I Never Write Right



By Linda Stafford

When I was 15, I announced to my English class that I was going to write and illustrate my own books. Half the students sneered; the rest nearly fell out of their chairs laughing.
"Don't be silly. Only geniuses can become writers," the English teacher said smugly. "And you are getting a D this semester."
I was so humiliated I burst into tears. That night I wrote a short, sad poem about broken dreams and mailed it to the Capper's Weekly newspaper. To my astonishment they published it, and sent me two dollars. I was a published and paid writer! I showed my teacher and fellow students. They laughed.
"Just plain dumb luck," the teacher said.
I'd tasted success. I'd sold the first thing I'd ever written. That was more than any of them had done, and if it was "just dumb luck," that was fine with me.
During the next two years I sold dozens of poems, letters, jokes and recipes. By the time I graduated from high school (with a C-minus average), I had scrapbooks filled with my published work. I never mentioned my writing to my teachers, friends or my family again. They were dream killers, and if people must choose between their friends and their dreams, they must always choose their dreams.
But sometimes you do find a friend who supports your dreams. "It's easy to write a book," that new friend told me. "You can do it."
"I don't know if I'm smart enough," I said, suddenly feeling 15 again and hearing echoes of laughter.
"Nonsense!" she said. "Anyone can write a book if they want to."
I had four children at the time, and the oldest was only four. We lived on a goat farm in Oklahoma, miles from anyone. All I had to do each day was take care of four kids, milk goats, and do the cooking, laundry and gardening. No problem.
While the children napped, I typed on my ancient typewriter. I wrote what I felt. It took nine months, just like a baby.
I chose a publisher at random and put the manuscript in an empty Pampers diapers package, the only box I could find (I'd never heard of manuscript boxes). The letter I enclosed read: "I wrote this book myself, I hope you like it. I also drew the illustrations. Chapters 6 and 12 are my favorites. Thank you."
I tied a string around the diaper box and mailed it without a self-addressed stamped envelope, and without making a copy of the manuscript. A month later I received a contract, an advance on royalties and a request to start working on another book.
Crying Wind became a bestseller, was translated into 15 languages and Braille, and sold worldwide. I appeared on TV talk shows during the day and changed diapers at night. I traveled from New York to California and Canada on promotional tours. My first book also became required reading in Native American schools in Canada.
It took six months to write my next book. I mailed it in an empty Uncle Wiggley game box (I still hadn't heard of manuscript boxes). My Searching Heart also became a bestseller. I wrote my next novel, When I Give My Heart, in only three weeks.
The worst year I ever had as a writer, I earned two dollars (I was 15, remember?). In my best year, I earned $36,000. Most years I earn between $5,000 and $10,000. No, it isn't enough to live on, but it's still more than I'd make working part-time, and it's $5,000 to $10,000 more than I'd make if I didn't write at all.
People ask what college I attended, what degrees I have, and what qualifications I have to be a writer. The answer is none. I just write. I'm not a genius, I'm not gifted and I don't write right. I'm lazy, undisciplined, and spend more time with my children and friends than I do writing.
I didn't own a thesaurus until four years ago and I use a small Webster's dictionary that I bought at Kmart for 89 cents. I use an electric typewriter that I paid $129 for six years ago. I've never used a word processor. I do all the cooking, cleaning and laundry for a family of six and fit my writing in a few minutes here and there. I write everything in longhand on yellow tablets while sitting on the sofa with my four kids, eating pizza and watching TV. When the book is finished, I type it and mail it to the publisher.
I've written eight books. Four have been published, and three are still out with the publishers. One stinks.
To all those who dream of writing, I'm shouting at you, "Yes, you can! Yes, you can! Don't listen to them!" I don't write right, but I've beaten the odds. Writing is easy, it's fun, and anyone can do it. Of course, a little dumb luck doesn't hurt.

I Learned the Truth at Thirteen
By Carol Ayer

Big things were happening in my life the summer after I turned thirteen. I had just graduated from junior high, and I’d finally had a chance to dance with John, the boy I’d had a crush on all year. In the fall, I would begin high school. It was all very exciting, but a little scary, too. At least I knew I could always return to the safety of my family if things got rough.
Then, in the middle of summer, my parents shook my entire world and turned it upside down when they told me they were getting a divorce. When my mother said, “We think it’s for the best,” the words rang hollow in my ears. For the best? How could that be? I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that our family was going to break up. Of course, at some level, I always knew my parents weren’t very happy. They were rarely affectionate with one another, and they often fought. But I still didn’t want anything to change. I wanted my family to stay the same - it was all I had ever known.
My life changed quite radically after the divorce. My mother and I moved into a small apartment across town, while my father and brother, Bill, stayed in our house. I now became a visitor whenever I went to see my dad and Bill on the weekends. I was at an age when I might be expected to start dating, but it was my mother who began going out for dinner and to parties with men she’d met at work or through friends. Then she did the unthinkable - she became engaged! I was immediately suspicious of my soon-to-be stepfather, Dan. I resisted all his attempts to get to know me. I was, in fact, pretty rude to him. Things were definitely bleak.
Even though divorce was not such an uncommon occurrence in the suburb where I lived, all of my friends’ parents were still together. My friends couldn’t relate to my situation and wondered why I was now quiet all the time. I still got together with them to go out to football games or dances, but I found I wasn’t enjoying life the way I used to. I was clearly depressed, especially after Dan and my mother married and I realized that there was no way that things could change back to the way they were.
My salvation came from the last person on earth that I would have expected - Dan, my new stepfather. Even though I wasn’t very nice to him, he never gave up on me. Gradually, I began to trust him. I realized that we actually had some things in common, especially when it came to movies and TV shows. We spent a lot of time together hanging out watching TV. That gave us a chance to talk and get to know each other. Then Dan invited me to go running, and I connected with it.
Better still, Dan showed an interest in me that I had never experienced from my own father. Dan was always around when I needed advice on school, friends or boys. I also learned a lot by watching Dan and my mom together. They were often playful and affectionate with each other, so I saw firsthand what a good marriage looks like. Once I began to warm up to Dan, the three of us began spending a lot of time together. We often went out to eat, took short trips, and Dan and I even entered races and ran together. Eventually, I discovered that I finally had the happy family that I had always wanted.
I now realize my parents were right about getting the divorce. Their breakup was the best thing to happen for all of us. My father also found happiness - he remarried and had another child, my half-sister, Michelle.
At thirteen, I learned an important truth - change is not always the worst thing that can happen. Sometimes, it is just what we need the most.

Dumbo
By Laura Vickery Hart

I was the nurse caring for the couple’s newborn first child after his cesarean birth. Since the mother was asleep under general anesthesia, the pediatrician and I took our tiny charge directly to the newborn nursery where we introduced the minutes-old baby to his daddy. While cuddling his son for the first time, he immediately noticed the baby’s ears conspicuously standing out from his head. He expressed his concern that some kids might taunt his child, calling him names like “Dumbo” after the fictional elephant with unusually large ears. The pediatrician examined the baby and reassured the new dad that his son was healthy - the ears presented only a minor cosmetic problem, which could be easily corrected during early childhood.
The father was finally optimistic about his child, but was still worried about his wife’s reaction to those large protruding ears.
“She doesn’t take things as easily as I do,” he worried.
By this time, the new mother was settled in the recovery room and ready to meet her new baby. I went along with the dad to lend some support in case this inexperienced mother became upset about her baby’s large ears. The infant was swaddled in a receiving blanket with the head covered for the short trip through the chilly air-conditioned corridor. I placed the tiny bundle in his mother’s arms and eased the blanket back so that she could gaze upon her child for the first time.
She took one look at her baby’s face and looked to her husband and gasped, “Oh, Honey! Look! He has your ears!”

The Importance of Conscience
By Elisha M. Webster

I was faced with a decision. While delivering laundry into the appropriate bedrooms, I stumbled upon my thirteen-year-old sister's diary, a modern-day Pandora's box, suffused with temptation. What was I to do? I had always been jealous of my little sister. Her charming smile, endearing personality and many talents threatened my place as leading lady. I competed with her tacitly and grew to resent her natural abilities. I felt it necessary to shatter her shadow with achievements of my own. As a result, we seldom spoke. I sought opportunities to criticize her and relished surpassing her achievements. Her diary lay at my feet, and I didn't think of the result of opening it. I considered not her privacy, the morality of my actions, nor her consequential pain. I merely savored the possibility of digging up enough dirt to soil my competitor's spotless record. I reasoned my iniquity as sisterly duty. It was my responsibility to keep a check on her activities. It would be wrong of me not to.
I tentatively plucked the book from the floor and opened it, fanning through the pages, searching for my name, convinced that I would discover scheming and slander. As I read, the blood ran from my face. It was worse than I suspected. I felt faint and slouched to the floor. There was neither conspiracy nor defamation. There was a succinct description of herself, her goals and her dreams followed by a short portrayal of the person who has inspired her most. I started to cry.
I was her hero. She admired me for my personality, my achievements and, ironically, my integrity. She wanted to be like me. She had been watching me for years, quietly marveling over my choices and actions. I ceased reading, struck with the crime I had committed. I had expended so much energy into pushing her away that I had missed out on her.
I had wasted years resenting someone capable of magic - and now I had violated her trust. It was I who had lost something beautiful, and it was I who would never allow myself to do such a thing again.
Reading the earnest words my sister had written seemed to melt an icy barrier around my heart, and I longed to know her again. I was finally able to put aside the petty insecurity that kept me from her. On that fateful afternoon, as I put aside the laundry and rose to my feet, I decided to go to her - this time to experience instead of to judge, to embrace instead of to fight. After all, she was my sister.

Over the Wall
By Linda Coleman-Willis

I would not have been there except they had lowered the height requirement in the late 1970s to recruit more minorities and women - and I was both a "minority" and a "woman." Their goal was to recruit Asian and Latino men, but it also opened the door for a "little" woman like me to get through. This was my chance - me, Linda Coleman - to become a deputy sheriff.
The day was young and overcast when I arrived at the police academy. But as far as I was concerned, the sun was shining. I'd made it.
It had been a long, grueling year getting to this point. I had taken a written test, a psychological exam and an oral interview, and I had passed all three. Then the background investigation began. They investigated everyone, from my grandmother in Texas, to my next-door neighbors, to the babysitter of my two small children. They knew everything about me from the day I was born.
As part of my qualification process I spent a day at a sheriff station with the captain. I was scrutinized, chastised and downright ostracized. It was no secret how he felt; he never missed an opportunity to tell me. "Women don't belong on the department, all gays should be taken out and shot, where do 'you people' get off thinking you can do whatever you want nowadays?" If I heard one more story about the "good ole days" when women were women and men were men and "you people" knew your place, I think I would have puked.
But all that was behind me now. I was at the academy, and I was going to be a deputy sheriff. My excitement didn't last long.
My first encounter was with a twenty-year career officer, a sergeant nicknamed "Goliath." He was six-feet-four-inches tall, and 300 pounds of solid muscle, to my five-feet-three-inches and 118 pounds of woman. "Sgt. Goliath" let me know in no uncertain terms he was not happy I was there. Like others in the department, he believed this was a "men only" profession. And it would suit many of them just fine if it were "white men only."
The sergeant never called me by name. It was always "little lady" or "little girl." When he looked at me, he would stare as if he were looking right through me. It was apparent he was not going to make it easy. In fact, his job was to make it as difficult as possible for me to pass the physical agility test, and he did a darn good job.
I had to run the mile, climb through one window and out another, walk a balance beam five feet off the ground, pull a 150-pound mannequin thirty yards and push a police car twenty feet, all in record time. And as the sergeant said before I began, "Look here, Little Lady, if you can't do all of these activities including pushing that police car over here until it touches my kneecaps, I'm gonna have the pleasure of sending you home."
I completed each task, but every bone, muscle and fiber of my body ached. I could hardly catch my breath. Some of the recruits passed out and had to be carried off the course. My vision was blurred, my heart beat a mile a minute, and my ears hummed, but I didn't pass out. In fact, I walked off the course on my own and felt pride welling up inside. I had completed that obstacle course, and I was going to be a deputy sheriff.
But the smirk on the sergeant's face told me I was wrong. That's when I discovered yet another challenge waiting for me. This time even I didn't know if I would be able to make it. My head ached, my legs were as heavy as lead, and my arms felt as if someone had yanked them from their sockets.
The ultimate challenge? Climbing a six-foot, solid concrete wall. If somehow you were able to get through the physical agility test, this would separate the boys from the men - or girls from the women, as it were. Recruit after recruit, both men and women, tackled the six-foot wall only to fall to the ground in defeat. Most of them were taller and bigger than me. I could feel my heart sink and my confidence fade. I saw my career with the sheriff's department slipping away.
Two more recruits, and then it would be my turn. I closed my eyes and tried to envision myself going over the wall. Suddenly, I remembered a song my grandmother used to sing in church, an old Negro spiritual. "I shall, I shall, I shall not be moved." My nerves calmed. I heard my father's voice, "You have to be twice as good and do twice as much just to compete." And I thought, I have been twice as good and I have done twice as much and I have given it my all and now this. . . .
And then I swear I heard the words of my high school track coach. "A lady's strength is in her legs, not in her arms." I had watched the women try to tackle the wall by jumping up like the men and grabbing hold of the wall with their arms in an attempt to pull themselves atop the wall, straddle it and drop to the other side. It hadn't worked for them, and I knew it wouldn't work for me.
I shall not be moved. Be twice as good and do twice as much. A lady's strength is in her legs. It was my turn. The six-foot, solid concrete wall loomed bigger than life - the only thing standing between me and my dream. I closed my eyes and imagined it was a track field.
I took off running as fast as I could, and when my feet hit the concrete I looked up to the heavens. And I ran up that wall! I shall not be moved. Twice as good. A lady's strength. I straddled the top and dropped to the other side.
The whole camp was cheering - everyone, that is, except the sergeant. He never said a word. He turned his back and walked away. Several men made it over that day, but I was the only woman.
Since then, I have gone over a lot of walls, but I learned some valuable lessons at the academy that have helped me. What the Goliaths think is not nearly as important as what I think about myself. The Goliaths despise change and progress, but there are some things even they can't control.

The Greatest Gift
By Christine Many



I'm five years old, and my mother is on her hands and knees, washing the kitchen floor. I’m telling her about a new girl in school, and she suddenly looks up at me and says, "Who are your two best friends?"
I'm not sure what to say. I’ve been friends with Jill since I was three or so, and I really like Jaime, a friend in kindergarten.
"Jill and Jaime."
My mother stops scrubbing the floor and starts to take off her yellow rubber gloves. "Well, what about Karen and Cindy?"
My sisters? "I don’t know who their best friends are," I say.
"No," she says. "I’m saying, why aren’t they your best friends?"
She seems upset, like I hurt her feelings. "But they’re my sisters."
"Yes, but they can still be your best friends. Friends may come and go, but your sisters will always be there for you."
At the time, the idea of my two sisters being my closest friends seemed strange to me. We fought all the time over toys, food, attention, what to watch on television - you name it, we bickered about it at some point. How could my sisters be my best friends? They weren’t the same age as I. We all had our own friends in school.
But my mother never let the three of us forget it: Sisters are lifelong friends. Her wish - like most parents’ - was to give us something that she never had. Growing up an only child, she longed for siblings. When she gave birth to three daughters - separated by only four years - the fufillment of her dream had only just begun. She had given us each a gift - our sisters - and she wanted to make sure we did not take that gift for granted. She would frequently tell us how lucky we were. But there were other, more subtle ways that she encouraged us to grow closer. She never showed favoritism to one daughter over the other, as not to cause jealousy or bitterness between sisters. She constantly took us places together - skating, shopping and swimming - so we developed common interests. And when we were teenagers, Mom always punished us equally, giving us yet another bonding experience.
We didn't always get along beautifully and fought just like any other siblings. But somewhere in between Mom's lectures, the family vacations and the shared memories, we realized that our mother was right. Today I share things with my sisters that I do with no one else. My sister Cindy and I ran the New York City Marathon together, side-by-side, even holding hands when we crossed the finish line. When my sister Karen got married, I was her maid of honor. Cindy and I traveled through Europe together and even shared an apartment for two years. The three of us trust each other with our greatest secrets.
It was twenty-three years ago that my mother first asked me who my two best friends were. Today she doesn’t have to. She already knows.

Catch of a Lifetime
By R. Gregory Alonzo




I grew up a Yankees fan. Every time the Yankees played the Anaheim Angels, my friend John Gray and I were there, up front in the bleachers beside the first-base dugout, with gloves, waiting for a foul ball to come our way. Most lovers of the game know this quest. The desire is pervasive; getting the grab is rare - about the same as winning the lottery as far as I can tell, and, in both, failure doesn't dampen the desire.
I'm a grown man now with about one thousand baseball games under my belt. I've yet to catch a foul ball, and certainly not one smashed by the likes of Ricky Henderson. That's why every day, when I notice the one perched in prize position on my wife's dresser, I smile at the vagaries of life.
It happened this way: My wife, Joanne, my dad, Rudy, and I were at a Saturday doubleheader with the Oakland Athletics in town to play the Anaheim Angels. We were there in my favorite spot behind the first-base dugout at Angels Stadium. First inning, first pitch to leadoff batter Rickey Henderson. He hit a high pop-up that came sailing straight at us. Dad and I leapt to our feet. I knew this was it: I was about to grab a foul ball!
Then I stepped back, realizing I had to let my dad get it. But he did the same, stepping back to let his son's dream come true. To our horror, we watched the ball drop between us - right in Joanne's lap.
Looking up with a wide grin, she said, "Honey, I thought you said catching a foul ball was tough."

The Wild Hair
By Ariel G. Subrahmanyam, 12


It was evening and time for my little sister and me to take our showers and get ready for bed. As I passed the mirror in the bathroom, there it was - a wild hair right in the middle of my forehead, threatening to be the beginning of a third eyebrow. I went into the shower trying to think of a solution, and then I spotted the razor. I took it and started trying to shave off the savage hair.
Usually I would trust my mom's advice about what to do in this sort of situation, but this was just too complicated for her - or so I thought. Well, while I was shaving that hair off, the razor slipped, and I ended up shaving off half my eyebrow! Then I did what any girl would do in this situation - I tried to even them out. When I was finished, I looked in the mirror. It was a disaster! I tried to figure out if there was any way to fix this mess. Thankfully, I found a way to hide my mistake. I put my bangs over my eyebrows. It worked perfectly!
Just then my parents called me to come and say good night. Nobody noticed my eyebrows, but they did notice my little sister's eyebrows! It turns out that while I was fighting the stray hair, she had found another razor in the drawer and began copying me. Now her eyebrows were COMPLETELY missing! My parents were very confused until they finally noticed that half my eyebrows were gone as well. After a lot of questioning, I broke down and confessed to what had happened.
I thought that my parents would be mad at me forever until my mom took me aside to tell me that when she was a preteen, she had done a similar thing. In her case, it was her underarms. While away at camp on a swimming day, she was extremely embarrassed because she had some long hairs in her armpits. My grandma, her mom, had told her she was too young to shave yet. But she went against her mom's wishes and borrowed her friend's razor and shaved her armpits. Then she wrote her mom a confession letter telling her that she had done a terrible thing and that she was very sorry. At the very end of this long two-page letter, she finally told her mom what she had done. As my grandma read through the letter, she was so worried about this terrible thing that her daughter had done that by the end of the letter she laughed, because she was just so relieved to find out about what had actually happened. My grandmother totally understood how my mom had felt, just like my mom now understood me.
This ended up bringing my mom and me even closer together. I still wouldn't ever recommend trying to shave your eyebrows. I suggest that you find a different way to get closer to your mom!
As for my little sister, it took a long time for her eyebrows to grow back in. From then on, I've learned to be a better example to her because she still copies everything I do!

Cast-Cutter
By LeAnn Thieman


After years of hospital nursing, I loved my new job in a busy family-practice office, performing a wide variety of duties - phlebotomy, spirometries, EKGs. I accepted each as a new challenge and mastered all of them with confidence.
Well, almost all of them.
I was still nervous whenever I cut off a cast. To prove to the patients (and to me!) that the motorized saw wouldn't cut their flesh, I always put my fingertip next to the spinning circular blade. I then explained how the cotton padding underneath the cast snagged the blade and stopped it before it reached the skin. But, in spite of my own reassurances, cutting casts still made me a bit nervous - especially when the patient was a squirming four-year-old boy.
Danny had broken his arm in a playground accident a few weeks earlier, and I had assisted the doctor in applying his cast. When I rewarded his bravery with double trinkets from the toy chest, Danny and I became buddies. He had complete confidence in my ability to remove his cast.
That made one of us.
With a reassuring smile I fired up the cast-cutter and started cutting the cast, hoping he'd think the trembling was from the vibration of the saw, not my hands.
The motor buzzed and bits of plaster flew as I methodically pressed the whirling blade back and forth along the length of the cast. Danny started to fidget in the chair, and his face flushed.
"'Doing okay, Danny?"' I asked.
"'I'm okay."' He smiled meekly. "'It don't hurt."' But his facial expression and wiggling told me something was making him uncomfortable.
Thankfully, just then, the final part of the cast was cut. I carefully pried it apart with the cast spreader. After showing him the blunt-ended scissors and promising him they couldn't cut his skin either, I began cutting the cotton padding and underlying stockinet. Danny wiggled some more and even winced a bit when I spread the cast further and gently lifted his arm out of the cast.
I gasped to see a long purple streak on his inner arm! My mind raced for a diagnosis. Phlebitis? Necrosis? Had I cut him? There was no blood!
There, inside the opened cast, embedded in the padding, was wedged a purple crayon.
Bewildered, I looked at Danny.
He said, sheepishly, "'It itched!"'

My Life: The Sitcom
By Chadd A. Wheat




I have determined that I am living in a television situational comedy. Most people who already know me would say that this is no great revelation, but it's news to me. It started back in November when my wife's sister and husband sold their house. They're building a nice new home in Avon for their budding family, and construction was slated to be finished sometime in late February. By a stroke of fortune (good or bad—who can say?) they quickly sold their former house, thus relieving much of the stress of the move. Of course, this meant they would be without a home for nearly three months. This led them to instant nightmares about living with either set of in-laws or renting a short-term apartment. In a pure gesture of Christian fellowship and family love, my wife offered to let them move in with us for a few months. (I don't recall endorsing the idea, but I'm firmly assured that I did.)
Thus, my wife's sister and her husband became our houseguests. Of course, most of my guy friends predicted doom from the outset, but I was cheerfully confident. I adore my wife's sister, her laid-back husband and their daughters, who are cute as proverbial buttons. We all get along swimmingly, and my wife and her sister have always been best friends. But that's when my life became a sitcom with the sheer chaos that goes with having eight people and an insolent house cat living under one roof.
Let's start with the increase of noise and activity level. My house used to be a fairly quiet place. It was nice to come home after a hectic day at work, take my shoes off and enjoy a relaxing dinner with the family. Now it's a combination day-care center/amusement park. As soon as I enter the home it's as if I've wandered into a Chuck E. Cheese on a Saturday afternoon. We parents now call the period between 8 p.m. and 9 p.m., when the kids get bedded down for the night, "'Happy Hour."'
My kitchen has been transformed into a twenty-four-hour diner. With four adults, two youngsters, two babies and the aforementioned cat, there are always dirty dishes in the sink and something cooking on the stove. Sometimes we all throw in for one large dinner together when our schedules allow. Other times, my guests may serve one dinner, me another when I get home, and my wife a third dinner when she arrives home. By the time the third dinner of the evening is served, it's time to prepare bedtime snacks. (We go through enough milk that I'm considering buying a small cow.) You would think that with all this cooking going on, I'd be able to score a decent breakfast in the morning. I go through the kitchen and say "'two eggs, sunny side, on a shingle, coffee black."' Then either my wife or sister-in-law will put a hand on her hip and hand me a Pop Tart. The basic rule is, "'If you don't help cook it, you don't help eat it."' Pop Tarts will do fine for me.
Just like in a real sitcom, my wife and I usually end the day giggling about the hijinks that occur during a "'normal"' day. Like naked babies chasing the cat through the kitchen. Or a naked cat chasing babies through the kitchen. I've never had a sister, but I can honestly now say that my wife's sister is mine.

The Supper
By Margaret Wiedyke




After receiving an ivory carving of the Last Supper, my friend Pat displayed it in a prominent place. When her six-year-old grandson came to visit, he noticed it and wanted to know what it was. So she told him a little bit about what the artist had portrayed.
Not long after, the boy visited again, this time with some cousins who hadn't seen the carving. One of them asked what it was.
Before Grandma could reply, the six-year-old said. "Oh, that's Jesus and the boys out to supper."

The Fawn
By Kathe Campbell

My world had come apart and I thought, nothing or no one can ever repair it. I was fresh from eight weeks in the hospital after a wretched accident in which I had lost my right arm and a few other mundane parts and pieces at the age of sixty-three. My blessed family was there through every grueling surgery. With each awakening I was ecstatic to be alive, until ghastly thoughts would take hold of my mind and force reality to creep back in. Self-pity was eating me up, and homesickness often overwhelmed me. (I still find myself a cranky old fussbudget if away from my home for more than two days.)
I was released from the hospital after two months. When at last I looked up to behold the big curved log gateway over my drive, my carefully burned lettering on the ranch sign hanging beneath the gate, and my beloved kids and grandkids running to greet me, I felt renewed, reborn. A small blackish cloud passed beneath the sun releasing a short July drencher as the youngsters helped their bedraggled Granny up toward the deck where our Molly and her Mike were shish-kabobbing.
"The kids need you, Granny," pleaded Mol, as she planted a kiss on my cheek and announced she was pregnant again. "They need to touch their Gran." My littlest babes grabbed onto my left arm lest I should topple over. We lifted our legs high and waded barefoot through the glistening wet grass where a sea of blossoms had raised their heads to drink. It smelled delicious.
"Are you okay, Gran? Do you want a glass of juice?" queried my sweet Mikal.
"No, my darlin', not now," I whispered. As we picked dandelions and wild flowers for the dinner table, I was acutely aware of my surroundings - more than ever before. Suddenly Jamie stared down at her bouquet and mumbled, "You're not going to die, are you Granny?"
The next morning I arose and slipped out into the sunshine in my shorty jammies to look and listen to God's miracles embracing me. The mallards were completely engrossed in caring for their eggs - nested warmly under carefully fashioned bits of grass and straw. The hens took turns scurrying into Duck Soup Waterfowl Refuge to flap their wings and drown their feathers before returning to the nest for a few more hours of incubating. "Only a few more days, ladies," I reminded them out loud. "Then all your worries begin." Our beautiful donkey family had finally shed their scruffy winter coats and looked so fine, all decked out in silky coats with their crosses emblazoned down their backs and across their shoulders. "And what did Mary ride to Bethlehem on?" I called out. As she sensed my frailties, one of the donkeys, Sweet Pea, whimpered ever so softly instead of her usual full-blown hee-haw. She lifted her head and sniffed the air as I walked toward her, then all five suddenly jumped and fled.
I knew I looked and smelled different, but that was okay. I had lots of time and so did they. I could hardly wait to walk the earth . . . to breathe in the scent of lodge pole pine . . . to feel the sweet breezes that made the pond ripple . . . to listen to the piercing sounds of Rocky Mountain birds whose melodies are heard only by those who bother to listen. The cottontails sat up to ogle while their wee ones scurried out of the grass before me. Our big forested mountain was still there, and I knew this was the place I would feed my soul - forever. As I meandered over the uneven pasture toward the woods, in hopes the shooting stars or Indian paintbrush had bloomed, I thought I heard a cry.
Our dog, Keesha, stopped to listen and sniff - it was probably only a bird. We had taken only a few more steps, however, and there before us hung a spotted fawn caught up on the farm fence. I quietly ordered Keesha to stay while I drew closer, trying not to notice the anxious doe peering at me from the shadows. The fawn cried like a baby as I threw my heavily bandaged stump under her chest, lifted slightly and untangled her hoof with my good hand. Anyone coming upon the scene would have surely thought I had lost my mind. As we both fell to the ground, the mama leapt over the fence squealing at the top of her lungs. Here I was, this old broad lying in a field, flat on my back in my pajamas, caressing a spotted fawn with half an arm, while Keesha wagged her tail and slurped my face in utter joy.
"Okay, okay, Mama, we're leaving," I yelled to the doe. With that she and her child ran off into the aspens without a by-your-leave. I couldn't help but laugh out loud and boast to Keesha as I rolled over and got to my feet. "Holy smokes girl, I've been home less than a day and already I'm a hero. I can do anything, even save a life."
And save lives I did as the years have flown by. I was, and still am, slightly insecure, and every time I get to feeling that life has dealt me a bum blow, I look around at others in such terrible trouble and thank God for allowing this wretch to live and love all who enter her life. We know not from where God sends his creations to heal souls when all seems lost. That little fawn will always be in my prayers, for she was a part of my healing that fateful day. Thank you, little fawn, thank you.

The Easter Bunny
By Beth H. Arbogast




When I was a little girl, every Sunday my family of six would put on their best clothes and go to Sunday School and then church. The kids in elementary school would all meet together to sing songs, and then later divide into groups based on their ages.
One Easter Sunday, all the kids arrived with big eyes and big stories about what the Easter Bunny had brought. While all of the kids shared their stories with delight, one young boy, whom I shall call Bobby, sat sullenly. One of the teachers, noticing this, said to him, "And what did the Easter Bunny bring you?" He replied, "My mom locked the door on accident so the Easter Bunny couldn't get inside."
This sounded like a reasonable idea to all of us kids, so we kept on going with the stories. My mom knew the true story, though. Bobby's mom was a single parent, and she suspected that they just couldn't afford the Easter Bunny.
After Sunday school was over, everyone went off to church. When my dad came to meet us my mom announced that we were going home instead. At home, she explained that to make Bobby feel better, we were going to pretend to be the Easter Bunny and make a basket of our goodies for him and leave it at church. We all donated some of our candies to the basket, and headed back up to church. There, mom unzipped his coat, hung the basket over the hanger, and zipped up the coat and attached a note.

Dear Bobby,
I'm sorry I missed your house last night. Happy Easter.
Love,
The Easter Bunny

Monkey Bar Courage
By Karen C. Driscoll




You stand daredevil high on metal monkey bars, oblivious to danger. "Don't," I warn, "It's not safe." And you grudgingly oblige me and hang down closer to the earth. I stand guard anyway, but glance away for a moment, distracted by twilight.
I turnback toward you, only to helplessly watch you fall to the ground.
You get up gasping, your nose and mouth already bleeding. Horrified, I hold you tightly and try to absorb the hurt. You cry loudly from your pain, and I cry for all the ways I cannot protect you.
But in a few moments, you collect yourself. With a long, quivering sniffle and a brave, shaky breath, you brush away the remaining bark mulch that I have missed and give me a slightly teary-eyed, crooked smile.
"Mommy, I really want to get back on. And this time, I want to do a back flip." You say this even though your lip is still bleeding.
And in this minute my surprise co-mingles with awe, respect and pride, and I see more than my tear-stained three-year-old daughter standing before me. I see the raw material of courage. I see the makings of perseverance and determination. I see a girl with something that I didn't put inside her, a girl who has something that nobody can take away. I see you, my daughter, a child who falls down but gets up and keeps dancing. And I see once again that I am the student, and you are the inspiration.
As I hoist your small body up to the bar my thought is a prayer, for you and for me, Don't ever let go of this.

Christ's Healing Power
By Marie Clowdis-Coon


It was an unusually balmy, spring-like day for the last week of March 1968. Our family had recently moved into our "new" 100-year-old home in Oakville. Winter had held us captive in the house long enough. Tanya, age seventeen months, Jay, age three and a half, and I had spent all day in the yard. They had played while I raked and removed the debris that had collected during the fall and winter months.
The arrival of the school bus and our other two children, eight-year-old Cindy and six-and-a-half-year-old Robin, alerted me to the fact that I'd become so absorbed in the yard work that I'd neglected to start dinner on time. Oh well, hot dogs were quick and one of the kids' favorite meals.
While waiting for the hot dogs to come to a boil, I went into the living room to talk to my husband, Gorden. He had just come home from work at the Farmer's Elevator. In a matter of minutes, our quiet conversation about the day's events was broken by screams from our four children in the kitchen.
Tanya, hungry from playing outside in the fresh air, had grown impatient and decided to help herself to the hot dogs, which by then had come to a rapid boil. The pan of scalding water had emptied itself on her face, neck and chest.
Cindy was already pulling off the white sweater Tanya wore when Gorden came through the doorway. He yanked off her corduroy shirt so quickly that buttons flew across the room. Next came the little white tee shirt, also wet and steaming.
Hearing the commotion, a neighbor from across the street came through our front door as we were wrapping Tanya in a clean sheet. I sat rocking our crying baby back and forth on my lap, trying to soothe away the pain. While assuring me that everything would be all right, the friend removed the curlers that I'd placed in my hair early that morning. Her husband, a county policeman, arrived home as we were going out the door; he whisked us into his car. Within minutes, we were at the hospital.
The emergency room doctor and nurses seemed cool and brusque. Perhaps the sight of Gorden in his dusty work clothes and me in my soiled jeans, flannel shirt and rumpled hair gave them the wrong impression. The expression of "negligent parents" written on their faces and in their tone of voice made my already unbearable guilt even heavier.
When I heard the doctor instruct the nurses to admit our crying baby, my heart sank. I had prayed they would treat her and then we'd all be on our way home. The doctor's caustic parting words rang in my ears: ". . . if she lives." There had been no doubt in my mind that it was a serious injury, but the idea that it might be life-threatening never occurred to me until that moment.
They moved Tanya into a room, and then the charge nurse informed me that I would not be permitted to stay with her. The thought that I was expected to simply walk away from my baby's side, believing she might die during the night, was almost more than I could handle.
While Gorden returned home to comfort the other children, I stood in Tanya's room, crying and praying that God wouldn't let our precious baby die. As I did so, some men appeared at the doorway.
Since we had not yet been attending the Oakville Brethren Church regularly, it's not surprising that I barely recognized the men in the doorway as being from the church. They were trying to convince the nurse to let them enter Tanya's room. This nurse, who resembled a Marine Corps drill sergeant, asked if one of these men was my minister. Eagerly, I answered, "Yes!"
Begrudgingly, she admitted them, adding curtly that they had "only a few minutes!"
I saw three men enter the dimly lit room and stand across from me beside Tanya's bed. I can't remember what was said, only that they - and I silently with them - prayed that God would heal this child. Then, all too quickly, they were gone.
My pleas to stay with Tanya were to no avail. A uniformed security guard escorted me to the lobby. The twenty-minute drive through the dark countryside seemed to take an eternity as I traveled home, continuing to plead with God to watch over Tanya and to forgive me for allowing such a terrible thing to happen to her.
At eight o'clock the next morning, I could hardly believe my eyes as I entered Tanya's room. The third-degree burns on her face were gone! Not one trace of the blazing red skin, so prominent just hours earlier, remained. Only clear, soft, white skin. Her neck and shoulder were the only areas that bore the scars of that boiling water. She was not only alive, but healed.
It wasn't until after Tanya's release from the hospital that we learned the identity of the men who had prayed over Tanya that first night. It was Deacon Richard Smith and Deacon Jerry Covington.
"But who was the third man?" I asked.
"What third man?" they replied.
"There were three men. I saw them," I said.
Dick smiled. "Yes, I believe you did."
Do you suppose? Was it really Him?