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

by Jack Canfield

  Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.

  ~Rabindranath Tagore

  We were on our way to visit an institution in 1954 with our three daughters: Mary, twelve, Joan, nine, and Ruth, eighteen months old. Because of little Ruth, handicapped since birth, we were making this sad and silent trip. We had been advised to place her in a special home. “It will be less of a burden;” “Ruth will be better off with children like herself;” “Your other children will have a home free of the care of a disabled person.”

  To break the silence, I flipped on the car radio and heard the voice of a former classmate. I remembered him as a boy without legs. He was now president of an organization employing persons who are disabled.

  He told of his childhood and of a conversation with his mother. “When it was time for another handicapped child to be born,” his mother explained, “the Lord and his counselors held a meeting to decide where he should be sent . . . where there would be a family to love him. Well, our family was chosen.”

  At this, my wife Edna leaned over and turned off the radio, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Let’s go home,” she said.

  I touched Ruth’s tiny face. She looked like a beautiful symbol of innocence. I knew at that moment Ruth was given to us for a purpose. How miraculous it was that the voice of a friend, with whom I’d had no contact for twenty years, should that day speak to me. Mere coincidence? Or was it God’s unseen hand helping us hold on to a little girl who would enrich our lives immeasurably in the years that followed?

  That night, Edna awoke at three o’clock in the morning with thoughts that demanded to be written. A pad was on the night table, and in the morning we pieced her notes together into the poem “Heaven’s Very Special Child”:

  A meeting was held quite far from Earth;

  “It’s time again for another birth.”

  Said the angels to the Lord above,

  “This special child will need much love.

  Her progress may seem very slow.

  Accomplishments she may not show,

  And she’ll require extra care

  From the folks she meets way down there.

  She may not run or laugh or play,

  Her thoughts may seem quite far away.

  In many ways she won’t adapt,

  And she’ll be known as handicapped.

  So let’s be careful where she’s sent,

  We want her life to be content.

  Please, Lord, find the parents who

  Will do a special job for you.

  They will not realize right away

  The leading role they’re asked to play,

  But with this child sent from above

  Come stronger faith and richer love.

  And soon they’ll know the privilege given

  In caring for this gift from heaven.

  Their precious charge, so meek and mild,

  Is heaven’s very special child.”

  ~John and Edna Massimilla

  The Gift of Giving

  Wherever a man turns he can find someone who needs him.

  ~Albert Schweitzer

  Ever since the death of my twenty-eight-year-old son Don, Jr., I have given a donation at Christmas or on his birthday in his loving memory. In past years, I had help from the Internet grief support group that I’d found the year of his passing. At Christmas we would pick a family in need and buy them gifts, or make baby blankets and quilts for a hospital, or donate books or art supplies to a school in need. Our projects were varied, and after we voted, we would all chip in to make magic happen in memory of our children.

  A few years ago, after our group dwindled down to five and the money wasn’t as easy to come by, we decided to discontinue our projects at Christmas time. One of our members lost her husband, so the rest of us voted to send her the remaining money in our Sunshine Fund that we used for our projects. The money helped her pay for his funeral, since his passing was sudden and unexpected. We told each other that we still could do small projects and the money would come out of our own pockets at the time of the donation. If one of the moms wanted to do a project on her child’s birthday, we would vote on it and see if we were in agreement and able to help the mom with the expense of her donation.

  In the past, I had made several donations on my son’s October birthday and had the help of my online friends. I knew, however, that a big donation would put a burden on most of our group since many of us were struggling to keep gas in our cars and food on our tables, and were existing on our Social Security checks alone. With Don’s birthday drawing near, I knew it would be difficult to find the money to make a substantial donation in his memory.

  Then I remembered a story I’d read and a line from that story kept flashing in my mind: “You’re never so poor you have nothing to give.” Where was that story? I got out my Chicken Soup for the Soul books and began to investigate.

  Oh, yes . . . it had to be in the Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings book! Sure enough, I came across the story, (perhaps with a little divine help), titled “Never Too Poor To Give.” I knew there had to be a project that I could afford to do. I just had to put on my thinking cap!

  Since my husband is dealing with cancer and chemotherapy treatments, we spend a lot of time in waiting rooms. It dawned on me that there were a lot of other people there at the same time as us. Most were waiting to get into their chemotherapy chairs for their treatments. Others were family members, passing the time waiting for their loved ones to finish so they could transport them home.

  Books! That’s what Drema, who wrote the story, found that she could pass on to others! I had books I had finished, so I gathered them up to take to the chemotherapy rooms and leave for the patients there.

  On one of my trips with my husband, I noticed several children in the waiting rooms. That’s when I got the idea to create “coloring packs” for them to use as they waited. I could go on the Internet to find free coloring pages and print them out for the children. I also purchased some very reasonable coloring books, which came in “party favor” packs of four for a dollar. I packed Ziploc bags with a coloring book, a few coloring pages, and a handful of crayons. I made them for girls and boys and I used popular movie and cartoon characters. I had such fun doing this, and as I thought of the children receiving them and the smiles on their previously bored faces as they waited, it made me so happy!

  As I write this story, October is very near, and my supply of gifts is growing. When my online mom’s group heard what I was doing, some sent me crayons and small coloring books, and one mom sent a check to help me buy more printer ink for my pages!

  I am excited to take the books to the oncologist’s chemotherapy room and the “coloring activity packs” to the hospital waiting area for children to use. I am sure the volunteers there will be happy to give them out as needed! And what a warm feeling in my heart as I carry on our projects to honor our wonderful children, at a very low cost.

  It is true. “You’re never so poor you have nothing to give.” And if my resources run out, I can always give my time. There are people who need rides to chemotherapy.

  ~Beverly F. Walker

  Never Too Poor to Give

  No one has ever become poor by giving.

  ~Anne Frank

  “Don’t you have any toys you want to share?” I asked my son during our church’s Christmas toy drive. “What about all those things in your closet you haven’t used in years?”

  “I don’t have anything,” he said. “We’re so poor.”

  We’re only “poor” because we refuse to buy him the texting phone he wants for Christmas, which would also require a monthly texting charge.

  “You’re never so poor you have nothing to give,” I found myself saying to him, a phrase my mother often used on me.

  How could I help him understand, when I myself still whined about things I wanted, like the Fowler’s Modern English Usage book that cost nearly $40? I knew Santa Hubby
wasn’t going to pony up for that one. What about that Vera Wang coat I wanted from Kohl’s, the one with the $150 price tag? No, that wasn’t happening, either.

  At work the next day, one of my students said, “I didn’t spell your name right,” as she handed me a Christmas gift — a beribboned box of chocolates. No wonder she hadn’t spelled it right — I had only worked at the center for a couple of months, and my name is not easy to pronounce, even in English, which is this woman’s second language.

  The woman had been out of work for months!

  “Thank you, Joanna,” I said, trying to hold back the tears as I hugged her.

  I hadn’t expected a gift — I work at an adult education center, where we deal with people every day who struggle economically. The economic downturn is not new to those who come in our doors — those who are laid off, without work, and need an education to get ahead or for a sense of pride. When I was hired, my boss told me she tries to keep snacks around the center and cooks “stone soup” once a week, where whoever can bring something in does, because “You will hear growling bellies here. They give their food to the children before they themselves eat.”

  “Some of them get food stamps,” my boss continued, “but by the end of the month, things are tight. We try not to plan field trips where they would have to pack a lunch because sometimes they just won’t show up because they don’t even have a sandwich to bring along.”

  And yet these people, so grateful for a second chance at getting an education, unable to sometimes even afford the gas money to come in, manage to do something for us nearly every week. Some bring in food; others do chores around the center. They help and encourage one another, and us. They give what they are able to give.

  When I looked at my Christmas gift from my new friend, I wondered if it had been an offering out of a meager food budget, and I wanted to refuse it. Instead, I said “thank you.”

  When I brought the candies home to share with my family, I told them just how precious each chocolate was if you thought of how much the unemployed woman’s family makes a year. Why, it was the equivalent of a Fowler’s Modern English Usage book! I said it again, understanding so much better in my heart, “You’re never so poor you have nothing to give.”

  Perhaps the way I could help my son understand best was for me to understand first.

  Immediately, I went to my bookshelf and chose several of my favorite novels to share with the center. When I had them boxed, I turned to find my son nonchalantly lugging a white laundry basket of toys he had played with when younger. “I don’t want these old things,” he said.

  I saw among them his beloved Buzz Lightyear and his favorite stuffed dog, Squishy. I set them aside for the toy drive and kissed him on his forehead. He had learned the way I had — by example. Now the students had not only impacted me, but my family as well. Here I had thought I was the teacher, but Joanna and the rest of the students at the center are the ones teaching me. Because you’re never so poor you have nothing to give.

  ~Drema Sizemore Drudge

  Hugging Day

  You can’t wrap love in a box, but you can wrap a person in a hug.

  ~Author Unknown

  One day at church, a good friend gave me a “just thinking of you” gift wrapped in pink tissue paper. It was the original Chicken Soup for the Soul and it had just been published. The book was filled with interesting and uplifting stories. I remember I began reading it that very night. I would read an entry or two before going to bed each night. One evening I read a story about hugging called “It Can’t Happen Here?” The opening quotation by Virginia Satir said we need four hugs a day for survival, eight for maintenance and twelve hugs a day to grow.

  A graduate of one of Jack Canfield’s workshops had written a letter to him to describe how she had instituted a “hugs day” at her workplace. She wanted to share with her mentor the positive outcome.

  I read this story on a Tuesday. I know it was Tuesday because on Wednesday I walked into my second grade classroom and declared that henceforth every Wednesday would be known as “Hugging Day.” I told my second graders everyone needs hugs to live and grow.

  I was already a hugger and had always greeted my students with a warm hug each morning. But after reading the story in this new book, I decided that on “Hugging Day” everyone needed to make sure they got at least twelve hugs. I wanted my students to grow. All hugs didn’t have to come from me, but I was ready, willing, and able to dole out as many as needed.

  My students lined up at my desk with questions and left with a hug. They hugged me before recess and after lunch. They hugged me when they came to school in the morning and when they left for home in the afternoon. The practice spilled over into other parts of the school. Soon the art teacher was helping the children collect their hugs. The gym teacher and music teacher offered their arms to the cause as well. The principal, a long time believer in hugging, dropped by every Wednesday to help make sure the children met their quota. And perhaps best of all, the children in my classroom hugged each other.

  Every Wednesday my students counted and charted their hugs to make sure they were getting their fair share. I continued the practice for several years, even after I moved from the second grade classroom and started teaching kindergarten.

  Through the years I hugged rich kids and poor kids, smelly kids and clean kids. I wrapped my arms around a boy with a brain tumor and a girl who was deaf. I hugged children with an array of disabilities and diagnosed disorders. I hugged children who were gifted academically and others whose gifts lay elsewhere. I hugged children who were fluent in English and a child who only spoke Chinese. I hugged children coming from all sorts of family situations and living conditions. Hugging Day was a success.

  I was cleaning up my classroom one Wednesday afternoon after my newest kindergarten class had gone home. I needed to get everything ready for the next day. I put new activities out on the tables, checked the hamster cage to make sure Houdini was still locked in safe and sound, and set up the calendar center to welcome my students to a new day of school.

  “Is Wednesday still Hugging Day?” a soft voice called into the empty classroom.

  I looked up to see a tall beautiful blond teenage girl standing in the doorway of my classroom. I will never forget that moment.

  “Nicole?” I said, as my former second grader entered. She fell into my arms and began to sob. I hugged her and comforted her as best I could. We sat down in the tiny chairs designed for kindergarten children.

  Nicole told me how her father had been killed in a truck accident only a few weeks earlier. We talked, we cried, and eventually we both left that room to go our separate ways.

  But I learned something new that day. It doesn’t always take four hugs to survive. Sometimes it just takes one.

  ~Rebecca Waters

  It Can’t Happen Here?

  We need 4 hugs a day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs a day for growth.

  ~Virginia Satir

  We always teach people to hug each other in our workshops and seminars. Most people respond by saying, “You could never hug people where I work.” Are you sure?

  Here is a letter from a graduate of one of our seminars.

  Dear Jack,

  I started out this day in rather a bleak mood. My friend Rosalind stopped over and asked me if I was giving hugs today. I just grumbled something but then I began to think about hugs and everything during the week. I would look at the sheet you gave us on How to Keep the Seminar Alive and I would cringe when I got to the part about giving and getting hugs because I couldn’t imagine giving hugs to the people at work.

  Well, I decided to make it “hugs day” and I started giving hugs to the customers who came to my counter. It was great to see how people just brightened up. An MBA student jumped up on top of the counter and did a dance. Some people actually came back and asked for more. These two Xerox repair guys, who were kind of just walking along not really talking to each other,
were so surprised, they just woke up and suddenly were talking and laughing down the hall.

  It feels like I hugged everybody in the Wharton Business School, plus whatever was wrong with me this morning, which included some physical pain, is all gone. I’m sorry that this letter is so long but I’m just really excited. The neatest thing was, at one point there were about 10 people all hugging each other out in front of my counter. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

  Love,

  Pamela Rogers

  P.S.: On the way home I hugged a policeman on 37th Street. He said, “Wow! Policemen never get hugs. Are you sure you don’t want to throw something at me?”

  Another seminar graduate, Charles Faraone, sent us the following piece on hugging:

  Hugging Is

  Hugging is healthy. It helps the immune system, cures depression, reduces stress and induces sleep. It’s invigorating, rejuvenating and has no unpleasant side effects. Hugging is nothing less than a miracle drug.

  Hugging is all natural. It is organic, naturally sweet, no artificial ingredients, nonpolluting, environmentally friendly and 100 percent wholesome.

  Hugging is the ideal gift. Great for any occasion, fun to give and receive, shows you care, comes with its own wrapping and, of course, fully returnable.

  Hugging is practically perfect. No batteries to wear out, inflation-proof, nonfattening, no monthly payments, theft-proof and nontaxable.

  Hugging is an underutilized resource with magical powers. When we open our hearts and arms, we encourage others to do the same.

  Think of the people in your life. Are there any words you’d like to say? Are there any hugs you want to share? Are you waiting and hoping someone else will ask first? Please don’t wait! Initiate!

  ~Jack Canfield

  Amazing Connections

  Again, you can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever. This approach has never let me down, and it has made all the difference in my life.