A Grandparent's Gift of Love

by Edward Fays

  I know the day will come when I awake and she won’t be here, but I’m putting my trust in you and God to make sure that today is not that day. I have important responsibilities, but I don’t know what it’s like to have someone depend on me the way my mom is depending on you. So doctor, for today, please keep my mom in the forefront of your thoughts. I know you have many patients and do the best you can, but I have only one mom and my children have only one grandma.

  Your eyes are reassuring; they tell me that you understand. Thank you. I hear the nurse paging you again so I know it’s time for you to go. Doctor, thank you for giving me just a moment of your time.

  Inspired by GEORGIA LEAHY

  Happiness on a String

  Asingle gift that makes another person’s eyes twinkle for just a second can replenish our hearts with happiness for an entire day. The truth of that statement revealed itself to me on a day when I needed it most.

  It was two days before Christmas, and my class of first-graders was vivaciously anticipating Santa Claus’s arrival later that week. The morning commenced with a simple assignment. I had each student write a list of all the things he or she was grateful for that Christmas. It was a project sure to find its way under a watermelon magnet and stuck to the refrigerator.

  Like most teachers, I had a pizza and ice cream party for my class that afternoon. I also had a baker’s dozen holiday balloons brought in to make the occasion more festive.

  The afternoon ticked by, and a bunch of overfed first-graders scurried out the door when the last bell rang. I attended to some last-minute business. It was December twenty-third and I wouldn’t be back in class until January fourth. I welcomed the time off, but for me, this Christmas was bittersweet. I’d moved to a new city before the school year began and couldn’t afford to fly back and see my family for the holidays. My dad was desperately missing my mom, this being his first Christmas without her, and since he was on a limited budget I didn’t want to burden him with my financial dilemmas. I told him I had to work over the Christmas break in preparation for the following semester.

  As I flicked the light switch on my way out, I turned to see if I’d forgotten anything—an old habit of mine. That’s when I noticed the Christmas balloons tied to a pint-size blue chair near the window. Unsure what to do with them, I grabbed the thirteen ribbons, cinched them together, and, after fighting the wind gusts outside, finally tucked them all into the backseat of my car. Their rainbow of colors buoyed my spirits and gratefully, I didn’t feel so alone.

  I had the rest of the day free. Since I had already mailed out my Christmas presents and my few friends were either still at work or busy with last-minute holiday preparations, I decided to go for a drive. Most of the area was still foreign to me and I soon found myself winding down an unruffled stretch of road where the trees dawdled overhead and enveloped each other a hundred feet above the double yellow line. The branches reminded me of two friends stretching out to greet each other. It was peaceful, with ribbons of sunlight checkering their way through the dense foliage and creating hints of sunshine and shade on my windshield. It wasn’t long, however, before Mother Nature’s natural beauty gave way to man-made creations. Turning the corner I noticed a condo complex going up on the right side of the road and what appeared to be a retirement home on my left. I spotted a man decked out in a New York Yankees baseball cap and Hawaiian shirt hunkered in the shade on the porch outside.

  Approaching the entrance of the retirement home, I felt compelled to pull in. The balloons crammed in my backseat obstructed my view—and suddenly I knew what to do with them.

  Swinging into the parking lot, I lurched into a spot. Opening the back door and grabbing the strings, I unleashed the balloons from the confines of my car and let them float gloriously in the air. It was as if I were holding a rainbow on a string. As I approached the entrance, I waved to the Yankee fan sitting outside. He smiled, raising his hand but keeping his arm glued to the chair.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said. “Would you like a balloon?”

  He grinned. “Sure, I could always use a little color in my life.”

  I handed him a red one with MERRY CHRISTMAS scrawled in green letters. He tied it to his chair. “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “People call me Red.”

  “Just like the balloon?”

  “Just like the balloon,” he said, sounding a bit like he’d heard plenty of quips about his name.

  “Hi, Red. I’m Bonnie. I thought I’d give these balloons out to some of the residents. Will you be here when I get back?”

  Red looked at me, opened his hands, and said, “Do I look like I have anywhere to go?”

  I entered the doorway with an inkling of trepidation. I only had twelve balloons left and didn’t want anyone to feel left out. After speaking with Marcy, the receptionist, I was pleased to learn that the home housed only twenty people, and eight of them were lucky enough to be with their families for Christmas.

  “Well, that’s wonderful,” I proclaimed, “that leaves me with one extra balloon since I already gave one to Red.”

  Marcy smirked and said, “Don’t forget about me. I love balloons, too.”

  During the next hour Marcy and I made the rounds, elevating the spirits of some people who appeared very downhearted. The place had a feeling not of neglect but forgottenness, and as I went around spreading a little holiday cheer, I couldn’t help but think it was one of the best hours I’d spent in a long time. I shared delightful conversations with some of the residents, and met a woman named Beverly Adams who’d grown up near my mom, in North Carolina. I left the balloons tied to the bedposts, gratified to see that each one added an element of zest to an otherwise solemn environment.

  Upon leaving that afternoon, I found Red sitting lazily in his chair, looking happier than when I arrived. “Thank you for the balloon,” he said, staring up at me.

  “You’re welcome, Red. Perhaps I’ll see you again sometime.”

  “Perhaps, but probably not,” he replied. “Visitors are always welcome, but rarely come.”

  His words forced me to ponder my plans for later that afternoon. I’m going home hut what will I do when I get there, watch TV? So I slid over an old white wicker chair with a pale red cushion and plopped down next to Red. For the next two hours we chatted about our lives and traded stories from our pasts. Our conversation flowed as if a gentle breeze was guiding us along. Sitting there, I couldn’t help but wonder why I hadn’t done this before. Perhaps I’d thought it would be boring or just uncomfortable talking with a stranger in a retirement home. But it wasn’t boring, it was enlightening. I had been feeling a little lonely, and so had Red. Together, we shared our loneliness and it blossomed into an unforgettable time that will forever stand out in my mind.

  During the next six months, I visited Red often, and we forged a unique and loving friendship. I also became close with some of the other residents there and each one vied for my attention. One day I even took my class of first-graders so they could fill that place with their youthful exuberance.

  In June, on the last day of school, after another pizza and ice cream party, I took a baker’s dozen balloons to that retirement home. Only this time Red wasn’t there. I immediately feared the worst. Marcy handed me a letter Red had written just a few days earlier. Chills coursed through my body and I couldn’t suppress the tears. It revealed how he really felt about me.

  Dear Bonnie,

  Your precious smile and charming way have lightened my heart and cast a smile across my face during the last six months.

  Because of you, I have rekindled my relationship with my son, and he invited me to spend the summer at his home in Colorado. Bonnie, it will be the first time I’ve seen my grandchildren in three years. The level of joy I am feeling right now defies description. My son is picking me up tomorrow, and I asked if we could stop for some balloons before we get to his home. I told him when I lay my eyes upon my grandchildren I want to be holding a rainbow of colors in my
hand. When he asked me why, I smiled and said, “I just think that is a wonderful way to begin a loving relationship.”

  Thank you, Bonnie, for your kindness and for giving me the greatest gift one person can offer another—time.

  Love, your friend,

  Red

  When I finished reading, the page was soaked with my tears. As I pressed the letter against my heart I couldn’t keep from trembling. I thought about the things we need most in life and I realized they are simple things. Love, in all its forms; companionship; someone to talk to and someone who will listen to us.

  It had been almost a year since I had seen my father, so I asked Marcy if I could borrow her phone. I dialed, and when I heard the gentle-hearted voice of my dad say, “Hello,” I uttered the only words I could say: “I love you, Dad, and I’m coming home to see you tomorrow.”

  Inspired by BONNIE FRANKEL

  Breakfast Is Served

  Pancakes, sausage, scrambled eggs, wheat toast with strawberry jelly, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. To me, there is nothing better than a hearty breakfast in a bustling diner on a Sunday morning. The weekend I was visiting my grandfather, he suggested that we slip our legs under a table at one of his favorite breakfast haunts—the Pancake Palace.

  So bright and early Sunday morning Grandpa tugged open the window shade next to my bed, letting a burst of sunlight flood the room. “I’m hungry. How about you?” he asked, anxious for his first cup of coffee.

  With my eyes squinting in the sun I hopped out of bed, signaling that I did indeed have an appetite that needed to be satisfied. After a quick shower I bounded down the stairs, and we were off.

  We made small talk as we marched down the street. Then I spotted it—one of those silver diners with the old weather-beaten sign dangling out front. A greasy spoon that served great food where the surly cook in the back labored over a hot griddle and the waitress knew everyone’s name and always had a pen stuck behind her ear.

  As we grew closer, a few titanic-size men emerged from their trucks and waddled inside—the kind of guys you can find sitting at the counter eating corned-beef hash, drinking leaden coffee, and boisterously laughing about something peculiar.

  When we were only a block away, Grandpa ushered me through a dilapidated wooden doorway with a few homeless people sleeping out front. Before I could ask what was happening, he thrust an apron and giant silver spoon into my hand.

  “Grandpa,” I said, “what are we doing? I thought we were going to breakfast.”

  “We are,” he said. “Only this time we’re serving it first. Hey, Chuckie, my grandson is here! Where do you want him?”

  From around the corner I heard a deep voice bellow out, “We could use somebody on hash browns!” Before I knew what was happening, my grandfather pushed me toward a giant tray of steaming fried potatoes and a line of hungry people waiting to get served.

  So there I was, dishing out fried potatoes to homeless people in a church basement instead of sitting in front of a plate of tasty pancakes. I wasn’t happy. Then the unexpected happened. Everyone I served thanked me, and I started to soften. The puss on my face turned to a smile, and I felt like I was doing something special.

  I’d woken up wanting to taste buttermilk pancakes but I got a taste for contribution instead. It tasted sweet. It felt good serving others and seeing the appreciation on their faces. By the time ten-thirty rolled around, I had scooped hash browns for close to three hundred famished people. When the work was done I sat down with Grandpa, Chuckie, and the other volunteers and had breakfast. The eggs were dry, the sausages were rubbery, and the coffee was burned, but I didn’t mind. I felt good and enjoyed watching my grandfather joke with his friends.

  After breakfast I shed my apron, splattered with bacon grease, orange juice, and maple syrup. Chuckie thanked me for coming. I told him I’d like to come back and he said they could always use the help.

  On the way home I asked Grandpa why more people don’t contribute like that when it feels so good. “Human nature is a funny thing,” he said. “People can spend hours watching TV, but when it comes to spending a few hours serving food at a shelter, they don’t have the time. It’s too bad because they don’t realize what they’re missing. You didn’t realize what you were missing until today, right?”

  “Right, Grandpa,” I said, aware of the lesson I learned.

  “By contributing your time, you receive more than you could ever give.”

  I went back many times with my grandfather and helped serve breakfast down in that musty church basement. That was a long time ago. Grandpa has passed on, but the memories of those days and the lessons I learned have stuck with me. I’ve since started volunteering for different organizations, working to help families get back on their feet and offering college scholarships to students with the desire to further their education, but not the means. Together with other volunteers we’re making a difference in the lives of people in communities around the country. We’ve introduced new programs where local schools can get involved in the effort as well. Young students are getting to experience the same feelings of contribution I learned many years ago.

  My grandfather liked to joke and say that he was a selfish man, interested in his own happiness. What he taught me, however, was that giving to others enables us to receive more joy and satisfaction than is possible any other way. Perhaps it’s okay to be a little selfish, as long as we are giving of ourselves.

  Inspired by BART COLUCCI

  CHAPTER TEN

  ESSENCE AND VITALITY

  Buoying our spirits by discovering the magic and possibilities in each day we are granted

  We are all familiar with the stories of Hollywood stars who seem to have it all, yet succumb to a harmful addiction. In stark contrast, why do some people who seem to have every reason to be bitter and angry at the world radiate with joy and optimism for their future? From talking with these people, I’ve learned that they did ask the question Why me? It turns out they simply got a better answer, and that made all the difference in their world.

  The Swimming Lesson

  There’s a captivating little park overlooking the San Francisco Bay. It’s a fantasy-book setting embroidered with a lush grassy knoll and a few park benches. There’s even a walkway hugging the brink of the rocky cliff where people can watch the waves collapsing upon the jagged rocks below.

  One afternoon, a gentleman recently confined to a wheelchair happened by. He parked his chair along the walkway and gazed out at the glistening emerald water. He remembered with longing the days he used to go swimming, days when his legs were muscular and strong.

  He noticed a teenage boy lying on the grass soaking up the sun’s rays. He saw the bulging muscles in the boy’s arms and chest and assumed he was an athlete. “Do you like to go swimming?” asked the gentleman.

  The boy looked up, blocking the sun’s rays with his left hand, and said, “Absolutely, swimming is one of my favorite things to do. It’s great exercise.”

  “It must feel good to be so young and strong. If I weren’t restricted to this wheelchair I’d be out there propelling myself through the water,” the gentleman said.

  The boy looked at him and brazenly said, “You could go swimming if you really wanted to. It’s just a matter of desire.”

  The man shook his head and said, “You don’t understand. My legs are too weak. My swimming days are over.”

  Upset by hearing the optimistic words of this robust teenager, the man turned his attention back toward the sea. He studied the waves as they crashed relentlessly upon the rocks and churned violently in the alcoves at the base of the cliff. As the sun moved west across the sky it beat down upon his face and the scent of the ocean beckoned to him.

  His mind was adrift when the voice of the young boy saying good-bye pierced his thoughts. Startled for a moment, the man turned to say farewell. That’s when he saw the boy being carried back to the car by his grandfather, and he realized this young boy with the muscular arms was par
alyzed from the waist down. It had never stopped him from swimming.

  Inspired by HENRY SCHUSTER

  Purity of Heart

  One day Grandma peeked into the TV room and suspiciously asked, “Brian, have you finished all your homework?”

  “Sure did!” he answered with assurance. “Grandma, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course, you can ask me anything,” she responded, curious as to what would come next.

  “Where do babies come from?” asked Brian curiously.

  She smiled. “Why, they come from God, my dear.”

  Brian’s inquiry continued. “Grandma, where do people go when they die?”

  “If they lived a good life, they go to heaven to be with God. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, Grandma, I saw your baby picture, and you look a lot different now than you did then, and I was just wondering how God is going to recognize you.”

  Grandma laughed uproariously. “Well,” she replied, “God knows me because He watched me as I grew up.”

  “Does that mean God watches me all the time, too?” Brian asked with a stunned expression on his face.

  “Yes, I believe so,” answered Grandma.

  As if he was sitting on a tightly wound coil, Brian sprang up off his seat and scooted upstairs. “Where are you going, my dear?” Grandma asked, puzzled by his swift departure.

  From the top step Brian yelled down, “To finish my homework!”

  Inspired by KATHY FITZGERALD

  A Moment in Time

  The doctor said everything was going well. My daughter, Keri, was nearing the end of her third trimester and we eagerly awaited the arrival of the new member to our family.

  On October twelfth the moment finally arrived. Everyone scrambled to the hospital, anxious to hear the news. The family was divided—half thought Keri would have a boy and the other half thought a girl would bless our clan. I sensed that she would have a baby girl.

  After a few seemingly endless hours, the doctor gave us the glorious news—I had a bouncing baby granddaughter. The family erupted with cheers of joy and laughter and then my son-in-law, Richie, staggered into the lobby, mesmerized. “She’s a miracle,” he uttered, holding out his empty hands. We all hugged him and asked how Keri was doing. “She’s fine,” he said, in a trancelike state. “They’re both fine and resting comfortably.”