Permission to Cry




      Alone in the wheel of light at the dining room table,  
 surrounded by an otherwise darkened house, I sat in tears. 
      Finally, I’d succeeded in getting both kids to bed. A  
 relatively new single parent, I had to be both Mommy and Daddy to  
 my two little children. I got them both washed, accompanied by  
 shrieks of delight, crazy running around, laughing and throwing  
 things. More or less calmed down, they lay in their beds as I  
 gave each the prescribed five minutes of back rubs. Then I took  
 up my guitar and began the nighttime ritual of folk songs, ending  
 with “All the Pretty Little Horses,” both kids’ favorite. I sang  
 it over and over, gradually reducing the tempo and the volume  
 until they seemed fully engaged in sleep. 
      A recently divorced man with full custody of his children, I  
 was determined to give them as normal and stable a home life as  
 possible. I put on a happy face for them. I kept their activities  
 as close to how they had always been as I could. This nightly  
 ritual was just as it had always been with the exception that  
 their mother was now missing. There, I had done it again; another  
 night successfully concluded. 
      I had risen slowly, gingerly, trying to avoid making even  
 the least sound which might start them up again, asking for more  
 songs and more stories. I tiptoed out of their room, closed the  
 door part way, and went downstairs. 
      Sitting at the dining room table, I slumped in my chair,  
 aware that this was the first time since I came home from work  
 that I’d been able to just sit down. I had cooked and served and  
 encouraged two little ones to eat. I had done the dishes while  
 responding to their many requests for attention. I helped my  
 oldest with her second grade homework and appreciated my  
 youngest’s drawings and oohed over his elaborate construction of  
 Lego blocks. The bath, the stories, the backrubs, the singing and  
 now, at long last, a brief moment for myself. The silence was a  
 relief, for the moment. 
      Then it all crowded in on me: the fatigue, the weight of the  
 responsibility, the worry about bills I wasn’t sure I could pay  
 that month. The endless details of running a house. Only a short  
 time before, I’d been married and had a partner to share these  
 chores, these bills, these worries. 
      And loneliness. I felt as though I were at the bottom of a  
 great sea of loneliness. It all came together and I was at once  
 lost, overwhelmed. Unexpected, convulsive sobs overtook me. I sat  
 there, silently sobbing.   
      Just then, a pair of little arms went around my middle and a  
 little face peered up at me. I looked down into my five-year-old  
 son’s sympathetic face. 
      I was embarrassed to be seen crying by my son. “I’m sorry,  
 Ethan, I didn’t know you were still awake. “I don’t know why it  
 is, but so many people apologize when they cry and I was no  
 exception. “I didn’t mean to cry. I’m sorry. I’m just a little  
 sad tonight.” 
 “It’s okay, Daddy. It’s okay to cry, you’re just a person.” 
      I can’t express how happy he made me, this little boy, who  
 in the wisdom of innocence, gave me permission to cry. He seemed  
 to be saying that I didn’t have to always be strong, that it was  
 occasionally possible to allow myself to feel weak and let out my  
 feelings. 
      He crept into my lap and we hugged and talked for a while,  
 and I took him back up to his bed and tucked him in. Somehow, it  
 was possible for me to get to sleep that night, too. Thank you,  
 my son. 
       
                     By Hanoch McCarty 
          from A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul  
  Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Hanoch  
                 McCarty & Meladee McCarty  



You Are a Marvel



    
   Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe
that will never be again . . . And what do we teach our children? 
That two and two make four, and that 
   Paris is the capital of France.
We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are? You are 
a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there 
has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your 
clever fingers, the way you move.
   You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You 
have the capacity for anything. Yes, you are a marvel. And when 
you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel?
   We must all work to make the world worthy of its children.
   
                      By Pablo Casals
           from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul 
  Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen & Patty Hansen 
   



My Father




            
        My father had given me so much, in so many ways, 
   and now I wanted to give something to him. How about 
   the 100-meter gold medal from 1984? It is the one 
   thing I could give him to represent all the good things 
   we did together, all the positive things that had 
   happened to me because of him.
        I had never before taken any of my medals out of 
   the bank vault where I kept them. But that day, on the 
   way to the airport, I stopped at the bank to get the 
   medal, and I put it in the pocket of my suit jacket. 
   I would take it to New Jersey - for Dad.  The day of 
   the funeral, when our family was viewing the body, I 
   pulled out the medal to place in my father's hand. 
   My mother asked me if I was sure I wanted to bury the 
   medal, and I was. It would be my father's forever. 
   "But I'm going to get another one," I told my mother. 
   Turning to my father, I said, "Don't worry. I'm going 
   to get another one." That was a promise - to myself 
   and to Dad. He was lying there so peacefully, his 
   hands resting on his chest. When I placed the medal 
   in his hand, it fit perfectly.
           
                   By Carl Lewis
        from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul 
       Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor 
              Hansen & Barry Spilchuk 




 Roles - and How We Play Them



       Whenever I'm disappointed with my spot in life, I stop and 
  think about little Jamie Scott. Jamie was trying out for a part 
  in a school play. His mother told me that he had his heart set 
  on being in it, though she feared he would not be chosen. On 
  the day the parts were announced, I went with her to collect 
  him after school. Jamie rushed up to her, eyes shining, with 
  pride and excitement. "Guess what, Mum," he shouted, and then 
  said those words that remain a lesson to me: "I've been chosen 
  to clap and cheer."
       
                      By Marie Curling
        from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul 
              Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and 
                     Mark Victor Hansen 

       

Rock Concert




        
    Even without the torn jeans, he made a scruffy-looking ten 
year old. His fifth grade classmates had never seen anyone as 
poorly dressed and unpolished as Marco. This was his first day 
of elementary school in a quaint New England town of well-to-do 
families. Marco's parents were migrant fruit pickers and his 
classmates eyed him with suspicion for the first part of the day. Even though they whispered and made comments about his 
clothes, he didn't seem to notice.
       
    Then came recess and the kickball game. Marco led off the 
first inning with a home run, earning him a bit of respect from 
his wardrobe critics. Next up to kick was Richard, the least 
athletic and most overweight child in the class. After his 
second strike (amid the groans of his classmates), Marco edged 
up to Richard and quietly said, "Forget them, kid. You can do 
it!" Richard kicked a home run and at that precise moment, 
something began to change in Marco's class. Over the next few 
months, Marco was able to teach the class many new things. 
    Things such as how to tell when fruit was ripe, how to call a 
wild turkey and, especially, how to treat other people.
    By the time Marco's parents finished their work in the 
area, the class was preparing to celebrate Christmas. While 
other students brought the teacher fancy scarves, perfumes 
and soap, Marco stepped up to the teacher's desk with a 
special gift. It was a rock that he delivered into the
teacher's hands which was beautiful and bright. "I polished 
it up special," he said.
    Years later, the teacher still had Marco's rock on her 
desk. At the beginning of each school year, she would tell 
her class about the gentle boy who taught her and her class 
not to judge a book by its cover. And that it's what`s on 
the inside of others that truly counts.
       
             By From This Little Light of Mine
           from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul 
         Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor 
                 Hansen & Barry Spilchuk 






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