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    Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating People Who Make a Difference: The Headlines You'll Never Read
    Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating People Who Make a Difference: The Headlines You'll Never Read
    Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating People Who Make a Difference: The Headlines You'll Never Read
    Ebook339 pages3 hours

    Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating People Who Make a Difference: The Headlines You'll Never Read

    By Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen

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    About this ebook

    Chicken Soup for the Soul® Celebrating People Who Make a Difference reveals a side of humanity we rarely see heralded on the evening news. This inspiring collection of stories chronicles the small kindnesses that make a huge difference, the ordinary experiences that have profound impact, and the defining moments that change the lives of everyday people.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherChicken Soup for the Soul
    Release dateAug 28, 2012
    ISBN9781453276204
    Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating People Who Make a Difference: The Headlines You'll Never Read
    Author

    Jack Canfield

    Jack Canfield, America’s #1 Success Coach, is the cocreator of the Chicken Soup for the Soul® series, which includes forty New York Times bestsellers, and coauthor with Gay Hendricks of You’ve GOT to Read This Book! An internationally renowned corporate trainer, Jack has trained and certified over 4,100 people to teach the Success Principles in 115 countries. He is also a podcast host, keynote speaker, and popular radio and TV talk show guest. He lives in Santa Barbara, California.

    Read more from Jack Canfield

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      Book preview

      Chicken Soup for the Soul Celebrating People Who Make a Difference - Jack Canfield

      CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL®

      CELEBRATING PEOPLE WHO MAKE A DIFFERENCE

      CHICKEN SOUP

      FOR THE

      SOUL®

      CELEBRATING PEOPLE

      WHO MAKE A DIFFERENCE

      The Headlines You’ll Never Read

      Jack Canfield

      Mark Victor Hansen

      Peter Vegso

      Theresa Peluso

      Backlist, LLC, a unit of

      Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC

      Cos Cob, CT

      www.chickensoup.com

      Contents

      Introduction

      1. A HELPING HAND

      Rescue of Little Naomi Mirna Whidden as told to Gloria Cassity Stargel

      Gertrude’s Stuff Rhonda Richards-Cohen

      Rock Island Angel Susan A. Karas

      Good Samaritans in Disguise Sallie A. Rodman

      Full Circle Harry Heintz as told to Peggy Frezon

      A Child’s Gift Pamela Strome-Merewether

      Santa’s Elves Theresa Peluso

      Some Enchanted Evening Ellen Bolyard

      Compassion on Wheels Miriam Hill

      Dawn Diana M. Amadeo

      The Heart of San Francisco Kerry M. Wood

      Wishing to Do More Heather Ekas

      The Boss Joyce Laird

      A Wave for Grandpa Bob Nick Sortal

      Standing In for Love Elizabeth Atwater

      Maggie’s Miracle LaRonda Bourn

      Stocking Feet Faith Patricia Lorenz

      Never Alone Peggy Frezon

      Wheels of Kindness Patricia Cena Evans

      Finding Blessings Amid Destruction Mimi Greenwood Knight

      Family Ties Rose M. Jackson

      2. A MATTER OF ATTITUDE

      A Boy Ought to Have a Chance Dorothy Hill

      Hand Me Downs Nancy Bennett

      Nameless Faces Alexandera Simone

      Don’t Ever Give Up Scot Thurman

      Charlie Counts Cynthia Hope Clark

      The Smallest Caregiver Karen Kosman

      Smelling the Roses Beth Pollack

      Little Things Do Make a Difference Ellie Braun-Haley

      Courageous Giving James Robert Daniels

      Playing Santa Kathryn Lay

      Learning to Share Lawrence D. Elliott

      The Worth of a Soul Jaye Lewis

      Looks Can Be Deceiving Kathy Whirity

      Eight-Penny Blessing Sue Marquette Poremba

      The Wall Harriet May Savitz

      Measuring Miracles by Leaps and Bounds Rick Hawthorne as told to Morgan St. James

      I’m Somebody! Jaye Lewis

      3. CHARACTER AND COURAGE

      A Box of Missing People Corey Binns

      Mudfish and Pythons Judy A. Bernstein

      Entertaining Angels Nancy Baker

      A Safe Haven Kim Rogers

      Passing the Torch of Love Claudia Porter

      Without a Thought Vickie Williams-Morris

      The Compassionate Enemy Renie Szilak Burghardt

      Diana’s Christmas Pamela R. Blaine

      The Accident Ava Pennington

      A Walk in My Shoes Cheryl M. Kremer

      Ten Feet and Still Rising Michael Jordan Segal

      Heroes on Lake George Peggy Frezon

      You’re on God’s Team Now Jami Smith

      Flight for Freedom Oscar T. Cassity as told to Gloria Cassity Stargel

      Road Angels Paul J. DiLella

      4. MOVING FORWARD

      Jim the Boat Captain Colleen Tillger

      God’s Squad Karen Kosman

      A Bride for Jimmy Nancy Bennett

      Angels on My Doorstep Priscilla Miller

      The Boy in the Green Wheelchair Theresa Cameron as told to Jeanne Hill

      Sharing Luck Celeste Leon

      Christmas Blessings from Grandma to Grandma Carolyn Brooks

      One More Tomorrow LindaCarol Cherken

      Save the Best for Last Nancy Viau

      In Good Hands Pamela Hirson

      Dream in Jeopardy Jeanne Hill

      The Jersey Blanket Ann Coogler

      Walkin’ Down Main Street Shirley A. Reynolds

      Going Home Betty Heelis

      A True Work of Art Ashley Claire Simpson

      Martha’s Crayons Barbara J. Ragsdale

      From the Ashes Linda Hoberg as told to Susan A. Karas

      The Colton Camaro Gary Anderson as told to Theresa Peluso

      The Long Way Home Pamela Hackett Hobson

      Who Is Jack Canfield?

      Who Is Mark Victor Hansen?

      Who Is Peter Vegso?

      Who Is Theresa Peluso?

      Contributors

      Permissions

      Introduction

      The second most destructive hurricane in history, surpassed only by Katrina in 2005, was Andrew, which made landfall as a category 5 storm in Dade County, Florida, on August 24, 1992. Essentially, that’s my backyard.

      However, just a few miles away from the storm’s narrow path, it was nearly impossible to surmise that a catastrophic event had happened—except, of course, for the continuous drone of low-flying Hueys and C130s, and the endless convoys of National Guard and Army trucks streaming southbound down the turnpike to the epicenter. Clearly, now we all understood what the term natural disaster meant: life had changed. For some it would never be the same.

      In times such as those, we couldn’t afford to concentrate on the negative. In times such as those we craved—we absolutely needed—good news. We needed it shouted from podiums, rooftops, front pages, and breaking news bulletins; but that seldom happened. Instead, we saw sensational images of disaster or turmoil, and we read more about the worst actions of a few than we ever did of the many good and kind. In times such as those we needed an antidote to the six o’clock news. I didn’t know it in 1992, but that was the beginning of Chicken Soup for the Soul, Celebrating People Who Make a Difference.

      Mahatma Gandhi once said, Be the change you want to see in the world. Think about that. Chances are you often see where change is needed, but do nothing. Why not? Perhaps, individually, we seldom feel empowered or effective to create change. But what if we didn’t focus on the larger, daunting picture? What if we weren’t dealing with natural disaster on a grand scale, but with the person in need next door? What if we simply did what Gandhi suggested and became the change we want to see? What might happen then?

      Something that sounds so simple but with so much potential just can’t be simple or easy, right? Well, the people you are about to meet in this book will prove it’s easier than you think. They aren’t heroes, they aren’t superhuman. But they are powerful, wealthy people who held someone else’s welfare in the palm of their hands, albeit not in the generally accepted sense of those words.

      The people in this book are everyday people who performed uncommon deeds. Their actions were undertaken without thinking about what was is in it for them, or even if they were putting themselves at risk. Universally, they believed that helping others, that acknowledging another person’s value, that recognizing someone else’s potential, their challenges, or pain was as essential as taking a breath. They became the change they wanted to see. How much more powerful and wealthy would you want to be?

      These are stories about the small kindnesses, the ordinary things that have extraordinary meaning for the people to whom they happened, the quintessential defining moments in life, that ripple of a butterfly wing. This book represents a thank-you to all the unknown people who should have been recognized. It’s a chance for the good news to be told. And it proves that the expression of compassion is a powerful agent for change. It is what makes us human.

      What I hope you’ll discover in reading these stories is that giving makes you happier, helping someone is fulfilling, and that seeds planted early in life result in a bountiful harvest of service to others. If you are inspired to fulfill your intrinsic potential and embrace the change you want to see, this world will indeed be a better place—because of you.

      Theresa Peluso

      1

      A HELPING HAND

      We have stopped for a moment to encounter each other. To meet, to love, to share. It is a precious moment, but it is transient. It is a little parenthesis in eternity. If we share with caring, lightheartedness, and love, we will create abundance and joy for each other, and this moment will have been worthwhile.

      Deepak Chopra, M.D.

      Rescue of Little Naomi

      Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence.

      Calvin Coolidge

      Darkness was closing in as I maneuvered my old Dodge Charger down the treacherous road around Blood Mountain toward home after my shift at Union County Medical Center in Blairsville, Georgia.

      Beep! My pager startled me. I answered to hear, You’re to call this number in Dahlonega.

      Dahlonega? I wondered aloud, fear taking hold. Duane was taking the children hiking toward Dahlonega. But they should have been home hours ago! I dialed the number. Lumpkin County Sheriff’s Office. Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach.

      This is Mirna Whidden, I said, panic building. What’s wrong?

      You need to get down here right away.

      I started to cry. Tell me what’s wrong.

      Mrs. Whidden, one of your children is missing.

      My heart stopped. Dear God, help me.

      I don’t recall the hour’s ride to Dahlonega. Unanswered questions pounded inside my head. Which child? What happened? A kidnapping?

      I bolted out of the car smack into a bevy of media people with cameras and microphones in hand.

      The sheriff rushed out and escorted me into his office. Where are my babies? I want to see my babies! I was becoming hysterical.

      Finally I heard him say, Matthew and Rachel are back there in an office, playing with a computer and eating cookies. But your youngest—the two-year-old—is missing.

      Naomi! Naomi is missing? What are you saying? Someone took my baby? By now, I had lost all control.

      Your husband said she wandered off while they were hiking. She’s lost in the forest.

      Lost? Naomi is lost in the forest? My baby is out there all alone in those mountains? It’s cold out there. And dark. And raining. And there are wild animals! We’ve got to find her! Take me there!

      We have crews out there searching, Mrs. Whidden. It will be best if you stay here.

      Where is my husband? I want to see Duane! I needed Duane, desperately. I needed his steadying strength.

      Mr. Whidden is here, but you can’t see him right now. We’re questioning him, trying to find out what happened.

      By nine o’clock, the officers surrendered to my frenzied pleas and drove me out through rugged terrain to the Chattahoochee National Forest. We passed a roadblock, then came to a stop where an old logging trail snaked precariously around the side of a mountain.

      This is where Mr. Whidden parked his car this morning, the officer told me. He said the children stopped to play in a clearing about a mile and a half down this trail. He took his eyes off them for a minute and little Naomi disappeared.

      I called out across the black forest, Naomi—Naomi—Mommy’s here, baby. Come to Mommy. My voice was devoured by the vast darkness.

      Far away, across the valley, I saw a long line of lights moving slowly through the trees. The searchers! Dear God, please help them find my baby.

      Beautiful little Naomi had just turned two. Naomi, with the precious pixie smile and big brown eyes, her light brown hair tied with a bright ribbon on top of her sweet head. Please, God, send your angels to look after Naomi.

      In the patrol car, I could hear communication between the staging area and searchers in the woods. The radio’s every crackle made me hold my breath. At one point an Army helicopter was brought in, giving me hope. Its heat sensors located two coon hunters and a deer. But no little girl.

      Then search dogs arrived. In teams of two, they were led down the logging trail, not making a sound. The dogs will find her if anything can, someone stated. But they didn’t.

      I shivered in the night air as the temperature dipped down to forty degrees. Naomi. . . . Please, God, if they don’t find her right away, put her into a deep sleep so she won’t feel anything. So she won’t feel fear or cold or pain. And especially, dear Lord, so she won’t feel Mommy and Daddy abandoned her. It just about killed me to think she might feel we didn’t love her.

      When Duane was finally brought out to the site at three in the morning, we held each other and cried.

      Soon after, the sheriff drove us home to get Naomi’s bed linens so the dogs could pick up her scent. There, in the baby crib, her little brown teddy bear waited. I couldn’t watch as the men donned rubber gloves, removed her sheets and pillowcase, and placed them in a plastic bag.

      With the coming of daylight, I just knew they would find Naomi. But as the hours ticked by and steady rain cast a dreary pall, I experienced an indescribable mental agony. Eventually, my anguished prayers began to include, Lord, I don’t need to know the why of this. And whether I like the result or not, help me to accept it. But, Lord, most of all, I pray you will give Naomi peace in her little heart.

      By early afternoon on Saturday, almost twenty-four hours since Naomi had disappeared, hope dwindled for the more than 200 professionals and volunteers who were combing the forest. One more sweep and the searchers would abandon their efforts. Kip Clayton and his volunteer unit, the Habersham County High Angle Rescue Team, were making their final sweep when he led his search team to the outer limit of their assigned area. Reluctantly, he turned to start back but something told him to go an additional 250 yards. He did. I turned and took two steps. She was lying five feet in front of me. Shocked, he yelled to his teammates, I see her!

      Kip feared little Naomi was dead. She was lying so still, face down in wet leaves and mud. Just as close up against a log as she could get. Then a tiny whimper—almost like a sigh—came from the little soaked body. She’s alive! he shouted into the radio. She’s alive!

      At the same time, Al Stowers, a physician specializing in pediatric trauma medicine, who had recently received special training in hypothermia, arrived at the staging area to volunteer. Because the last search for Naomi was coming to an end, Dr. Stowers was turned away. Just as he put his car into gear and was about to drive away, someone ran toward him. Don’t leave. We’ve found her! She’s alive! Dr. Stowers reached the ambulance just in time to see it was a load and go situation. I’m right behind you, he called out to the driver as they both sped off toward the local hospital.

      In the patrol car, Duane and I heard Kip’s shouts over the radio—She’s alive! She’s alive! Relief and gratitude filled my being. Oh, Duane. She’s alive.

      They’re rushing her to an ambulance, an excited officer told us. We’ll meet them at St. Joseph! We beat them there.

      As they hurried Naomi into the ER, I called out to the little form in the huge cocoon of blankets, Naomi, baby. Mommy and Daddy are here. We love you! We prayed.

      The doctor pronounced Naomi's condition critical. She was unconscious, swollen, and blue. Her temperature registered only 74 degrees; her heart rate just 70 beats per minute. I doubt if she could have survived out there another two hours, Dr. Stowers told us.

      Ordering warmed intravenous fluid for Naomi, Dr. Stowers and the local medical team worked feverishly to stabilize her enough for transport to Egleston Children’s Hospital in Atlanta for more intensive care. Dr. Stowers asked the director of nurses, Can you get me a pediatric nurse to travel with us? Gail Blankenship, a highly skilled nurse with regular weekend duty in Atlanta, just happened not to have left home for work.

      An hour later, Sherrie, the respiratory specialist, sat at Naomi’s head, operating the breathing bag; an EMT at her left checked equipment; Gail, the pediatric nurse, was at Naomi’s right, keeping the IV tubes functioning; and Dr. Stowers, at her feet, watched the heart monitor. They positioned me so I could talk to her and pat her little head, barely visible above the heated-air blanket.

      Naomi’s temperature remained precariously low, and she continued to be unresponsive. But when I gently laid my index finger in her hand, she weakly, very weakly, closed her little fingers around it. Midway to Atlanta, Naomi’s eyes fluttered, and she murmured, Mama. We all gasped. I continued to gently stroke her forehead, whispering, Naomi, baby. Mommy’s here.

      Then a faintly audible, Mama, song.

      I knew what she wanted. I started singing softly, Jesus loves me! This I know, for the Bible tells me so. Sherrie sang, too. And then, unbelievably, little Naomi—through swollen and chapped lips—tried to join in. I looked around at the circle. Dr. Stowers made no effort to hide the tears spilling down his face. Nor did we.

      Dear Jesus, who loves Naomi, thank you, thank you, thank you!

      On arrival at Egleston, Naomi’s condition was still listed as critical. She was not yet fully conscious—indeed she slept through most of Sunday. But on Monday she woke up her normal self. As her dad laughingly describes it, She perked right up and trashed the room. Later that day, she walked to the car. Our little family came home—together.

      I can never say thank-you enough to all those who took time from their busy lives to rescue little Naomi. They have my undying gratitude and my prayers that they will be blessed beyond measure. I will never wonder whether or not God hears and answers prayers, for only God and his ministering angels could have orchestrated such a miraculous set of circumstances. Yes, he hears. And answers.

      Mirna Whidden

      as told to Gloria Cassity Stargel

      Gertrude’s Stuff

      The best things in life aren’t things.

      Art Buchwald

      Thank you for putting up with my eccentricities, she said.

      Oh, I don’t mind so much. Tell the truth. There is one thing that kind of bothers me.

      Hum?

      It’s when you go through trash cans.

      Silence.

      Why do you do that?

      Well, she reasoned, that’s when people give me money. Five bucks. Twenty bucks, once.

      Shrewd, I thought. Not crazy.

      Besides, I find lots of valuable stuff.

      Like what?

      She smiled a wide, toothless smile. One time, I was diggin’ around at the supermarket and I found a fast food bag with six packets of catsup in it!

      My great aunt Gertrude and I were sitting on her back porch, sorting through old papers, canned food, and cardboard that she had stashed in metal trash cans for safekeeping. She was hunched over a feed sack filled with old mail. I studied the hand-knit orange hat she wore, in spite of the heat, to cover her matted gray hair. She had on a man’s shirt. The breast pocket was stuffed with so many pencils and paper towels, they stayed put as she bent down.

      For as long as anyone could remember, Aunt Gertrude was weird. She loved radios and telescopes, not cooking and sewing. She hadn’t worn high heels since her graduation from Parsons Junior College in 1936. She followed Edgar Cayce and other mystics down a path of woo-woo that caused our strict Methodist relatives to call her crazy. But by far her biggest sin was that she never threw anything away. Nowadays, what was wrong with Aunt Gertrude would be diagnosed as obsessive-compulsive disorder, and she would receive treatment for it; then, we just referred to her as eccentric and left her alone.

      She had not asked for my help. In fact, she barely knew me. I started writing to her the day we buried my grandmother. And she wrote back—volumes: life stories, bits of wisdom, journal entries. We had journaling in common. And we were both single women. Even though it was an unlikely friendship, my thirty-something to her eighty-something, we were kindred spirits. Later, she would tell me that she kept it going because, You were the only one who hugged me at my sister’s funeral. That small kindness would change my life.

      A few years and many letters passed between us. Then Aunt Gertrude’s across-the-street neighbor called me. It’s time, Joe said. Someone in the family has got to come take her out of that house. She doesn’t want to go. He was insistent. My aunt had stopped bathing after an army of court-ordered Boy Scouts with garbage bags convened in her yard to help bring her property into compliance with city code. An inexperienced volunteer driving a bulldozer broke the water line and Gertrude never had it fixed. She had taken to hauling water from the garden hose for drinking, cooking, and filling the toilet tank.

      Joe and Janette had helped for as long as they could: delivering groceries, mowing her front yard, and inviting her for dinner. When Gertrude’s license was revoked, they drove her to doctor’s appointments—if she would clean up in their bathtub first.

      The morning I made up my mind to leave Dallas, I talked to God. I’ll move to California to take care of my great-aunt; but, I want a dog, a house with a fenced yard, and a garden, then added, and a partner. It was more of an ultimatum than a prayer. I’ll do this good deed, but I’m getting something I want out of it, okay, Almighty? Of course, I was joking. I wanted to believe that we all have someone who will be there for us in our old age. For Gertrude, that someone was me.

      My father came from Illinois to drive the moving truck the 1,500 miles to Roseville and to move me into a falling-down rented house that overlooked a horse pasture. A week later, Gertrude moved in with me.

      For months, I worked by myself knee-deep in debris at Gertrude’s house, sorting treasure from trash: old newspaper, toss; photograph of my mother as a baby, save. It was like an archaeological dig: layer upon layer of magazines, flat boxes filled with buttons and coins, watches, and dry pens. I unearthed letters from 1919 and Christmas cards from the Depression. I uncovered a nest of chicken eggs in the living room, about three feet down, vintage—early eighties if the newspaper stratum was accurate. More bags, boxes, old transistor radios, and acid-bubbled batteries.

      And there were antiques, like prescriptions dated before printers and plastic, when headache remedies came in tins, nerve pills in wooden cylinders, and laxatives in blue glass bottles. Each Saturday the narrow path through the house widened. But at this rate we would both be dead before I finished.

      One evening a man in my Bible study group announced that he was moving into a new apartment on Saturday and could use a hand. About eight people showed up—in no time the job was done. I knew then that I had to do the unthinkable: ask for help. At the next meeting, I explained that I had come to Roseville to be my great-aunt’s caregiver and that she had filled her house with so much stuff it was uninhabitable. It was awful, dangerous work, but if anyone was available on Saturday, I would really appreciate help. I looked around the group and my nervousness subsided. They were smiling.

      Community Services is donating a Dumpster, I added. I have maps . . . and if you come, bring work gloves. On the way home I bought extra garbage bags, dust masks, and bottles of water. That wasn’t too hard. But will anybody show up?

      On the designated day, I arrived early to open the house. I dragged a few full garbage bags to the Dumpster. Doubts crowded in. You’re asking too much. I had been taught that it is better to give than it is to receive. Here I was, begging others to give to me. I sat on the crumbling front step, feeling guilty. You couldn’t handle Gertrude’s stuff alone. You failed.

      At five minutes after ten, when I was sure that no one was coming, a car parked across the street. Peace swept over me as the first volunteer walked toward the house. Soon, another car arrived. Joy swelled up to tears. Then another pulled up. In a matter of minutes, twenty people were standing with me in Gertrude’s front yard.

      Maybe it is better to give than it is to receive. But I learned a valuable lesson that day. If you can put aside your pride and ask for what you need,

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