by Jean G. DeMaiffe

Sunnyvale, California, USA

Long ago, when I was in my early twenties, I traveled to England to visit a friend and work in the hotel owned by his parents. Being young and not perfectly well organized, I managed to find myself on the wrong ferry going from the Continent to England, so my host was not there to meet me at customs. What was worse, I had been planning to work for my keep while in England and, therefore, had little money, only my return airline ticket, my guitar, and my clothes.

I had shared the ride on the ferry from Calais, France, to Dover, England, with another American and an Englishman, and I watched both of them sail through customs with no difficulties. But when my turn came, the inspector asked what was my purpose in entering the country. I innocently replied that I was going to visit friends and work in their hotel. Then he asked for my work permit. Oops. I didn’t have a work permit. Then he asked how much money I had. Not much. At that point, his friendly smiles degenerated to rather a stern or at least a concerned look.

Next, he suggested contacting my hosts to confirm my status with them.  I didn’t think this would be a problem. What I didn’t know was that the sole telephone in the hotel was in a hallway at the far end of the building from where my hosts were sleeping (it being around 6:00 a.m.) — and some of the walls in between the rooms were three feet thick. Needless to say, we didn’t get through to them. The inspector asked me to step aside and wait on a bench while he considered what to do with me. By now, tears were trickling down my cheeks. The inspector was considering sending me back to Calais, and I was in complete disarray.

Then the Englishman I’d ridden the ferry with re-appeared. He’d wondered why I hadn’t come through customs yet and had come back to check on me. I poured out my story to him, and he immediately took me back to the inspector and offered to post a bond for me. The inspector was impressed enough to pass me through customs then without the posting of any bond, and my generous friend conducted me through. As if that were not enough, this kind Englishman guided me to a telegraph office from which I could notify my hosts when I would be arriving, and he helped me onto the proper train.

After all these years, I still feel blessed by the kindness of that Englishman. I don’t know his name, but I hope his kindness has been repaid many times over.

by James Stover

Plattsburgh, New York, USA

Mom and Dad were running some errands, and had left my brother John and me in the care of our teen-aged siblings. My brother David and I had decided to ride our bikes, and being no more than 7 years old, I couldn’t wait to go on an “adventure” with my big brother, nine years my senior.

David rode his 10-speed, I rode my 3-speed, and we set off down the road. Now, the town I grew up in was rural, in 1970s upstate New York; not a sizable population, not a lot of development. We’re talking secluded back roads, and often very rough pavement and narrow shoulders.

We rode for a good part of the afternoon, enjoying the day, the sites, and all the wonders that a summer day holds for children, until finally the sun and the strain started to wear us down.

We began our ride home when my pedaling came to a grinding halt. My front tire had a flat, and we were still miles from home. I tried forcing it — riding on the rim — but it was no use. It was almost impossible to steer and, for all practical purposes, riding was slower than walking. Worse yet, at my age, it was difficult enough just to walk the bike a short distance; to try walking it the 3-4 miles home would be almost impossible. It was then that David lifted up the front of my bike with his right arm and had me pedal alongside him.

Now, I should mention David had a rather slight build — his body was scarred from the chemotherapy and scalpels that saved him from a rare kidney tumor when he was 11 years old. Despite this, he managed to carry me a mile or so in this manner, riding his 10-speed, steering with one hand while straining with the other to keep the front of my bike high enough for me to pedal. Before long, however, large blisters began to form on his hands, so David stopped and told me to climb on the back of his bike. Standing on the pedals so I could sit, he continued to hold the front of my bike aloft and got me, and my bike, home safely after another grueling hour.

When we got to the house, he slumped on the kitchen chair, exhausted, holding his blistered hands in front of him. After resting for a moment, he cleaned himself up, and we never mentioned what had happened to my other brothers, my sister, or my parents.

At the time he probably would have just said he was looking out for his kid brother, but that day, David showed me a quiet strength and love I have great difficulty putting into words even now. As an adult, I take a lesson from my big brother David and try to face life with the same quiet strength and love he showed me on that day.

by Dawn Horney

Phoenix, Arizona, USA

My 8-year-old son, Josh, has confided in me that he dreams of one day being a hero. The funny thing is that he doesn’t know I already think he is.

When he was 5 years old, Josh was watching television while I was probably doing housework or something in the other room. He started yelling, “MOM! Come see this!” This was not uncommon — he liked to show me toy commercials or anything that was science-related, like animals or a neat experiment on “Bill Nye”.)

I came out to the living room and he was watching a “news magazine”- type show. These are decidedly not on his approved list of shows, but apparently he was flipping channels and there was a story about two little boys that captured his attention. My immediate reaction was to tell him to turn off the TV; “we don’t watch those kind of shows”. But I waited to see what he was so excited about.

It was a story of a family where two brothers both had a rare blood disorder that would eventually be fatal. They were almost the same ages as Caleb, my second son. Just great, I thought. Now we’ll have to deal with him worrying that he or his brothers will die from something like this. But at the end of the story the mother made a direct plea for pregnant women to donate cord blood as it was the only hope for a cure that might save her boys. (Similar to donating bone marrow but less chance of rejection or need for “typing”.)

Josh immediately pressed me to call the phone number and say I would do just that, as I was about 5 months pregnant at the time. But I didn’t react fast enough to write the number down. After the show was over he continually begged me to find a way to call and help those boys. I called the local station, tried to locate a number for the show and checked the toll free directory with no success. When I told Josh I couldn’t find the phone number, he asked me to keep trying.

I finally tracked down the Cord Blood Foundation (or close to that) through the National Marrow Donor Program. In the end, because of my 5 year old’s determination and compassion for two little boys he saw on television, I was privileged to donate my daughter’s cord blood on July 26, 1996. I’m so thankful we donated when we had the chance, and I wish we knew if someone was helped because of it. At any rate, Joshua David will always be my hero and now maybe he’ll read this and know it is so.

by Dan Whitaker

Utah, USA

Our family has six siblings, but time and distance kept us apart for nearly 15 years. We finally planned an event where everyone could be together — a river rafting trip near Missoula, Montana, over the 2002 Fourth of July holiday. It was wonderful to get together and reminisce, and renew friendships and love.

The next day, after an exciting river rafting trip on the Blackfoot River, I was on my way with two vanloads of relatives to a campground. We were all tired and sunburned, dozing off from a perfect Montana day.

Suddenly the SUV I was in went out of control, racing down the median at 80 miles per hour. The driver oversteered, first to the right, shooting us back across the freeway, then to the left. The tires bit into the dirt and the vehicle flipped over and over.

I was in the passenger seat with my seatbelt on. I saw glass breaking, suddenly had a mouth full of dirt, felt violent chaos and hit very hard on my right shoulder against the door. In an instant it was over and the vehicle landed on its wheels. I got out and helped my nephew out, who had a broken nose. I knew I had broken ribs, but that was all. I was relatively OK.

The van behind us stopped and our horrified relatives poured out. Suddenly, a cry arose when they found that my sister and her husband had been ejected out the small side window, at the same time, crushing his chest and her pelvis and legs. They landed against the fence between the freeway and the frontage road. They were lying next to each other as if they were in bed. My sister’s head and neck were in a terrible bent position, up against the fence. She was struggling to breathe.

Suddenly someone appeared on the frontage road on the other side of the fence and jumped out of his car. While his wife called 911, he immediately grabbed the chain link fence and pulled with all his might, freeing my sister’s head so that it could drop gently to the soft grass beneath. That allowed her to clear her throat and breathe.

He saved her life. He held the fence with all his strength for what seemed to be 20 minutes or more. It was a very stiff fence, but he wouldn’t let go. When the police arrived, they cut the fence back with wire cutters. The man and his wife left without giving us their names.

My sister is patched together with wires and screws and will live, but still has a year of rehab ahead. Her husband is back home in Denver, amazingly in good condition. I’m thankful that we are all here still, and can look forward to another reunion.

We may never know who that man was, but he taught us something that day: don’t give up and don’t let go.

by Pamela Wilkinson

Santa Barbara, California, USA

In 1991, my husband and I moved from the U.S. to Central Europe with our sons. Newly arrived, we visited Prague. After a day of touring, as we rode the escalator underground to catch the metro, my son Jonathan, 5, called to me. “Mom, I’m stuck!” I looked down and saw his shoe was caught between the moving metal stair and the stationary side of the escalator.

Stooping to pull him out, I realized with horror how stuck he was, and his shoe was being pulled in further. My husband also tried, but he couldn’t free him either, and the escalator continued rapidly down toward the station. There was no emergency button to push and no attendant watching. I became hysterical.

Finally, by some fluke, a piece of metal broke off the stair, which jammed and stopped the escalator abruptly. But now we saw Jonathan was injured — his big toe was gone, his foot had other injuries, and he was going into shock. There we were, halfway around the world from our home, deep underground, no telephone in sight, we couldn’t speak the language, our child was hurt and needed a hospital. I was desperate.

“Can I help you?” asked an elderly man who suddenly appeared beside me. My earlier screams had attracted attention! “I am a doctor,” he said in English. For the next two hours, he helped with first aid, and found the workstation of the escalator where he roused the attendant, a telephone, and medical supplies. He telephoned for the ambulance, and translated through pages of forms necessary for the accident report. All this time he reassured us: the ambulance was coming, he would find a good surgeon, Jonathan would be fine. He translated for the paramedics and made arrangements for emergency surgery at a children’s hospital.

An hour later “our doctor” appeared at the hospital to check on Jonathan’s progress, and translate for the other doctors. By now it was nearly midnight. He gave me his business card, and told us to contact him if we needed help. “But no charge, of course not, this isn’t a business situation,” he insisted. Who knows where he had been headed when he heard my calls for help? Like an angel, he had suddenly appeared, guided us through an overwhelming situation, and disappeared with a friendly wave.

Later, I wrote to thank him for the tremendous assistance he had given us. He replied, “I have grandchildren like your son. Think nothing of it. You will always be like part of my family.”

I will always be grateful for the time and the assistance he offered so willingly, calmly helping us get through a crisis, and following through to make sure things worked out. His selfless actions helped me understand what a huge difference it makes when we help others.

by Iris Little Bird

Wisconsin, USA

The Denver, Colorado branch of my husband’s Italian family spent their holidays together in celebration. On Fourth of July in 1985, we left home to run errands for the day’s party at his sister’s home. When we returned, a neighbor stood in our yard.

Bob said, “It’s been burned!” In shock I replied, “No, it hasn’t.”

Our neighbor shepherded us to her house, saying, “I didn’t want you to be alone when you came home.” Our house had been robbed and arsoned. Who would do this to a young couple with almost nothing? Before long, Bob’s entire family arrived and we went home. I thanked our wonderful neighbor who’d stood outside waiting for us.

In shock, I walked into a black abyss. Everything was black and charred. My tiny kitten I’d fed from an eyedropper had died of smoke inhalation. Though we removed him before we let our adult cat in, “Granny” wailed as if her own life were over as she realized the loss. She’d taught him how to drink from a bowl.

My wedding dress was ruined. It was my worst nightmare — total chaos with blackness controlling everything. Law enforcement discovered the arsonists had set the house on fire by pouring kerosene on a chair and lighting it. The fireman said had it been discovered any later, it would have gutted the entire house. Our privacy had been invaded, turning our lives upside down.

That day I had no appetite for Fourth of July fireworks… or eating. Fireworks seemed to be a “monster” to me. I couldn’t watch without thinking of the blackness of the house. Freedom in the midst of ruin?

Our tiny missionary church had many poor members. Many volunteered to help us, under the experienced advice of Fred H. They worked every evening after their jobs and all weekends. Many gave cash, food and offered places to stay. We lived in an old camper in our back yard, to be closer to the project.

We scrubbed and worked to remove the smoke smell. I learned to paint, install drywall and paneling and replace fixtures. Fred was with us every step of the way.

I couldn’t think of “it” as “our home”. Had it not been for the support of family and friends, I would have felt homeless.

A few days after the arson, a beautifully colored tiny rose bloomed. It seemed out of place, especially when I thought of the crime.

This special rose was named “Peace Rose”. I swallowed hard reflecting on the crime. Then I pictured all the people making my house a home again. At that moment our house became a real home to me again.

At last, we had an Open House Blessing with all those who’d worked so hard to make our home a reality. The Peace Rose and its significance seemed to come inside our home.

Even in the midst of great pain, love found its way to the core of our existence.

by Michael Barcelona

Dillsburg, Pennsylvania, USA

Uncle Johnny grew up in the depression years in the Irish Channel in New Orleans, Louisiana. His mother was a widow with five children to feed so he became a bread winner very early. As a young boy he would work on hot roofs until his feet blistered so he could hardly walk. For his efforts, he would earn enough to buy their food that day.

As a child I saw my Uncle Johnny come weekends to help my dad remodel our home. Mom and dad had purchased a worn-out barn from a gracious attorney near Chalmette, Louisiana. It would have been condemned by today’s standards, but for Uncle Johnny it was like a toy at Christmas. For us, it was a haven away from public housing with its crime, drugs, and social stagnation.

He worked endlessly on that old barn. He searched and priced all over to find the best material for it. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to make our home a decent, comfortable place for our family. I can see him now pulling up with my Aunt Merle and five cousins in that old blue and white Ford with the rear doors tied shut because the latches didn’t work.

Uncle Johnny worked his way through Tulane University, got his Master’s in Education Administration, then opened his own school, building much of it with his two sons. My Aunt Merle’s spiritual strength, pure convictions, and devotion laid the school’s foundations. Johnny’s sons are remarkable men, winners, great coaches, who work with him still. His three daughters are terrific educators and great mothers themselves. They remain a team.

Johnny’s school has helped thousands of people over the past forty years. Educationally it’s the pride of the South. His children administer the school now, but he’s there, working, most every day. He and Aunt Merle continue to watch over the fruit of their harvest.

In my mind, I still see John Thomas Curtis driving a ’57 blue and white Ford with ropes tied around the door posts. His decisions in times of crisis bring success, yet he faces every day as a new challenge because yesterday’s victory he graciously forgets. He is a man who leads when no one else sees, understands, or has anything to offer.

With all their success, one can become overwhelmed when standing in the presence of Uncle Johnny and his family. After a few seconds, however, you share the spirit of what “WE” can do next year. Somehow you begin to feel personally involved in something that’s bigger than anyone.

People like Uncle Johnny help us strive to be more than we think we can, not by rhetoric or cheap ideas, but by giving a piece of their heart and hands. His inspiration has taught me that helping the weak only makes you stronger, if you have the gift of love.

Kristie Thompson

North Carolina, USA

It was the trip of a lifetime. Despite the loudly-voiced concerns of friends and family, I was actually in England, after an impulsive decision to embark on a solo trip around Great Britain for fifteen days.

I had rented a blue Renault and had already been on the road for four days with no problems. I was in a country known for its liquid sunshine, and it hadn’t even rained! The trip was going wonderfully, and I was excited to be visiting England and its breathtaking scenery.

I was in the Lake District on tiny Kirkstone Pass, somewhere between Ullswater and Windemere, when something else breathtaking happened. A loud bang followed by the wheel jerking to the left jolted me from my reverie.

I glanced back in my rearview mirror just in time to watch my hubcap go bouncing behind me. A blowout! It was caused by the low rock wall along the road designed to prevent people from pulling off onto the shoulder. Now, it was preventing me from moving out of the way of traffic as well.

There I was, in the hot July sun, trapped on the tiny road, traffic heavy behind me, and no way to move the car. Cars began slowly passing me, and I got sympathetic looks from many of the drivers. One couple offered to take me to the nearest phone, but I was afraid to leave the rental car abandoned in the middle of the road.

I stood there, dejected, amidst the glorious yellow and brown hues of the pass, barely noticing because I was too busy worrying how the rest of my vacation would turn out when a van pulled up behind me.

The van had bright yellow kayaks on top. Two men jumped out.

“What seems to be the problem?” the older man asked. I told him. He immediately took charge. He opened the trunk, unloaded my massive load of luggage, grabbed my spare tire, and despite the risks inherent in changing a tire on a narrow road at an angle, managed to change my tire in just a few minutes. I offered to pay them, but the older man told me to have a great vacation and drove off.

I managed to get to the Ullswater lake, where my steamer was waiting. As I pulled off the dock, I saw the same two men, kayaking on the lake. They had taken time out of their vacation to help me in a moment of need. The older man saw me and waved.

“You won’t get a flat tire on that!” he yelled, laughing. I smiled and waved back. Although I never got their names, I’ll be forever grateful to them for saving my vacation.

by Twila Ingham

Iowa, USA

In late September 2006, my husband was diagnosed with cryptogenic cirrhosis (non-alcoholic fatty liver disease). David hadn’t felt good for years, but his doctors had been unable to figure out what was wrong. Eventually fatigue, exhaustion, inability to concentrate and general aches and pains overwhelmed him, and by mid-August 2006 he was unable to work.

The previous spring I had quit work to stay home with our 4-year-old grandson. He lives with us and I wanted to give him a better summer than endless hours in day-care.

I’m searching for work but without luck so far. Jobs are scarce in our small town, especially when age-related limitations (bad hips and a bad lower back) prevent applying for manufacturing jobs on concrete floors.

Unfortunately, my husband didn’t have much sick leave or vacation time when he had to stop working, so since September, we’ve had no income to speak of.

David works for a state agency that allows employees to donate accrued vacation time to those in serious need, who need to get through until their long term disability plans kick in, after 90 to 120 work days.

Since September, we have received from 10 to 42 donated hours every 2 weeks. It’s not always full pay, and we never know for sure how much donated time is coming our way, but it’s always something.

Most of the people making these wonderful donations don’t know us. And while many donate hours accrued beyond the 1,000 hours of vacation time they can actually use, some donate their useable vacation time.

To even top this, we got a wonderful surprise from David’s department a couple of weeks ago. One of his co-workers called, wondering if she could call in after work. I said sure and, after supper, she and a co-worker stopped by.

Along with their visit came a beautiful get-well card, stuffed with cash. She took up a collection around the department. What a wonderful gesture, and how timely: that pay period we only got 22 hours of donated time and our bank account was dwindling.

After the gals left, we counted it. $185! May not sound like much to some people, but my head was spinning. Do we pay a couple past due bills? Hang onto it for Christmas? Fix the van? So many places to put it, and obviously not enough to go around. We opted for getting needed parts for our crippled, old van. No matter what, we *need* drivable transport.

These gifts’ many from people we don’t know, are so important to us right now. The State of Iowa allows its employees to help co-workers in this way: that’s so great. That so many donate to help complete strangers; there aren’t enough words to say thank you for this.

They call it “catastrophic leave donations”. I call it something wonderful.

By Teresa Keebler

Oregon, USA

It was 11 p.m. The voice on the other end of the phone asked if I knew an older gentleman named Del, and gave his last name. I told him, yes, that was my grandfather’s name.

I’d been surprised by the telephone ringing, and now immediately began wondering why a stranger would call about my grandfather.

The man, who sounded like he was in his early 40s, said he was manager of a hotel in Coos Bay, Oregon, a couple hundred miles from my town. He said my grandpa had come in off the street asking for a room. The manager, “Paul”, explained that this older gentleman seemed lost and confused, and he was worried about turning him away without helping him.

The problem was, grandpa was trying to use a credit card that wasn’t active. Grandpa Del had only been able to tell Paul that he’d just gotten off the bus coming from Bend, Oregon. Grandpa couldn’t remember any of his family’s phone numbers.

Worried about calling the police or sending this frail man in his 90s out on his own, Paul had searched phone listings all over the state for anyone with the same last name. That night in July 2008, none of my family was listed in the directory — except for me. I was concerned — grandpa lived in an assisted living home nearly 200 miles away, but nobody had been alerted that he was missing.

Paul put grandpa on the phone, and he said, “I just need someone to tell this nice young man that I’m a good guy, that I’m good for the money, and when I get home I’ll pay for it.” Adorable, but not necessarily a solution in today’s world, either to needing a place to stay, or being so far from home.

Paul allowed me to use my credit card to pay for a room, offering it to grandpa for far less than the regular rate of $170. I guessed he was just recovering what the maid would earn cleaning the room.

This compassionate manager next went further above and beyond any expectations or duties one would ever hope for. He said he and his employees would watch over my grandfather until someone from my family could drive to pick him up the next morning. I was crazy with gratefulness and thanks.

I frantically called my brother and father, and they worked out that my father and uncle would drive the three hours to pick up grandpa the next morning. They’d return him to his retirement home, chosen to be near where they live.

It was so great to meet this helpful manager over the phone, even if I didn’t get to meet him personally. I was thrilled to be reminded that evening of the compassionate and helpful people who are still out there, everywhere. Paul truly was someone who would go the extra mile, to do whatever it takes to help someone who needs help.