by Edward Fays
I held her hand and cried a river of tears. Then I thought about my dad. Faith asked if he had helped a sick person by being an organ donor, and I said that he probably had. Should I give her the same opportunity to help someone else? I had told her about the long list of people waiting for transplants. Could she help a young girl or boy in need of a transplant? I pressed my lips to her forehead and said, “I love you, Faith, my courageous little girl.”
Awash in tears, I told the doctor, “Faith wanted to be an organ donor.”
Overwhelmed, he responded, “Her liver wasn’t damaged, and there is a young boy in the hospital waiting for a transplant.”
I told the doctor, “Just last week, Faith said she wanted to be an organ donor … someday. If she can help you save this young boy’s life then please, give her that chance.”
The doctor quickly alerted a team, and I went to speak with God. I sluggishly entered the hospital’s tiny chapel, just six pews on either side and a small cross suspended on the far wall in front of me. The place was empty. My feet dragged forward as I thought about my plans for that evening and how things had now changed forever. After we got home and Faith went to bed I was going to take a bath and finish reading a mystery novel I’d begun a few weeks earlier.
Now here I was in a chapel, and my daughter was gone. My sadness was beyond measure, so I knelt down and prayed. We weep from our eyes but at that moment I felt like every pore of my body was sobbing.
I sat in silence as if I was expecting an answer, and then I felt a chill run down the nape of my neck. It was the delicate touch of a hand on my skin. I turned, hoping to somehow see Faith standing there telling me that everything was okay, but instead I saw the pallid face of a stranger crying. Fighting back her tears, she discreetly asked, “Joan? Is your name Joan?”
“Yes, it is,” I whispered.
“My name is Veronica. I was wondering if we could talk for a minute? I was just told my son, Todd, will be getting a liver transplant. My son has been hanging on, he’s a fighter, but his time was running out. The doctors are optimistic about his recovery now that he is getting a transplant. I don’t mean to intrude, I just wanted you to know that you and your daughter have saved not just my son tonight, but my family.”
When I asked God, Why did this happen? I didn’t expect an answer. But He gave me one. I said, “My daughter’s name is Faith. Her grandpa, my father, was an organ donor. She admired his generosity and the idea that he could help someone live even after he died. Last Friday evening she told me she wanted to follow his example. I told her it was a nice gesture, but she would have years to make that decision. Tonight I made it for her.”
Standing there in a dimly lit chapel, surrounded by silence, Veronica and I hugged each other. “May God bless your child and her grandpa,” she whispered in my ear. “They are both extraordinary people.”
Inspired by JOAN ALDEN
The Hero
The life of a truck driver is a lonely one. Miles of blacktop, all-night coffee shops where only the waitress knows your name, and all the time in the world to reminisce—or dream—about almost anything.
Ike Fisher was a trucker. His usual route included the states south of the Mason Dixon line and east of the Mississippi, but once every few months he would head out west. Ike didn’t have any family and never minded a couple of weeks on the open road.
Late one drizzly night, as his giant rig roared through the dense fog looming over the deserted highway, Ike spotted the alarming sight of flashing red lights shrouded in the mist and weeds about twenty feet beyond the edge of the highway. Ike snatched the CB from its mount and called for help.
“Breaker, breaker, this is the Road Hound searching for the Midnight Patrol. I came across a vehicle that took a turn for the worse out here at highway marker seventeen. I’m steering my rig to the shoulder, see if there’s anything I can do. I expect you boys will be here in a minute.”
“Breaker, breaker, thanks for the wide eyes, Road Hound. We’ll be there pronto,” squawked the reply from a police cruiser a few minutes away.
Ike steered his massive semi until all eighteen wheels stamped tumultuously along the gravelly edge of the road. He seized the flashlight and first-aid kit stuffed under his rumpled bed and hopped down from the cab. After quickly scanning the area with his flashlight, he hurried down the hill to the distressed vehicle.
“Is anyone hurt?” he called out. “Are you hurt?”
All he heard were the abrasive sounds of crickets in the weeds. As Ike got closer to the car, he saw that it had flipped upside down. Inching even closer, he heard a pathetic whimper coming from inside. Beaming the light in the passenger’s-side window, he spotted a brown-and-white puppy cowering in fear. Ike cast the light in front and discovered a woman and young girl, both unconscious. He jerked vigorously on the passenger door, but the door frame was wedged solidly in the ground.
Desperate to get the women out of the car, Ike smashed the window with his flashlight and peeled off his shirt, using it to clear away the shards of glass on the window frame. Then he carefully slid the girl out of the car, swung her over his shoulder, and dashed up the hill, laying her gently on the ground beside the rear of his truck.
Scanning the highway in both directions, he saw no signs of police yet. He scrambled back down the hill to the driver’s side and yanked the door open. Ike pulled the woman out and carried her to safety. He heard the police sirens echoing in the distance and as he examined the two women for any severe wounds, he remembered that the puppy was still trapped inside the vehicle. Sprinting back down the hill, Ike pushed the driver’s front seat forward and crawled midway through the driver’s-side door, trying to rescue the little pup. The dog recoiled in fear on the passenger side.
“Come on little guy, come on,” Ike said, his arms extended outward. The puppy was unswayed and huddled in the corner. Getting desperate, Ike crawled completely into the car and wrapped his arms around the terrified animal. Inching back toward the door, he suddenly smelled gas and panicked. While scrambling to get out, the front seat fell back, trapping Ike in the car. The rear window had splintered in the crash, so Ike kicked the rest of it out with his foot. Feetfirst and on his knees, Ike braced the dog in his left arm and pushed his body out with his right hand. When a fragment of glass jutting out from the window frame punctured Ike’s right thigh, he screamed in agony and the puppy wriggled loose, scampering back into the vehicle. Instantly, the car burst into flames. With both hands, Ike forced himself out the rear window and rolled down the hill, snuffing out the flames as he tumbled. With his skin charred and smoldering, Ike lay in the wet dirt and weeds about thirty feet from the burning car. Rescuers arrived on the scene and within minutes firemen were dousing the flames.
For Ike, however, life would never be the same. The paramedics whisked Ike to a burn unit forty miles away, where he underwent emergency surgery. He had sustained third-degree burns on 40 percent of his upper body, including his face and hands. Luke, the puppy, perished in the fire.
Ike spent the next four months in recovery at the hospital. In addition to his burns, he had severed some of the veins and muscles in his right thigh, preventing him from driving a big rig again. His leg no longer possessed the strength and stamina needed to stop an eighteen-wheeler.
He did save the lives of two people, however. The two women he rescued, Gayle and Christina Florio, were both taken to the county hospital. They each had suffered a concussion and minor scrapes but were okay within a few days. Ike, Gayle, and Christina became friends and stayed in regular contact through letters and phone calls. But after the accident and his long rehabilitation, Ike felt alone, having to face the world with deformities he could not hide. He had no family, only a few acquaintances. They were sympathetic to his plight but didn’t know what to say and in time found ways to avoid him. Even when staring at himself in the mirror, Ike felt as if he were peering at a stranger. For fifty-six years he saw the same face mature and change over time. But the vision
he saw now was beyond anything he could endure. His skin looked like burned plastic—frizzled, pulpy, and painful to the touch. He wore long-sleeve shirts to cover up his arms, but his hands, neck, and right cheek were also partially burned.
Ike’s doctor recommended a psychologist to help him deal with his disfigurement, but Ike resisted. “How could a psychologist understand what I’m feeling?” he cried.
“Then at least let me put you in touch with a support group,” urged the doctor.
“Maybe later,” Ike said. “Not now. I need to sort out my own thoughts before I start sharing my feelings with strangers.”
The encouraging words Ike received from Gayle and Christina lifted his spirits, but his depression remained crippling. The trucking company he worked for gave him a severance package but Ike was not entitled to worker’s compensation because, as it said in the report, “Ike Fisher’s accident was not caused while performing the duties required of the job.”
He needed work, scouring the classifieds for something he could do without much human contact, such as night security. He landed a janitor’s job at an elementary school about an hour north of his home. He worked the four-to-midnight shift Monday through Friday cleaning the bathrooms, waxing the floors, and straightening up the classrooms. On nights when it snowed, he had to return to the school at five A.M. and plow out the parking lot.
Ike hated those snowy nights. Not only because he had to plow the lot at five A.M., but because he couldn’t avoid bumping into the students and teachers as they arrived for school. He was a gentle man, but his disfigurement made people treat him like a monster. The teachers were respectful but simply tried to avoid him. The students were at first frightened of him but soon recognized his timid manner and took advantage. From around the corner, Ike heard clusters of kids calling him a freak as they giggled and scooted down the hallway.
He never got mad. When he looked in the mirror he felt like a freak. Sometimes he would sit alone in the school basement sobbing, unable to conceive of what his life had become. Is this all that’s left? he wondered desperately. A deformed body, living alone and cleaning toilets for the rest of my life?
As Ike emerged from the basement one day, his eyes red and inflamed from crying, a boy from the third grade wandered by. “What’s the matter, mister?” he asked.
Ike looked down at him, wiping his eyes with his fingertips, and said, “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?” The boy flashed the bathroom pass in his right hand. “Oh,” said Ike, “well, maybe you should be getting back now.”
“I will in a minute,” replied the boy. “What’s the matter? I can see that you were crying. Maybe I can help you.”
“You can’t help me, kid, you wouldn’t understand.”
“Is it because of your skin?” asked the boy.
Startled by the boy’s candid question, Ike said, “Yeah, that’s part of it.”
Then, without hesitation, the little boy raised his shirt, revealing a fragile torso with skin that was charred and fleshy. “You see, mister, I do understand,” he said sympathetically. “But it’s not what people see that makes us who we are; it’s who we are on the inside that counts. My grandma taught me that.”
Ike stared at this child—so thin and delicate. He winced, knowing how painful it was getting burned and imagining that for a little boy, the pain must have been more excruciating than he could ever imagine.
The boy dropped his shirt and stared up at Ike. Still teary-eyed, Ike asked, “How did you get that burn, little guy?”
“The oven in my parents’ house blew up because of a gas leak. I was sitting at the table doing my homework when it happened,” he replied, his voice cracking as he described the incident.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
“No. My mom was the only one home and she was in the washroom putting clothes in the dryer. How did you get burned, mister?”
“I rescued two people from a car and it exploded when I tried to save their puppy,” Ike uttered.
“So you saved two people’s lives?” the boy asked in amazement.
“Yeah,” replied Ike, thinking of the cross he now had to bear.
“So, mister, those burns you have are just your scars for being a hero. All heroes have scars, you know. Don’t be sad about your burns; be proud that you saved two people’s lives,” declared the boy. “I better get back to class now. It was nice talking with you, mister.”
“Uh, what …” Ike was going to ask the little boy his name, but he ran down the hallway so fast Ike never got the chance.
When Ike got home after work that day, he glared at his reflection in the mirror, gently fingering the scarred areas of his neck and face. The words that little boy had heard from his grandma echoed in his mind—It’s not what people see that makes us who we are; it’s who we are on the inside that counts. For the first time Ike didn’t see a disfigured man with a bleak future gawking back at him. For the first time Ike felt proud of himself and saw new possibilities for his future.
I saved the lives of two people that night, Ike thought. I can no longer treat what happened to me on the side of that highway as my death sentence. As long as I have life, I have possibilities, he professed. Now I guess it’s time I begin to seize them.
Ike lived for another twelve years. He continued his job at the elementary school for two more years. During that time he got to know the students and teachers, and he gave speeches on the topic of possibility and the different types of scars we wear as we journey through life—mental, emotional, and physical scars. Ike spoke at other schools and community organizations. He told the story about the little boy in third grade who helped turn his life around and urged his audiences to listen to children, because often they say miraculous things.
When Ike died there were two pictures of him on either side of his casket, representing the two dramatic stages of his life and who he was during each of those times. For a person who at one time wanted only to isolate himself from the world, Ike Fisher had an overwhelming number of people eager to say their good-byes and pay homage to a unique and special man. Of course, among the crowd were the two women who, through shared letters and conversations over the years, had grown to love this man. Gayle and Christina Florio came to say farewell not only to Ike Fisher, but to a hero.
The little boy whose words influenced Ike and helped him turn his life around moved to a different school a few days after their fortuitous meeting in the hallway. They never saw each other again. Ike died believing that the little boy in the third grade was somehow there to rescue him from a life of misery and for that, Ike was eternally grateful.
Inspired by GLORIA RAMSEY
CHAPTER FOUR
BELIEVING IN OURSELVES
Celebrating the gifts we possess, recognizing what we are capable of accomplishing, and finding the boldness to take action
Sometimes it’s easier for us to see the potential in others than it is to see the possibilities within ourselves. Often this occurs because we are unaware of other people’s insecurities and see only their confidence, while at times we wrestle with feelings of doubt within ourselves. Through introspective stories bubbling with the rich wisdom that comes from experience, we discover how to peel off the layers of insecurity, finally revealing what lies just below the surface—elevated self-confidence, our unique talents, and a gallant willingness to risk and succeed.
Pluck
Kevin Carpenter stumbled home from school one day downhearted and in despair. The final selections for the basketball team had been made and the roster posted in the school gymnasium—his name omitted, same as always. He’d given it his all during the tryouts; he even practiced on the weekends and evenings after school. But like the last boy to get picked for kickball when team leaders choose sides, Kevin felt utterly rejected.
Kevin’s grandma lived with him and his parents. As he floundered through the front door that afternoon, she noticed something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” she asked, genuinely concerned.
“Nothing, Grandma,” Kevin mumbled, thinking that she wouldn’t understand.
But she insisted. “Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I can help.”
“I got cut from the basketball team, okay?” His voice seethed with frustration.
“You mean even after all the practicing you did?” she pointed out, not realizing the stinging effect of the words she chose.
Kevin snapped, “You’re not helping me!”
“I guess you’ll just have to practice more,” she responded, unfazed by his remark.
“No, Grandma! I quit! I’m never trying out again. I gave it everything I had and I still didn’t make the team.”
“It sounds like you need more pluck!” she declared.
“Pluck?” He looked at her as if she were crazy. “You mean luck, don’t you, Grandma?”
“No. I mean pluck,” she insisted. “You know—courage, determination, spirit, chutzpah! Those things that keep people going when the tide turns against them. Let me share with you a little fable I read years ago,” she continued.
“A mouse that lived near the home of a great magician was so fearful of cats that the magician took pity on the tiny mouse and turned it into a cat. Immediately, it began to fear dogs, so the magician turned it into a dog. Then it began to fear tigers, so the magician turned it into a tiger. Then it began to fear hunters, so the magician, in disgust, said, “Then be a mouse again! Since you have only the heart of a mouse it is impossible to help you by giving you the body of a braver animal.” And the poor creature once again became a mouse.”
Kevin’s grandma glared at him sternly, pointing a bony finger in his direction. “Any worthy achievement demands that you have the determination to see it through by always putting forth your best energies,” she said, thrusting a fist in the air. “Electrify yourself with passion and the drive to get what you want. In the end you’ll think better of yourself and the world will think better of you.” Then she smiled and softly said, “Always remember the fable I just shared with you. And when the time comes that you’re scared or feel like giving up, ask yourself, Am I a man or a mouse? ”
