When I looked up again, the kitchen was dark and I was sitting alone by the radiator.
That was three years ago. The people at the school got to know Angel. Teachers found an eager pupil; coaches found a first-class athlete; the other kids found a loyal friend. And my anxiety and frustration were replaced by love and understanding for those who had reacted negatively toward a kid who was different. When I was ready to forgive and reach out once again to those who had dropped us, many were more than ready to renew our friendship. People who had been wary of Angel started to help him, providing money for glasses, clothes, shoes. He was even offered a part-time job at a local lumberyard.
Angel worked so hard to catch up in school that he's gotten mostly A's and B's. He played on the school teams until he turned 18; now he helps manage them. When he discovered his poor vision would keep him from becoming a Navy pilot, he set his sights on college; he talks of someday studying marine biology.
The Bible says some have "entertained angels without knowing it" (Hebrews 13:2). We're luckywe do know it. I thank God for the day our Angel left his clothes in our tree house, and for the angel in the kitchen who told me to let him stay.
Denise Brumbach
Submitted by Mary Schellenger
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A Little off the Top, and a Lesson to Remember
To be able to look back upon one's past life with satisfaction is to live twice.
Martial
Haircuts are part of military life. In the last 10 years, I plopped myself into that big chair at least 250 times. You might think that getting a haircut would become commonplace, a non-event, each barber blurring into the last. They don't, however, because of one very special haircut that I got 10 years ago.
In June of 1985, I was preparing to be commissioned as a second lieutenant through ROTC at Northeastern University in Boston. The ceremony was on a Saturday, leaving me just Sunday to make the drive to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where I was due to report in first thing Monday morning. On Friday, I headed for the barbershop, having waited until the last minute so that my haircut would still look its sharpest not only on the big day, but on Monday. I was shocked, and momentarily
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panicked, to find that my regular barber of 15 years had chosen this day to start his long weekend. I knew where there was another shop, although I'd never patronized it. I drove across town and went inside.
There were no other customers. The barber sat in his own chair, reading the paper, but he popped up with a grin when I entered. He was a spry little man, olive-skinned, his own hair mostly absent on top. A thin mustache ran along his upper lip, well into the process of turning from black to gray. "You're next!" he said loudly, as though I might not have known it otherwise. He slapped his hand hard on the cracking leather seat, which was warm. He'd apparently been reading undisturbed for quite a while, which I took as a bad sign. He shook out the covering sheet with a snap before he draped it over me.
"What'll it be, my friend?"
"A nice, short taper, please. Keep the back and sides pretty close, but leave a little more on top. Not enough to have to part, though, okay?" I was unhappy, to say the least. My "real" barber wouldn't have had to ask, and I wouldn't have had to worry. I was getting the most important haircut of my life, the one I would be wearing when I reported for duty in less than 72 hours, and I was having to explain it to a guy who probably hadn't cut anyone's hair this short since the 1960s.
"You got it, no problem," he said, changing blades on his clippers. "No problem at all. You must be in the Army, or the Marines or something, huh?"
"Army," I replied curtly. I wasn't ever going to see this guy again, and I wasn't worried about making friends. But there was no stopping this happy guy. He acted like that was one question down and 19 more to go.
"You coming off of leave?" No time for me to answer. "You stationed up at Fort Devens, or where?" The clipper blade was warm against the side of my head and I could
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tell by the way it felt that at least he was taking it down short enough. I could have answered him a couple of ways, or even not answered at all, but not wanting to talk is not the same thing as wanting to be rude.
I said, "Actually I'm not stationed anywhere yet, but by Sunday I'll be reporting in at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. I'm being commissioned tomorrow morning at Faneuil Hall."
"Oh, ho!" he bellowed, and I was instantly sorry that I'd decided to speak. "Well, what do you knowa shave-tail. Boy, do I remember you guys! Always catching me doing something I wasn't supposed to. I was in the Army for a few years myself, you know, during World War II. Went through a lot of lieutenants, so I know. There's nothing worse than a brand new shave-tail, I'll tell you. No offense."
I wanted to bolt, right then and there, no matter what my hair looked like. I couldn't believe what I'd gotten myself into; trapped in the chair by some career-private with an ax to grind against officers. I knew that I was in for at least 10 more minutes of stories about how the trouble was never his fault, and how his officers wouldn't ever listen, always got lost and generally did everything wrong. I steeled myself for the inevitable.
"So you're being commissioned tomorrow, what do you know. That's something. Who's going to pin on your bars, your folks, right?" I nodded, hoping to keep the grilling as painless as possible. "They got a general or something coming to talk to you, I imagine."
That caught me off guard, and I answered with more than just a nod. What happened next, because of my answer to that simple question, forever changed the way I look at strangers. It made such an impression on me that I'm seeing it all again as I write this, 10 years later. "As a matter of fact," I replied, "General Tuck is coming down from Fort Devens to give us a pep talk and hand out commissions."
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"Hey, I know him," the barber exclaimed, stopping his work. "Sure. General Tuck, he's a one-star, right? I met him just a couple of weeks ago."
"You did?" The emphasis was on the first word, sounding ruder than I meant it, but I couldn't possibly imagine why this guy would be meeting a general.
"Yeah, I sure did. I had to go up to Fort Devens. Here, let me show you what I got." He set the clippers down and pulled open a drawer under the mirror. He pulled out a small blue box, which I had not then the experience to recognize, and thrust it at me. "Here, take a look."
Bronze Star Medal, read the gold letters on the box. I opened the box, revealing the medal nestled inside. I looked up sharply at the barber, and he handed me a certificate. I read it quickly, feeling smaller and smaller as I did so.
In February 1945, an American rifle platoon was stalled in its attempt to capture a small German town with a long German name. The soldiers were nearly out of ammunition and night was falling. If not resupplied, they would have to withdraw, giving up ground they would have to retake. Corporal Dominic Cerutti volunteered to go back and get more ammunition. Leading two men, he crawled back across the ground that was exposed to enemy fire and hustled to the company's headquarters. Returning in the darkness through contested territory, he led his party directly to the platoon's position, bringing with him enough ammunition to hold on through the night. Although the party was fired upon by the enemy, because of Corporal Cerutti's leadership, no one was injured. For his bravery in performing this duty, Corporal Cerutti was awarded the Bronze Star Medal for Valor.
I looked at Corporal Cerutti, 40 years older . . . Barber Cerutti now, and all I could say was "Wow." He held the medal in his own hands now, gazing at it with obvious
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pride, but also, it seemed to me, with pain. "And you're just getting this now?" I asked softly.
"Yeah, well they told me that I'd got it when I was getting ready to come home, but nobody could find any orders or anything. I wasn't about to wait around, so I came back without it, and, of course, when I got to the States nobody knew anything about it. I didn't have time to worry about it then, you know, because I had my wife and a kid t
o take care of. I had to get some work. And right then, at that time, I probably didn't care much. Just glad it was all over."
Forty years later, his son-in-law cared enough to contact the Army and see that the medal was awarded.
Dominic Cerutti hadn't cared much. He had done his job as best he could, he had come home when it was done, and that was what mattered, not the credit or recognition. I decided right there that this was a good lesson to take with me into active duty.
But there is another lesson here, and fortunately, I learned this one as well. Many of us in the military are quick to judge the people that we meet by the badges and patches on their uniforms, just as in civilian life, we may base our assessments of a stranger's character on his or her clothes, car or salary. We forget that everyone has talents and achievements in their past that may not be immediately visible in the present. The fact is that people are a lot like icebergs; there's always so much more under the surface.
I had forgotten this important rule that day, but I have always remembered it since. I had entered the shop of a nameless and faceless barber, only to find myself meeting a genuine hero.
Andy Entwistle
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The Scar
A little boy invited his mother to attend his elementary school's first teacher-parent conference. To the little boy's dismay, she said she would go. This would be the first time that his classmates and teacher met his mother and he was embarrassed by her appearance. Although she was a beautiful woman, there was a severe scar that covered nearly the entire right side of her face. The boy never wanted to talk about why or how she got the scar.
At the conference, the people were impressed by the kindness and natural beauty of his mother despite the scar, but the little boy was still embarrassed and hid himself from everyone. He did, however, get within earshot of a conversation between his mother and his teacher, and heard them speaking.
"How did you get the scar on your face?" the teacher asked.
The mother replied, "When my son was a baby, he was in a room that caught on fire. Everyone was too afraid to go in because the fire was out of control, so I went in. As I was running toward his crib, I saw a beam coming down and I placed myself over him trying to shield him. I was
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knocked unconscious but fortunately, a fireman came in and saved both of us.'' She touched the burned side of her face. "This scar will be permanent, but to this day, I have never regretted doing what I did."
At this point, the little boy came out running toward his mother with tears in his eyes. He hugged her and felt an overwhelming sense of the sacrifice that his mother had made for him. He held her hand tightly for the rest of the day.
Lih Yuh Kuo
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Thelma
Humor is mankind's greatest blessing.
Mark Twain
Even at the age of 75, Thelma was very vivacious and full of life. When her husband passed away, her children suggested that she move to a "senior living community." A gregarious and life-loving person, Thelma decided to do so.
Shortly after moving in, Thelma became a self-appointed activities director, coordinating all sorts of things for the people in the community to do and quickly became very popular and made many friends.
When Thelma turned 80, her newfound friends showed their appreciation by throwing a surprise birthday party for her. When Thelma entered the dining room for dinner that night, she was greeted by a standing ovation and one of the coordinators led her to the head table. The night was filled with laughter and entertainment, but throughout the evening, Thelma could not take her eyes off a gentleman sitting at the other end of the table.
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When the festivities ended, Thelma quickly rose from her seat and rushed over to the man. "Pardon me," Thelma said. "Please forgive me if I made you feel uncomfortable by staring at you all night. I just couldn't help myself from looking your way. You see, you look just like my fifth husband."
"Your fifth husband!" replied the gentleman. "Forgive me for asking, but how many times have you been married?"
With that, a smile came across Thelma's face as she responded, "Four."
They were married shortly after.
Shari Smith
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Through the Eyes of a Child
After a holiday break, the teacher asked her small pupils how they spent their holiday. One little boy's reply went like this:
We always spend Christmas with Granma and Granpa. They used to live up here in a big brick house but Granpa got retarded and they moved to Florida. They live in a park with a lot of other retarded people. They all live in tin huts and ride tricycles that are too big for me.
They all go to a building they call the wrecked hall, but it is fixed now. They all play a game with big checkers and push them around on the floor with sticks. There is a swimming pool but I guess nobody teaches them; they just stand there in the water with their hats on.
My Granma used to bake cookies for me, but nobody cooks there. They all go to restaurants that are fast and have discounts. When you come to the park, there is a dollhouse with a man sitting in it. He watches all day so they can't get out without him seeing them. I guess everybody forgets who they are because they all wear badges with their names on them.
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Granma says that Granpa worked hard all his life to earn his retardment.
I wish they would move back home, but I guess the man in the dollhouse won't let them out.
Author Unknown
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To Save a Life
It's good to remember that we aren't helpless. There is always something we can do.
Carla Gorrell
In those chaotic years of the late 1940s, just after World War II ended, an immigrant family in New York tried to contact their surviving relatives in Hungary. Communications were sporadic, the mails untrustworthy, records destroyed or inaccurate or lost. It could take many weeks or months for letters to travel to Europe and find their way to recipients and just as, long for replies to return. Reliable information was hard, if not impossible, to get.
The immigrant family wondered if their relatives were still alive. Had they all survived the war? Where were they living? It was so hard to tell. Then, they received a letter, in Hungarian, from Uncle Lazlo in a small town near Budapest. Yes, some of the family had survived the war. The letter was tantalizingly incomplete in the news it offered. But it was clear that they were hungry and hurting. Food and other necessities were in very short supply. The black market was operating in full force, the currency
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was inflated and nearly valueless. It took all their energy and wit to survive each day.
The New Yorkers were appalled at the story of devastation and deprivation they could piece together by reading and rereading this crumpled letter, written on the tissuethin paper of the airmail of that time. Grateful to be able to read again in Hungarian, the older members of the family translated for their American-born children. They argued about the translation of this phrase or that. But it was clear that they could be useful to their far-off family.
They determined to send survival supplies to their cousins, aunts and uncles. They tried to imagine what would be needed and appreciated, but, not having directly experienced war themselves, it was not easy to come up with a list of things to send. They included canned meats and vegetables and chocolates. Necessities like toilet paper and bandages made the final list, too. In the end, the package grew to several cartons, stuffed to the brim with many items. Little spaces in each carton were filled with whatever odds and ends were at hand: candies, handkerchiefs, writing paper and pencils.
At last, the cartons were sealed and painstakingly wrapped with brown paper and stout string to help endure the long and chancy journey overseas. Brought to the post office, the cartons began their journey undramatically.