Back in Los Angeles, I wasted no time. I spent a little of the money on a visit to the dentist, where I had two teeth filled and one extractedI hadn't been able to afford a dentist for years. Then, with my family's anxious admonitions ringing in my ears, I headed for New York. In all of that vast city I knew just one soul, a girl named Eleanore Ebe. I called her up and found that she was staying at the Rehearsal Club, where in those days young theatrical hopefuls could find room and board for eighteen dollars a week. So I moved in with Ellie, and settled down to the long grind of finding work on the New York stage. It was the old story. No experience? Then no work. But how can
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you get experience if you can't get work? My funds got lower and lower. I went to work as a hat-check girl in a restaurant. Unfortunately, it catered mostly to ladies who had no desire or reason to check their hats. Still, I managed to make about thirty dollars a week from tipsenough to get by.
My grandmother wrote me sternly that if I hadn't found a job on the stage by Christmas, I had better come home. So I redoubled my visits to theatrical agencies. Finally one agent said wearily, "Why don't you put on your own show? Maybe then you'd stop bothering us!"
That sparked an idea. Back at the Rehearsal Club I talked to all my jobless friends. If we were really bursting with talent, as we were sure we were, why not hire a hall send out invitations to all the agents and critics in town and put on our own revue?
Everyone agreed that it was a great idea. We started chipping in fifty cents apiece each night for a fund to hire the hall. Talented youngsters took on the task of creating scenery, writing music and lyrics, doing the choreography. When our first act was ready, we performed it for the board of directors of the club, who then gave us some additional help.
When the "Rehearsal Club Revue" finally opened and ran for three nights, it seemed to us that everyone in New York show business was in the audience. The day after it closed, three agents called me with offers of jobs. From that point on, the magic doors swung open, and I was on my way.
I reported all my progress to my benefactor back on the West Coast, but I heard very little from him. He continued to insist upon his anonymity. He showed no desire to share any spotlights, take any credit.
Five years to the day after I accepted his loan, I paid him back, and since then I've kept my pledge never to reveal
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his identity. He never told me his reasons for helping me in the manner he did, but as the years have gone by, I've been able to unravel the mystery of this manat least to my own satisfactionand in the process I've discovered a powerful spiritual principle to use in my own life.
I stumbled upon the key clue one day when I was glancing through a copy of the Living Bible. I had turned to the sixth chapter of Matthew, because I wanted to see how the Lord's Prayer had been translated. Suddenly, some verses seemed to leap out of the page: "When you give a gift to a beggar, don't shout about it as the hypocrites do. . . . When you do a kindness to someone, do it secretly . . . And your Father Who knows all secrets will reward you. . . ." (Matthew 6:24)
Do it secretly, the passage read, and at once I thought of my secretive friend. From that moment, what he had done and how he had done it began to make sense.
I began to see that when he made his offer to me, my benefactor had employed the spiritual principle of giving in secret without seeking credit. He had done it partly to be kind, of course, but also because he knew that great dividends flow back to anyone who is wise enough to practice this kind of giving.
So that's the story of how my career began. I shall always be grateful to my anonymous friend. With pride I repaid his loan, and with pride I have kept his name secret. As for his stipulation about passing the kindness along to otherswell, that's my secret.
Carol Burnett
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3
THE POWER OF LOVE
There is a net of love by which you can catch souls.
Mother Teresa
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No Greater Love
Whatever their planned target, the mortar rounds landed in an orphanage run by a missionary group in the small Vietnamese village. The missionaries and one or two children were killed outright, and several more children were wounded, including one young girl about eight years old.
People from the village requested medical help from a neighboring town that had radio contact with the American forces. Finally, an American navy doctor and nurse arrived in a jeep with only their medical kits. They established that the girl was the most critically injured. Without quick action, she would die of shock and loss of blood.
A transfusion was imperative, and a donor with a matching blood type was required. A quick test showed that neither American had the correct type, but several of the uninjured orphans did.
The doctor spoke some pidgin Vietnamese, and the nurse a smattering of high-school French. Using that combination, together with much impromptu sign language, they tried to explain to their young, frightened audience that unless they could replace some of the girl's
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lost blood, she would certainly die. Then they asked if anyone would be willing to give blood to help.
Their request was met with wide-eyed silence. After several long moments, a small hand slowly and waveringly went up, dropped back down and then went up again.
"Oh, thank you," the nurse said in French. "What is your name?"
"Heng," came the reply.
Heng was quickly laid on a pallet, his arm swabbed with alcohol and a needle inserted in his vein. Through this ordeal Heng lay stiff and silent.
After a moment, he let out a shuddering sob, quickly covering his face with his free hand.
"Is it hurting, Heng?" the doctor asked. Heng shook his head, but after a few moments another sob escaped, and once more he tried to cover up his crying. Again the doctor asked him if the needle hurt, and again Heng shook his head.
But now his occasional sobs gave way to a steady, silent crying, his eyes screwed tightly shut, his fist in his mouth to stifle his sobs.
The medical team was concerned. Something was obviously very wrong. At this point, a Vietnamese nurse arrived to help. Seeing the little one's distress, she spoke to him rapidly in Vietnamese, listened to his reply and answered him in a soothing voice.
After a moment, the patient stopped crying and looked questioningly at the Vietnamese nurse. When she nodded, a look of great relief spread over his face.
Glancing up, the nurse said quietly to the Americans, "He thought he was dying. He misunderstood you. He thought you had asked him to give all his blood so the little girl could live."
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''But why would he be willing to do that?" asked the navy nurse.
The Vietnamese nurse repeated the question to the little boy, who answered simply, "She's my friend."
Col. John W. Mansur
Excerpted from The Missileer
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Dharma
Nearing the lake on that warm September morning, I heard a tiny mewing sound. My first inclination was to ignore the cries. I've been through enough lately, I thought, I can hardly take care of myself.
Three months earlier, at age thirty-seven, I had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Because the cancer was in more than one place, the doctor had recommended a radical mastectomy. It was scheduled for later that same month. I still remember the shock and denial I felt when I overheard my husband Gary, telling someone on the phone, "She's probably going to lose her breast." Those words seared through me like a knife. No. No! I silently cried to God, I'm too young for that.
A few weeks later, while I was recovering from the mastectomy, the surgeon called with more bad news: "The cancer has spread to your lymph nodes. Chemotherapy offers the best chance for survival." All I could do was sit there stunned, thinking, Oh God, I'm going to die.
I was terrified of dying. Many of my friends draw comfort from their beliefs about the afterlife or reincarnation. But I
had trouble blindly believing in things I couldn't see
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or touch. I wanted proof. I prayed for God to show me the truth about death.
With the fear of dying in my heart, I decided to go on an aggressive clinical trial that included a combination of high-dose chemotherapy and a five-year follow-up with a hormone blocker.
The chemotherapy wiped me out completely. Even with the antinausea drugs, I was sick every time. Two months into the treatment, it was all I could do to get dressed and keep a little food down every day. In addition to working, my husband was doing his best to care for the house and me. Wonderful as he was, it was hard on both of us. I was irritable and lonely most of the time. This short walk to the lake was my first time outdoors in awhile.
Meow! Meow! The insistent pleas continued.
No, I really can't care for an animal right now, I thought as I passed by. Suddenly, ear-splitting shrieking and squawking filled the air. Four blue jays were dive-bombing the bush where the mewing sounds were coming from. Shooing the birds away, I ran and looked under the bush. Standing on wobbly legs was a tiny three-week-old orange tabby, with bright blue eyes, mewing his little head off. Gathering him up into my arms, I headed to the lake in hopes of finding his owner or else convincing someone to take him home.
The wind whipped all around us as the shaking kitten cuddled close, still scared to death. We sat together by the lake trying to find him a home. Asking a number of people and finding no takers, I decided to take him home temporarily until I could find him a home of his own. Still feeling exhausted from the chemo, I spent most of the day on the couch with the little kitty curled up on my chest purring. Later that evening, as my husband was leaving to go to a meeting, I asked him to take the kitten with him. "Try and find him a good home," I said, placing
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the kitten in a box. Little did I know, my heart had already been stolen.
An hour later, I beeped my husband. "Have you found him a home yet?" I asked.
"I was just giving him to someone," Gary replied.
"Don't," I said without hesitation. "Bring him home. I need him."
When Gary and the kitten returned home, the little orange tabby curled right back up on my chest like he'd never left.
For the next week, while I was bedridden, Dharma and I were constant companions. He just loved snuggling, sometimes trying to get right up under my chin. He didn't even notice my lack of hair or uneven chest. It felt good to love and be loved so unconditionally.
I chose the name Dharma because in India it means "fulfilling one's life purpose." Cancer-recovery research has shown that finding and following one's bliss or purpose supports the immune system and increases chances of survival. For me, I hoped this would include two deep-seated desires: writing and being of service to others. Dharma's name reminded me of that intention and so much more.
Arriving home from my biweekly doctor visits, I immediately picked him up like a baby and carried him around the house with me. I even carried him to the garage while I did laundry. We were inseparable. With Dharma around, I wasn't so needy and grouchy with Gary. And, boy, did Dharma purr loudly! It was so comforting hearing and feeling the love he expressed so freely.
As he grew, fighting, biting and clawing furniture became his favorite pastimes. We have a fenced-in backyard, so when he got too wild for me, I would let him play out back with other neighborhood cats.
Dharma also loved chasing butterflies. Last spring, I planted purple Porter's weed specifically to attract them.
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The whole backyard, with its multitude of colorful butterflies, was one big playpen for Dharma. I don't think he ever caught any, but I spent countless afternoons sitting on the back porch watching Dharma live his bliss. So free. No cares. My spirit soared as I watched him live his life so fully, and I decided it was time I do the same.
Late that December, I scheduled my final reconstructive surgery and let my office know I would be back to work in February.
Then, three days after my final surgery, the unthinkable happened. Escaping from the backyard, Dharma was hit by a car and killed instantly. My life, too, seemed to end at that moment. I was devastated and no one, not even Gary, could console me. I sat there on that same couch where Dharma and I had shared so much love and cried and cried for hours. Why, God, why? I asked in desperation. I wanted to turn back time and never let him outside. With all my might, I willed it not to be so. And still it was so.
Finally, Gary asked, "Do you want to see him?" Although I had never wanted to see a dead animal in the past, I answered, "Yes." Gary then placed Dharma in a towel in my arms, and I held him and wept. We decided to bury him in the backyard by the Porter's weed.
While Gary dug the hole, I held Dharma one last time, telling him all he meant to me and how much I loved him. I thought back on all the gifts he brought me in just the short time he was with me: unconditional love, laughter, a playful spirit, a reminder to live fully and a sense of my life's purpose.
My husband said, "You know, I believe Dharma was sent by God to help you through a very rough time. Now that you're through the worst of it, it's time for Dharma to move on and help someone else."
"Do you really think so?" I asked, wanting so badly to believe it was true.
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"Look at the timing," Gary said. "You hadn't been to the lake in months and the one day you venture out, you find Dharma blocks from our house in dire need of help, and in rescuing him you get rescued as well. All of his gifts can't be a coincidence. There's definitely a reason he was put in your life when he was and also taken out when he was. He was your little angel."
"Thanks," I said, letting my husband's healing words wash over me.
Watching Dharma lying so peacefully in my arms, I got the much-needed answer to my prayer about death. I realized that he would go on in me forever, the same as I would in the lives of everyone I touched. I believe Dharma gave his life so that I might know peace. When Dharma died, I awakened spiritually. I am no longer afraid of death. Through Dharma, God showed me there is nothing to fear. There is only peace. And love.
We buried him at the foot of his butterfly bush and on his headstone I wrote, "DharmaMy Little Angel." Now, whenever I sit on the back steps, I see Dharma chasing butterflies for all eternity.
Deborah Tyler Blais
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Dear Jesse
Be like the bird
That, pausing in her flight
Awhile on boughs too slight,
Feels them give way
Beneath her and yet sings,
Knowing that she hath wings.
Victor Hugo
Dear Jesse,
So, here it isthe moment we've both been waiting for. Graduation has already taken on the shades of a memory, and college is just a few weeks away. You, I know, are quite anxious to be moving on. You've passed the "Get on your mark!" "Get set" stages, and you are simply ready to ''GO!"
Believe it or not, I remember that feeling well. The summer before I went away to school I simply wanted to get on with it. I couldn't wait to be independent, to prove myself. It's just so weird being on the other side of the gate. I can yell "Go"it's just making my heart let go that seems to be the hang-up.