All The Good Things

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 

he class period to finish the assignment, and as the students 

left the room, each one handed me the papers. Charlie smiled. 

Marked 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.

by Sister Helen P. Mrosia

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The Rewards Of A Good Deed

 

One stormy night many years ago, an elderly man and his wife entered 

the lobby of a small hotel in Philadelphia. Trying to get out of the 

rain, the couple approached the front desk hoping to get some 

shelter for the night. 

"Could you possibly give us a room here?" the husband asked.

The clerk, a friendly man with a winning smile, looked at the 

couple and explained that there were three conventions in town. "All 

of our rooms are taken," the clerk said. "But I can't send a nice 

couple like you out into the rain at one o'clock in the morning. 

Would you perhaps be willing to sleep in my room? It's not exactly

 a suite, but it will be good enough to make you folks comfortable 

for the night."

When the couple declined, the young man pressed on. "Don't worry 

about me, I'll make out just fine," the clerk told them. 

So the couple agreed. 

As he paid his bill the next morning, the elderly man said to the 

clerk, "You are the kind of manager who should be the boss of the 

best hotel in the United States. Maybe someday I'll build one for you."

The clerk looked at them and smiled. The three of them had a good 

laugh. As they drove away, the elderly couple agreed that the helpful 

clerk was indeed exceptional, as finding people who are both 

friendly and helpful isn't easy.

Two years passed. The clerk had almost forgotten the incident when 

he received a letter from the old man. It recalled that stormy night and 

enclosed a round-trip ticket to New York, asking the 

young man to pay them a visit.

The old man met him in New York, and led him to the corner of Fifth 

Avenue and 34th Street. He then pointed to a great new building 

there, a pale reddish stone, with turrets and watchtowers thrusting 

up to the sky. 

"That," said the older man, "is the hotel I have just built for you to manage."

"You must be joking," the young man said. 

"I can assure you I am not," said the older man, a sly smile playing 

around his mouth. 

The older man's name was William Waldorf-Aster, and that magnificent 

structure was the original Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. The young clerk 

who became its first manager was George C. Boldt. This young 

clerk never foresaw the turn of events that would lead him to become 

the manager of one of the world's most glamorous hotels. 

Author Unknown

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The Little Lady Who Changed My Life

She was four years old when I first met her. She was carrying 

a bowl of soup. She had very, very fine golden hair and a 

little pink shawl around her shoulders. I was 29 at the time and 

suffering from the flu. Little did I realize that this little lady 

was going to change my life. 

Her mom and I had been friends for many years. Eventually 

that friendship grew into care, from care into love, to marriage, 

and marriage brought the three of us together as a family. At first 

I was awkward because in the back of my mind, I thought 

I would be stuck with the dreaded label of "stepfather." And 

stepfathers were somehow mythically, or in a real sense, ogres as 

well as an emotional wedge in the special relationship between 

the child and the biological father.

Early on I tried hard to make a natural transition from bachelorhood 

to fatherhood. A year and a half before we married, I took an 

apartment a few blocks away from their home. When it became 

evident that we would marry, I tried to spend time to enable a 

smooth changeover from friend to father figure. I tried not to 

become a wall between my future daughter and her natural father. 

Still I longed to be something special in her life.

Over the years, my appreciation for her grew. Her honesty, 

sincerity and directness were mature beyond her years. I knew 

that within this child lived a very giving and compassionate adult. 

Still, I lived in the fear that some day, when I had to step in and 

be a disciplinarian, I might have it thrown in my face that I wasn't 

her "real" father. If I wasn't real, why would she have to 

listen to me? My actions became measured. I was probably more 

lenient than I wanted to be. I acted in that way in order to be

 liked, all the time living out a role I felt I had to live - thinking 

I wasn't good enough or worthy enough on my own terms.

During the turbulent teenage years, we seemed to drift apart 

emotionally. I seemed to lose control (or at least the parental 

illusion of control). She was searching for her identity and so was 

I. I found it increasingly hard to communicate with her. I felt 

a sense of loss and sadness because I was getting further from 

the feeling of oneness we had shared so easily in the beginning.

Because she went to a parochial school, there was an annual 

retreat for all seniors. Evidently the students thought that going on 

retreat was like a week at Club Med. They boarded the bus with

 their guitars and racquetball gear. Little did they realize that this 

was going to be an emotional encounter that could have a lasting

 impression on them. As parents of the participants, we were 

asked to individually write a letter to our child, being open and 

honest and to write only positive things about our relationship. 

I wrote a letter about the little golden- haired girl who had brought 

me a bowl of soup when I needed care. During the course of the 

week, the students delved deeper into their real beings. They had 

an opportunity to read the letters we parents had 

prepared for them.

The parents also got together one night during that week to 

think about and send good thoughts to our children. While she 

was away, I noticed something come out of me that I knew 

was there all along, but which I hadn't faced. It was that in order 

to be fully appreciated I had to plainly be me. I didn't have to 

act like anyone else. I wouldn't be overlooked if I was true 

to myself. I just had to be the best me I could be. It may not 

sound like much to anyone else, but it was one of the biggest 

revelations of my life.

The night arrived when they came home from their retreat experience. 

The parents and friends who had come to pick them up were 

asked to arrive early, and then invited into a large room where 

the lights were turned down low. Only the lights in the front 

of the room were shining brightly.

The students marched joyously in, all dirty-faced as though 

they had just come back from summer camp. They filed in 

arm-in-arm, singing a song they had designated as their theme 

for the week. Through their smudgy faces, they radiated a 

new sense of belonging and love and self-confidence.

When the lights were turned on, the kids realized that their parents 

and friends, who had come to collect them and share their joy, were

 also in the room. The students were allowed to make a few 

statements about their perceptions of the prior week. At first 

they reluctantly got up and said things like, "It was cool," and 

"Awesome week," but after a few moments you could begin 

to see a real vitality in the students' eyes. They began to reveal things 

that underscored the importance of this rite of passage. Soon 

they were straining to get to the microphone. I noticed my 

daughter was anxious to say something. I was equally 

anxious to hear what she had to say.

I could see my daughter determinedly inching her way up to the 

microphone. Finally she got to the front of the line. She said something

 like, "I had a great time and I learned a lot about myself." She 

continued, "I want to say there are people and things we sometimes 

take for granted that we shouldn't, and I just want to 

say...I love you, Tony."

At that moment my knees got weak. I had no expectations, 

no anticipation she would say anything so heartfelt. Immediately 

people around me started hugging me, and patting me on the back 

as though they also understood the depth of that remarkable statement.

 For a teenage girl to say openly in front of a room full of people, "I love 

you," took a great deal of courage. If there was something 

greater than being overwhelmed, I was experiencing it.

Since then the magnitude of our relationship has increased. I have 

come to understand and appreciate that I didn't need to have any 

fear about being a stepfather. I only have to concern myself with 

being the real person who can exchange honest love with the same 

little girl I met so many years before - carrying a bowl full of 

what turned out to be kindness.

~By Tony Luna~

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The Treasure

The cheerful girl with bouncy golden curls was 

almost five. Waiting with her mother at the checkout 

stand, she saw them: a circle of glistening white 

pearls in a pink foil box. 

"Oh please, Mommy. Can I have them? Please, Mommy, 

please!" 

Quickly, the mother checked the back of the little 

foil box and then looked back into the pleading blue 

eyes of her little girl's upturned face. "A dollar 

ninety-five. That's almost $2. If you really want 

them, I'll think of some extra chores for you and in 

no time you can save enough money to buy them for 

yourself. Your birthday's only a week away and you 

might get another crisp dollar bill from Grandma.

As soon as Jenny got home, she emptied her penny 

bank and counted out 17 pennies. After dinner, she 

did more than her share of chores and she went to 

the neighbor and asked Mrs. McJames if she could 

pick dandelions for ten cents.

On her birthday, Grandma did give her another new 

dollar bill and at last she had enough money to buy the 

necklace. Jenny loved her pearls. They made her feel 

dressed up and grown up. She wore them everywhere- 

Sunday school, kindergarten, even to bed. The only time 

she took them off was when she went swimming or had 

a bubble bath. Mother said if they got wet, they might 

turn her neck green. 

Jenny had a very loving daddy and every night when 

she was ready for bed, he would stop whatever he was 

doing and come upstairs to read her a story. One night 

when he finished the story, he asked Jenny, "Do you 

love me?" 

"Oh, yes, Daddy. You know that I love you." 

"Then give me your pearls." 

"Oh, Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have Princess- 

the white horse from my collection. The one with the 

pink tail. Remember, Daddy? The one you gave me. She's

my favorite." 

"That's okay, Honey. Daddy loves you. Good night." 

And he brushed her cheek with a kiss.

About a week later, after the story time, Jenny's daddy 

asked again, "Do you love me?" 

"Daddy, you know I love you." 

"Then give me your pearls." 

"Oh, Daddy, not my pearls. But you can have my baby 

doll. The brand new one I got for my birthday. She is so 

beautiful and you can have the yellow blanket that 

matches her slippers." 

"That's okay. Sleep well. God bless you, little one. Daddy 

loves you." And as always, he brushed her cheek with a 

gentle kiss.

A few nights later when her daddy came in, Jenny was 

sitting on her bed with her legs crossed Indian-style. As 

he came close, he noticed her chin was trembling and 

one silent tear rolled down her cheek.

"What is it, Jenny? What's the matter?" 

Jenny didn't say anything but lifted her little hand up 

to her daddy. And when she opened it, there was her 

little pearl necklace. With a little quiver, she finally 

said, "Here, Daddy. It's for you."

With tears gathering in his own eyes, Jenny's kind daddy 

reached out with one hand to take the dime-store necklace, 

and with the other hand he reached into his pocket and 

pulled out a blue velvet case with a strand of genuine 

pearls and gave them to Jenny. He had them all the time. 

He was just waiting for her to give up the dime-store 

stuff so he could give her genuine treasure. 

~by Alice Gray~ 

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