Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition

by Jack Canfield

  Four of my students came to love the subject matter so much that they formed their own “History Bowl” team and entered a countywide contest. Though they didn’t take first place, they were ecstatic over the Honorable Mention trophy they brought home to our classroom.

  The school year came to an end more quickly than I could have imagined. Though I had grown fond of many of my students, the ones in the honors class held a special place in my heart. Most had earned A’s and B’s. No one had averaged lower than a C.

  During our final teacher workday before summer break, the principal called me into her office for my end-of-the-year evaluation.

  “I want to congratulate you on a great rookie season,” she said with a smile. “Especially on how well you did with your remedial kids.”

  “Remedial kids? I don’t understand. I didn’t have any remedial classes.”

  Mrs. Anderson looked at me in a strange way. “Your first period class was remedial. Surely you saw that indicated at the top of the roll.” She pulled a file folder from a drawer and handed it to me. “And you must have suspected the students in that class were below average by the way they dressed and the way they carried themselves. Not to mention their terrible grammar and poor reading and writing skills.”

  I opened the file folder and removed a copy of the roll from my first period class. There at the top, plain as day, was the word HONORS. I showed it to Mrs. Anderson.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “What a huge mistake! How did you ever manage, treating slow students as though they were. . .”

  I couldn’t help but finish the sentence for her. “As though they were bright?”

  She nodded, looking more than a little sheepish.

  “You know what, Mrs. Anderson? I think we’ve both learned a lesson from this. One they didn’t teach in any of the education courses I took. But one I’ll never forget.”

  “Nor will I,” she said, circling the word HONORS with a red marker before placing the paper back in the folder. “Next year, I may just have this printed at the top of all the class rolls.”

  ~Jennie Ivey

  The Rescue of a Worrywart

  Do not anticipate trouble or worry about what may never happen. Keep in the sunlight.

  ~Benjamin Franklin

  I was born a worrier. If my cries in the delivery room had been translated, I’m sure I was saying, “Careful, Doc. Don’t drop me! Watch out for that table edge!”

  I worried all through elementary school, especially when I had a substitute teacher. I panicked, my stomach churned, and I felt sick and ready to throw up. With each substitute, the school had to phone my mother to come and get me. Once I was safely home, I instantly recovered.

  I worried when it stormed. (What if the water rose up and we drowned? Yes, even in our hilltop house!) I worried when I met new people. (Would anyone want to know me?) And later I worried when I went on a trip. (Had I left some electric appliance turned on that would burn down the house while I was gone?)

  Then, one day, life smacked me in the head with a genuine problem.

  The phone rang, and the doctor on the other end said, “You have invasive breast cancer.”

  My worrying went into overdrive, keeping me awake at night and following me during the day.

  It was at that point I read Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor’s Soul. One particular page contained advice that seemed as if it had been written just for me.

  The short piece was called “Two Things Not to Worry About,” and said, in effect, hey girl, don’t worry about things you can’t change, because what’s the use? And don’t worry about the things you can change; instead get busy and change them.

  The words rang true, nestled in my brain, and calmed my anxious heart. They made me realize that I was accomplishing nothing with my worrying except upsetting myself. Worry wouldn’t solve problems, heal my cancer, or change anything. It was a complete waste of energy.

  In accepting the advice in the book, I felt a huge burden lift from my shoulders. I was freer than I had ever been.

  During long days of chemotherapy and radiation, I carefully divided everything into two camps: the things I could do something about, and those I couldn’t.

  When I entered what I call the second phase of my life (life after cancer), I approached it with a new attitude and a lighter spirit. And to remind myself, in case I fell into my old ways, I printed out the advice from the book and added it to a poster board on which I had pasted pictures of things I wanted to accomplish — a kind of a pictorial “bucket list.”

  Now, fourteen years later, when I look at what I still want to do or places I want to go, I am reminded that in this life of mine, I can’t control everything. Some things still simply are what they are, and worrying won’t change them. The rest? The things I can control? I need to get off my butt and do something about them.

  It’s only a change in attitude, but the words I read that afternoon while in the middle of the worst crisis of my life have made all the difference in how I am living the rest of it.

  ~Michele Ivy Davis

  Two Things Not to Worry About

  Worry is a misuse of imagination.

  ~Dan Zadra

  In my life, I have found there are two things about which I should never worry.

  First, I shouldn’t worry about the things I can’t change. If I can’t change them, worry is certainly most foolish and useless.

  Second, I shouldn’t worry about the things I can change. If I can change them, then taking action will accomplish far more than wasting my energies in worry.

  Besides, it is my belief that, nine times out of ten, worrying about something does more danger than the thing itself. Give worry its rightful place — out of your life.

  ~Source Unknown

  Moving Forward

  The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance; the wise grows it under his feet.

  ~James Oppenheim

  The story that changed my life is called “Dancing in the Rain” by Jeannie Lancaster and appeared in the book Chicken Soup for the Soul: Think Positive. I read the entire book cover to cover. There were many stories that resonated with me but that story in particular made me smile and I keep going back to it.

  The key phrase that captured me was “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” The story talked about how the author discovered a plaque with those words and how she bought it to constantly remind herself to implement that attitude into her daily life. The story also mentions how too often people put conditions on their own happiness. That’s my problem. I tend to be a “glass is half empty” kind of person. Too often when things aren’t going the way I plan, I basically take a back seat in my life and wait for everything to magically start getting better and work itself out on its own. Of course I am always disappointed when nothing happens or more often than not, things get worse.

  I read the story a couple of weeks ago. It has stuck with me and I say the quote to myself several times throughout the day: “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain.” Just repeating that sentence over and over again makes me feel more positive and changes how I feel and react to situations that I am not normally happy with.

  A couple of years ago my cousin Jenny and I had some sort of falling out. I am not even sure what it was about at this point. All I know was that Jenny had been my best friend, my maid of honor at my wedding and the godmother of my first-born child. I had thought of her every now and then. After our spat, I had been invited to her wedding but didn’t go out of spite. I kept waiting for her to apologize or something. After reading the story I felt like a spoiled brat. How much time do we really have to cultivate relationships and do all the things we want to do? The fact is we really don’t know.

  I realized that I missed her friendship; this whole situation was completely silly. I was ashamed of myself for not going to her wedding. “Enough,” I told myself. “This foolishness
has to stop here and now. I am tired of missing out on my own life.”

  I sat down and wrote a note to Jenny. I told her that I wanted to start over, call a truce and I apologized for not being at her wedding. I mailed the letter and I waited. Would she return the letter unopened? Would she contact me? What if she didn’t contact me?

  A week later the phone rang. I asked my daughter to answer it because I was dealing with a flood in the basement. A sock had gotten stuck in the washing drain and I was busy reminding myself to dance in the rain! Jenny was calling to thank me for my letter. She was happy to hear from me and we talked on the phone for over an hour, until the battery died in my phone. She is planning on visiting us in the next couple of weeks. I will finally get the pleasure of meeting her husband, son and daughter for the very first time. I have learned to move forward now and to actively pursue my happiness. After all, “life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass. It is about learning how to dance in the rain.”

  ~Catina Noble

  Dancing in the Rain

  Anyone who says sunshine brings happiness has never danced in the rain.

  ~Author Unknown

  My husband and I had just finished having dinner at a local restaurant and were enjoying strolling through the stores in an adjacent shopping center. We went into a shop that sold handcrafted items in hopes of finding a few last-minute Christmas gifts. The scent of handmade soaps and potpourri teased our noses as we walked through the door.

  There was a lot to see. Every shelf and wall was loaded with different crafters’ handiwork. As I walked through the store, I noticed a wooden plaque hanging unceremoniously on a wall. I turned to take a second look and remember shaking my head “yes” at the message printed on the plaque. Moving on, I enjoyed looking at other items in the store, but found myself being drawn back to the plaque.

  Standing in front of the plaque, I felt a little like a child who, when digging through the sandbox, finds some unexpected treasure — a shiny quarter or a lost toy. Here among the other handmade items, I found a very simple, yet profound treasure hidden in a message. A message I needed.

  “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass,” the plaque proclaimed. “It’s about learning to dance in the rain.”

  As I pulled my husband over and directed his attention to the plaque, I could see that he too appreciated the simple lesson the plaque shared. How often in our daily lives had we put conditions on our happiness? When we get the house paid off, then we can be happy. When things settle down with the kids, then we’ll be able to do more together. There is so little joy for the here and now in the uncertainties of the whens and thens.

  Looking at the plaque, I found myself thinking back to a hot and muggy day the summer before, when I unknowingly lived the plaque’s message. Dark clouds had rolled in along the foothills of the Rockies, heavy with their burden of moisture. Rain began falling lightly by mid-afternoon, building to a downpour that filled the gutters with rushing water and then moved on as quickly as it had come.

  Light rain continued to fall as I walked out to get my mail. Water was still running high through the gutters. I don’t know what came over me, but I suddenly felt compelled to do something a little crazy for my fifty-plus years.

  I slipped off my shoes and stockings and began walking barefoot through the water. It was deliciously warm, heated by the pavement that had been baked by the summer heat.

  I’m sure my neighbors thought that I had lost my last vestige of sanity, but I didn’t care. For in that moment, I was alive. I wasn’t worried about bills, the future or any other day-to-day cares. I was experiencing a gift — a pure and simple moment of joy!

  The plaque now hangs in my living room, a Christmas gift from my husband. I walk past it multiple times each day and frequently pause to ask myself, “So, am I dancing in the rain?”

  I think I am. I know I try to. I’m definitely more committed to taking time to pause and recognize and be grateful for the immense blessings that are all around me — the joys that were too often going unnoticed in my rush to future happiness. I celebrate more fully my dear blessings, such as a son with special needs learning to drive alone, the love of good friends and the beauty of spring. Yes, one step at a time, I am learning to dance in the rain!

  ~Jeannie Lancaster

  Great Advice

  Advice is like snow — the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the mind.

  ~Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  Memory Lane

  Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.

  ~From the television show The Wonder Years

  I was thrilled last year when Chicken Soup for the Soul chose the story I wrote about my parents to be part of Chicken Soup for the Soul: Family Caregivers; little did I know the real blessing would be in reading the book itself.

  The piece I wrote focused on my parents’ struggle to adjust to my mother’s paraplegia and the commitment my father showed in taking care of his disabled wife. Around the time the book came out, my elderly mother started going downhill and within two months was placed in hospice care. My father took her home from the nursing facility where she had ended up, and hospice workers came in daily to help him care for her.

  Just the word “hospice” sent my spirits plummeting. Seeing my mother, who had once been so involved in life, now noticeably withdrawn, often confused, no longer able to feed herself, and seemingly unaware of her surroundings produced a tightening in my chest that made it hard to breathe. And when the hospice nurse told us she was showing signs of dementia, it nearly broke my heart.

  Reading the other stories in this book was like a lifeline. When I felt sorry for myself over my family’s situation, I only had to read about families who had it so much worse to be reminded that our burden was a relatively light one. When I became saddened that the “take charge” mother I knew had disappeared, I read advice that helped me enjoy getting to know this gentler, more docile version of my mom. Other stories encouraged me to reframe the way I looked at her situation and to adjust my own behavior, while some provided helpful hints that I filed away for future use. I had thought, after twenty-five years of living with my mother’s health issues, that I had learned how to deal with everything; but there were stages of my mother’s life we had yet to pass through and the insights shared in this book helped prepare me for them.

  So much wisdom was contained in those 101 stories that it’s hard to pick one to highlight. But if I had to, I would say it was Janey Konigsberg’s “Don’t Take it Personally.” Her advice to live in the past with the elderly patient and not try to keep them interested in the present restored my connection to my mom.

  During my weekend visits with my mother, I initially tried to keep her involved in my life — telling her all about my week and asking her about hers. I thought this would entertain her and broaden her world beyond the bedroom to which she was now confined. I brought paintings I had made and showed her photographs of me with my friends. When Chicken Soup for the Soul published another of my stories, I showed her the book and read the story to her.

  She smiled politely, but didn’t seem very interested. There was no sign of the pride and enthusiasm she used to show for my activities and accomplishments. I was disappointed — not because I craved validation from her, but because I repeatedly failed to interest her in something that would bring her out of the shell into which she had retreated. In short, I couldn’t reach her.

  After reading Janey’s story I resolved to try living in the past when I was with Mom. The weekend before Christmas I pulled up a chair to her hospital bed and brought her a big stack of Christmas cards my parents had received. One by one I read them to her. They represented her entire life: relatives; old friends; my parents’ neighbors from when they lived in New York; and new friends from their retirement community in Maryland. I’d look at the return address, and if the name was unfamiliar to me I’d ask her
, for example, “Who do you know named Elizabeth Parker that lives in Florida?” I was surprised when she answered, “Oh, that’s Betty from the beauty parlor who used to do my hair. She moved to Florida when she retired.” As we worked through the stack I became amazed at how much detail she remembered from years gone by.

  That day Mom stayed awake the whole time I was there and was a lot more communicative than I’d seen her in the last six months. Even when she didn’t say anything, her frequent smiles and the way her eyes lit up let me know that she was enjoying herself. By the end of my visit I was hoarse from reading aloud all the notes people had written. Their unique voices came through in the handwritten comments or newsletters they enclosed, and it was as if she had had a mini reunion with each of them. We both had fun reminiscing about her friendships with these people, and by prompting her with questions I learned some details about her life that I hadn’t known before.

  Two days later, I came back to spend Christmas Day with her. A few more cards had arrived and I read them to her. We had a good laugh over one from an Italian-American friend who signed her card, “Buon natale e api nuier.” Buon Natale is Merry Christmas in Italian, but “api nuier” is a phonetic rendering of “Happy New Year” — with an Italian accent! My mother, who had always been a meticulous speller, found this quite amusing and seeing her sense of humor return, even for a short while, further loosened the bands that had been squeezing my heart.

  At a loss for what to do once we finished with the cards, I started singing Christmas carols. Mom used to love to sing, but now she just listened. I made sure not to sing any of the newer songs — only the traditional ones. Sensitive to tiring her out or annoying her with my less-than-perfect voice, I’d stop every few songs and asked if she wanted me to continue. She always nodded her head yes. When I left at the end of the day she smiled and said, “Those were all the old songs we used to sing. Thanks for the entertainment, Sue.” The sincerity in her voice conveyed her appreciation, and as I looked into her eyes I caught a glimpse of the mother I remembered.