by Tamara

Colorado, USA

My 4-year old son, Declan, loves trains. He enjoys seeing trains whenever he has a chance — he hopes we get stopped at railroad crossings — and playing with toy trains is his favorite pastime.

In spring 2003, Declan had been saving his money for many months towards the goal of getting a “real” model freight train. Then his Great-Aunt Gracie sent him newspaper clippings about the B&O Railroad Museum in Baltimore, Maryland, where she lives. A major snowstorm had collapsed the roof of the roundhouse, the main museum building.

This destroyed many one-of-a-kind locomotives, train cars, and antique collectibles from the railroad’s heyday. I read the articles to Declan, and he asked when they’d be able to fix the roundhouse and trains, “so everybody can see them and learn about trains”. I explained that insurance would pay to fix the building, but some train cars were irreparably damaged. The remaining cars would take a long time to repair, as the museum was relying upon donations to fund the expensive repairs.

Without missing a beat, Declan announced he wanted to make a “do-na-shun” (donation) (repeating the word several times to commit it to memory) and ran to get his dinosaur money bank. I helped him count the money he had saved: $18. We give him $1 a week allowance, and he earns 10 to 25 cents extra by requesting to help with household chores, so $18 was a significant amount of money for him.

When I asked how much he wanted to send he looked at me tearfully and said, “You mean I can’t send all of it?” I assured him he could indeed do that, but asked if he realized he wouldn’t be able to buy any toys for quite a while. Before I could finish my sentence he jumped up and down, saying “Send it all! Send it all!”

He then spent 45 minutes laboriously writing his own letter to the museum explaining what the money was for — another great feat as he’d just started writing two months previously. I surreptitiously substituted a check for his cash and sealed the envelope, then helped him put it in the mailbox.

The B&O Museum staff sent me a standard thank you letter, as I had also sent my own check. However, they took time to write Declan a personalized letter and send him train coloring sheets. He was thrilled they truly recognized his gift, and is looking forward to a trip to Baltimore to see the progress of the repairs.

Declan never regretted his decision, and when he found a nice toy car at the grocery store the next day, he played with it, then matter-of-factly put it back, explaining he couldn’t buy it because he sent his money to the train museum.

“But that’s OK, because lots of people look at the trains, and I’m the only one that would play with this car.” I hope his generosity will inspire my future decisions.

by Cristy McCallister

Oregon, USA

Cancer as a blessing. Sounds like a contradiction, doesn’t it? But I made a conscious choice to look at my cancer that way. With my family history, the question wasn’t whether I would get cancer; the question was when I would get it, and maybe what kind. I was betting on breast cancer, as that was the most prevalent type to run in my family. Besides, as the joke goes, women have two chances of getting it.

Instead, I was blessed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in the summer of 2003. Yes, blessed is what I mean. Not only did I get a cancer that doctors talk about in cure rates rather than in percentages of remission, I received excellent care in diagnosis and treatment. More importantly, I discovered what wonderful people surround me.

My friends and co-workers donated more than 100 hours of their sick-leave time for me to use when mine ran out. They raised funds to help with my daily expenses. And they got together and made sure my 8-year-old daughter had a bountiful Christmas. Their actions touched me deeply, but I wasn’t as surprised as I might have been. After all, I work with some of the most generous and warm-hearted people you could imagine. We work for a very large and well-known HMO, with a kind of family feeling and caring that is almost unheard of in the corporate world.

What really surprised me was the response of my supervisors. They didn’t worry about my absences, covering them as the FMLA (Family Medical Leave Act) and my union contract said they had to. But they worked around my needs in ways that no law by man nor union contract could ever demand. They allowed me to work a partial schedule as I wanted, or could, or needed to.

They replaced me as a full-time employee, despite the expense, and still allowed me the option of coming in and doing what I could, just to provide me with some income. My child support made it so I didn’t qualify for any state aid, and if I took a leave of absence before I absolutely had to, my medical insurance would run out and I would be responsible for paying a premium that I could never afford.

This also made it possible for me to focus on my life rather than on my cancer. I didn’t want to stay home and dwell on my cancer and care. Cancer wasn’t the center of my life, and the work arrangements my supervisors made allowed me to keep it in perspective. By their actions, they made me feel that I was a valuable, contributing member of the business. Without their support, I don’t believe I would have had as good an outcome.

My cancer revealed that I already had the greatest of blessings — the loving, generous people around me.

by Janet Williams

Arizona, USA

I was in Texas in December of 1982, 29, newly divorced and far from my California family. I wanted to go home. I hooked our car to a huge rented van, loaded up my 9-year-old daughter, two cats, a guinea pig, and four hermit crabs, and started across the country.

They provided a stick-shift truck, not my request, as I’d never driven a truck. Intense rain poured as we left Austin. I was in a 20-foot truck, car in tow, with a 9-year-old asking if we were there yet. It was extremely nerve-wracking driving over mountains, through cities and down long highways.

The rain turned to light snow, yet at dark I saw no headlights. I pulled over and turned the truck off — all the lights came on. I started the engine and the lights went off. I wanted to cry, but didn’t want to scare my daughter.

With just an occasional 18-wheeler on the road, I started driving five miles an hour in the dark, letting the right tire ride the road’s edge like Braille. Soon a big truck came up behind, went by fast, hit his brakes, then sped off. I said my thanks and edged back onto the shoulder.

Soon another truck came up fast, nearly stopped right beside me, laid on his horn, then moved into the left lane, so I moved into the right lane.

He drove alongside letting me use his headlights to see, then suddenly honked three times and sped off. As I crept back to the shoulder, another truck came up behind me. When near he honked three times and moved over.

Incredible! Truck after truck, one stayed beside me until another was close enough to take over. They took me all the way to Fort Stockton, hours and hours of truckers slowing down enough to pull me along.

At Fort Stockton the last truck honked goodbye and I drove into the outskirts of town. Then a Highway patrol flashed his lights at me. I didn’t know how to get the truck fixed, it was 3:00 a.m., I was cold and tired, and now I had a ticket for no lights.

The officer said, “I’ve been waiting for you.” Why, I asked. His beautiful Texas accent replied, “Aren’t you the truck with no lights? We’ve heard about you for hours.” I burst into tears. He told me, “Don’t worry, we called the guy who repairs these trucks and told him to arrive early for you,” and he escorted me to a nearby motel.

We broke down in every state. Austin to Los Angeles took three and a half days, and we only stayed in a motel that night. But I never got scared again like I had been that first part of the trip, because each of those truckers gave me courage and strength for the rest of the trip.

by Randy Cassingham

Boulder, Colorado, USA

I met my friend Jerry Olivieri at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. We were of like mind and interests, and both enjoyed deep conversation — Jerry was opinionated, and so am I, so we had plenty to talk about!

A brilliant and uncompromising engineer, one of Jerry’s strengths was keeping humans in the loop — it’s relatively easy to design a machine, but harder to design it well to help people, not get in their way. He applied that to the space program as a whole. He would tell his colleagues, “Our job is not to make the incredible possible. Our job is to make the impossible credible.” These kinds of tidbits helped people remember the big picture. We’re not tossing spacecraft up to make them fly, we’re making them fly to bring us knowledge and understanding. He took those visions to Orbital Sciences Corp. when he left JPL.

But humans have their weaknesses: Jerry was diagnosed with leukemia. When he had his bone marrow transplant, he knew he’d be in isolation for weeks, so he took a laptop with him to communicate with the outside world, including his friend in Colorado. We also chatted on the phone, and he readily admitted to me he was scared. And that was Jerry too: no manly pretense, just cut to the chase, tell me what’s on his mind, and let me work to cheer him up.

The support went both ways. He gave me encouragement and advice when I left JPL to pursue my calling to write and publish humanity’s stories. When I started HeroicStories, it became his goal to write one for me. But that wasn’t his only support: he was one of the first to subscribe to it on the Internet, and from his hospital bed he wrote me what he thought of it. Even here, the engineer in him was showing clearly: “HeroicStories is simply great. People don’t seem to realize that the magnitude of heroism is the difference between what you have and what someone is willing to give you in a time of need. The actual per unit value of the commodity is unimportant. That’s why people sometimes don’t fully accept that their personal contribution may have been unusually important to others.” Even in the hospital, in pain, perhaps clouded by drugs, Jerry realized that what made the stories powerful wasn’t that someone had saved a life or given up something precious, but rather that a small gift of time, or effort, or self can have profound, long-lasting effects on others.

And that sums up Jerry’s impact on the people who knew him. Friendship wasn’t an effort to him, but it was precious indeed, and he had profound, long-lasting effects on us.

Jerry’s system rejected his bone marrow transplant, and he died October 23, 1999, with his wife Valerie by his side. He was 37. Days later, it as my great privilege to give his eulogy, and proclaim my life is better because I knew Jerry Olivieri.

By Lynette Daniel-Klingman

Louisiana, USA

When I was about 20 years old, I took a babysitting job for three little girls. The youngest had cerebral palsy and was confined to a wheelchair. Their mom had rented us a nice pool-side room in a local motel. The two older girls had fiery red hair and dispositions to match. They went out to play games near the room.

That left me with the youngest child, “Linda”. She had pretty long brown hair, a constant smile and a happy disposition. After a few minutes in the room I decided that just because Linda was in a wheel chair did NOT mean that we were going to stay in the room all night! I was determined to find *something* for her to do in that game room. So I grabbed a handful of quarters, put them in my pocket, and pushed her chair out of the room.

Unfortunately, all of the video game controls were too high for her to reach. The only thing she could reach was a bubblegum machine. When she tried to turn the handle, it wouldn’t move. I put my hand on hers, and together, we turned it. Bingo! The gumball fell and her eyes lit up at her “prize”. We went back many times that night, me pushing this laughing, bubbly girl with a mouthful of gum and blue-dyed lips.

I had been told that Linda had no feeling below the waist, but I learned that wasn’t true. At one point I wasn’t able to get her to the bathroom in time and her clothes became soiled, so I gave her a bath. When I finished dressing her, Linda laughed hysterically. She pointed at her bottom, since she could not speak. When I looked confused, she turned herself onto her side, still pointing, and laughing even harder! I checked and realized that I hadn’t pulled her underwear up all the way. I quickly fixed them. She thought my confusion was so hilarious  that I was soon laughing too — and a bond was formed between us.

She knew how to make the best of her situation in life, and find the humor in everything. I hadn’t known that I would meet such a special child that night, or that Linda would teach me so much. In my car that night on the way home, I cried. As I cried for her I asked, “Why?”

I believe she was chosen to be different to touch the hearts of people like me, bringing tears of joy to anyone lucky enough to know her. After only one night with her, I felt like a different person, and 18 years later, I think of her often. I know I will never forget little Linda and the lessons she taught me about life. I learned it is possible to be happy even if you can’t do what other people can do — even if you are different.

by Anonymous

Gloucestershire, England

Our news programmes are full of stories about refugees, and we’re all used to thinking of them as “foreign” or “outsiders”, from deprived or backward countries. But I’ve come to consider refugees with a wider vision.

I know a couple — I’ll call them “David” and “Jo” — that provide a “safe house” for refugees. The people they take in aren’t running from war zones or difficult political situations. They’re running away from domestic violence, childhood abuse, or mental disorders. They all need a safe HOME where they can be loved, nurtured, and regain strength to face life again.

I was one such refugee. I came from a background of violence and abuse, and lived as a teenager on and off the streets, seeing things that most people will never have the misfortune to experience. David and Jo met me one day. They didn’t pressure me to join a rehabilitation programme, or give me a few pounds and a telephone number for a counseling service. They simply gave me a latchkey to their home. I was not the kind of girl “nice” people invite home. I was on the streets, close to alcoholic, taking drugs, a psychiatric patient, and mixed up with bad company. Yet despite having young children of their own, this couple opened their lives and their home to me.

I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for this couple. They stepped out of their comfort zone to extend their home to somebody who’d never known what a home was about. They have done this, for over twenty years, for at least eight other people. Probably none of those people would have made it if they hadn’t been cared for this way.

Most people they take in need months or years of help and support, emotional, physical, and financial. Yet David and Jo don’t receive funding, or have any outside agencies supporting them. They often don’t even get thanks; they simply act because they want to help. They say its a privilege to see people heal and grow.

After a long struggle, with their continual support and encouragement, I got through some therapy, cleaned up, and studied for exams. I found a flat of my own, a good job, friends and even a non-abusive partner. When I walk down the aisle with him, David and Jo will give me away in marriage. They will stand in place of the biological parents who let me down so badly.

Even though they’re not mine by blood, I couldn’t want for better parents. I hope that one day I’ll have the honour of extending my home to someone in need, just like they did for me.

by Don Mathis

Texas, USA

You pass through the portal

And squint against the sun,

The time, forever: 9:01

A twin portal stands

On the other side

Forever reading: 9:03

In between is the minute

That never should have been

In 1995, April 19

A pool for reflection,

Inches shallow.

Infinitely deep

In its sorrow.

Walkways to nowhere,

No destination,

Lead anyone, quickly,

To quiet contemplation.

The power of the empty chair:

Think of those who are not there.

At dinner table, office —

Those we miss.

Imagine, 168 empty

chairs such as this.

Glass shards and stone

Once showered a tree.

It gives hope to see those leaves.

It’s still alive, still survives,

A symbol of the people’s will.

A chain link fence

Is not a barrier

It’s a carrier

A link to the memory of many.

Leave a possession,

Release an emotion.

A fireman’s helmet is hung

Faded and bleached in the sun.

Emblazoned “We will never forget you”

And signed by a rescue team.

A teddy bear

has a tear

For the children

that were here.

On the fence

Flowers are tied.

Dozens have died

Millions have cried.

Across the street,

Granite blocks

Of white and black,

Symbolize the children

Lost that day.

A man’s statue stands near

“Jesus Wept.”

Chips and stones

From the destruction

Now line the paths

Their journey done.

Someday

The feet of grief

May stop their step.

But the Murrah Memorial

Will still be here

Lest We Forget.

(OklahomaCityNationalMemorial.org)

by Sue Pasztor

Toledo, Ohio, USA

Six years ago, I went through life saving brain surgery. After spending time in the hospital, I returned home to recuperate. I was so depressed. My face was swollen and bruised, I had ugly metal staples from one ear to the other, and I was bald. To say the least, I looked like a monster and felt worse.

Being so depressed, I stayed in my room upstairs. I didn’t want to see anyone, not even my family. My husband, children and grandchildren could not see me like this! I couldn’t stand myself, so how could they stand me? I wanted them to remember me the way I looked before the surgery.

Several days after being home, I woke up, listened and could not hear anyone in the house. I got up and went to the bathroom down the hall from my bedroom. When I walked out of the bathroom there stood my little three-year-old grandson, Stephen. I couldn’t begin to tell you the terror I felt when his eyes locked on mine. He hadn’t seen me since before the surgery. What would he think?

He stood before me, and seconds later the biggest smile appeared on his face, and he yelled “Bubba!” — his special name for me. I smiled back at him with tears ready to run down my face for him seeing me this way. He came right up to me and gave me the biggest hug. There were no words for the happiness I felt.

He pulled away and with not a trace of fear he said, “Bubba you got a haircut.” I smiled back and said “Yes I did.” He then looked at me with concern and said “Who did it?” I told him the doctor cut my hair. That was all he needed to know. His Bubba was home and had a “haircut”. He loved me. He didn’t care what I looked like. He took my hand and began to lead me down the stairs. I froze for a moment, then realized that I was loved no matter what I looked like. I was still “Bubba”. My place was with my family.

Together we walked down the steps, Stephen with the biggest smile on his face. He had found his Bubba. I had also found Bubba again. We joined the rest of the family and I never hid again from the people who loved me.

That little guy is nine years old today and I have been blessed with three more grandchildren. I almost didn’t realize the unconditional love that children have, and how we tend to overlook some of the most important things in our lives. No matter how we change in appearance, we are still the same to people who love us. Thanks to Stephen, that “haircut” changed my life forever, for the better!

by Marilda Mel White

California, USA

There was nothing in the house to eat and I was hungry. I was also  downright grouchy because I had to go to the store before I could have breakfast. I don’t much like starting a day like that.

Adding to my frustration, by the time I got to the market I couldn’t remember anything else I needed. I wandered around and finally picked up a 40-pound bag of dog food and a few other things and headed for the checkout. There were only three checkers working and every one of them had a long line, further fueling my bad mood.

Then I really picked the wrong line. The people in front of me had two carts full, and as the checker started ringing them up, they worried out loud that they might not have enough money for everything. They started sorting things into “must have” and “maybe” piles and checking the sub-total after every beep.

I understood their situation (I’ve been there too), but they were going to take forever and I just wanted to get home to eat my donuts. Then it hit me — I’d forgotten to pick up the donuts for my breakfast!

I left to get the things that had brought me to the store in the first place, and back at the check stand a few moments later, crankier than ever, I picked a different line. The woman ahead of me there looked at my cart and said, “I think I have a coupon for that.”

“What?” I said, rather stupidly. I was so sure that every minute of the day was going to be rotten that I didn’t realize yet that my fortune was turning. “The dog food,” she said, going through an envelope. “I’m sure I have a coupon for that.”

She found it and handed it to me. I noticed then that she had the same brand of dog food in her cart, so I suggested she might want to save the coupon for herself. “Oh no,” she said, “I have plenty of these. You’re welcome to it.”

I took it and thanked her profusely. The woman probably thought I was overdoing it with my many thanks for a $3.00 coupon, but then again, I wasn’t just thanking her for a mere coupon.

I was thanking her for reminding me that sometimes when I least expect it (and least deserve it), some small, kind act by a stranger can hit me smack dab between the eyes and turn my whole day around.

by The Survivor

USA

In February 2005, at age 50, I was diagnosed with Ovarian Cancer, Stage 3C. The symptoms of this cancer, I later learned, are called “whispers.” I had been to two different doctors who diagnosed entirely different problems. The first one said I had ulcers, while the next one said it was Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

All I knew was how horrible I felt. I was unable to eat or drink more than a swallow or two. I slept sitting up so I could breathe. My abdomen was so distended I couldn’t wear any underwear. All in all, I was totally miserable.

Finally, on a Wednesday morning, my husband helped me into the car and took me to the emergency room. The first question they asked was why hadn’t I gone to the doctor.

I had to explain myself over and over. The first doctor had diagnosed ulcers while standing in the doorway, given me sample medications and sent me home. The second doctor made a cursory examination, told me to eat lots of fiber and prescribed several new drugs.

Because I have Parkinson’s disease, I’m extremely cautious about taking new drugs. When I questioned him, the second doctor actually yelled at me and told me that he knew what he was doing. Then he told me I was obviously a hypochondriac and should stop wasting his time.

I must have told this story 10 times as different people came in and asked me to again relate what had happened. Several tests later, as the day faded into evening, the results of my CT scan came back.

The nurse knelt on the floor by my bed, holding my hands. Tears streamed down his face as they told me it was cancer.

They scheduled me for surgery on Monday, the soonest that the gynecologic oncologist could get there. Finally, I found myself alone in a room. Frightened, very sick, dehydrated and weak, I wondered whether I would survive.

My story had spread through the hospital, and as I lay in darkness that night, alone and afraid, the most amazing thing happened. Soon a doctor came in, held my hand and talked quietly of survival and of how good life is.

When that doctor had to go, a nurse took his place for a half hour of quiet reflection. Then a pastor prayed with me through a lonely hour until another doctor took his place and just sat quietly while I dozed.

I was never alone all that night. Every time I awoke I found someone quietly waiting with me, keeping the darkness away.

As of today I am cancer free, and hope I will stay that way. I will never forget those busy doctors, nurses and many other professionals who took time to sit by my bedside and to try in their own way to take away my fears.

Morning brought more than just daylight. It brought me peace.