”

Melissa pleaded, “Just five more minutes, Dad. Please? Just five more minutes.”

The man nodded and Melissa continued to ride her bike to her heart’s content. Minutes passed and the father stood and called again to his daughter. “Time to go now?”

Again Melissa pleaded, “Five more minutes, Dad. Just five more minutes.”

The man smiled and said, “OK.”

“My, you certainly are a patient father,” the woman responded.

The man smiled and then said, “Her older brother Tommy was killed by a drunk driver last year while he was riding his bike near here. I never spent much time with Tommy and now I’d give anything for just five more minutes with him. I’ve vowed not to make the same mistake with Melissa.

She thinks she has five more minutes to ride her bike. The truth is, I get five more minutes to watch her play.”

The Worst Letter

A mother enters her daughter's bedroom and sees a letter over the bed. With the worst premonition, she reads it, with trembling hands:

It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm telling you that I eloped with my new boyfriend. I found real passion and he is so nice, with all his piercings and tattoos and his big motorcycle.

But not only that mom, I'm pregnant and Ahmed said that we will be very happy in his trailer in the woods. He wants to have many more children with me and that's one of my dreams.

I've learned that marijuana doesn't hurt anyone and we'll be growing it for us and his friends, who are providing us with all the cocaine and ecstasy we may want.

In the meantime, we'll pray for the science to find the AIDS cure, for Ahmed to get better, he deserves it. Don't worry Mom, I'm 15 years old now and I know how to take care of myself. Some day I'll visit for you to know your grandchildren.

Your daughter,
Judith

P.S. Mom, it's not true. I'm at the neighbor's house. I just wanted to show you that there are worse things in life than the school's report card that's in my desk's drawer...I love you!!

Don't Let It End This Way

By Sue Kidd

The hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I stood in the nurses' station on the seventh floor and glanced at the clock. It was 9 P.M.

I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for room 712, last room on the hall. Room 712 had a new patient. Mr. Williams. A man all alone. A man strangely silent about his family.

As I entered the room, Mr. Williams looked up eagerly, but drooped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope over his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. Just what I wanted to hear. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.

He looked up from his starched white bed. "Nurse, would you - " He hesitated, tears filling his eyes. Once before he had started to ask me a question, but changed his mind.

I touched his hand, waiting.

He brushed away a tear. "Would you call my daughter? Tell her I've had a heart attack. A slight one. You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up.
I turned his nasal oxygen up to eight liters a minute. "Of course I'll call her," I said, studying his face.

He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. "Will you call her right away - as soon as you can?" He was breathing fast - too fast.

"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder.

I flipped off the light. He closed his eyes, such young blue eyes in his 50 - year - old face.

Room 712 was dark except for a faint night light under the sink. Oxygen gurgled in the green tubes above his bed. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot.

"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"

I dug a scrap of yellow and a pen from my pocket and set it on the bedside table.

I walked back to the nurses' station and sat in a squeaky swivel chair by the phone. Mr. Williams's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from information and dialed. Her soft voice answered.

"Janie, this is Sue Kidd, a registered nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a slight heart attack and - "

"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying is he?"

"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying hard to sound convincing.

Silence. I bit my lip.

"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so utterly compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.

"He is getting the very best care."

"But you don't understand," she pleaded. "My daddy and I haven't spoken in almost a year. We had a terrible argument on my 21st birthday, over my boyfriend. I ran out of the house. I-I haven't been back. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you."

Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I sat, listening, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It has been so long since I had said, "I love you."

As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer. "Please God, let this daughter find forgiveness."

"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said. Click. She had hung up.

I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk. I couldn't concentrate. Room 712; I knew I had to get back to 712. I hurried down the hall nearly in a run. I opened the door.

Mr. Williams lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse. There was none.

"Code 99, Room 712. Code 99. Stat." The alert was shooting through the hospital within seconds after I called the switchboard through the intercom by the bed.

Mr. Williams had had a cardiac arrest.

With lightning speed I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs (twice). I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. I tried to count. At fifteen I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed, Compressed and breathed. He could not die!

"O God," I prayed. "His daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way."

The door burst open. Doctors and nurses poured into the room pushing emergency equipment. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart. A tube was inserted through his mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing.

I connected the heart monitor. Nothing. Not a beat. My own heart pounded. "God, don't let it end like this. Not in bitterness and hatred. His daughter is coming. Let her find peace."

"Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electrical shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Williams's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response. Mr. Williams was dead.

A nurse unplugged the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent.

How could this happen? How? I stood by his bed, stunned. A cold wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. Outside - everywhere - seemed a bed of blackness, cold and dark. How could I face his daughter?

When I left the room, I saw her against a wall by a water fountain. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood at her side, talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving her slumped against the wall.

Such pathetic hurt reflected from her face. Such wounded eyes. She knew. The doctor had told her that her father was gone.

I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat on little green stools, neither saying a word. She stared straight ahead at a pharmaceutical calendar, glass-faced, almost breakable-looking.

"Janie, I'm so, so sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.

"I never hated him, you know. I loved him," she said.

God, please help her, I thought.

Suddenly she whirled toward me. "I want to see him."

My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? Seeing him will only make it worse. But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. Outside the door I squeezed her hand, wishing she would change her mind about going inside. She pushed open the door.

We moved to the bed, huddled together, taking small steps in unison. Janie leaned over the bed and buried her face in the sheets.

I tried not to look at her at this sad, sad good-bye. I backed against the bedside table. My hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. It read:

My dearest Janie,
I forgive you. I pray you will also forgive me. I know that you love me. I love you too.
~Daddy

The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Her tormented face grew radiant. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.

"Thank You, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever.

Life seemed as fragile as a snowflake on the window. But thank You, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again - but there is not a moment to spare.

I crept from the room and hurried to the phone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."

Can I Borrow $25?

A man came home from work late, tired and irritated, to find his 5-year old son waiting for him at the door.

SON: 'Daddy, may I ask you a question?'

DAD: 'Yeah sure, what it is?' replied the man.

SON: 'Daddy, how much do you make an hour?'

DAD: 'That's none of your business. Why do you ask such a thing?' the man said angrily.

SON: 'I just want to know. Please tell me, how much do you make an hour?'

DAD: 'If you must know, I make $50 an hour.'

SON: 'Oh,' the little boy replied, with his head down.

SON: 'Daddy, may I please borrow $25?'

The father was furious, 'If the only reason you asked that is so ! you can borrow some money to buy a silly toy or some other nonsense, then you march yourself straight to your room and go to bed. Think about why you are being so selfish. I don't work hard everyday for such childish frivolities.'

The little boy quietly went to his room and shut the door.

The man sat down and started to get even angrier about the little boy's questions. How dare he ask such questions only to get some money?

After about an hour or so, the man had calmed down, and started to think:

Maybe there was something he really needed to buy with that $25.00 and he really didn't ask for money very often The man went to the door of the little boy's room and opened the door.

'Are you asleep, son?' He asked.

'No daddy, I'm awake,' replied the boy.

'I've been thinking, maybe I was too hard on you earlier' said the man. 'It's been a long day and I took out my aggravation on you. Here's the $25 you asked for.'

T! he little boy sat straight up, smiling. 'Oh, thank you daddy!' he yell ed. Then, reaching under his pillow he pulled out some crumpled up bills.

The man saw that the boy already had money, started to get angry again.

The little boy slowly counted out his money , and then looked up at his father.

'Why do you want more money if you already have some?' the father grumbled.

'Because I didn't have enough, but now I do,' the little boy replied.

'Daddy, I have $50 now. Can I buy an hour of your time? Please come home early tomorrow. I would like to have dinner with you.'

The father was crushed. He put his arms around his little son, and he begged for his forgiveness.

~~~

It's just a short reminder to all of you working so hard in life. We should not let time slip through our fingers without having spent some time with those who really matter to us, those close to our hearts. Do remember to share that $50 worth of your time with someone you love.

If we die tomorrow, the company that we are working for could easily replace us in a matter of hours. But the family & friends we leave behind will feel the loss for the rest of their lives.

(from email)