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Positive Press: Good News Every Day
Positive Press: Good News Every Day
Positive Saying, Positive Talk, Positive News, Positive.Net
JoAnn Jones
During my second month of nursing school, our professor gave us a
pop quiz. I was a conscientious student and had breezed through the
questions, until I read the last one. "What is the first name of the woman
who cleans the school?" Surely this was some kind of joke. I had seen the
cleaning woman several times. She was tall, dark haired and in her 50's,
but how would I know her name?
I handed in my paper, leaving the last question blank. Before class ended,
one student asked if the last question would count on our quiz grade.
"Absolutely," said the professor. "In your careers you will meet many people.
All are significant. They deserve your attention and care, even if all you do
is smile and say hello."
I've never forgotten that lesson. I also learned her name was Dorothy.
A few years ago at the Seattle Special Olympics, nine
contestants, all physically or mentally disabled, assembled
at the starting line for the 100-yard dash. At the gun they
all started out, not exactly in a dash, but with the relish
to run the race to the finish and win.
All, that is, except one boy who stumbled on the asphalt,
tumbled over a couple of times, and began to cry. The other
eight heard the boy cry. They slowed down and paused. Then
they all turned around and went back. Every one of them. One
girl with Down's syndrome bent down and kissed him and said,
"This will make it better." Then all nine linked arms and
walked together to the finish line.
Everyone in the stadium stood, and the cheering went
on for 10 minutes.
by H. Jackson Brown Jr.
Treat everyone you meet like you want to be treated.
Watch a sunrise at least once a year.
Strive for excellence, not perfection.
Plant a tree on your birthday.
Learn 3 clean jokes.
Compliment 3 people every day.
Never waste an opportunity to tell someone you love them.
Leave everything a little better than you found it.
Keep it simple.
Think big thoughts but relish small pleasures.
Become the most positive and enthusiastic person you know.
Be forgiving of yourself and others.
Buy whatever kids are selling on card tables in their front yards.
Look people in the eye.
Plant flowers every spring.
Take responsibility for every area of your life.
Wave at kids on school busses.
Don't be afraid to say, "I made a mistake."
Don't be afraid to say, "I don't know."
Compliment even small improvements.
Call your mother.
Six minutes to six, said the clock over the information booth in
New York's Grand Central Station. The tall young Army officer lifted his
sunburned face and narrowed his eyes to note the exact time. His heart
was pounding with a beat that choked him. In six minutes he would see
the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 18
months, the woman he had never seen yet whose words had sustained him
unfailingly.
Lt. Blandford remembered one day in particular, the worst of the
fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of enemy
planes.
In one of those letters, he had confessed to her that often he
felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her
answer:"Of course you fear...all brave men do." Next time you doubt
yourself, I want you tho hear my voice reciting to you: 'Yea, though I
walk through the valley of Death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with
me.'....He had remembered that and it renewed his strength.
He was going to hear her voice now. Four minutes to six.
A girl passed closer to him, and Lt. Blandford started. she was
wearing a flower, but it was not the little red rose they had agreed
upon. Besides, this girl was only about eighteen, and Hollis Maynel had
told him she was 30. "What of it?" he had answered, "I'm 32." He was 29.
His mind went back to that book he had read in the training camp.
"Of Human Bondage" it was; and throughout the book were notes in a
woman's handwriting. He had never believed that a woman could see into a
man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate:
Hollis Maynell. He got a hold of a New York City telephone book and found
her address. He had written , she had answered. Next day he had been
shipped out, but they had gone on writing. For thirteen months she had
faithfully replied. When his letters did not arrive, she wrote anyway,
and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him.
But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph.
She had explained: "If your feeling for me had no reality, what I look
like won't matter. Suppose I am beautiful. I'd always be haunted that
you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would
disgust me. Suppose that I'm plain, (and you must admit that this is
more likely), then I'd always fear that you were only going on writing
because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my
picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall
make your own decision."
One minute to six...he flipped the pages of the book he held. Then
Lt. Blandford's heart lept.
A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and
slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from delicate ears. Her eyes were
blue as flowers, her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her
pale-green suit, she was like springtime come alive.
He started toward her, forgetting to notice that she was wearing
no rose, and as he moved, a small, provacative smile curved her lips.
"Going my way, soldier?" she murmured.
He made one step closer to her. Then he saw Hollis Maynell.
She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well
past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than
plump. Her thick-ankled feet were thrust into low-heeled shoes. But
she wore a red rose on her rumpled coat. The girl in the green suit was
walking quickly away.
Blandford felt as though he were being split in two, so keen was
his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the
woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his own, and there
she stood. He could see her pale face was gentle and sensible; her gray
eyes had a warm twinkle.
Lt. Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the worn copy
of "Of Human Bondage" which was to identify him to her. This would not
be love, but it would be something special, a friendship for which he had
been and must be ever grateful...
He squared his shoulders, saluted, and held the book out toward
the woman, although even while he spoke he felt the bitterness fo his
disappointment.
"I'm Lt. Blandford, and you're Miss Maynell. I'm so glad you
could meet me. May--may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened in a tolerant smile. "I don't know
what this is all about, son," she answered. "That young lady in the green
suit, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if
you asked me to go out with you, I should tell you she's waiting for you
in that restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test."
John W. Schlatter (true story)
Mark was walking home from school one day when he noticed the boy ahead
of him had tripped and dropped all of the books he was carrying, along
with two sweaters, a baseball bat, a glove and a small tape recorder.
Mark knelt down and helped the boy pick up the scattered articles. Since
they were going the same way, he helped to carry part of the burden. As
they walked Mark discovered the boy's name was Bill, that he loved video
games, baseball and history, and that he was having lots of trouble with
his other subjects and that he had just broken up with his girlfriend.
They arrived at Bill's home first and Mark was invited in for a Coke and
to watch some television. The afternoon passed pleasantly with a few
laughs and some shared small talk, then Mark went home. They continued to
see each other around school, had lunch together once or twice, then both
graduated from junior high school. They ended up in the same high school
where they had brief contacts over the years. Finally the long awaited
senior year came and three weeks before graduation, Bill asked Mark if
they could talk.
Bill reminded him of the day years ago when they had first met. "Did you
ever wonder why I was carrying so many things home that day?" asked
Bill."You see, I cleaned out my locker because I didn't want to leave a
mess for anyone else. I had stored away some of my mothers sleeping pills
and I was going home to commit suicide. But after we spent some time
together talking and laughing, I realized that if I had killed myself, I
would have missed that time and so many others that might follow. So you
see, Mark, when you picked up those books that day, you did a lot more,
you saved my life."
He was in the first third grade class I taught at Saint Mary's School in
Morris, Minn. All 34 of my students were dear to me, but Mark Eklund was
one in a million. Very neat in appearance, but had that happy-to-be-alive
attitude that made even his occasional mischieviousness delightful.
Mark talked incessantly. I had to remind him again and again that
talking without permission was not acceptable. What impressed me so much,
though, was his sincere response every time I had to correct him for
misbehaving - "Thank you for correcting me, Sister!" I didn't know what to
make of it at first, but before long I became accustomed to hearing it many
times a day.
One morning my patience was growing thin when Mark talked once too
often, and then I made a novice-teacher's mistake. I looked at him and
said, "If you say one more word, I am going to tape your mouth shut!"
It wasn't ten seconds later when Chuck blurted out, "Mark is talking
again." I hadn't asked any of the students to help me watch Mark, but since
I had stated the punishment in front of the class, I had to act on it.
I remember the scene as if it had occurred this morning. I walked to my
desk, very deliberately opened my drawer and took out a roll of masking
tape. Without saying a word, I proceeded to Mark's desk, tore off two pieces
of tape and made a big X with them over his mouth. I then returned to the
front of the room. As I glanced at Mark to see how he was doing he winked
at me. That did it! I started laughing. The class cheered as I walked
back to Mark's desk, removed the tape and shrugged my shoulders.
His first words were, "Thank you for correcting me, Sister."
At the end of the year I was asked to teach junior-high math. The years
flew by, and before I knew it Mark was in my classroom again. He was more
handsome than ever and just as polite. Since he had to listen carefully to
my instructions in the "new math," he did not talk as much in ninth grade as
he had in the third.
One Friday, things just didn't feel right. We had worked hard on a new
concept all week, and I sensed that the students were frowning, frustrated
with themselves - and edgy with one another. I had to stop this crankiness
before it got out of hand. So I asked them to list the names of the other
students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each
name. Then I told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about
each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, and
as the students left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie
smiled. Mark said, "Thank you for teaching me, Sister. Have a good
weekend."
That Saturday, I wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of
paper, and I listed what everyone else had said about that individual. On
Monday I gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class
was smiling. "Really?" I heard whispered. "I never knew that meant
anything to anyone!" "I didn't know others liked me so much!"
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. I never knew if they
discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The
exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with
themselves and one another again.
That group of students moved on. Several years later, after I returned
from vacation, my parents met me at the airport. As we were driving home,
Mother asked me the usual questions about the trip - the weather, my
experiences in general. There was a light lull in the conversation. Mother
gave Dad a side-ways glance and simply says, "Dad?" My father cleared his
throat as he usually did before something important. "The Eklunds called
last night," he began. "Really?" I said. "I haven't heard from them in
years. I wonder how Mark is."
Dad responded quietly. "Mark was killed in Vietnam," he said. "The
funeral is tomorrow, and his parents would like it if you could attend." To
this day I can still point to the exact spot on I-494 where Dad told me
about Mark.
I had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. Mark looked
so handsome, so mature. All I could think at that moment was, Mark, I would
give all the masking tape in the world if only you would talk to me.
The church was packed with Mark's friends. Chuck's sister sang "The
Battle Hymn of the Republic." Why did it have to rain on the day of the
funeral? It was difficult enough at the graveside. The pastor said the
usual prayers, and the bugler played taps. One by one those who loved Mark
took a last walk by the coffin and sprinkled it with holy water.
I was the last one to bless the coffin. As I stood there, one of the
soldiers who had acted as pallbearer came up to me. "Were you Mark's math
teacher?" he asked. I nodded as I continued to stare at the coffin. "Mark
talked about you a lot," he said.
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates headed to Chucks
farmhouse for lunch. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting
for me. "We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet
out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought
you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook
paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. I knew
without looking that the papers were the ones on which I had listed all the
good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him. "Thank you so
much for doing that" Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."
Mark's classmates started to gather around us. Charlie smiled rather
sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my
desk at home." Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put this in our
wedding album." "I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her
wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with
me at all times," Vicki said without batting an eyelash. "I think we all
saved our
lists."
That's when I finally sat down and cried. I cried for Mark and for all
his friends who would never see him again.
THE END
written by: Sister Helen P. Mrosia
The purpose of this letter, is to encourage everyone to compliment the
people you love and care about. We often tend to forget the importance of
showing our affections and love. Sometimes the smallest of things, could
mean the most to another. I am asking you, to please send this letter
around and spread the message and encouragement, to express your love and
caring by complimenting and being open with communication. The density of
people in society, is so thick, that we forget that life will end one day.
And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, I beg of you, to
tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important.
Tell them, before it is too late.
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