Chicken Soup for souls
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Anyone read, what's your comments on their books? What are titles you have read so far?
where can i find cheap second hand ones??
Thanks! -
wad does chicken soup books tok about one har?
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Originally posted by Ito_^:wad does chicken soup books tok about one har?
v wide..from family to love, r/s etc..
chicken soup for the
teenager's soul
couple's souil
parent's soul
kids' soul
gardener's soul etc...
Nv read before..even if I did, it was juz browsing through..coz I used to sell books. Second hand books? Perhaps you would like to wait for the next Library Books sale.
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i never believe in all these encouragement or self-help books.
theory everybody knows. but when it comes to the actual thing most people fail miserably. -
From Chicken Soup :
The Littlest Girl Scout
By Erica Orloff
I admit it. I'm not cut out to be a soccer Mom.
I'm not class Mom material, either.
I don't bake homemade chocolate chip cookies. I don't even boil water. In fact, when my daughter, Alexa, was in kindergarten, as part of a "Why I Love My Mommy" Mother's Day project, her teacher asked her to name her "favorite dish" that Mom cooks.
"I don't have one," she said.
"Oh sweetheart, there must be something your mother cooks that you love. A special dinner? Your favorite dessert?"
"My Mommy doesn't cook."
"She must make something," her increasingly desperate teacher insisted. "Jell-O?"
After lengthy consideration, my daughter listed "cereal."
So it was with much trepidation that I recently learned Alexa wanted to be a Brownie.
I am a Mom who is great at making up stories, singing off-key songs at bedtime and remembering the names of every Pokemon. But with three kids, a dog, a rabbit, a parrot, and a veritable aviary of finches, life in our household is disorganized at best. Dinner is a haphazard affair, clothes always need ironing and shirts missing buttons are given safety pins in their stead. I flunked Home Economics in high school. Clearly, I did not have the makings of a Brownie-badge-earning mom.
"Are you sure?" I asked, trying to mask my dread. Her delighted "yes" sealed my fate.
I made it through the camping trip, even through crafts - though our potholders were decidedly ragged - looking. Then came the year's highlight: the cookie sale. Mentally, I counted my immediate family. I figured they were good for about ten boxes. I'd buy a few as well. That brought Alexa to a total of fifteen boxes or so - not too shabby.
Her dad picked her up after the cookie sale meeting. Horrified, I watched as they struggled through the door with six CASES of cookies. Cases!
After coming to, I managed to sputter, "What's all this?"
"Her cookies," my husband answered. "Each girl is assigned six cases to sell."
"But what if we can't sell all these?"
"We bring them back," he said. "No big deal."
"Oh no, Mommy!" Alexa cried out. "We have to sell them all. We just have to! I'll be the laughingstock of the troop if I don't. One of the other Brownies told me that last year, not one girl brought back any cookies."
Apparently, we were going to be hitting up Grandma for a lot more than the four boxes I had mentally sold to her.
After ten days of ferocious selling, we had managed to sell a case and a half. Cookies were stacked in my home office from floor to ceiling - or at least that's how I remember it. I dreamed at night of Thin Mints chasing me down dark alleys.
After four more days of selling, we still had four cases of cookies.
Then came one of those days that happen to Moms like me - Moms whose kids never have matching socks and whose kids' toothbrushes end up being chewed by the dog or falling into the toilet.
On that particular day, the dog jumped in the lake after a duck. The duck escaped, but my dog resembled the Creature from the Black Lagoon. One dog bath, one muddy Mom, and thirteen towels later, the dog was clean. But my two-year-old son had been suspiciously quiet during the whole ordeal. In fact, all the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. Even more than kitchen pot-banging, TV blaring, and loud bickering, all Moms dread "the silence."
You know . . . that silence.
"Alexa," I said, emerging from the bathroom, mud clinging to my hair, "where's your brother?"
"I dunno."
I went tearing through the house. Was he coloring on my bedroom walls again? No.
I raced to the kitchen. Spilling cereal on the floor? No.
He must be in his room. Was he climbing on top of his dresser pretending to be Superman again? Not there.
"Nicholas!" I called out. Then, fearing my computer keyboard was being covered in apple juice, I ran to my office.
There sat Nicholas.
Surrounded by sixty-one opened boxes of Girl Scout cookies.
In fact, he had the cellophane for the next pack in his teeth, attempting to bust open another box. Thin Mints, Peanut Butter Buddies, Shortbread Dreams or whatever-the-heck-they're called were splayed from one end of the room to the other. Cookies were crushed beneath his chubby little feet and crumbs covered his rosy cheeks.
"Cookies!" he squealed.
As I wrote out a check for over $250 dollars worth of Girl Scout cookies, I came to the realization that I am most definitely NOT a Brownie Mom.
But my son? He's the hero of Troop 408. -
A Matter of Course
By Carol McAdoo Rehme
Burning sun clearly defined the mountains, promising a pristine day, and luring him to answer the call of the links. He had left the house early, but not too early. Not before helping Mary through their daily routine.
Lionel wiped the dimpled ball, nestled it on the green of the 9th hole, and picked up his marker.
Not before gently lifting her in and out of the bathtub. Not before shepherding her back to the bedroom. Not before erasing the ravages of another sleepless night by combing her hair into place.
Lionel gazed at the lush grass as he bent his knees and gripped the putter.
Mary would love walking the course, listening to the hushed stillness. He could point out the geese gliding on the pond and the fragrant crabapple trees laced with blossoms. A love of the outdoors and God's creations. That was something they shared.
And they shared a lot. Six daughters. Twenty-two grandchildren. Allegiance to church. Devotion to each other. That hadn't changed, but other things had.
Lionel lowered his head and hunched his broad shoulders over the extra-long club.
Once, Mary's slender athletic body complemented his rugged six-foot-five-inch frame. Now, crutches supported her stooped shoulders.
Once, she agilely whirled with him on the dance floor. Now, the only spinning she did was a turn through the shopping mall in her wheelchair.
Once, her nimble fingers flew at the sewing machine, tucked a blanket around a slumbering child and tidied the house. Now, crooked and gnarled, they sat – idle - in her lap.
Lionel stiffened his wrists.
Rheumatoid arthritis invaded their union only nine years into their marriage. He watched it ravage his wife's body. The changes it made were both immediate and gradual, until - quite clearly - the disease determined their course in life.
Lionel closed his stance and shifted his weight forward.
Some people thought he carried quite a load. But as Mary was able to do less, he simply did more. He merely broadened his definition of husband, the job title he considered most sacred. After all, it was a pledge he had made to Mary before God. So he took upon himself new roles: cook, housekeeper, beautician and chauffeur. Even nurse.
He and Mary were good together. They should be. They had perfected their teamwork through twenty-four surgeries. He knew better than any health-care worker how to lift her, turn her, tend to her personal needs. That last hip replacement came at a high price for them both: a permanent infection that added a new element to their routine. Now his large hands tenderly applied fresh dressings twice daily to the draining wound.
Lionel drew the putter into a slow backward stroke.
He rarely glanced back at their old dreams. Instead, together they forged new ones. Like purchasing a self-contained motor home so he could assist her in the bathroom, something just not acceptable in public restrooms.
Lionel completed his putt with a firm follow-through.
And they could travel. They could visit their kids. They could attend the important family events most precious to them: baptisms, graduations, weddings, funerals.
Lionel watched the ball roll forward in a gentle arc and rim the cup. He listened to its satisfying drop and thonk. He made par.
Mary always said other husbands would have left long ago. She even called him "her good-hearted man." But he liked to remind her that those wedding vows some forty-five years past were sincere - and binding.
As his stubby shadow nudged the rich turf, Lionel glanced at the late morning sun. He leaned down and, with his thick fingers, plucked up the ball, brushed it on his pants and tucked it into his pocket.
There would be other days to play golf. But, for now, home beckoned. Home - and his Mary. -
I like this one, it tells us to count our blessings (tho i am not a Christian
) and not drill in our sorrow.
The Day Healing Began
By Marilyn K. Strube
Snow crunched angrily under my tires, and my car's headlights made only feeble streaks through the driving snow. My eyes ached from trying to find my way through an unfamiliar neighborhood.
As a certified medical assistant, I was making a house call to administer a flu shot to an elderly, bedridden patient. When the request had come into the doctor's office, there had been so much red tape concerning the vaccination that I finally volunteered to do it myself. I was frustrated then at all the fuss and bother; now I was angry at myself for getting involved.
I know all about frustration. One week earlier, the trial of my sixteen-year-old daughter's attacker finally ended. She had been kidnapped and raped by a stranger. He had been sentenced to five and a half years. Not long enough, I thought bitterly.
Later that day, as I relayed the judge's ruling to my mother, she asked what I thought would have been fair. I didn't know. I only knew I wanted to sleep through the night without nightmares. I wanted the tension between my husband Joe and me to be over. I didn't want to be afraid to let my children walk to school.
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Seven p.m. Usually by this time, I would be in pajamas and on my second glass of wine. Without the alcohol to deaden my senses, scenes from the courtroom would come, unbidden, to mind. Erica's lawyer questioning the rapist, "Which part of 'No!' didn't you understand?" And then Erica on the witness stand being asked to "describe in detail what he did to you." The windshield wipers reminded me of Erica swiping at tears as she recalled the atrocities.
I pulled up in front of the house and took a deep breath to release my tension and anger. Would I ever feel normal again? Just then, the house's front door opened and a little girl in the doorway yelled back over her shoulder. "She's here!"
Dogs barked in the background. I didn't feel like dealing with yowling dogs and a little girl in addition to an elderly patient. I wanted to give the shot and go home. A woman appeared and pushed the two dogs back so I could enter.
"Hi, Marilyn," she greeted me. "I'm Judy, and this is my granddaughter, Gwynney. Thanks for coming! Can I get you something to eat or drink?"
"No, thanks. I've got to get home and make dinner for my family," I lied. I knew Joe would have fed the children by now.
Then Gwynney peeked from behind her grandmother's legs. She was a chubby little thing with a mop of blond hair. When I looked at her closely, I shivered. Gwynney was almost my daughter's double when Erica was the same age.
"We just made macaroni and cheese," the child volunteered. "You can take it home to your 'fambly' if you want."
The telephone rang. "Gwynney," Judy instructed, "show Marilyn to Great-Grandma's room while I get the phone."
Gwynney nodded, taking her responsibility seriously. "I'm five years old," she informed me.
"No, you're not!" Judy called from the kitchen. "She's only three, Marilyn."
Gwynney smiled sheepishly then pointed to the bigger dog, a dignified yellow Labrador with a graying muzzle. "This is Barney," she said. Barney thumped his tail politely. Pointing to the other dog, a mixed German shepherd with intelligent eyes, she said, "And this is Susie." Susie woofed. "Okay," Gwynney concluded, "now I will take you to Great-Grandma's room."
I put my coat on the living room couch and fell in behind Gwynney and the dogs. Judy reappeared just as we entered the old woman's bedroom. "Mom," she yelled in her mother's ear, "the nurse is going to give you a shot!" When there was no response, Judy pushed back her mother's hair and kissed her gently on the forehead.
"I'll be in the other room if you need me," she said and quietly left the room.
I loaded the syringe and was about to give the injection when I looked over my shoulder. Gwynney, Barney and Susie were lined up in order of size against the wall. Each was watching my every move.
I stopped and explained what I was doing. "Don't worry," I reassured them, "this won't hurt your great-grandma."
Gwynney nodded. As I turned, I heard her reassuring the dogs, "This won't hurt Great-Grandma, so don't worry."
Six months before, I would have smiled. Now I just swabbed the woman's arm with alcohol and administered the shot.
The moment I withdrew the needle, Gwynney was at my side with a wastebasket to collect my disposable gloves. "Boy, you really have the program down, don't you?" I said, laughing in spite of myself.
Gwynney looked at me seriously. "Are you sad?" she asked.
"What makes you ask?" I stammered, taken aback.
"Well, your laugh sounds kind of sad."
I knelt and gave her a hug. "You sure are smart for a three-year-old," I said, tousling her fine golden hair. "You could pass for a five-year-old any day."
Gwynney bolted for the kitchen. There, I heard her telling her grandmother, "She says I could pass for a five-year-old!"
After Judy thanked me profusely for coming, Gwynney and the dogs walked me to the door. "I hope you feel happy soon," she said and squeezed my hand.
"Thank you," I answered. "Me, too."
Gwynney waved, and the dogs wagged their tails as I left. Outside, the storm had passed. It had turned colder, and snow squeaked under my feet as I made my way to the car. The dark sky was full of stars. I started the car but didn't go half a block before I had to pull over to the curb.
Tears flooded out of me, as I cried out, "God, why didn't you protect Erica?" All the feelings I had squelched over the past six months poured out. I let God have it with both barrels.
First, tears of bitterness. And then sadness, the sadness that was so obvious to Gwynney. I grieved for my daughter's stolen innocence. I was sad that with all Joe and I were able to provide, we weren't able to keep her safe.
Then a stillness enveloped my car, and I fell silent. I thought of all the things that had happened to us in the past six months. I remembered the faces of the homeless that we passed each day driving to court, and the battered women and children who lined the corridors as we made our way into the courtroom. Until six months before, I had known only the safe haven that had been our world. Our family had been so richly blessed.
Suddenly, I was thanking God for all the goodness in our lives. "Lord," I said, "I need to move beyond this and start living again. You've given me so much. Help me to focus on those who really need your help."
Tomorrow, I vowed, I would not retreat into pajamas and wine. Instead, I would go home and make my "fambly" macaroni and cheese. I would smile more and offer words of encouragement. I would brighten the world around me.
Peace washed over me. I forgave myself for not being there to shield Erica from harm.
I looked back at Gwynney's house, where the porch light still glowed warmly into the night. I smiled.
"Lord, thank you for Gwynney," I prayed. "Her resemblance to Erica and her wise words melted my heart." -
i just began reading their book on success principles
basically its a list of guidelines and values that we should follow in order to fufil our goals etc
interesting read -
nv read before...
but drink before
CHICKEN SOUP
GOOD