I can't embed this one although I so want to, so if you want to watch it you can click through to: http://youtu.be/1O5SF4gIycA
Or you can read the following. Just to set it up, Howard was supposed to be part of some elite engineering group for Nasa and he needed security clearance. So Leonard, Raj and Sheldon get visits from an FBI agent who is trying to dig up the dirt on Howard. Leonard hits on her, Raj gets drunk so he can actually talk to her and Sheldon, well, Sheldon tells her about Howard crashing the Mars Rover while trying to impress a girl. Needless to say, Howard doesn't get his security clearance, and when he finds out why, he vows never to speak to Sheldon again.
Sheldon apologises but no go. Sheldon decides to take to drink. He still doesn't feel better. (Maybe because he spits out the drink without swallowing). He tries to talk to the FBI agent and take back what he says. Still no go. So here he is, making the supreme gesture, the ultimate sacrifice. (You gotta follow the show to know just how supreme a gesture this is)
Leonard, Howard and Raj are having their lunch at the university cafeteria. Sheldon enters carrying a large bag that says Comic Con.
Sheldon: Hello all.
All except Howard: (grunt in greeting)
Sheldon (nodding, attempting to practise NLP): Howard, you're feeling better about me today, aren't you?
Howard (looking puzzled): Not really.
Sheldon (still nodding vigorously): Yes you are. I'm using neuro-linguistic programming to modify your thought patterns.
Howard (starting to nod and looking as if he's about to break into a smile and changing his mind at the last minute): No I'm not. Go away!
Sheldon (stops nodding): There's a $9.95 e-book down the drain.
Raj: What's in the bag?
Sheldon: It's for Howard.
Howard: Sheldon, you can't fix this with gifts.
Sheldon: Nevertheless, I've hurt you. And whether you forgive me or not, I want you to have this.
Howard pulls out a brown leather cushion from the bag: You're giving me a couch cushion?
Sheldon: The cushion is merely symbolic. I'm giving you my spot on the couch.
STUNNED SILENCE
Howard (clearly touched): But you love that spot.
Sheldon: No, I love my mother. My feelings for my spot are much greater. It is the singular location in space around which revolves my entire universe. And now it's yours.
Raj (starting to cry): Oh my God dude, now you have to forgive him.
Howard: All right, apology accepted.
Sheldon (putting up his right hand): High five.
Howard extends his hand and Sheldon instinctively pulls back.
Sheldon: Not too hard.
They give each other an emasculated high five.
Sheldon: Thank you. (reaches into his pocket to get a bottle of liquid sanitiser)
Raj (fanning his face with his right hand like a diva and weeping some more): I haven't cried like this since Toy Story 3.
Sheldon surreptitiously sanitises his hand as the others watch him
Scene closes.
Thursday, 8 September 2011
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
Please Don't Let It End This Way
This story made me cry when I first read it. It still does. I think it demonstrated the transformative power of forgiveness, more than most stories I have ever read. I found it in Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul. And now I share it with you.
By Sue Kidd
The Hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I glanced at the clock in the nurses' station. It was nine o'clock. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for Room 712.
As I entered the room, Mr. Mills looked up eagerly, but dropped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope to his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.
He looked up, tears filling his eyes. I touched his hand, waiting. "Would you call my daughter?" he asked at last. "You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up.
I increased his oxygen supply. "Of course, I'll call her," I said.
He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. "Will you call her right away¡ªas soon as you can?" He was breathing fast, too fast.
"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder. "Now you get some rest."
He closed his eyes. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below, a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot. Snow clouds quilted the night sky.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"
I dug a scrap of yellow paper and a pen from my pocket and set them on the bedside table.
"Thank you," he said.
I smiled at him and left.
Mr. Mills's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from Information.
"Miss Janie Mills, this is Sue Kidd, a nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a heart attack and..."
"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying, is he?" It was more a plea than a question.
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying to sound convincing.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.
"He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded, "Dad and I had a terrible argument almost a year ago. I... I haven't seen him since. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you.'"
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I listened, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It had been so long since I said "I love you."
As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer: Please, God, let this daughter find forgiveness.
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said, and hung up.
I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk, but I couldn't concentrate. Room 712. I felt I had to get back to 712! I hurried down the hall nearly in a run.
Mr. Mills lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse¡ª There was none.
"Code 99. Room 712. Code 99. Room 712."
The alert was shooting through the hospital seconds after the switchboard operator was notified.
Mr. Mills had had a cardiac arrest. I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs. I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. At 15, I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed. Compressed and breathed.
Oh, God, I prayed, his daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way.
The door burst open. Doctors and nurses pushed emergency equipment into the room. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart, A tube was inserted through the patient's mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing.
I watched the heart monitor, Nothing. Not a beat. "Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electric shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Mills's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response.
A nurse turned off the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent. I stood by his bed, stunned. Wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. How could I face his daughter?
When I left the room, I saw her. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving Janie slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt in her face. Such wounded eyes.
I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat, neither of us saying a word, She stared straight ahead, glass-faced, breakable-looking.
"Janie, I'm sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.
"I never hated him, you know, I loved him," she said. She whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. She pushed open the door, went to the bed and buried her face in the sheets.
I tried not to look at this sad goodbye. I backed into the bed table and, as I did, my hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. I read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you.
I pray you will also forgive me.
I know that you love me.
I love you, too.
- Daddy
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.
"Thank you, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Thank you, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again... But there is not a moment to spare.
I tiptoed from the room and hurried to the telephone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."
By Sue Kidd
The Hospital was unusually quiet that bleak January evening, quiet and still like the air before a storm. I glanced at the clock in the nurses' station. It was nine o'clock. I threw a stethoscope around my neck and headed for Room 712.
As I entered the room, Mr. Mills looked up eagerly, but dropped his eyes when he saw it was only me, his nurse. I pressed the stethoscope to his chest and listened. Strong, slow, even beating. There seemed little indication he had suffered a slight heart attack a few hours earlier.
He looked up, tears filling his eyes. I touched his hand, waiting. "Would you call my daughter?" he asked at last. "You see, I live alone and she is the only family I have." His respiration suddenly speeded up.
I increased his oxygen supply. "Of course, I'll call her," I said.
He gripped the sheets and pulled himself forward, his face tense with urgency. "Will you call her right away¡ªas soon as you can?" He was breathing fast, too fast.
"I'll call her the very first thing," I said, patting his shoulder. "Now you get some rest."
He closed his eyes. Reluctant to leave, I moved through the shadowy silence to the window. The panes were cold. Below, a foggy mist curled through the hospital parking lot. Snow clouds quilted the night sky.
"Nurse," he called, "could you get me a pencil and paper?"
I dug a scrap of yellow paper and a pen from my pocket and set them on the bedside table.
"Thank you," he said.
I smiled at him and left.
Mr. Mills's daughter was listed on his chart as the next of kin. I got her number from Information.
"Miss Janie Mills, this is Sue Kidd, a nurse at the hospital. I'm calling about your father. He was admitted tonight with a heart attack and..."
"No!" she screamed into the phone, startling me. "He's not dying, is he?" It was more a plea than a question.
"His condition is stable at the moment," I said, trying to sound convincing.
"You must not let him die!" she said. Her voice was so compelling that my hand trembled on the phone.
"He is getting the very best care."
"But you don't understand," she pleaded, "Dad and I had a terrible argument almost a year ago. I... I haven't seen him since. All these months I've wanted to go to him for forgiveness. The last thing I said to him was, 'I hate you.'"
Her voice cracked and I heard her heave great agonizing sobs. I listened, tears burning my eyes. A father and a daughter, so lost to each other. Then I was thinking of my own father, many miles away. It had been so long since I said "I love you."
As Janie struggled to control her tears, I breathed a prayer: Please, God, let this daughter find forgiveness.
"I'm coming. Now! I'll be there in 30 minutes," she said, and hung up.
I tried to busy myself with a stack of charts on the desk, but I couldn't concentrate. Room 712. I felt I had to get back to 712! I hurried down the hall nearly in a run.
Mr. Mills lay unmoving. I reached for his pulse¡ª There was none.
"Code 99. Room 712. Code 99. Room 712."
The alert was shooting through the hospital seconds after the switchboard operator was notified.
Mr. Mills had had a cardiac arrest. I leveled the bed and bent over his mouth, breathing air into his lungs. I positioned my hands over his chest and compressed. One, two, three. At 15, I moved back to his mouth and breathed as deeply as I could. Where was help? Again I compressed and breathed. Compressed and breathed.
Oh, God, I prayed, his daughter is coming. Don't let it end this way.
The door burst open. Doctors and nurses pushed emergency equipment into the room. A doctor took over the manual compression of the heart, A tube was inserted through the patient's mouth as an airway. Nurses plunged syringes of medicine into the intravenous tubing.
I watched the heart monitor, Nothing. Not a beat. "Stand back," cried a doctor. I handed him the paddles for the electric shock to the heart. He placed them on Mr. Mills's chest. Over and over we tried. But nothing. No response.
A nurse turned off the oxygen. The gurgling stopped. One by one they left, grim and silent. I stood by his bed, stunned. Wind rattled the window, pelting the panes with snow. How could I face his daughter?
When I left the room, I saw her. A doctor who had been inside 712 only moments before stood talking to her, gripping her elbow. Then he moved on, leaving Janie slumped against the wall. Such pathetic hurt in her face. Such wounded eyes.
I took her hand and led her into the nurses' lounge. We sat, neither of us saying a word, She stared straight ahead, glass-faced, breakable-looking.
"Janie, I'm sorry," I said. It was pitifully inadequate.
"I never hated him, you know, I loved him," she said. She whirled toward me. "I want to see him."
My first thought was, Why put yourself through more pain? But I got up and wrapped my arm around her. We walked slowly down the corridor to 712. She pushed open the door, went to the bed and buried her face in the sheets.
I tried not to look at this sad goodbye. I backed into the bed table and, as I did, my hand fell upon a scrap of yellow paper. I picked it up. I read:
My dearest Janie,
I forgive you.
I pray you will also forgive me.
I know that you love me.
I love you, too.
- Daddy
The note was shaking in my hands as I thrust it toward Janie. She read it once. Then twice. Peace began to glisten in her eyes. She hugged the scrap of paper to her breast.
"Thank you, God," I whispered, looking up at the window. A few crystal stars blinked through the blackness. A snowflake hit the window and melted away, gone forever. Thank you, God, that relationships, sometimes fragile as snowflakes, can be mended together again... But there is not a moment to spare.
I tiptoed from the room and hurried to the telephone. I would call my father. I would say, "I love you."
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
King Lear
This particular excerpt from King Lear always makes me cry. Not the part where he's raving at the storm, not the part where he's cursing his daughters and feeling all alone. No, only two scenes in Lear made me cry. It was this one, and the one after, when Cordelia dies and Lear tries to wake her up.
This happens after Lear reaches the height of madness, and is taken under Cordelia's care. It's like falling off a tree into the arms of your mother. Cordelia has every reason to hate him. He banished her for not saying she loved him enough. Although she loved him the most but couldn't bring herself to wax lyrical about it for material gain. Her sisters, who didn't, had no problem doing it and dividing the kingdom between them. Lear starts to fall apart from the guilt over what he did to Cordelia and the anger at his other two daughters Goneril and Regan.
I remember writing an exam essay about King Lear being about Redemption - except that it was not death that brought him redemption but the following conversation.
Cordelia: How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?
Lear: You do me wrong to take out o'th'grave.
Thou art a soul in bliss, but I am bound
Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears
Do scald like molten lead.
Cordelia: Sir, know me.
Lear: You're a spirit, I know. Where did you die?
Cordelia:(to the Doctor) Still, still far wide!
Doctor: He's scarce awake. Let him alone a while.
Lear: Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight?
I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity
To see another thus. I know not what to say.
I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see:
I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured
Of my condition.
Cordelia: (kneeling) O look upon me, sir,
And hold your hands in benediction o'er me.
No, sir, you must not kneel.
Lear: Pray do not mock.
I am a very foolish, fond old man,
Fourscore and upward, and to deal plainly,
I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
Methinks I should know you, and know this man;
Yet I am doubtful, for I am mainly ignorant
What place this is; and all the skill I have
Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For as I am a man, I think this lady
To be my child, Cordelia.
Cordelia: And so I am.
Lear: Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep not.
If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters
Have, as I remember, done me wrong.
You have some cause; they have not.
Cordelia: No cause, no cause.
Lear: Am I in France?
Kent: In your own kingdom, sir.
Lear: Do not abuse me.
Doctor: Be comforted, good madam. The great rage
You see is cured in him, and yet it is danger
To make him even o'er the time he has lost.
Desire him to go in; trouble him no more
Till further settling.
Cordelia:(to Lear) Will t'please your
highness walk?
Lear: You must bear with me
Pray now, forget and forgive. I am old
And foolish.
Monday, 5 September 2011
Buddy The Elf
Buddy the Elf finds out he's adopted. He finds out that he's not an elf but human. He finds out that his mother surrendered him to an orphanage soon after he was born and she died soon after. And by the way, his father is not very nice. In fact, he's on the naughty list. A recipe for major adolescent angst.
And this is how he reacts to finding his father:
And this is how he reacts to finding his father:
Sunday, 4 September 2011
Happy For No Earthly Reason
At first I thought I'd dedicate this week to different stories, examples, whatever, of decluttering, which has been proven to raise happiness levels all over. Also because I actually taped an interview with my friend Theresa, who has been decluttering for a 18 months now and described in detail how to do it, sending me hurtling to Ikea to get some necessaries like two boxes (to transfer my journals into from my filing cabinet which they have actually broken and a shoe organizer). I know, I know...it's lame but it's a start.
Anyways, I was reading Patrick Miller's Living with Miracles and decided instead to dedicate this week to forgiveness...which is sort of what I need to learn more. Yeah, my surroundings are a tip, but I figure, the mess outside is reflective of the mess inside.
So here is an excerpt from the book I'm reading, which is based on A Course in Miracles. Enjoy! (Actually on re-reading the quote I realise it has nothing to do with forgiveness...not obviously, unless you know the back story which leads to this state of mind...but never mind, I'm featuring it anyway)
David (Hoffmeister) concludes that "there's a correlation between the happy dream and the absence of expectations. Even mild expectations or subtle agendas of control, wanting a certain outcome to any degree, will block the happy dream from awareness. A sense of ongoing wonderment and innocence is what I've experienced. You finally yield to the simple idea of peace of mind now as the only goal worth having. This is very alien to our usual way of thinking, because we're used to setting a lot of goals that are all related to the future. But the happy dream has nothing to do with the future. It's finding peace now as a way of being, rather than something to be achieved someday after a lot of effort to arrange the right circumstances in order to feel peaceful.
"I once heard this kind of peace described as 'being happy for no earthly reason'," David Muses. That sums it up pretty well for me."
Anyways, I was reading Patrick Miller's Living with Miracles and decided instead to dedicate this week to forgiveness...which is sort of what I need to learn more. Yeah, my surroundings are a tip, but I figure, the mess outside is reflective of the mess inside.
So here is an excerpt from the book I'm reading, which is based on A Course in Miracles. Enjoy! (Actually on re-reading the quote I realise it has nothing to do with forgiveness...not obviously, unless you know the back story which leads to this state of mind...but never mind, I'm featuring it anyway)
David (Hoffmeister) concludes that "there's a correlation between the happy dream and the absence of expectations. Even mild expectations or subtle agendas of control, wanting a certain outcome to any degree, will block the happy dream from awareness. A sense of ongoing wonderment and innocence is what I've experienced. You finally yield to the simple idea of peace of mind now as the only goal worth having. This is very alien to our usual way of thinking, because we're used to setting a lot of goals that are all related to the future. But the happy dream has nothing to do with the future. It's finding peace now as a way of being, rather than something to be achieved someday after a lot of effort to arrange the right circumstances in order to feel peaceful.
"I once heard this kind of peace described as 'being happy for no earthly reason'," David Muses. That sums it up pretty well for me."
Saturday, 3 September 2011
No Attachment; No Anxiety
I found this on Martha Beck's blog and loved it so much that I just HAVE to repost it here.
Enjoy all you queens of Maine and princesses of New England!
The most striking thing I’ve realized is that the thought of “magnetizing,” or drawing things toward me, contains the assumption that what I want is “out there” in the world and I have to go find it. It creates a feeling of distance and inaccessibility. When I release all attachment and all anxiety, I notice that the things I want feel present and inevitable, as real as humidity in summer air.
When the temperature of a day reaches the dew point, the moisture in the air, which is invisible to the eye, suddenly appears everywhere. It was always there; it just needed a certain temperature to become visible. Similarly, everything we need to make us happy is waiting for the “temperature” of our inner life to create the dew point where it can become material form. The dew point temperature of all your desires is a feeling of normalcy. It is not high excitement, nor grasping, nor yearning. All of those emotions contain anxiety and attachment — try them right now, you’ll see.
To give you an example of what this feels like, think about the feeling you have watching a beautiful sunrise. You may experience awe and intense gratitude, but you will not be thunderstruck, amazed or hysterical. A sunrise is glorious, but it is normal. We aren’t attached to the sun continuing to shine because we are sure it will. If you can feel that way about the arrival of your soul mate or the success of your business, my recent experience convinces me it will appear around you like dew. Everything you want is there right now, waiting to become visible.
The emotions I’ve learned to soften and dissolve during my “no anxiety, no attachment” regimen are things like intense excitement and amazement. Even amazement implies that a good thing was unexpected or incredible, not that it was normal. Try replacing amazement with awe in your own life. Replace yearning with the knowledge that what you need is inevitably yours – that you are actually pushing it away with any grasping or yearning you may feel.
Enjoy all you queens of Maine and princesses of New England!
The most striking thing I’ve realized is that the thought of “magnetizing,” or drawing things toward me, contains the assumption that what I want is “out there” in the world and I have to go find it. It creates a feeling of distance and inaccessibility. When I release all attachment and all anxiety, I notice that the things I want feel present and inevitable, as real as humidity in summer air.
When the temperature of a day reaches the dew point, the moisture in the air, which is invisible to the eye, suddenly appears everywhere. It was always there; it just needed a certain temperature to become visible. Similarly, everything we need to make us happy is waiting for the “temperature” of our inner life to create the dew point where it can become material form. The dew point temperature of all your desires is a feeling of normalcy. It is not high excitement, nor grasping, nor yearning. All of those emotions contain anxiety and attachment — try them right now, you’ll see.
To give you an example of what this feels like, think about the feeling you have watching a beautiful sunrise. You may experience awe and intense gratitude, but you will not be thunderstruck, amazed or hysterical. A sunrise is glorious, but it is normal. We aren’t attached to the sun continuing to shine because we are sure it will. If you can feel that way about the arrival of your soul mate or the success of your business, my recent experience convinces me it will appear around you like dew. Everything you want is there right now, waiting to become visible.
The emotions I’ve learned to soften and dissolve during my “no anxiety, no attachment” regimen are things like intense excitement and amazement. Even amazement implies that a good thing was unexpected or incredible, not that it was normal. Try replacing amazement with awe in your own life. Replace yearning with the knowledge that what you need is inevitably yours – that you are actually pushing it away with any grasping or yearning you may feel.
Friday, 2 September 2011
A Gift From The Heart
New York City, where I live, is impressive at any time, but as Christmas approaches it’s overwhelming, Store windows blaze with lights and colours, furs and jewels. Golden angels, 40 feet tall, hover over Fifth Avenue. Wealth, power, opulence...nothing in the world can match this fabulous display.
Through the gleaming canyons people hurry to find last-minute gifts. Money seems to be no problem. If there’s a problem, it’s that the recipients so often have everything they need or want that’s it’s hard to find anything suitable, anything that will really say, “I love you.”
Last December, as Christ’s birthday drew near, a stranger was faced with just that problem. She had come from Switzerland to live in an American home to perfect her English. In return, she was willing to act as secretary, mind the grandchildren, do anything she was asked. She was just a girl in her late teens. Her name was Ursula.
One of the tasks her employers gave Ursula was keeping track of Christmas presents as they arrived. There were many, and all would require acknowledgement. Ursula kept a faithful record, but with a growing sense of concern. She was grateful to her American friends; she wanted to show her gratitude by giving them a Christmas present. But nothing that she could buy with her small allowance could compare with the gifts she was recording daily. Besides, even without these gifts, it seemed to her that her employers already had everything.
At night from her window Ursula could see the snowy expanse of Central Park and beyond it was the jagged skyline of the city. Far below, taxis hooted and the traffic lights winked red and green. It was so different from the silent majesty of the Alps that at times she had to blink back tears of the homesickness she was careful never to show. It was in the solitude of her little room, a few days before Christmas, that her secret idea came to Ursula.
It was almost as if a voice spoke clearly, inside her head. “It’s true,” said the voice, “that many people in this city have much more than you do. But surely there are many who have far less. If you will think about this, you may find a solution to what’s troubling you.”
Ursula thought long and hard. Finally on her day off, which was Christmas Eve, she went to a large department store. She moved slowly along the crowded aisles, selecting and rejecting things in her mind. At last she bought something and had it wrapped in gaily coloured paper. She went out into the gray twilight and looked helplessly around. Finally, she went up to a doorman, resplendent in blue and gold.
“Excuse, please,” she said in her hesitant English, “can you tell me where to find a poor street?”
“A poor street, Miss,” said the puzzled man.
“Yes, a very poor street. The poorest in the city.”
The doorman looked doubtful. “Well, you might try Harlem. Or down in the Village. Or the Lower East Side, maybe.”
But these names meant nothing to Ursula. She thanked the doorman and walked along, threading her way through the stream of shoppers until she came to a tall policeman.
“Please,” she said, “can you direct me to a very poor street...in Harlem?”
The policeman looked at her sharply and shook his head. “Harlem’s no place for you, Miss.“ And he blew his whistle and sent the traffic swirling past.
Holding her package carefully, Ursula walked on, head bowed against the sharp wind. If a street looked poorer than the one she was on, she took it. But none seemed like the slums she had heard about.
Once she stopped a woman, “Please, where do the very poor people live?” But the woman gave her a stare and hurried on.
Darkness came sifting from the sky. Ursula was cold and discouraged and afraid of becoming lost. She came to an intersection and stood forlornly on the corner. What she was trying to do suddenly seemed foolish, impulsive, absurd. Then, through the traffic’s roar, she heard the cheerful tinkle of a bell. On the corner opposite, a Salvation Army man was making his traditional Christmas appeal.
At once Ursula felt better; the Salvation Army was part of life in Switzerland too. Surely this man could tell her what she wanted to know. She waited for the light, then crossed over to him. “Can you help me? I’m looking for a baby. I have here a little present for the poorest baby I can find.” And she held up the package with the green ribbon and the gaily coloured paper.
Dressed in gloves and overcoat a size too big for him, he seemed a very ordinary man. But behind his steel-rimmed glasses his eyes were kind. He looked at Ursula and stopped ringing his bell. “What sort of present?” he asked.
“A little dress. For a small, poor baby. Do you know of one?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Of more than one, I’m afraid.”
“Is it far away? I could take a taxi, maybe?”
The Salvation Army man wrinkled his forehead. Finally, he said. “It’s almost six o’clock. My relief will show up then. If you want to wait, and if you can afford a dollar taxi ride, I’ll take you to a family in my own neighbourhood who needs just about everything.”
“And they have a small baby?”
“A very small baby.”
“Then,” said Ursula joyfully, “I wait!”
The substitute bell-ringer came. A cruising taxi slowed. In its welcome warmth, Ursula told her new friend about herself, how she came to be in New York, what she was trying to do. He listened in silence, and the taxi driver listened too. When they reached their destination the driver said, “Take your time, Miss. I’ll wait for you.”
On the sidewalk, Ursula stared up at the forbidding tenement, dark, decaying, saturated with hopelessness. A gust of wind, iron-cold, stirred the refuse in the street and rattled the ashcans. “They live on the third floor,” the Salvation Army man said. “Shall we go up?”
But Ursula shook her head. “They would try to thank me, and this is not from me.” She pressed the package into his hand. “Take it up for me, please. Say it’s from...from someone who has everything.”
The taxi bore her swiftly back from dark streets to lighted ones, from misery to abundance. She tried to visualize the Salvation Army man climbing the stairs, the knock, the explanation, the package being opened, the dress on the baby. It was hard to do.
Arriving at the apartment house on Fifth Avenue where she lived, she fumbled in her purse. But the driver flicked the flag up. “No charge, Miss.”
“No charge?” echoed Ursula, bewildered.
“Don’t worry,” the driver said. “I’ve been paid.” He smiled at her and drove away.
Ursula was up early the next day. She set the table with special care. By the time she had finished, the family was awake, and there was all the excitement and laughter of Christmas morning. Soon the living room was a sea of gay discarded wrappings. Ursula thanked everyone for the presents she received. Finally, when there was a lull, she began to explain hesitantly why there seemed to be none from her. She told about going to the department store. She told about the Salvation Army man. She told about the taxi driver. When she finished, there was a long silence. No one seemed to trust himself to speak. “So you see,” said Ursula, “I try to do a kindness in your name. And this is my Christmas present to you...”
How do I happen to know all this? I know it because ours was the home where Ursula lived. Ours was the Christmas she shared. We were like many Americans, so richly blessed that to this child from across the sea there seemed to be nothing she could add to the material things we already had. And so she offered something of far greater value: a gift of the heart, an act of kindness carried out in our name.
Strange, isn’t it? A shy Swiss girl, alone in a great impersonal city. You would think that nothing she could do would affect anyone. And yet, by trying to give away love, she brought the true spirit of Christmas into our lives, the spirit of selfless giving. That was Ursula’s secret – and she shared it with us all.
-Henry Van Dyke-
Through the gleaming canyons people hurry to find last-minute gifts. Money seems to be no problem. If there’s a problem, it’s that the recipients so often have everything they need or want that’s it’s hard to find anything suitable, anything that will really say, “I love you.”
Last December, as Christ’s birthday drew near, a stranger was faced with just that problem. She had come from Switzerland to live in an American home to perfect her English. In return, she was willing to act as secretary, mind the grandchildren, do anything she was asked. She was just a girl in her late teens. Her name was Ursula.
One of the tasks her employers gave Ursula was keeping track of Christmas presents as they arrived. There were many, and all would require acknowledgement. Ursula kept a faithful record, but with a growing sense of concern. She was grateful to her American friends; she wanted to show her gratitude by giving them a Christmas present. But nothing that she could buy with her small allowance could compare with the gifts she was recording daily. Besides, even without these gifts, it seemed to her that her employers already had everything.
At night from her window Ursula could see the snowy expanse of Central Park and beyond it was the jagged skyline of the city. Far below, taxis hooted and the traffic lights winked red and green. It was so different from the silent majesty of the Alps that at times she had to blink back tears of the homesickness she was careful never to show. It was in the solitude of her little room, a few days before Christmas, that her secret idea came to Ursula.
It was almost as if a voice spoke clearly, inside her head. “It’s true,” said the voice, “that many people in this city have much more than you do. But surely there are many who have far less. If you will think about this, you may find a solution to what’s troubling you.”
Ursula thought long and hard. Finally on her day off, which was Christmas Eve, she went to a large department store. She moved slowly along the crowded aisles, selecting and rejecting things in her mind. At last she bought something and had it wrapped in gaily coloured paper. She went out into the gray twilight and looked helplessly around. Finally, she went up to a doorman, resplendent in blue and gold.
“Excuse, please,” she said in her hesitant English, “can you tell me where to find a poor street?”
“A poor street, Miss,” said the puzzled man.
“Yes, a very poor street. The poorest in the city.”
The doorman looked doubtful. “Well, you might try Harlem. Or down in the Village. Or the Lower East Side, maybe.”
But these names meant nothing to Ursula. She thanked the doorman and walked along, threading her way through the stream of shoppers until she came to a tall policeman.
“Please,” she said, “can you direct me to a very poor street...in Harlem?”
The policeman looked at her sharply and shook his head. “Harlem’s no place for you, Miss.“ And he blew his whistle and sent the traffic swirling past.
Holding her package carefully, Ursula walked on, head bowed against the sharp wind. If a street looked poorer than the one she was on, she took it. But none seemed like the slums she had heard about.
Once she stopped a woman, “Please, where do the very poor people live?” But the woman gave her a stare and hurried on.
Darkness came sifting from the sky. Ursula was cold and discouraged and afraid of becoming lost. She came to an intersection and stood forlornly on the corner. What she was trying to do suddenly seemed foolish, impulsive, absurd. Then, through the traffic’s roar, she heard the cheerful tinkle of a bell. On the corner opposite, a Salvation Army man was making his traditional Christmas appeal.
At once Ursula felt better; the Salvation Army was part of life in Switzerland too. Surely this man could tell her what she wanted to know. She waited for the light, then crossed over to him. “Can you help me? I’m looking for a baby. I have here a little present for the poorest baby I can find.” And she held up the package with the green ribbon and the gaily coloured paper.
Dressed in gloves and overcoat a size too big for him, he seemed a very ordinary man. But behind his steel-rimmed glasses his eyes were kind. He looked at Ursula and stopped ringing his bell. “What sort of present?” he asked.
“A little dress. For a small, poor baby. Do you know of one?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Of more than one, I’m afraid.”
“Is it far away? I could take a taxi, maybe?”
The Salvation Army man wrinkled his forehead. Finally, he said. “It’s almost six o’clock. My relief will show up then. If you want to wait, and if you can afford a dollar taxi ride, I’ll take you to a family in my own neighbourhood who needs just about everything.”
“And they have a small baby?”
“A very small baby.”
“Then,” said Ursula joyfully, “I wait!”
The substitute bell-ringer came. A cruising taxi slowed. In its welcome warmth, Ursula told her new friend about herself, how she came to be in New York, what she was trying to do. He listened in silence, and the taxi driver listened too. When they reached their destination the driver said, “Take your time, Miss. I’ll wait for you.”
On the sidewalk, Ursula stared up at the forbidding tenement, dark, decaying, saturated with hopelessness. A gust of wind, iron-cold, stirred the refuse in the street and rattled the ashcans. “They live on the third floor,” the Salvation Army man said. “Shall we go up?”
But Ursula shook her head. “They would try to thank me, and this is not from me.” She pressed the package into his hand. “Take it up for me, please. Say it’s from...from someone who has everything.”
The taxi bore her swiftly back from dark streets to lighted ones, from misery to abundance. She tried to visualize the Salvation Army man climbing the stairs, the knock, the explanation, the package being opened, the dress on the baby. It was hard to do.
Arriving at the apartment house on Fifth Avenue where she lived, she fumbled in her purse. But the driver flicked the flag up. “No charge, Miss.”
“No charge?” echoed Ursula, bewildered.
“Don’t worry,” the driver said. “I’ve been paid.” He smiled at her and drove away.
Ursula was up early the next day. She set the table with special care. By the time she had finished, the family was awake, and there was all the excitement and laughter of Christmas morning. Soon the living room was a sea of gay discarded wrappings. Ursula thanked everyone for the presents she received. Finally, when there was a lull, she began to explain hesitantly why there seemed to be none from her. She told about going to the department store. She told about the Salvation Army man. She told about the taxi driver. When she finished, there was a long silence. No one seemed to trust himself to speak. “So you see,” said Ursula, “I try to do a kindness in your name. And this is my Christmas present to you...”
How do I happen to know all this? I know it because ours was the home where Ursula lived. Ours was the Christmas she shared. We were like many Americans, so richly blessed that to this child from across the sea there seemed to be nothing she could add to the material things we already had. And so she offered something of far greater value: a gift of the heart, an act of kindness carried out in our name.
Strange, isn’t it? A shy Swiss girl, alone in a great impersonal city. You would think that nothing she could do would affect anyone. And yet, by trying to give away love, she brought the true spirit of Christmas into our lives, the spirit of selfless giving. That was Ursula’s secret – and she shared it with us all.
-Henry Van Dyke-
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