Father And Son

I try to be a good father. Give my kids mulligans. Work nights to pay for their text messaging. Take them to swimsuit shoots.

But compared with Dick Hoyt, I suck.

Eighty-five times he's pushed his disabled son, Rick, 26.2 miles in marathons. Eight times he's not only pushed him 26.2 miles in a wheelchair but also towed him 2.4 miles in a dinghy while swimming and pedaled him 112 miles in a seat on the handlebars - all in the same day.

Dick's also pulled him cross-country skiing, taken him on his back mountain climbing and once hauled him across the U.S. on a bike. Makes taking your son bowling look a little lame, right?

And what has Rick done for his father? Not much - except save his life.

This love story began in Winchester, Mass., 43 years ago, when Rick was strangled by the umbilical cord during birth, leaving him brain-damaged and unable to control his limbs.

"He'll be a vegetable the rest of his life," Dick says doctors told him and his wife, Judy, when Rick was nine months old. "Put him in an institution."

But the Hoyts weren't buying it. They noticed the way Rick's eyes followed them around the room. When Rick was 11 they took him to the engineering department at Tufts University and asked if there was anything to help the boy communicate. "No way," Dick says he was told. "There's nothing going on in his brain."

"Tell him a joke," Dick countered. They did. Rick laughed. Turns out a lot was going on in his brain.

Rigged up with a computer that allowed him to control the cursor by touching a switch with the side of his head, Rick was finally able to communicate. First words? "Go Bruins!" And after a high school classmate was paralyzed in an accident and the school organized a charity run for him, Rick pecked out, "Dad, I want to do that."

Yeah, right. How was Dick, a self-described "porker" who never ran more than a mile at a time, going to push his son five miles? Still, he tried. "Then it was me who was handicapped," Dick says. "I was sore for two weeks."

That day changed Rick's life. "Dad," he typed, "when we were running, it felt like I wasn't disabled anymore!"

And that sentence changed Dick's life. He became obsessed with giving Rick that feeling as often as he could. He got into such hard-belly shape that he and Rick were ready to try the 1979 Boston Marathon.

"No way," Dick was told by a race official. The Hoyts weren't quite a single runner, and they weren't quite a wheelchair competitor. For a few years Dick and Rick just joined the massive field and ran anyway, then they found a way to get into the race officially: In 1983 they ran another marathon so fast they made the qualifying time for Boston the following year.

Then somebody said, "Hey, Dick, why not a triathlon?"

How's a guy who never learned to swim and hadn't ridden a bike since he was six going to haul his 110-pound kid through a triathlon? Still, Dick tried.

Now they've done 212 triathlons, including four grueling 15-hour Ironmans in Hawaii. It must be a buzzkill to be a 25-year-old stud getting passed by an old guy towing a grown man in a dinghy, don't you think?

Hey, Dick, why not see how you'd do on your own? "No way," he says. Dick does it purely for "the awesome feeling" he gets seeing Rick with a cantaloupe smile as they run, swim and ride together.

This year, at ages 65 and 43, Dick and Rick finished their 24th Boston marathon, in 5,083rd place out of more than 20,000 starters. Their best time? Two hours, 40 minutes in 1992 - only 35 minutes off the world record, which, in case you don't keep track of these things, happens to be held by a guy who was not pushing another man in a wheelchair at the time.

"No question about it," Rick types. "My dad is the Father of the Century."

And Dick got something else out of all this too. Two years ago he had a mild heart attack during a race. Doctors found that one of his arteries was 95% clogged. "If you hadn't been in such great shape," one doctor told him, "you probably would've died 15 years ago."

So, in a way, Dick and Rick saved each other's life.

Rick, who has his own apartment (he gets home care) and works in Boston, and Dick, retired from the military and living in Holland, Mass., always find ways to be together. They give speeches around the country and compete in some backbreaking race every weekend, including this Father's Day.

That night, Rick will buy his dad dinner, but the thing he really wants to give him is a gift he can never buy.

"The thing I'd most like, Rick types, "is that my dad sit in the chair and I push him once."

By Rick Reilly
Sports Illustrated - Used with permission

Dick and Rick Hoyt have a book and DVD. To learn more about this very special father and son team go to: www.teamhoyt.com

A Beautiful Scar

Rebecca sailed through childhood with a minimum of fuss, the usual scrapes, few illnesses and wonderful academics. Michael didn't sail. He skipped, ran, hopped, rolled, teetered and bounced. The only things he liked about school were recess, lunch and sports.

Mike loved to climb trees, the higher the better. Afraid of scaring him and causing him to fall, I have calmly talked him down, while my heart was in my throat and my knees felt like jelly. No scolding, spanking, or any other punishment kept him from climbing. (No, spanking wasn't illegal in those days.)

When Michael was fourteen, his dad bought him a Honda dirt bike, a purchase that caused me to consider divorce or murder. I had always stated that a motorcycle would take up residence on my property over my dead body. It was inconceivable that one of those deathtraps was going to carry my son all over the countryside - and with his father's approval!

Somehow, the boy survived. He grew up, married a beautiful, dark-eyed young woman, and fathered two children, a son and a daughter. Michael became a partner in his dad's business, a dangerous occupation that he grew to love: select cutting of timber. Safety measures are stressed above all else; and most of the time, Michael follows them. Shortcuts, no pun intended, are deadly in the timber. Two things especially are not done: "You never cut down trees alone" and "you cut smart and don't try to outrun a falling tree."

One day Michael did both. The tree splintered, snapped and the trunk flew upwards, striking Michael's head. He remembers being airborne. When he regained consciousness, he was draped across the trunk, one hand still on the running chainsaw, wedged beneath the tree. He freed his hand, but it took three attempts before he could stand up without passing out again. His hardhat saved his life, but I've always wondered if his hard head wasn't also a major factor...that and his guardian angel.

One day I received a call from my son in the middle of an afternoon, a rare occurrence. "Mom, I don't want to scare you, but I'm in trouble. There's something wrong with my heart. Joyce made me go to the doctor, and he's sending me to the ER. He told me I might not live to get there." Mike's heart had developed an irregular beat so severe that the doctors were afraid that he would go into cardiac arrest. A heart cath showed no damage, and medicines are controlling the irregularity, for which we are all very grateful.

Don't ever ask, "What next, Lord?" For years I have fussed at my children and four grandchildren about their laxness in using sunscreen. Most of them get periodic sunburns, sometimes waiting to see me until the redness has faded. They know that I'm going to react with frustration and impatience. I often told Michael that he wouldn't look very pretty without a nose. That remark came back to haunt me. Mike's sweet wife finally convinced him to see a dermatologist about a small place beside his nose that bled every time he washed his face. I was convinced that the biopsy would reveal skin cancer, but I wasn't prepared for the report.

"Mom, I got gypped again," Mike told me on the phone. I chuckled a bit.

"You have skin cancer, don't you? Don't worry, Honey. Doctors can take it right off." There was a long pause before Mike answered.

"Mom, it's melanoma," he said. I felt as if someone had driven a fist into my stomach. I couldn't breathe. Oh Dear Lord! I cried silently. Melanoma kills people! Our families have already lost so much this year! My daughter-in-law's young brother and grandmother and Mike's grandmother all died within the year! Mike is already dealing with a heart problem! Enough, Lord!

The next few weeks were filled with alternating states of fear and hope and faith. Additional biopsies showed that the cancer filled a larger area than first thought, but the doctors were hopeful and encouraging. They felt confident that all of the cancer could be removed and that there was very little possibility that it had spread anywhere else in his body. Their main concern was the reconstructive process, since such a large area would have to be removed near his nose, even a small part of his nostril.

The surgery was successful; and for many days Mike had to wear a bandage in the middle of his face. After it was removed, there was a red, swollen area that wasn't very pretty; but it improved daily. I didn't care what it looked like. I was just happy that the cancer had not invaded a vital organ.

The other day, for the millionth time, I looked at my handsome son. With my eyes, I traced the fine line that runs from just below his eye to the curve of his nostril. The surgeons did a remarkable job repairing his face. I told Mike that his scar is a war wound, a badge of honor, regardless of how it looks, and that it adds character to a too-handsome face. He thought about that for a minute before he replied, "Huh! You're right. It is a war wound!"

I've learned that nothing hurts us more than watching our children hurt, regardless of how old they are. I've learned that faith isn't faith until it's tested, and I've learned that we don't know whether we really have it until we need it. We can walk away victorious in battle, but we often carry scars to prove the victory.

The remnant of cancer on Michael's face is a line about the width of two strands of thread, a fine scar...a beautiful scar. It is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, and I thank God for it, daily. It's a constant reminder of how fragile we are, a reminder that we are simply made of flesh and bone, held together with skin. Michael's scar is a token of mercy, grace, and healing, things I don't want to take for granted, ever again.

Barbara Elliott Carpenter

Barbara Elliott Carpenter contributes to many online publications. An award-winning author and poet, her second novel, Wish I May, Wish I Might, the sequel to Starlight, Starbright, is scheduled for release in the summer of 2005. The third book in the trilogy will be released in 2006. She can be reached via email: bjlogger2@aol.com and her web site: www.barbaraelliottcarpenter.com Inquiries and comments are welcome.

Wings

When my son, Justin, was four, he found a caterpillar and put it in a jar. Each day he fed it fresh grass and leaves. In a few weeks the caterpillar was fat and ready to sleep. One morning we discovered the caterpillar wrapped in a cocoon. It hung from the top of the jar, an example of one of nature's wonders.

Justin was excited. To him it was like Christmas. He knew a moth or butterfly was about to be born, but he didn't know what kind. He was curious to know what gift nature was about to give him.

"Dad!" he ran to me one day. "Something's happening. Come see!"

He led me to his room. The cocoon had become translucent. We could clearly see the wings of the unborn. A few days later, a beautiful black moth broke free from its silky cage and began to lay eggs on the blades of grass, completing the life cycle of the little caterpillar.

The next day, I convinced my young son it was time to set the moth free. He took it outside, opened the jar, and the little moth flew out. It circled the yard twice, came back, and landed on Justin's arm. He picked up, tossed it in the air, and the moth repeated its flight pattern. He tried over and over to set it free, but each time it would return to his arm.

Justin gave up. He returned his little pet to the jar. The next day he attempted to set it free again, and after a few return flights to his arm, the moth finally flew off into the tall grass.

Like a person, I believe the moth was afraid to leave what it was comfortable with. It wanted to stay with something familiar, scared to move on and experience new things.

I was once that little moth. My cocoon was my mother's love. I was comfortable wrapped in it. Like the moth, I didn't want to fly too far from it. My first job required me to move to a new city. I resisted. I was afraid. What would I find there? I liked where I was.

Many times in my life, I have faced a move and resisted. Humans are creatures of habit. We resist change. However, if I hadn't moved, I would not have experienced many new and wonderful things. I also would not have met many of my friends.

The moves have been between cities, provinces, states, and even countries. Each move gave me the opportunity to learn and experience, but best of all, I met friends. I hated leaving my old friends behind, but when I think about it, I didn't lose them. They're still my friends. I talk to them regularly. However, I have even more friends now.

I'm glad I found my wings.

Michael T. Smith

If you would like to email Michael, he can be reached at: mtsmith@qwestonline.com or find more of his writings and bio by going to http://heartsandhumor.com/blog/

The Best I Ever Had!

"Would you like to stay for lunch?" she asked me. I've always politely turned down the offer many times before. I am ashamed to say that it was for all the wrong reasons.

I would stop to check on this elderly friend of mine. Her home was simple, often times in disarray. Not necessarily dirty, but a reflection of her own disheveled appearance.

The thought of having a meal at her home wasn't very appealing. But that day, I heard that voice calling me to respond to her request.

"Why yes, I think I will stay for lunch," I said.

I think it surprised her. It did me. She was most likely unprepared to hear "yes."

"Oh, well, yes. Really? That would be great," she said stumbling through her response.

I came in and sat in her living room.

"Now, if you aren't prepared, please don't fuss at all," I said.

I could hear her rummaging through her cabinets, opening and closing her refrigerator several times. After a few minutes she called me to come to the kitchen table.

As I entered the room, I could see stacks of newspapers, magazines and a collection of odds and ends scattered throughout. The table was set with two sandwich plates barely nestled in among the stacks of mail, condiments and a few dishes left from a previous meal.

"I hope you like it," she said as she placed sandwiches in front of each of us.

"It's my favorite meal," she said.

"If you made it, I am sure I will love it," I politely responded.

Lifting the top slice of bread I peeked under it to see what exactly I was getting into.

"Ketchup or mustard?" she asked.

"I'll try it plain," I said, still wondering what it was.

She paused, suddenly tilting her head forward. I thought for a moment she was going to say a prayer before our meal. She was crying.

"Are you okay?" I asked her.

Looking up at me she began to apologize. "I know this isn't much of a meal," she said. "It's really all I have."

"My friend, I can't imagine a better meal," I replied.

"Really? I've eaten meatloaf sandwiches since I was a child. It doesn't sound like much to most folks, but this, this is a feast for me," she said.

"We eat meatloaf in the colder winter months," I said.

Then, lowering her sandwich back down to the plate, she turned to me and with trails of tears still visible on her cheeks, she told me her story.

"We were very poor in life. Poor in possessions, not poor in spirit," she said.

She stopped as if reflecting, vividly picturing her childhood days.

"Daddy always made a big thing out of nothing. He could take the simplest thing, of most little value, and make it appear to be a newly discovered treasure. Like meatloaf. We couldn't afford any fancy meats, so ground beef was our filet mignon. When daddy prepared it, it was like he was directing a symphony. The few ingredients were presented, mixed and baked as if he were performing Beethoven's Fifth," she said.

She picked up the sandwich, took a small bite and continued. "The first meal of the week was always meatloaf. In fact it, was often the third and final meal, too. The first was hot and fresh out of the oven, the second a warmed version of it and the last, like what we are having today. A cold meatloaf sandwich."

She took another bite. I still had not begun.

"Don't you like meatloaf, Bob?"

"Yes, I do," I replied, then hesitated as I thought about the possibility of the meatloaf being a week old.

"Good, because I just made this fresh yesterday," she said.

It was heavenly.

"The best I ever had!" I said with a mouthful.

She stopped. Once again she began to cry.

"I'm sorry, maybe you misunderstood me. It wasn't polite of me to speak with a mouthful. I said it was the best I ever had," I said in an effort to assure her.

"I heard you perfectly," she said. Now wiping the tears, she continued. "Bob, that's exactly what my Daddy would say. I swear he could eat garbage and still find greatness in it. Later in my life I realized it was his way of making us think it was a special meal."

We quietly continued our meal, she remembering her childhood and I gratefully thanking God for inviting me to stay.

Meatloaf, "The best I ever had."

Bob Perks

Bob Perks is a speaker and author. You can contact Bob and take a look at his website by going to: www.IWishYouEnough.com

Why The Elephants Don't Run

A number of years ago, I had the rather unique experience of being backstage in Madison Square Garden, in New York, during the Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus. To say the least, it was a fascinating experience. I was able to walk around looking at the lions, tigers, giraffes and all the other circus animals. As I was passing the elephants, I suddenly stopped, confused by the fact that these huge creatures were being held by only a small rope tied to their front leg. No chains, no cages. It was obvious that the elephants could, at any time, break away from their bonds but for some reason, they did not. I saw a trainer near by and asked why these beautiful, magnificent animals just stood there and made no attempt to get away.

"Well," he said, "when they are very young and much smaller we use the same size rope to tie them and, at that age, it's enough to hold them. As they grow up, they are conditioned to believe they cannot break away. They think the rope can still hold them, so they never try to break free."

I was amazed. These animals could at any time break free from their bonds but because they believed they could not, they were stuck right where they were.

Like the elephants, how many of us go through life hanging onto a belief that we cannot do something, simply because we failed at it once before? How many of us are being held back by old, outdated beliefs that no longer serve us? Have you avoided trying something new because of a limiting belief? Worse, how many of us are being held back by someone else's limiting beliefs? Do you tell yourself you can't sell because your not a salesperson?

Particularly in starting or running a business, we are cautioned not to take risks, usually by well intentioned friends and family. How many of us have heard, "You can't do that?" These are the dream stealers who, due to their own limiting beliefs, will attempt to discourage you from living your dreams. You must ignore them at all cost! I am not suggesting that you should not seek advice from qualified individuals and mentors, but that you avoid like the plague, being swayed by the limiting beliefs of others, especially people who are not in their own business.

Challenge your own limiting beliefs by questioning them. If you begin to question a belief, you automatically weaken it. The more you question your limiting beliefs, the more they are weakened. It's like kicking the legs out from under a stool. Once you weaken one leg, the stool begins to lose its balance and fall. Think back to a time when you "sold" someone on yourself. We are selling all the time. You have to sell your ideas to your spouse, your children, and your employees - even your banker. Maybe, as a child, you sold Girl Scout cookies or magazine subscriptions to raise money for your school team. That was selling too!

Once you realize you are, in fact, a capable salesperson, you have weakened that old belief and began to replace it with a new, empowering one. Look for references to support the new beliefs you want to cultivate. As in the example of the stool, you want to reinforce your beliefs by adding more and more "legs" to them. Find people who have accomplished what you want to accomplish, discover what they did and model their behavior. Remember back to times in your past when you were successful and use that experience to propel yourself forward. If your challenge is in sales, read sales books and listen to tapes or attend sales seminars. This is a critical area of your business. One that cannot be undermined by limiting beliefs.

There is a technique called "fake it until you make it" that works well. I am not suggesting you live in denial, just that you begin to see yourself succeeding. Visualize your successes. See yourself vividly in your minds eye making the sale and reaching your goals. Affirm, over and over, that you are succeeding. Write your affirmations daily. Of course, make sure you take the appropriate action. As it says in the Bible, "Faith without works is dead."

Remember that your subconscious mind does not know the difference between real and imaginary. Before you go on a sales call, take a moment and mentally rehearse the scene, just like actors and athletes do. Tell yourself, "I'm a great salesperson." Do this over and over, especially just before a sales call. See the sale being made. See and feel the success. You will be pleasantly amazed at the result. Don't take my word for it. Give it a try. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

It has been said throughout history that what ever you believe, with conviction, you can achieve. Don't be like the poor elephant and go through your life stuck because of a limiting belief you were given or developed years ago. Take charge of your life and live it to the fullest. You deserve the best!

Jim Donovan

Jim Donovan is the author of Handbook to a Happier Life, a motivational speaker and certified business coach. Jim's message is, "Within you is the power to Change Your Life." To learn more about Jim or to contact him go to: www.jimdonovan.com

Broken Eggs and Shattered Glass

On a recent Saturday evening at around midnight, my wife and I were just about to turn out the light and go to sleep when we heard the sounds of a group of people talking in the street, outside our home. Then out of the blue came two loud thuds above our bedroom window, followed by the noise of laughter and people running away down our street.

We both jumped out of bed, I turned on the external lights and rushed outside unsure of what had caused the two thuds or what damage I could expect to see. The silence of the night was broken by the distant sound of people laughing and at that moment I was of a mind to chase after them, however, running bare-footed on the road in the dark is not a very wise thing to do.

I could hear dripping noises on the driveway and the flood light above our garage helped me to identify just what had happened. Our home had been the victim of an egg bombing!

Being faced with the prospect of cleaning up this sticky mess in the early hours of the morning was not a pleasing thought, on top of which I was less than impressed that we had been singled out for this annoying prank. I decided that it was too late to clean up the mess, as it would disturb our neighbours, so it could wait to the morning.

Early next morning with a bucket of warm water and scrubbing brush in hand, and with the extension ladder placed on the front wall, I was now ready to wash off what was now two dry yellowish, egg grit impregnated, 1 metre long patches above our front bedroom windows.

My task was made even more challenging by the two large canvas awnings which protect our bedroom windows from the heat and glare of the afternoon sun. My annoyance with the late night pranksters was again building to the level of the night before.

After retracting each of the awnings, something we rarely do except when there are very high winds, I then climbed the ladder to clean up the first patch of egg stain and then move the ladder to clean the second patch.

As I climbed the ladder for the second time, I noticed that the glass in a small window just under the roof line was very badly cracked. On closer inspection the crack ran around over half of the outer edge of the window pane. As the awning protected the window, it was clear to me that the damage had not been caused by the egg bombing. As I carefully placed my hand on the glass, I discovered that the pane of glass was very loose and had the window been closed with any force, it would have most likely shattered and the glass dropped to the drive way, some seven metres below.

Just a few metres away, we have a basketball ring and on most days of the week there are up to six young people who play in the immediate area, including both my sons. My thoughts immediately turned to what could have happened if the broken glass in the window had gone undetected for much longer and then suddenly shattered. The likelihood of my two sons and their friends being seriously injured was extremely high.

After quickly washing the remaining egg stain off the front wall and with the help of Tom, my youngest son, I got to work with some heavy duty masking tape and secured the cracked window as best I could. Within 24 hours the cracked window had been replaced and all was back to normal, except for the small bits of egg shell I kept finding on the front drive way and stuck to our garage doors.

Over the next few days, I realized that had our home not been bombarded by those eggs late on that Saturday night, I may not have discovered the broken window pane before it shattered and came down all over our drive way.

Even though it had been an annoyance at the time, the broken eggs and the stains were cleaned up very quickly, however, the pain that could have been caused by the shattering of glass would never have gone away and would have haunted my wife and myself, forever and a day.

The cold shudder that ran down my spine when I first discovered the cracked window and the thought about the consequences of someone being seriously injured or even killed, made me realize just how very lucky we had been.

Frequently in life, the small things that happen to us may have a negative impact and cause some form of pain, sadness, discomfort or personal aggravation. It is often said that we should not 'sweat the small stuff' and always look for the positive outcome or the silver lining in those dark clouds of the current circumstance, even though at the time that is not always an easy thing to do.

My personal experience with the egg bombing on that Saturday evening reminded me that in most cases there is always a flip side to everything that happens to us and that often the flip side can provide a positive outcome or an even greater benefit, if not now, then at some time in the future.

From now on whenever I see or break an egg, I will think of the egg bombing incident and say a thank you to those late night pranksters. Equally, I will always be reminded of Jean-Paul Sartre's quote:

"What is important is not what happens to us, but how we respond to what happens to us."

Keith Ready

Keith Ready is an Australian based business adviser and trainer whose specialty is working with his clients to improve top and bottom line business performance in a measurable way, through people. Keith can be contacted via e-mail at kready@netspace.net.au or you can visit his website at www.agiftofinspiration.com.au

From Spark To Flame

When my now 19 year old daughter was in Grade 3, all of Mrs. Mathews' students were given a small pot with a bean seed to plant. Green string beans it seems are pretty hardy and the perfect seed to use when promoting green thumbs in young children. That same plant was also a most unexpected source of understanding and insight for me.

Once the bean plants had sprouted and flowered, their teacher allowed the kids to carefully transfer the precious cargo from school to home. Once home, Shanna scouted around for the perfect location and settled on a sunny south window sill and then proudly declared, "Soon I can feed the whole family!"

Shanna's sisters were envious and even our cat looked intrigued which should have been a warning to me because when I woke up the next morning, I saw that the bean plant had been maliciously knocked off the window sill and ripped from it's pot. It's leaves were frayed and except for a limp thread of stem that still connected the roots to the flowering top, it was quite unrecognizable from the day before. The plant, it seemed, was a goner.

I dreaded what I had to tell Shanna but as I gently began to explain that the bean plant had to be put in the compost, her reaction was not what I expected. She said, "Everything will be okay Mom, the plant will get better."

Without wasting a second in thought she secured the first aid kit from the bathroom returning with gauze, a tongue depressor, bandages and a deep belief that the pathetic looking, near-dead bean plant would live, thrive and even produce food!

I had mixed emotions knowing that she was postponing the plants inevitable trip to the compost bin but I went along with it and helped her wrap bandages. Days later, to my absolute surprise, the bean plant was standing tall and looking perky. We were able to remove the bandages and discover a protruding hump in the stem where its near-fatal stem break had been. It was also amazing to see that the one and only bean, had become plump almost completely masking the claw marks that had scarred it.

I don't know why I hadn't thought the cat might go for a second round because it surely did, and this time I ran for the first aid kit! I carefully applied a heavy blanket of everything from cotton and gauze to coloured band aids with "ouch" written on them and when the medic work was done, I whispered a little something to the heavens.

Just one week later we were able to take the bandages off and again we barely found evidence of an attack and there was even a new sliver of green where a second bean was forming. I was excited and amazed while Shanna had been expecting nothing less. Back to the window sill it went but this time we built a fortress of heavy books to keep it safe until our day of bounty.

I set the table beautifully with all the fanfare of a Thanksgiving dinner. The beans were carefully divided by 5, which awarded each person 2 small pieces, claw marks and all. They turned out to be the best green beans I had ever eaten!

My daughter never quite understood my exuberance over the significance of the beans. In my work as a youth motivator I am brought together with kids and teens that all desperately need people to believe in them. Now, more than ever, no matter what I have been told about a child or a teen and their behavior, I see everyone, no exceptions, with the same eyes and heart that my daughter used on her broken, beaten up bean plant.

I wonder if it's a coincidence that later that same week, I stumbled upon a most appropriate quote by Italian Poet Dante (1265-1351): "From a little spark, may burst a mighty flame."

Especially if you believe...!

Monique Howat

Monique Howat is a youth motivator, specializing in self-esteem and founder of Confident Girls and Guys. She presents workshops in elementary and high schools in and around the Toronto area, coaches, trains the trainer and is a public speaker. You can visit her website at www.confidentgirlsguys.com

Angels of Mercy

A few years ago, Dave, a dear friend, went through a terrible throat surgery and long hospitalization. Though he's a professional motivational speaker who frequently talks about the power of positive thinking, he told me he was surprised to really see how much his attitude affected the amount of mental anguish and physical pain he experienced. Even more, he was surprised how much his attitude was affected by the attitudes of the health care workers he saw each day.

"You could just feel the difference between the few who genuinely cared about you as a person and those who thought of you as one of their daily burdens," Dave said. Unfortunately, the majority of men and women who came in and out of his room were coldly indifferent. They treated him as a medical problem rather than as a person suffering from a medical problem and he found the experience demoralizing, depressing and deeply disrespectful.

Many doctors and nurses seemed annoyed by his presence and his problems. They would often talk about his condition in front of him as if he weren't there. Most failed to demonstrate the slightest concern with the effect their callous words and demeanor might have on their patient. Dave found this attitude outright toxic.

In contrast, the few workers who went out of their way to lift his spirits and brighten his day with simple but sincere expressions of concern and encouragement weren't just good medical professionals. They were good people. These "angels of mercy" who bring their hearts to their work, knowing that mental sunshine and flowers can be as important as drugs, deserve our love and admiration.

Remember, character counts!

Michael Josephson
www.charactercounts.org

The Touchstone

When the great library of Alexandria burned, the story goes, one book was saved. But it was not a valuable book; and so a poor man, who could read a little, bought it for a few coppers.

The book wasn't very interesting, but between its pages there was something very interesting indeed. It was a thin strip of vellum on which was written the secret of the "Touchstone"!

The Touchstone was a small pebble that could turn any common metal into pure gold. The writing explained that it was lying among thousands and thousands of other pebbles that looked exactly like it. But the secret was this: The real stone would feel warm, while ordinary pebbles are cold.

So the man sold his few belongings, bought some simple supplies, camped on the seashore, and began testing pebbles.

He knew that if he picked up ordinary pebbles and threw them down again because they were cold, he might pick up the same pebble hundreds of times. So, when he felt one that was cold, he threw it into the sea. He spent a whole day doing this but none of them was the touchstone. Yet he went on and on this way. Pick up a pebble. Cold - throw it into the sea. Pick up another. Throw it into the sea.

The days stretched into weeks and the weeks into months. One day, however, about mid-afternoon, he picked up a pebble and it was warm. He threw it into the sea before he realized what he had done. He had formed such a strong habit of throwing each pebble into the sea that when the one he wanted came along he still threw it away.

So it is with opportunity. Unless we are vigilant, it's easy to fail to recognize an opportunity when it is in hand and it's just as easy to throw it away.

Author Unknown
From "Bits & Pieces," Economics Press

The Red Ribbon

Everyone wants a blue ribbon. Blue. First place. The best. Even kindergarteners want that blue ribbon. In sports, I was never a blue-ribbon person. In a race I was always last. In baseball I was as likely to get hit on the head as to drop the ball. In basketball I was fine as long as there weren't nine other players on the court with me. Where I got my horrible sports ability, I don't know, but I got it. And I got it early.

During the spring of my kindergarten year, our class had a field trip to a park in a town about 20 miles away. Making that drive now is no big deal, but when you're six and you've lived in a town of 300 all your life, going to a town of a couple thousand is a very big deal. Nonetheless, looking back now, I don't remember much of that day. I'm sure we ate our little sack lunches, played on the swings, slid down the slide, typical six-year-old stuff. Then it was time for the races.

However, these were no ordinary races. Some parent had come up with the idea to have the picnic kind of races, like pass the potato under your neck and hold an egg on a spoon while you run to the other side. I don't remember too much about these, but there was one race that will forever be lodged in my memory, the three-legged race. The parents decided not to use potato sacks for this particular race. Instead, they tied our feet together.

One lucky little boy got me for a partner. Now what you have to know about this little boy is that he was the second most athletic boy in our class. I'm sure he knew he was in trouble the second they laced his foot to mine. As for me, I was mortified. This guy was a winner. He almost always won, and I knew that, with me, he didn't have a chance.

Apparently he didn't realize that as deeply as I did at the time. He laced his arm with mine, the gun sounded, and we were off to the other side. Couples were falling and stumbling all around us, but we stayed on our feet and made it to the other side.

Unbelievably when we turned around and headed back for home, we were in the lead! Only one other couple even had a chance, and they were a good several yards behind us.

Then only feet from the finish line, disaster struck. I tripped and fell.

We were close enough that my partner could have easily dragged me across the finish line and won. He could have, but he didn't. Instead, he stopped, reached down, and helped me up, just as the other couple crossed the finish line. I still remember that moment, and I still have that little red ribbon.

When we graduated 13 years later, I stood on that stage and gave the Valedictory address to that same group of students, none of whom even remembered that moment anymore. So, I told them about that little boy who had made a split-second decision that helping a friend up was more important than winning a blue ribbon.

In my speech I told them that I wouldn't tell which of the guys sitting there on that stage was the little boy although he was up there with me. I wouldn't tell because in truth at one time or another all of them had been that little boy, helping me up when I fell, taking time out from their pursuit of their own goals to help a fellow person in need.

I told them why I've kept that ribbon. You see to me, that ribbon is a reminder that you don't have to be a winner in the eyes of the world to be a winner to those closest to you. The world may judge you a failure or a success, but those closest to you will know the truth. That's important to remember as we travel through this life.

You may not have a red ribbon to prove it, but I sincerely hope you have at least a few friends who remember you for taking time out from your pursuit of that blue ribbon to help them. I'm thinking those will be the ones that really count. I know it's the one that counted the most to me.

Staci Stallings

Looking for outstanding inspiration to kick-start your life? Visit Staci Stallings, the author of this article, at her blog, Heaven Bound. http://stacistallings.blogspot.com You'll feel better for the experience!

Marguerite Proctor

On Saturday, September 30, 2006 I lost one of the best friends I will ever have - Marguerite Proctor passed on to the next phase of her eternal journey. She was the beloved mother of Bob Proctor, Helen Brindley and Al Proctor. She leaves a wonderful legacy in her three children, 8 grandchildren and 27 great-grandchildren.

Last Friday's Insight of the Day featured a great article dealing with decisions - and how you can choose to deal with issues in a positive way or a negative way. I write this hoping that you will be able to see how the decisions this great lady made, combined with her love and focus - impacted her life in a positive way and went on to influence the lives of her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren and with and through them - many thousands of individuals around the world. Marguerite made tough decisions and she always leaned on the positive side when she made them.

Marguerite actively participated in life - she read, she voted, she stayed up on current affairs and on politics and was an avid sports fan. She beamed with pride the years the Toronto Blue Jays won the World Series. However, when the Jays weren't doing well you could hear her talking to her television set.

Marguerite traveled around the world. She went to China, Indonesia, Europe, the UK and all over North America. Her social calendar was always full. She played bridge, golf and shared meals and drinks with her many friends.

In spite of her busy social calendar Marguerite always had time to visit or help a friend in need. There is one story I recall hearing that emphasizes her giving nature. The story took place during the Second World War - early in the 1940's when keeping food on the table and a roof over their heads was no easy task. But when she heard of a family who lived near by that didn't have any coal for their furnace, during a particularly cold spell, she took half of the only money she had and gave it to them to purchase a ton of coal to heat their home. The fact that she didn't know them made no difference. A book could be written on stories of this nature that people have shared with me about this wonderful woman. In retrospect it is not difficult to understand why she lived such a long, prosperous life. She understood the secret was in giving - not getting. The decisions she made to share all she had became a part of her family's way of life.

Marguerite grew up and married in Owen Sound, Ontario, but in the early 1940's while her husband was caught up in the Second World War somewhere in Europe; she moved her mother and three children to Toronto.

I clearly remember a few years ago asking her what motivated her to make that move, a move that would have been a very courageous one in those days - especially when all of her relatives told her she was crazy - that she would never make it in the big city in such dire times. She told me she realized that if her kids grew up in this small town in Northern Ontario (Canada) there would be very little career opportunity for them, except for factory work and she wanted more for them. She said about the time she first thought of moving, her insurance agent moved to Toronto. She met with him, asked him what he did and decided that if he could do it so could she. And that is exactly what she did.

She not only moved to Toronto, she borrowed $500 and used it as a down payment on a house. She then told me that she paid the $500 off in three years and three months and went on to pay off the mortgage. I asked her how she was able to do that with a base salary of $22 per week and she said that she did without everything she could, worked as hard as she could, did extra jobs, so that she could pay for the house. She added that you could do a lot with $20 in the early 1940's. I remember hearing her say how grateful she was that she could work that hard. She had an incredible work ethic and obviously instilled that into her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

From the time Marguerite Proctor was a very young woman she had goals. All through her young years, when she worked long hours just to make ends meet and raise her three children, she had a dream of spending her winters in Florida and the remaining six months in Canada. Her dream became a reality in her mid sixties when she bought a home in Largo, Florida. Catching her at home - at either home - could be a challenge though. She once commented that no one ever phoned. So, I purchased an answering machine for her, to prove to her that we did phone - she was just never there!

Marguerite's successful life obviously had a lot to do with her ability to set and achieve her goals. But in all the years I knew this woman I can honestly say she was not one to dwell on her problems and although she had good reason to, she never felt sorry for herself. In fact, when she was in her 80's she learned that she had breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy. She only told us of her impending surgery a day beforehand. Naturally we were upset with her and wanted to know why she had not shared this information. She informed us that there was nothing we could do about it and there was no sense worrying everyone with it.

My husband Bob and I showed up at the hospital the morning following her surgery and didn't find her in her room. Given her age and the seriousness of the surgery we were immediately concerned. When checking at the nurse's station they told us they were having a hard time keeping her in her room in spite of the tubes attached to her - she was visiting friends on the ward offering them love and encouragement.

It was only a short period of time after her cancer operation that this great woman's attitude received another severe test - she began losing her sight to Macro Degeneration. But true to her nature she again made the best of a bad situation and immediately began to study Braille and subscribed through the Institute for the Blind to talking books which she devoured.

Loss of sight never slowed her down - she even continued to play golf. During a conversation with one member of the family, the subject of e-mail was brought up and she said that surely blind people could use e-mail. And you guessed it, in nothing flat she had a computer in her home with a voice program on it and she was e-mailing people all over North America from her home in Florida. She smiled and said, "I just decided I could."

A few months ago, a hospice worker came to visit her and asked if she was depressed. Marguerite replied, "I have nothing to be depressed about. I am 93 years old and have had a wonderful life and family. I have traveled the world and have everything I want. And if I need anything and can't afford it - my family provides it. Why should I be depressed?"

On her deathbed she continued to inspire us. There were a few places she never had a chance to visit - Australia was one of them. So in the weeks prior to her death, one of her grandchildren sat by her bed and read to her about Australia. Marguerite continued to marvel about how interesting a place Australia surely must be. Even facing death, she remained interested in life and learning.

Marguerite and I enjoyed a wonderful relationship, my own mother passed away when I was 23 and so I looked to her as a second mother for 27 wonderful years!

If you could design a program to give you the ideal mother-in-law, Marguerite would be it! She never ever interfered. I'm sure there were times she wanted to say something - she certainly was not lacking for an opinion. But she never did interfere. She was not judgmental, nor was she demanding.

I think the real secret to Marguerite's happiness and the lessons I have learned from her are that when anything happened that required a decision - she made the decision and it was always to move in a positive direction. She stayed busy, she never focused on herself, she knew how to make a decision and stick to it. And for her, goals in life meant doing a lot and giving a lot.

Marguerite raised three children, all of whom are successful entrepreneurs; 8 grandchildren, one who has become a superior court judge in Canada, the rest are entrepreneurs and corporate executives and of course her 27 great-grandchildren, many on the verge of just starting their careers - all of whom loved and respected her so much. And if you were to ask any one of them, they would be quick to tell you that they are so thankful that she made the decisions she did - resulting in them being where they are today.

Marguerite Proctor was a wonderful mother, Marguerite's family received a special gift in the time they were able to spend with her prior to her death - to be able to truly give back to her and let her know how much she was loved and appreciated and how much she had impacted them. It was a special time for everyone.

Take a look at the decisions you are making and realize that, like Marguerite Proctor, your decisions will probably impact a great many people - many of whom you will probably never meet.

Oh, and by the way, if your mother is still alive - give her a hug and make sure she knows how much she is loved and appreciated. And realize that it truly is a gift to be able to spend time with your mother.

Linda Proctor

The Voice of a Child

Cory and Mark were the best of friends. They were like two peas in a pod, inseparable most days. They even managed to hang out at recess time, which meant chatting over the fence that separated their schools. When Mark played at our house, he was an absolute joy to have around. I never understood why his mom would always say, "I hope he didn't give you too much trouble!"

I will never forget that day I took the boys to their summer camp. Mark stepped out of the car and my heart leapt from my chest. Were my eyes deceiving me? His face was a mottled combination of red, green and purple with the outline of two handprints still embedded in his skin.

When I calmly asked Mark what had happened, he said that a bee tried to sting him and he had slapped himself. I looked into his 11-year-old eyes and asked if he was okay. He said he was fine but I felt his pain and knew otherwise.

As I hung up the phone from Children's Aid I felt terrible. I had known Beth for years through the boys' friendship, which made my decision even harder than it was. I felt my fear of having to make the call, it was almost paralyzing, but I knew in my heart that I had no other choice. Someone had to be the voice of this helpless child.

I began to remember the times when I heard the yelling and witnessed Mark, in his stocking feet, banging on his kitchen window, begging to be let back into his locked house. Why didn't I say something then?

I knew that an intervention must have taken place because the next day, Beth approached me and asked if I had made the call. I looked into her eyes, knowing I had done the right thing and said, "Yes."

She yelled and ranted that she was a good mother, that I had no right to interfere and that it was none of my business how she chose to discipline her child. She was so angry. I tried to calm her down, reassuring her that I knew she was a good mother and I asked if we could talk about it. There was no reasoning with her. She stormed back to her house cursing me even more and said that as far as she was concerned I no longer existed and she vowed that the boys would never play again.

My heart went out to my son as he longed to play with his friend. He didn't understand why they couldn't. September came and once again the boys met at the fence between their schools, even though Mark was terrified that his mom might find out. He told Cory about how his mom had gone to anger classes, how he and his sister almost went to foster homes and how his dad was almost taken out of the home as well. Beth blamed me for all of it, which I couldn't change.

I could feel the anger and judgment swelling in my neighborhood. I couldn't imagine what they had been told. No one spoke to me and it felt like daggers were shooting out of their eyes. Some couldn't bear to even face me, turning away as soon as they saw me! I had known some of these neighbors for over 15 years!

I would be lying if I said it wasn't uncomfortable at times. My feelings of fear, anger and hurt consumed me and there were days that I felt sick to my stomach as I drove into my subdivision, the energy of this anger was so powerful. I knew I had to move these emotions out of the way so that I could empower Cory to move through his. I held him as he cried in my arms not wanting to go trick or treating that Halloween thinking that he wouldn't get any candy because all the neighbors hated me!

As a mother, how could I be in judgment of Beth? I felt my compassion for her. I had been there. As a parent I think we all have. So overwhelmed with our own suppressed emotions that we finally explode. I remembered the days when I used to yell at my kids projecting my anger and my disappointment in them. I may not have harmed them physically, but the verbal and emotional abuse was just as damaging. It's only when I learned from my mentor, how to take responsibility for my behavior and reactions, that I was able to Break the Cycle of parenting in my family. Ultimately, these shifts led me to my life's work, as my partner and I inspire others to do the same.

Ten months later, Cory passed one of his Tae Kwon Do exams. He was so excited and desperately wanted to share this news with Mark. Cory said, "Maybe if Mark's mom knows that I'm into this sport, then she'll like me." I assured him that it wasn't about him...and he need not fear her. I encouraged him to go share his news with his friend and told him that maybe he could be the one to inspire her to let go of her anger. Cory courageously walked out of our house with his broken piece of wood in tow and bunches of butterflies in his stomach. I was so proud of him and I prayed that they would open their door to him. A few minutes later, he came running in, busting to tell me, "He can play Mom...Mark can play with me!!" He dropped the wood and they ran to the park, all of us ecstatically happy!

One day Mark told Cory to thank me. My son asked why, and when he repeated Mark's words to me, tears of joy filled my eyes and love exploded in my heart. Mark said, "Because your mom called, my mom CAN'T hit me anymore!"

Although there were times that I had wanted to move to escape from my uncomfortable feelings, I knew these feelings would move with me. It was and still is up to me to take care of myself and find peace within me and in my home.

The boys still play together either on the front lawn or in the garage. As I watch them, I dream that maybe one day they'll be able to play in each other's houses again.

As I remember the pain of this experience, I would do it all again in a heartbeat...maybe sooner next time. Millions of children are without a voice, living in fear and pain. Help them feel safe.

Be the voice of a child in your life.

Jo-Anne Cutler

Jo-Anne is a life coach, facilitator and aspiring author. Her vision is to inspire and empower us to be the best parents; teachers and role models the children of this world need us to be. To learn more about Jo-Anne, her work and upcoming book, please visit: www.jcconnections.ca Jo-Anne would love to hear your thoughts on today's story, please e-mail her at coaching@jcconnections.ca

The Choice...

"Decisions are easy when values are clear."

Unknown

You awaken and immediately decide, it's going to be a great day or you decide that it's not.

You drive to work and the car next to you suddenly cuts you off, you can choose to immediately respond with understanding or with anger.

You get to work and your boss tells you about a change in operations that will happen next week. You can choose to be excited about the opportunity or fearful of the change.

Later in the day, you are asked to lunch by a couple of new guys from another department. You can decide to make new friends and go or be small and kindly decline.

Before you leave for the day, you receive an email about giving to an annual charity campaign. You can choose to give freely or hold on tightly.

When you get home, your toddler asks you to play 'batman and monsters.' You can make the choice to join in the fun or refuse.

At dinner, the dog jumps on your lap again, who let the dog in anyway? You can choose to be patient and calmly let the dog outside or you can show your frustration and fatigue.

After dinner, your oldest child brings in his math test, he earned a 'B.' You can choose to encourage and recognize the effort or tear him down by asking why it wasn't an 'A.'

When you go to work in your shop later in the evening, you can choose to wear PPE and work safely or you can make the choice not to wear it.

At bedtime, as you turn off the light, you can choose to tell your spouse what he/she means to you or you can keep quiet.

What kind of day would it have been if you chose the former in all cases? What type of day would it have been if you had decided on the latter in all situations? In these cases there are not any 'rights' or 'wrongs' just simple choices. The hidden secret of life however is that we are a product of the simple decisions we make each moment. Each day we make hundreds if not thousands of choices. We make a conscious choice for happiness, leadership, a smile, love, kindness or generosity. Or we just as easily opt for smallness, fear, anger, resentment, bitterness or hatred.

So, what type of day is it? The choice is up to you...

Matt Forck

Matt Forck is a dad, husband and former Journey Electrical Line Worker now Safety Supervisor serving a major mid-western utility. He has published numerous articles on a variety of topics and is looking forward to the release of a new book; The Call Project. You can reach Matt via his web site: www.thecallproject.org

Life is a Bag of Frozen Peas

A few weeks after my first wife, Georgia, was called to heaven, I was cooking dinner for my son and myself. For a vegetable, I decided on frozen peas. As I was cutting open the bag, it slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor. The peas, like marbles, rolled everywhere. I tried to use a broom, but with each swipe the peas rolled across the kitchen, bounced off the wall on the other side and rolled in another direction.

My mental state at the time was fragile. Losing a spouse is an unbearable pain. I got on my hands and knees and pulled them into a pile to dispose of, I was half laughing and half crying as I collected them. I could see the humor in what happened, but it doesn't take much for a person dealing with grief to break down.

For the next week, every time I was in the kitchen, I would find a pea that had escaped my first cleanup. In a corner, behind a table leg, in the frays at the end of a mat, or hidden under a heater, they kept turning up. Eight months later I pulled out the refrigerator to clean, and found a dozen or so petrified peas hidden underneath.

At the time I found those few remaining peas, I was in a new relationship with a wonderful woman I met in a widow/widower support group. After we married, I was reminded of those peas under the refrigerator. I realized my life had been like that bag of frozen peas. It had shattered. My wife was gone. I was in a new city with a busy job and a son having trouble adjusting to his new surroundings and the loss of his mother. I was a wreck. I was a bag of spilled, frozen peas. My life had come apart and scattered.

When life gets you down; when everything you know comes apart; when you think you can never get through the tough times, remember, it is just a bag of scattered, frozen peas. The peas can be collected and life will move on. You will find all the peas. First the easy peas come together in a pile. You pick them up and start to move on. Later you will find the bigger and harder peas. When you pull it all together, life will be whole again.

The life you know can be scattered at any time. You will move on, but how fast you collect your peas depends on you. Will you keep scattering them around with a broom, or will you pick them up one-by-one and put your life back together?

Michael T. Smith

If you would like to email Michael, he can be reached at: mtsmith@qwestonline.com or find more of his writings and bio by going to http://heartsandhumor.com/blog/

Love and Loss

I was lucky. I found what I loved to do early in life. Woz and I started Apple in my parent’s garage when I was 20. We worked hard, and in 10 years Apple had grown from just the two of us in a garage into a $2 billion company with over 4000 employees. We had just released our finest creation - the Macintosh - a year earlier, and I had just turned 30. And then I got fired. How can you get fired from a company you started?

Well, as Apple grew we hired someone who I thought was very talented to run the company with me, and for the first year or so things went well. But then our visions of the future began to diverge and eventually we had a falling out. When we did, our Board of Directors sided with him. So at 30 I was out. And very publicly out. What had been the focus of my entire adult life was gone, and it was devastating.

I really didn't know what to do for a few months. I felt that I had let the previous generation of entrepreneurs down - that I had dropped the baton as it was being passed to me. I met with David Packard and Bob Noyce and tried to apologize for screwing up so badly. I was a very public failure, and I thought about running away from the valley. But something slowly began to dawn on me - I still loved what I did. The turn of events at Apple had not changed that one bit. I had been rejected, but I was still in love. And so I decided to start over.

I didn't see it then, but it turned out that getting fired from Apple was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. The heaviness of being successful was replaced by the lightness of being a beginner again, less sure about everything. It freed me to enter one of the most creative periods of my life.

During the next five years, I started a company named NeXT, another company named Pixar, and fell in love with an amazing woman who would become my wife. Pixar went on to create the worlds first computer animated feature film, Toy Story, and is now the most successful animation studio in the world. In a remarkable turn of events, Apple bought NeXT.

I returned to Apple, and the technology we developed at NeXT is at the heart of Apple's current renaissance. And Laurene and I have a wonderful family together.

I'm pretty sure none of this would have happened if I hadn't been fired from Apple. It was awful tasting medicine, but I guess the patient needed it. Sometimes life hits you in the head with a brick. Don't lose faith. I'm convinced that the only thing that kept me going was that I loved what I did. You've got to find what you love. And that is as true for your work as it is for your lovers.

Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking.

Don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any great relationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on. So keep looking until you find it. Don't settle.

Steve Jobs

Steve Jobs gave this as his second story of his Commencement Address at Stanford University on June 12, 2005.