by Edward Fays
Inspired by TERRY J. SCOTT
Taking a Chance
My friend Chris and I were attending a charity fund-raiser—one of those pretentious functions where small talk consists of people bragging about their philanthropic endeavors rather than the size of their stock portfolios. We were tracing the odd sequence of events that had led to us being there—neither of us had enough money to be “philanthropic”—when suddenly, an exquisite woman strolled confidently through the doorway, her red hair aflame against her sparkling black dress. Jaws dropped and heads turned as people gasped at her exquisite beauty. Chris was struck right between the eyes. She was tall—six feet in heels, elegant, and sophisticated. In other words, she was out of his league. Normally he wouldn’t have the nerve to approach such an irresistible woman, but after some cajoling, I convinced him that he couldn’t pass up the opportunity. Plus, watching him make a play for such an attractive lady would be an entertaining way to help pass the time. When he saw her standing at the bar waiting for a drink, he primed himself and made his move. I wished him luck and watched, smiling, as he paced over, wiping the sweat from his palms on the back of his pants just before making contact.
What followed astounded me. I stared dumbstruck as they laughed, enjoying great conversation. He ordered a drink and stood there leaning against the bar, self-assured as James Bond. I wondered if he was sipping a vodka martini, shaken not stirred. About twenty minutes later he strutted toward me, gleaming with pride.
“So what happened?” I asked, barely able to contain myself.
“I think I’m in love,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “She was beautiful, intelligent, and funny. And you know what the best part was? I sounded intelligent and was funny. She even laughed at my jokes. What more could a guy want? She brought out the part of me I like about myself. And a part of me I never knew existed.”
“Well, what happened?”
“I felt so confident I asked her if she had any plans later tonight. That’s when she said to me, “How old are you?””
“Did you tell her the truth?”
“Are you kidding? When a woman asks how old you are she already has doubts, so the best course of action is to lie. Make yourself older or younger, depending on the situation. So that’s what I did. I added four years and told her I was thirty-two.”
“Did she believe you?”
“I guess so. Then she asked me to guess how old she was. Dangerous territory, but I thought clearly. I deducted five years and told her I thought she was thirty-eight.”
“So when are you going to see her again?”
“Next Saturday. Her place.”
“Get out of here. That’s great!”
“It’s not what you think. She’s throwing a twenty-fifth birthday party for her granddaughter, and since a lot of people my age will be there she thought I would have a good time. She told me to bring a friend, so you’re invited, too.”
“Her granddaughter! She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. I can’t believe she’s a grandmother. Are you still going to the party?”
“Sure. If she looks that good, could you imagine what her granddaughter must look like?”
“Good point. Hopefully she won’t mention that you were hitting on her tonight.”
“Hopefully. But I’ve got to tell you, my confidence level shot through the roof. The last time I spoke with a woman that good-looking I was sixteen years old and talking to the poster hanging on the wall in my bedroom.”
Inspired by CHRIS MCDONALD
Why Am I Special?
Grandma, am I special?” my granddaughter asked sheepishly. “If there’s somebody just like me, does that make me less special?”
“Why, of course you’re special, Andrea,” I replied, trying to assure my young granddaughter that she was, indeed, unique. “There is no one else like you anywhere in the world.”
“Then why do people always say that my best friend Samantha and I look alike?” she asked curiously. “We even like all of the same things.”
Snickering, I said, “What makes you special is not what you look like or what games you play, but who you are on the inside.”
“What do you mean?”
I thought for a moment before posing a question to her. “Each person in your class is a what?”
“A student?” she said quickly, satisfied with her answer.
“Yes, they are all students,” I replied, “but each person is an individual. That means there has been no one exactly like her in the past and there will be no one exactly like her in the future. The same thing goes for you. Let me show you what I mean.”
I thought for a moment, then asked, “Who do you know that thinks exactly like you do all the time?”
“Nobody,” she answered.
“You and Samantha may appear similar, but have you ever looked really close and noticed a lot of little differences?”
“Sure, Grandma. Her nose is bigger than mine.”
Chuckling, I said, “Okay, well, she’ll probably get that fixed someday, but that’s another subject. How many people go to your school?”
“A lot, Grandma,” she answered. “Over three hundred people, I think, but most of them are older than me.”
“How many people are in your grade?”
“Twenty-four, Grandma. Oops, no, wait, twenty-five. I forgot to count myself.”
“Okay. How many people sit in your row?”
She counted slowly, picturing the familiar faces before exclaiming, “Six, and that includes me, too. I have the first seat in the second row.”
“How many people are assigned to your seat?”
“Oh, Grandma, just me,” she said with an infectious little giggle. “There wouldn’t be room for anyone else in my seat.”
“Now do you see what I mean? Out of over three hundred students who go to your school, there is only one person assigned to the first seat in the second row in your class. That’s you. That makes you special. When you’re at a dance recital and stare out beyond the bright lights and into the audience for your mommy and daddy, how do you recognize them?”
“They’ve got the biggest and brightest smiles and they’re usually already waving at me.”
“That’s because for you they’re one of a kind and stand out in a crowd, making them extra special. And someday, when your mommy and daddy come to your graduation, their eyes will be darting through the crowd trying to find you. There will be twenty-four other students all wearing the exact same graduation gown, but they’ll be looking for you. And when they recognize you, their hearts will burst with pride, as will mine. That’s what makes you special. It’s also why each life is so precious. We all have something so unique, one of a kind—it’s something no one else can ever give.”
“What is it, Grandma? What do we all have that’s so special?”
“Ourselves, my dear. We have ourselves to give to the world.”
Inspired by JOAN REYNOLDS
Practice Makes Perfect
One day I was watching my grandson, Stevie, shoot basketball. For hours he practiced shooting from the left and right sides, just under the hoop. Every shot sprang off the backboard and swoosh, slipped gracefully through the net. Finally I said, “Stevie, do you plan on shooting from anywhere else on the court?”
Cupping the ball in his lap, he declared, “Not yet, Grandpa. Since I’m in a wheelchair, I won’t be able to run around the court. So I decided to master my shots close to the net. This way, when my team gets the ball they can just pass it to me and we’ve got two points.”
“I guess they’ll be calling you the Point Man,” I said, offering him some encouragement.
“No, Grandpa,” he replied. “They’ll call me the Leading Scorer!”
Inspired by CALVIN RYDER
Message in a Bottle
There I was, perched at the edge of the wooden dock my grandfather had built when I was a little girl. The sun, dipping low behind the mountain, cast a warm orange glow acro
ss the lake right to the brink of the dock, right to me—as if the exquisite sunset was meant for me alone. Perhaps it was a message that there would always be a glimmer of light illuminating my path. Plunging my feet into the water, I noticed that they looked distorted, large and hazy, as if I were peering at them through a plastic bubble. I could hear the faint roar of speedboats droning in the distance.
The edge of the dock was the ideal place to think. I needed a fresh look at the challenges I was facing and hopefully some answers on how best to proceed. I was thirty-six years old, a mother of two, in the midst of a divorce, and facing the unknown.
I had dedicated the last twelve years to my family and loved it. But while I was changing diapers, cleaning clothes, and preparing lunches for school, it seemed the world had passed me by. I couldn’t help but ask, What will happen now?
I needed a job, but sitting in front of the computer to write my résumé I felt lost, the blinking cursor on the white page taunting me. I had seen people performing low-wage jobs they obviously didn’t like and I had to wonder, Is that going to be me?
I went on interviews, sitting in front of huge oak desks where people ten years younger than I quickly decided my fate. One morning, after an early-twenty-something rolled his eyes at what he considered my insufficient résumé, I said, “Do you appreciate all the things your mother did for you when you were growing up?” Before he could utter a word I added, “Because that’s what I’ve been doing for the past twelve years!” I snatched my résumé off his desk and marched out, feeling proud that I’d spoken my mind but still scared, my eyes prickling with tears as I jabbed the elevator button.
After a few weeks of interviews I decided to run away for a couple of days to the home where I’d spent my summers as a child. The kids were with their dad and I hoped a weekend spent absorbing the fresh country air would shed new light on things. Turns out it was just what I needed.
Sitting there on the thirtieth plank, I spotted a bottle floating nearby, its long neck tossing in the water. It must have fallen off one of the motorboats, I thought. With my toes wedged between two planks and my upper body dangling off the brink of the dock I plucked the bottle from the water, snaring the cork with the tips of my fingers. It was dark and felt empty and I was planning on throwing it away when I wondered why an empty bottle would have a cork in it. If it fell overboard by mistake, wouldn’t it just fill with water and sink to the murky bottom? Yanking on the cork, I turned the bottle over, my heart leaping with surprise when a note toppled onto the dock. “This is something out of the movies,” I said aloud. “I can’t believe this!” Hastily, I grabbed the paper, unrolled it on the dock, and grew absorbed in the message scribbled on the page.
A mother is the morning and evening star of life and nature has set her on a pedestal. The light of her eyes is always the first to rise and often the last to close at the end of the day. Her love glows in her sympathies and reigns in all her thoughts and deeds. A mother is brave in her actions, wise in her advice, and tender with her feelings.
Seated Indian-style with tears drizzling down my cheeks and the paper clenched in both hands against my chest, I felt grateful. For twelve years I had held the most important position in the world—mother. Venturing into the business world and threading my way through offices honeycombed with cubicles had intimidated me, but no longer. I am a mother. I’ll find a career that enriches my life, perhaps even go back to school, further my education.
As I got up to leave, there was Judy, my grandmother, behind me on the dock. She asked if I was okay and where I got the bottle. I felt the words springing from my mouth but I refrained, saying, “It’s just an empty bottle I pulled from the lake. Probably fell off a speedboat.” I hugged her and together we meandered arm-in-arm up the path, back to the house.
Not until this very moment did I unleash the words that I desperately wanted to share with her that night, about that magical note in the bottle. I never told my grandma that I had curiously watched her earlier that evening, sneaking down through the thickets along the rim of the lake. It wasn’t until reading the note and tracing my fingers over the familiar handwriting that appeared in so many of my birthday cards that I realized what had transpired. It wasn’t until reading those words that I learned it was my grandma who’d uniquely understood what I needed to hear, what I needed to discover by myself. And so she decided to send me a message in a bottle.
Inspired by JENNY GIVENS
You Can Do It
A little boy stood by his grandpa’s hospital bed. Even on his tippy-toes he could barely peek above the silver safety rails, but his words reached far and wide.
“Grandpa,” he said, “when I couldn’t get a hit on the baseball team you told me not to quit. You said if I was determined, I could do it.
“When I had all those lines to memorize for my class play and I couldn’t remember them, you told me to try harder. You said if I was determined, I could do it.
“When I missed the shot in basketball and lost the game for my team, you told me to practice so it wouldn’t happen again. You said if I was determined, I could do it.
“Grandpa, I know you don’t feel good and you’re probably tired, but don’t quit, Grandpa. If you’re determined, you can do it.”
The little boy’s grandfather, with tears rolling down his cheeks, gently reached for his grandson’s hand and whispered, “I’ll do it for you.”
A short time later he was released from the hospital. The doctors said he made a miraculous recovery. When asked what made the difference, his eyes sparkled and he softly replied, “My grandson told me I could do it, and I wasn’t going to let him down.”
Inspired by MEL DESMOND
CHAPTER FIVE
HOPE AND SPIRIT
Finding the faith to guide us through life’s darkest moments
There will be times in our life when things look hopeless and we feel alone. During those moments it’s essential that we connect with people who have rallied the faith within themselves and learned to triumph over the barriers they faced. The human spirit is resilient, but when our hope is waning it’s hard to remain robust. Startling illustrations of what is possible through the power of hope, faith, and love will compel us all to make sure we have those “life essentials” in our corner.
Strength of a Whisper
Up at four-thirty A.M. The shrill beep of the alarm was an unwelcome but necessary intruder in the darkness of my bedroom and the depth of my sleep. I acted quickly, shutting off that piercing sound before stumbling to the bathroom muttering, “I can’t believe it’s already time to get up.”
Twenty minutes later, still groggy but inching closer toward complete awareness, I poked the buttons on the StairMaster at the gym. MANUAL SETTING—TWO HUNDRED TWENTY POUNDS—LEVEL SEVEN—START. Within five minutes I was fully stimulated, beads of sweat amassing on my forehead.
As those steps rotated and my eyes darted from the TV to the time I had left on that grueling machine, I thought about the conversation I’d had with my grandmother, “Gram,” about seven hours earlier.
“Edward, I finally started exercising,” she said in a feeble voice, her words grainy, as if they were being dragged over sandpaper. She strained just to eke out a whisper. “I can’t swallow too good…the muscles in my throat are weak, so the doctor said I’ve got to build them up.”
I already knew about Gram’s throat problem. My mom told me that Gram needs her food diced up and has to concentrate when she eats, making sure those little morsels don’t get lodged in her throat. She said Gram exercises while lying on her bed—neck and throat stretches, swallowing, and talking to herself.
My mother said, “I told her to try singing so the vocal cords and throat muscles get stimulated. When she was getting in the shower I peeked in and told her to sing in there. She belted out a tune right away, singing, “Geeeet Oooout oooof Heeereee…!” Closing the bathroom door, I laughed and told her she had the right attitude.”
Ever since Gram let me k
now about her weak throat muscles and trouble swallowing, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The frailness of her voice as she lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling and talking out loud. What does she say? I wondered. Prayers to my grandfather, Benny? Talking with God? Counting numbers? I admired her courage yet wanted to rescue her from the vision of helplessness gripping my thoughts.
As my thighs burned and my heart drummed against my rib cage while on the StairMaster that morning, the question What can I learn from Gram’s experience? flashed before me. I glanced around the gym at the hard bodies. Glistening biceps flexing in the mirror, step aerobics classes with people kicking up their heels in unison—all of us striving to improve ourselves, the same way Gram was working to better herself. I felt so superior to her at that moment, gazing at my reflection in the mirror briskly climbing those steps while she was barely able to swallow, eating only mushy food. It seemed I had every advantage—youth, health, time, and opportunity. It was easy to understand how young people often don’t give serious thought to what their grandparents may be facing. That night I picked up the phone and called her. “Gram,” I asked, “how is your throat today? Still having a hard time eating?”
“I have to swallow slowly so I don’t choke,” she said in a brittie voice. “I don’t mind though; taking my time … means I can savor the taste of my food, and you know how I’ve always loved to eat. Thank God I haven’t lost my taste buds, that would really … stink!” Her words crept along, and although I could anticipate what she wanted to say I remained quiet, waiting for her to speak. “How are things going with your book?” She meant this one, the book you’re holding in your hands right now.
“Good,” I said, “very well.”
“I’m praying for you every day that things go well with your book and everything else you’ll do in the future.”
I envisioned her sitting there, her decaying body, her left breast missing from an operation she’d had six years earlier, counting each breath, belabored, tedious. A few pieces of food left on her plate, too troublesome to get down. And the blue-and-white nightgown drooping over her sagging body. I remembered myself in the gym that morning—strong, vibrant, driving myself hard on the StairMaster. If only I could give her a little of that, I told myself.
