Creative Thoughts

Archive for the ‘stories’ Category

Little Chad was a shy, quiet young man. One day he came home and told his mother that he’d like to make a valentine for everyone in his class. Her heart sank. She thought, “I wish he wouldn’t do that!” because she had watched the children when they walked home from school. Her Chad was always behind them. They laughed and hung on to each other and talked to each other. But Chad was never included. Nevertheless, she decided she would go along with her son. So she purchased the paper and glue and crayons. For three weeks, night after night, Chad painstakingly made 35 valentines.

Valentine’s Day dawned, and Chad was beside himself with excitement. He carefully stacked them up, put them in a bag, and bolted out the door. His mother decided to bake him his favorite cookies and serve them nice and warm with a cool glass of milk when he came home from school. She just knew he would be disappointed and maybe that would ease the pain a little. It hurt her to think that he wouldn’t get many valentines – maybe none at all.

That afternoon she had the cookies and milk on the table. When she heard the children outside, she looked out the window. Sure enough, there they came, laughing and having the best time. And, as always, there was Chad in the rear. He walked a little faster than usual. She fully expected him to burst into tears as soon as he got inside. His arms were empty, she noticed, and when the door opened she choked back the tears.

“Mommy has some cookies and milk for you,” she said. But he hardly heard her words. He just marched right on by, his face aglow, and all he could say was, “Not a one. Not a one.”

Her heart sank.
And then he added, “I didn’t forget a one, not a single one.!”

Dale Galloway
as published in the 3rd serving of chicken soup for the soul

Author and lecturer Leo Buscaglia once talked about a contest he was asked to judge. The purpose of the contest was to find the most caring child. The winner was a four-year-old child whose next door neighbor was an elderly gentleman who had recently lost his wife. Upon seeing the man cry, the little boy went into the old gentleman’s yard, climbed onto his lap and just sat there. When his mother asked him, what he had said to the neighbor, the little boy said, “Nothing, I just helped him cry.”

Ellen Kreidman
Submitted by Donna Bernard
from the 3rd serving of chicken soup for the soul)

Somewhere in Milaor, Camarines Sur, there lived a fourth grader boy who
would follow this route to school everyday: He has to cross the rugged
plains and cross the dangerous highway where vehicles are recklessly
driving to and from.

Once past this highway, the boy would take a short cut, passing by the
Church every morning just to say Hi to God, and faithfully say his,
“Magandang umaga po” in Bicol dialect. He was faithfully being watched by
a Priest who was happy to find innocence so uplifting in the morning,

“Kamusta, Andoy? Papasok ka na?”

“Opo padre … “

he would flash his innocent grin, the priest would be touched. He was so
concerned that one day he talked to Andoy.

“From school…”, he advised “Do not cross the highway, you can pass
through the Church and I can accompany you to the other side of the road
…that way I can see that you are home safe….”

“Thank you father …”
“Why don’t you go home … do you stay in this church right after school?”

“I just want to say “Hi” to my friend, God,”

and the priest would leave the boy to spend time beside the altar, talking
to himself, but the priest was hiding behind the altar to listen to what
this boy has to say to his heavenly FATHER.

“You know my math exam was pretty bad today, but I did not cheat although
my seatmate is bullying me for notes… I ate one cracker and drank my
water, Itay had a bad season and all I can eat is this cracker. Thank you
for this! I saw a poor kitten who was hungry and I know how he feels so I
gave my last cracker to him … funny but I am not that hungry. Look, this
is my last pair of slippers …I may have to walk barefoot next week, you
see this is about to be broken… but it is okay ….at least I am still
going to school…. Some say we will have a hard season this month, some
of my classmates have already stopped going to school .. please help them
get to school again, please God? …Oh, you know, Inay hit me again, it is
painful, but I know this pain will pass away, at least I still have a
mother…. God, you want to see my bruises? I know you can heal them….
Here… here and …. oh …blood . I guess you knew about this one huh?
Please don’t be mad at Inay, she is just tired and she worries for the
food in our table and my schooling that is why she hits us ….Oh, I think
I am in love … there’s this pretty girl in my class, her name is Anita
… do you think she will like me? Anyway, at least I know you will always
like me, I don’t have to be anybody just to please you, you are my very
best friend! Hey your birthday is two days from now!!! Aren’t you excited?
I am! Wait till you see, I have a gift for you … but it is a surprise!
I hope you will like it! Oooops, I have to go …” then he stood up and
calls out, “Padre, padre, I am finished talking to my friend … you can
accompany me to the other side of the road now”

This routine happens everyday. Andoy never fails. Father Agaton shares
this every Sunday to the people in his church because he has not seen a
very pure faith and trust in God, a very positive look at negative
situations.

One Christmas day, Father Agaton was sick so he could not make it in the
Church, he was sent to the hospital. The Church was left to 4 manangs who
would chant the rosary in 1000 miles per hour, would not smile and would
always find fault in what you do, they were also very well versed in
cursing if you irritate them! They were kneeling, saying their kilometric
rosary when Andoy, coming from his Christmas party, playfully dashed in.

“Hello God! I …”

“P—-!! (a curse) bata ka!! Alam mo nang may nagdadasal!! Alis!!”

Poor Andoy was so terrified, “Where’s Father Agaton? He is supposed to
help me cross the street . and to be able to cross the street I will have
to pass by the back door of this church …not only that, I have to greet
Jesus. It is His birthday, I have a gift right here….”

Just as he was about to get the gift out of his shirt, the manang pulled
his shirt and threw him out of the church. “Susmaryosep!!! (does the sign
of the cross fervently) Alis kang bata ka, kung hindi matatamaan ka!!!

So the boy had no choice but to cross the dangerous side of the road in
front of the church. He crossed. A fast moving bus came in. There was a
blind curve. The boy was protecting his gift inside his shirt, so he was
not looking. There was so little time. Andoy died on the spot. A lot of
people crowded the poor boy, the body of a lifeless young boy .

Suddenly, out of nowhere a tall man in a pure white shirt and pants, a
face so mild and gentle, but with eyes full of tears… He came and
carried the boy in His arms. He was crying. Curious bystanders nudged the
man in white, and asked,

“Excuse me sir, are you related to this child?
Do you know this child?”

The man in white, His face mourning and in agony, looked up and answered,

“He was my best friend … ” was all he said. He took the badly wrapped
gift in the bloody chest of the lifeless boy, and placed it near His
heart.

He stood up and carried the boy away and they both disappeared in sight.
The crowd was curious .

On Christmas Eve, Father Agaton learned of the shocking news. He visited
the house, and wanted to verify about the man in white. He consulted the
parents of Andoy.
“How did you know that your son died?”
“A man in white brought him here.” sobbed the mother.
“What did he say?”
The father answered, “He did not say anything. He was mourning. We do not
know him and yet he was very lonely about our son’s death, as if he knew
our son very well. But there was something peaceful and unexplainable
about him. He gave me my son, and then he smiled peacefully. He brushed my
son’s hair away from his face and kissed him on his forehead, then he
whispered something …”

“What did he say?”
“He said to my boy…” the father began, “Thank you for the gift .. I
will see you soon … you will be with me…” and the father of the boy
continued, “and you know for a while, it felt so wonderful … I cried,
but I do not know why….all I know is I cried tears of joy … I could
not explain it, Father, but when that man left, something peaceful came
over me, I felt a deep sense of love inside … I could not explain the
joy in my heart, I knew my boy is in heaven now but…tell me, Father, who
is this man that my son talks to everyday in your church, you should know
because you are always there . except at the time of his death ..”

Father Agaton suddenly felt the tears welling in his eyes, with trembling
knees, he murmurred, ” … He was talking to no one …. but ..
GOD….”

Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, one white gardenia was delivered anonymously to me at my house.

There was never a card or note, and calls to the floris were in vain because the purchase was always made in cash. After a while, I stopped trying to disover the identity of the sender. I just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect while flower nestled in folds of soft pink tissue paper. But I never stopped imagining who the sender might be. Some of the happiest moments were spent in daydreams about someone wonderful and exciting, but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity. In my teen years, it was fun to speculate that the sender might be a boy I had a crush on, or even someone I didn’t know who had noticed me. My mother often contirbuted to my speculations. She’d ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness, who might be showing appreciation anonymously. She reminded me of the times when I’d been riding my bike and our neighbor drove up with her car full of groceries and chilren. I always helped her unload the car and made sure the children didn’t run into the road. Or maybe, the mystery sender was the old man across the street. I often retrieved his mail during the winter, so he wouldn’t have to venture down his icy steps.
My mother did her best to foster my imagination about the gardenia. She wanted her children to be creative. She also wanted us to feel cherished and loved, not just by her, but by the world at large.
When I was 17, a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick. “Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive.” I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and I left it where my mother had written it until my heart healed. When I finally went for the glass cleaner, my mother knew that everything was all right again. But there were some hurts my mother couldn’t heal. A month before my high school graduation, my father died suddenly of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from simple grief to abandonment, fear, distrust and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation, the senior-class play and the prom – events that I had worked on and looked forward to. I even considered staying home to attend college instead of going away as I had planned because it felt safer.
My mother, in the midst of her own gried, wouldn’t hear of me missing out on any of these things. The day before my father died, she and I had gone shopping for a prom dress and had found a spectacular one – yars and yars of dotted Swiss in red, white and blue. Wearing it made me feel like Scarlett O’Hara. But it was the wrong size, and when my father died the next day, I forgot all about the dress.
My mother didn’t. The day before the prom, I found that dress waiting for me – in the right size. It was draped majestically over the living room sofa, presented to me artistically and lovingly. I may not have cared about having a new dress, but my mother did. She cared how we children felt about ourselves. She imbued us with a sense of the magic in the world and she gave us the ability to see beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia – lovely, strong, perfect, with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery. My mother died when I was 22, only 10 days after I was married. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.

As published in Chicken’s Soup for the Women’s Soul