Buku 'Chicken Soup For The Soul'

limau_nipis

best sgt series ni... tapi banyak gak buku motivational short stories lain yang lagi murah daripada chicken soups ni.. cuma kita tak tahu nak cari kat mana.. ada gak terjumpa satu dua, dalam rm20, hard cover lagi...

kalau pk2, reader's digest pun macam buku motivational gak.. food for your soul.. esp book section yang kat akhir2 mag reader's digest tu.

tashieeya

what i like about chicken soups is the words were smple
and it's easy to read and sometimes the size of the books were small n
the font is big
ehehehehehehe

limau_nipis

Kalau masuk inspirational story kat sini.. ok tak? Ni Asian story, bukan under Chicken Soup for the Soul series.. kalau baca je.. mesti nangis.. huhuhu

Quite long but it's worth reading.

This is a wonderful and touching story of a Shanghai couple. It can happen to any of us. Moral of the story...let's not be blinded by that moment of anger...there is no shame to seek forgiveness and to give forgiveness. Its worth your time to read the story till the end.

This is a true story, taken from "Family" (dictated by LD, edited by LSX, translated by SaFe).

Cruel misunderstandings one after another disrupted the blissful footsteps to our family. Our original intend of having Mother enjoy some  quiet and peaceful moments in her remaining years with us  went terribly  wrong as destiny's secret is finally revealed at a price, every thing became too late.

Just two years after our marriage, hubby brought up the idea of asking  Mother to move from the rural hometown and spend her remaining years  with us. Hubby's father passed away while he was still very young.  Mother endured much hardship and struggled all on her own to provide for  him, see him through to a university degree. You could say that she  suffered a great deal and did everything you could expect of a woman to bring hubby to where he is today.

I immediately agreed and started packing the spare room, which has a  balcony facing the South to let her enjoy the sunshine and plant some  greenery. Hubby stood in the bright room, and suddenly just picked me up  and started spinning round and round. As I begged him to put me down,he  said: "Lets go fetch mother." Hubby is tall and big sized and I love to  rest on his chest and enjoy the feeling that he could pick me up at any  moment put the tiny me into his pockets. Whenever we have an argument  and both refuses to back down, he would pick me up and spin me over his  head continuously until I surrender and beg for mercy. I became addicted  to this kind of panic-joy feeling.

Mother brought along her countryside habits and lifestyle with her. For  example; I am so used to buying flowers to decorate the living room, she  could not stand it and would comment: "I do not know how you young people spend your money, why do you buy flowers for? You also can't eat the flowers!" I smiled and said: "Mum, with flowers in the house, our mood will also become better." Mother continues to grumble away, and hubby smiled: "Mum, this is a city-people's habit; slowly you will get  use to it."

Mother stopped saying anything. But every time thereafter, whenever I  came home with flowers, she would ask me how much it costs. I told her and she would shake her head and express displeasure. Sometimes, when I  come home with lots of shopping bags, she would ask each and every item how much they cost, I would tell her honestly and she would get even  more upset about it. Hubby playfully pinched my nose and said:
"You  little fool, just don't tell her the full price of everything would  solve it." There begins the friction to our otherwise happy lifestyle.

Mother hates it most when hubby wakes up early to prepare the breakfast.  In your view, how could the man of the house cook for the wife?
At the  breakfast table, mother facial expression is always like the dark clouds before a thunderstorm and I would pretend not to notice. She would use her chopsticks and make a lot of noise with it as her silent protest.

As  I am a dance teacher in the Children's Palace and is exhausted from a  long day of dancing around, I do not wish to give up the luxury of that  additional few minutes in the comfort of my bed and hence I turned a  deaf ear to all the protest mother makes.

From time to time, mother would help out with some housework, but soon  her help create additional work for me. For example: she would keep all kinds of plastic bags accumulating them so that she sell them later on,  and that resulted in our house being filled with all the trash bags; she  would scrimp on dish washing detergent when helping to wash the dishes  and so as not to hurt her feelings, I would quietly wash they again.

One day, late at night, mother saw me quietly washing the dishes, and "Bam"  she slams her bedroom door and cried very loudly in her room. Hubby was  placed in a difficult position, and after that, he did not speak to me  for that entire night. I pretended to be a spoilt child, tried acting  cute, but he totally ignored me. I got mad and asked him: "What did I do  wrong?" Hubby stared at me and  said: "Can't you just give in to her once?
We couldn't possibly die  eating from a bowl however unclean it is, right?"

After that incident, for a long period of time, mother did not speak to me and you can feel that there is a very awkward feeling hanging in the  house. During that period of cold war, hubby was caught in dilemma as to  who to please.

In order to stop her son from having to prepare breakfast, mother took  on the "all important" task of preparing breakfast without any  prompting. At the breakfast table, mother would look at hubby happily eating his breakfast and cast that reprimanding stare at me for having  failed to perform my duty as a wife. To avoid the embarrassing breakfast situation, I resorted to buying my own breakfast on my way to work.

That night, while in bed, hubby was a little upset and asked me: "LD,is  it because you think that mum's cooking is not clean that's why you  chose not to eat at home?" He then turned his back on me and left me alone in tears as feeling of unfairness overwhelmed me. After some time,  hubby sighed: "LD, just for me, can you have breakfast at home?" I am  left with no choice but to return to the breakfast table.

The next morning, I was having porridge prepared by mother and I felt a sudden churn in my stomach and everything inside seem to be rushing up  my throat. I tried to suppress the urge to throw up but I couldn't. I  threw down the bowl and rushed into the washroom and vomited everything  out. Just as I was catching my breath, I saw mother crying and grumbling  very loudly in her dialect, hubby was standing at the washroom doorway staring at me with fire burning in his eyes. I opened my mouth but no  words came out of it, I really didn't mean it.

We had our very first big fight that day; mother took a look at us, then  stood up and slowly made her way out of the house. Hubby gave me a final  stare in the eye and followed mother down the stairs.

For three days, hubby did not return home, not even a phone call. I was so furious, since mother arrived; I had been trying my best and putting  up with her, what else do you want me to do? For no reason, I keep  having the feeling to throw up and I simply have not appetite for food,  coupled with all the events happening at home, I was at the low point in  my life. Finally, a colleague said: "LD, you look terrible, you should go and see a doctor."

The doctor confirmed that I am pregnant. Now it became clear to me why I  threw up that fateful morning, a sense of sadness floated through that otherwise happy news. Why didn't hubby, and mother who had been through  this before, thought of the possibility of this being the reason that  day? At the hospital entrance, I saw my hubby standing there. It had  only been three days, but he looked haggard. I had wanted to turn and leave, but one look at him and my heart soften, I couldn't resist and  called out to him. He followed my voice and finally found me but he pretended that he doesn't know me; he has that disgusted look in his  eyes that cut right through my heart.

I told myself not to look at him anymore, and hail a cab. At that  moment, I have such a strong urge inside me to shout to my hubby:
"Darling, I am having your baby!" and have him lift me up and spin me  round in circles of joy. What I wanted didn't happen and as I sat in the  cab, my tears started rolling down. Why? Why our love couldn't even withstand the test of one fight? Back home, I lay on the bed thinking  about my hubby, and the disgusted look in his eyes. I cried and wet the  corner of the blanket.

That night, sound of the drawers opening woke me up. I switched on the  lights and I saw hubby with tears rolling down his face. He was removing  the money. I stared at him in silence; he ignored me, took the bank  deposit book and some money and left the house. Maybe he really intends  to leave me for good. What a rational man, so clear-cut in love and money matters. I gave a few dried laugh and tears starting streaming  down again.

The next day, I did not go to work. I wanted to clear this out and have a good talk with hubby. I reached his office and his secretary gave me a  weird look and said: "Mr. Tan's mother had a traffic accident and is now  in the hospital." I stood there in shock. I rushed to the hospital and  by the time I found hubby, mother had already passed away. Hubby did not  look at me, his face was expressionless.

I looked at mother's pale white and thin face and I couldn't control the  tears in my eyes. My god, how could this happen? Throughout the funeral,  hubby did say a single word to me, with only the occasional disgusted stare at me. I only managed to find out brief facts about the accident  from other people. That day, after mother left the house, she walked in  dazed toward the bus stop, apparently intending to go back to her old  house back in the countryside. As hubby ran after her, she tried to walk  faster and as she tried to cross the street, a public bus came and hit  her...

limau_nipis

-Part II: sambungan-

I finally understood how much hubby must hate me, if I had not thrown up  that morning, if we had not quarreled, if..... .. In his heart, I am indirectly the killer of his mother. Hubby moved into mother's room and came home every night with a strong liquor smell on him. And me, I am buried under the guilt and self pity and could hardly breathe. I wanted to explain to him, tell him that we are going to have our baby soon, but each time, I saw the dead look in his eyes, all the words I have at the brink of my mouth just fell back  in. I had rather he hit me real hard or give me a big and thorough scolding though none of these events happening had been my fault at all.

Many days of suffocating silence went by and as the days went by, hubby  came home later and later. The deadlock between us continues, we were  living together like strangers who don't know each other. I am like the  dead knot in his heart.

One day, I passed by a western restaurant, looking into the glass  window, I saw hubby and a girl sitting facing each other and he very  lightly brushed her hair for her, I understood what it meant. After  recovering from that moment of shock, I entered the restaurant, stood in  front of my hubby and stared hard at him, not a tear in my eyes. I have  nothing to say to him, and there is no need to say anything. The girl looked at me, looks at hubby, stands up and wanted to go, hubby  stretched out his hand and stopped her. He stared back at me,  challenging me. I can only hear my slow heart beat, beating, one by one as if at the brink of death. I eventually backed down, if I had stood  that any longer, I will collapse together with the baby inside me.

That night, he did not come home, he had chosen to use that as a way to indicate to me: Following mother's death so did our love for each other.  He did not come home anymore after that. Sometimes, when I returned home  from work, I can tell that the cupboard had been touched he had returned to take some of his stuff.  I no longer wish to call him; the initial desire to explain everything to him vanished.

I lived alone; I go for my medical checkups alone, my heart breaks again  and again every time I see a guy carefully helping his wife through the  physical examination. My office colleagues hinted to me to consider  aborting the baby, I told them No, I will not. I insisted on having to  this baby, perhaps it is my way of repaying mother for causing her death.

One day, I came home and I saw hubby sitting in the living room. The  whole house was filled with cigarette smoke. On the coffee table, there  was this piece of paper. I know what it is all about without even looking at it.

In the two months plus of living alone, I have gradually learned to find  peace within myself. I looked at him, removed my hat and said: "You wait a while, I will sign." He looked at me, mixed feelings in his eyes,just  like mine. As I hang up my coat, I keep repeating to myself "You cannot  cry, you cannot cry..." my eyes hurt terribly, but I refused to let  tears come out from there.

After I hung up my coat, hubby's eyes stared fixed at my bulging tummy. I smiled, walked over to the coffee table and pull e paper towards me. Without even looking at what it says, I signed my name on it and pushed   the paper to him.  "LD, you are pregnant?"
Since mother's accident, this is the first time he spoke to me. I could  not control my tears any further and they fell like raindrops. I said:  "Yes, but its ok, you can leave now." He did not go, in the dark, we  sat, facing each other.

Hubby slowly moved over me, his tears wet the blanket. In my heart,  everything seems so far away, so far that even if I sprint, I could  never reach them.

I cannot remember how many times he repeated "sorry" to me, I had  originally thought that I would forgive him, but now I can't. In the  western restaurant, in front of that girl, that cold look in his eyes, I  will never forget, ever. We have drawn such deep scares in each other's  heart. For me, its unintentional; for him, totally intentional.

I had been waiting for this moment of reconciliation, but I realized  now, what had gone past is gone forever and could not repeated. Other  than the thought of the baby inside me that would bring some warmth to  my heart, I am totally cold towards him, I no longer eat anything he  buys for me, I don't take any presents from him and I stopped talking to  him. From the moment I signed on that piece of pape, marriage and love  had vanished from my heart.

Sometimes, hubby will try to come into the bedroom, but when he walks in, I will walk out to the living room. He had no choice but to sleep in  mother's room. At night, from his room, I can hear light sounds of groaning, I kept quiet. This used to be his trick; last time, whenever I  ignore him, he would fake illness and I will surrender and find out what is wrong with him, he would then grab me and laugh. He has forgotten  that last time; I cared for him and am concerned because there is love,  but now, what is there between us?

Hubby's groaning came on and off continuing all the way till baby was  born. Almost everyday, he would buy something for the baby, infant products, children products and books that kids like to read. Bags and  bags of it stacked inside his room till it is full. I know he is
trying  to use this to reach out to me, but I am no longer moved by his actions.  He has no choice but to lock himself in his room and I can hear his  typing away on his computer keyboard, maybe he is now addicted to web  surfing, but none of that matters to me anymore.

It was sometime towards the end of spring in the following year, one  late night, I screamed because of a sudden stomach pain, hubby came  rushing into the room, its like he did not change and sleep, and had  been waiting for this moment. He carried me and ran down the stairs,  stopped a car, holding my hand very tightly and kept wiping the sweat off my brown, throughout the journey to the hospital. Once we reached  the hospital, he carried me and hurried into the delivery suite.

Lying  on the back of his skinny but warmth body, a thought crossed my mind: In  my lifetime, who else would love me as much as he did?
He held the delivery suite door opened and watch me go in, his warm eyes  caused me to managed a smile at him despite my contraction pain. Coming out of the delivery room, hubby looked at our son, and me, his  eyes tear with joy and he kept smiling. I reached out and touched his  hand.

Hubby looked at me, smiling and then he slowly collapsed onto the floor.  I cried out for him in pain... He smiled, but without opening that tired  eyes of his... I had thought that I would never shed any tear for him,  but the truth is, I have never felt a deeper pain cutting through my body at that moment.

Doctor said that by the time hubby discovered he had liver cancer, it  was already in terminal stage and it was a miracle that he managed to  last this long. I asked the doctor when did he first discover he had cancer? Doctor said about 5 months ago and consoled me saying: "Prepare  for his funeral." I disregarded the nurse's objection and rushed home, I went into his room and checked his computer, and a suffocating pain hits  me.

Hubby's cancer was discovered 5 months ago, his groaning was real, and I  had thought that... the computer showed over 200 thousand words he wrote  for our son: "Son, just for you, I have persisted, to be able to take a  look at  you before I fall, is my biggest wish now... I know that in your life,  you will have many happiness and maybe some setbacks, if only I can accompany you throughout that journey, how nice would it be. But daddy  now no long has that chance. Daddy has written inside here all the possible difficulties and problems you may encounter during your  lifetime, when you meet with these problems, you can refer to daddy's  suggestion... Son, after writing these 200 thousand words, I feel as if  I have accompanied you through your life journey. To be honest, daddy is very happy. Do love your mother, she has suffered, she is the one who loves you most and also the one who loves me most..."

From play school to primary school, to secondary, university, to work  and even in dealing with questions of love, everything big and small was  written there.  Hubby has also written a letter for me:
"My dear, to marry you is my biggest happiness, forgive me for the pain  I have caused you, forgive me for not telling you my illness, because I  want to see you be in a joyful mood waiting for the arrival of our baby... My dear, if you cried, it means that you have forgiven me and I  would smile, thank you for loving me... These presents, I'm afraid I  cannot give them to our son personally, could you help me to give some  of them to him every year, the dates on what to give when are all written on the packaging..."

Going back to the hospital, hubby is still in coma. I brought our son  over and place him beside him. I said: "Open your eyes and smile, I want  our son to remember being in the warmth of your arms..."
He struggled to open his eyes and managed a weak smile. Our son still in  his arms was happily waving his tiny hands in the air. I press the button on the camera and the sound of the shutter rang thought the air  as tears slowly rolled down my face...

The end...

Alizawati82

baru berjinak2 baca buku nie.......tajuknyer.....
-Chicken Soup for the Gilfriend's Soul-
pinjam ngan membe.....
first time baca....oklah....banyak cerita dalam buku nie....
cerita takderlah panjang sangat.....senang nak paham.......
ingat lepas nie....nak beli sendiri gak buku camni........

limau_nipis

Chicken Soup Story for today

The Love Squad
By Virelle Kidder

     "Oh, no! Not company!" I groaned, the moment my car rounded the corner and our house came into full view.  Usually I'd be thrilled to see four cars lined up in our driveway, but after I spent a weeklong vigil at the hospital with an ill child, my house was a colossal mess.  Turning off the car engine, I dragged myself to the front door.
     "What are you doing home so soon?" my friend Judie called from the kitchen.  "We weren't expecting you for another hour!  We thought we'd be long gone before you got home."  She walked toward me and gave me a hug, then asked softly, "How are you doing?"
     Was this my house?  Was I dreaming?  Everything looked so clean.  Where did these flowers come from?
     Suddenly more voices, more hugs. Lorraine, smiling and wiping beads of perspiration from her forehead, came up from the family room where she had just finished ironing a mountain of clean clothes.  Regina peeked into the kitchen, having finished vacuuming rugs and polishing and dusting furniture in every room in the house.  Joan, still upstairs wrestling with the boys' bunk-bed sheets, called down her "Hello," having already brought order out of chaos in all four bedrooms.
     "When did you guys get here?" was my last coherent sentence.  My tears came in great heaving waves.  "How come . . . how come . . . you did all this?" I cried unashamedly, every ounce of resistance gone.
     I had spent the week praying through a health crisis, begging God for a sense of his presence at the hospital.  Instead, he laid a mantle of order, beauty and loving care into our home through these four "angels."
     "You rest a while, Virelle," Lorraine said firmly.  "Here's your dinner for tonight梩here are more meals in the freezer."  The table was set with flowers and fancy napkins, and a little gift was at my place.  A small banquet was arranged, complete with salad and dessert.
     "Don't you worry; we're all praying," my friends said.  "God has everything under control."
     After my friends left, I wandered from room to room, still sobbing from the enormity of their gift of time and work.  I found beautiful floral arrangements in every room . . . and little wrapped gifts on each bed.  More tears.
     In the living room I found a note under a vase filled with peonies.  I was to have come home and found it as their only identity: "The Love Squad was here."
     And I knew that God had everything under control.

Reprinted by permission of Virelle Kidder (c) 1999 from Chicken Soup for the Girlfriend's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark Donnelly, Chrissy Donnelly and Stefanie Adrian.  In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.  All rights reserved.

putubambu

dia byk versi le aliza..

limau.. bestnya...sedih kita baca..citer shanghai tu

limau_nipis

Originally posted by putubambu at 6-10-2005 11:15 AM
dia byk versi le aliza..

limau.. bestnya...sedih kita baca..citer shanghai tu

Sedih sangat kan? Setiap kali baca, mesti menitik air mata.. oh the title's story is "Misunderstanding do affects us all"

Kalu nak daily digest of Chicken Soup story, check it out :dia: Chicken Soup

limau_nipis

Losing It, Finding It
By Jeff Moyer

     The mall was particularly crowded and noisy that Sunday afternoon.  My son, a very high-energy six-year-old, pulled us into every toy store to check out the newest action figures or anything else that caught his eye with the single-mindedness that only a six-year-old can muster.  My brother was content to be out of the confinement of the depressing facility for adults with retardation that was then his home.  He wanted to talk, drink coffee and smoke.  His goals also included getting some cool sunglasses, but he was generally enjoying just being with the family.  I needed a watch battery and a few other necessities.  My grandmother, visiting from Florida, probably wanted to just sit down and relax and not do the mall crawl as we plodded on, attempting to meet all our divergent needs.  My wife stoically endured as she kept our human caravan together amidst the crowds.  But I was in charge.  The mall excursion had been my idea.  I thought it would give all of us some quality time together.  But the only quality that we all seemed to share was that our nerves had begun to be a bit frayed by the strain and tedium of the overall experience.
     As we ended the long afternoon and headed for the exit, my son burst between two adults lost in talk, causing them to stop and stare at the little person who had interrupted their conversation.  The tension I had been carrying was quickly intensified and found a righteous focus.  I didn't snap - I boiled over.  As a conscientious father, I chose to stop, confront my son, and demand that he return and apologize to the strangers for his rudeness.  I spoke to him in a harsh, judgmental tone.  Frozen, he gazed at me, unblinking, in embarrassed silence.  I could feel my internal-intensity ratchet tighten as I insisted that he make amends at once to the two people who now stood in silent witness to our confrontation.  My wife quietly suggested that we take up the matter later.  I flatly stated that this was the time, and mine was the way.  I went back to insisting that my son say he was sorry to the strangers.  I bore down heavily as his gaze dropped to the floor.  My grandmother made a small, worried sound as she frowned and twisted her purse strap nervously.  With anxiety, she witnessed her grandson's wrath and her great-grandson's humiliation.
     One of the strangers stepped forward, offering that it was okay and no apology was needed.  I refused his offer and tersely stated the obvious.  I needed, for his own good, to have my son, now shamed in freeze-frame, do the right thing - my way.  Scorched by my fiery intensity, the gentle stranger pulled back and helplessly watched the stalemate deepen.  A silent gathering of passersby had formed, watching my unbending demand go unheeded.  All were silent except for me.  I was vaguely aware of the spectacle that I was creating, and the real discomfort and strain that I was causing everyone, particularly my own dear son.
     My brother, whose intellectual ability is measured in the early preschool range, stepped silently to my side.  He gently put his hand on my back and said to me in a low voice, "Peace, brother, peace."  The dark spell was shattered.  I reached out and touched my son's shoulder.  I looked down and read the emotional wreckage from my anger storm on my child's upturned face.  In a trembling voice, I told him that what he had done was wrong, but that what I was doing was worse.  I apologized to the strangers, to my family and, most earnestly, to my son.  I took my boy by the hand, and we left the mall.
     My brother, like all people, has the capacity for wisdom.  Today, he lives in a regular suburban home with two other guys.  They receive the support they need and enjoy the pleasures of privacy, quietude and a home with dignity and individual respect.  But twenty years ago, when he lived in a crowded, depersonalizing facility, he was a genuine peacemaker and a man of gentle and clear wisdom.  He said three words to me that cut through my intellectual and moral conceit and resolved an intractable dilemma that had ensnared many in my anger and self-righteousness.

Reprinted by permission of Jeff Moyer (c) 2002 from Chicken Soup for the Soul Stories for A Better World by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Candice C. Carter, Susanna Palomares, Linda K. Williams and Bradley L. Winch.  In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.  All rights reserved.

Limau,
thanks for all the stories....sedeylah citer shanghai tu..tekak haku rasa cam kena berus ngan kertas pasir....panas jer mataku ini...

Leha.

menyelit sikit

creator utk "Chicken Soup for the Soul" ni baru je datang Malaysia dlm awal minggu ni kan??...kalau tak silap dia ada buat seminars/workshops untuk students and professionals selama 2 hari

Leha, Gadis Klasik

tieyramisu

Semalam baru sempat baca citer Shanghai... menangisssss

limau_nipis

To all readers, you are welcome :tq:

So, here's the next story for today

Enchiladas: A Metaphor for Life!
By Renee Fajardo

     My familia is from Colorado.  During my first year of college, I returned home for a family celebration: my grandparents' fiftieth wedding anniversary.  The whole Fajardo clan was busy with preparations for this auspicious occasion.  While helping to make what seemed like a million enchiladas, I stood at the kitchen counter and looked over at my great-aunt Luc韆.
     She was a beautiful woman, about seventy years old at the time.  The youngest of eight siblings (born a decade after my grandmother), she usually took over the role of head cook for all family celebrations.  Her reasoning was that she was younger and had more stamina.  I suspect it was because she could roll enchiladas faster than any human being alive.  It was a God-given gift.  I admired her greatly and was always amazed at her dedication to every detail of our fiestas: baking all the bread from scratch, making tamales days ahead, cooking green chili to die for and preparing enchilada sauce that, to this day, makes me weep with joy.
     That day, I really looked at her for the first time in my life.  She was always so busy with the comida or organizing the last details of preparing the food that she never had time to talk about herself.  I was newly puzzled by her self-imposed exile at the kitchen stove, and it occurred to me that my t韆 had been cooking for us for all of our lives.  She had no grandchildren of her own.  All three of her sons had died tragically, and her remaining daughter was childless.  I knew in my heart that this must have been a terrible burden for her to bear, but I never heard her complain.  I never heard her once mention the hardships she had witnessed when she was a child.  Nor had I ever heard her speak of the humiliation she had endured because she was from a poor Chicano family.  I knew from others in the family that my abuelos and my other old ones had seen great misfortune and pain.
     I gathered my nerve and stared at her a long time before I asked her about her life.  I recall stammering as I asked her how she always seemed so happy when she had lost so much.  I think that I even told her that most people would not have been able to go on after losing so many children.
     What she said to me that day changed my whole outlook on life.  She looked at me and, wiping her hand on her apron, smiled.
     "M'ija," she said softly, "I look at my life like making enchiladas."
     I laughed when I heard her say this, but she went on:

     You see, my niece, you start out with the corn tortilla; that is the foundation of the enchilada, the family.  Then you dip the tortilla in warm oil; that makes the tortilla soft and pliable to work with.  I like to think of the oil as sacred; it is an anointing of the familia with all that is precious in life.  It is similar to going to church and having the priest put sacred oil on your forehead.  The family is being blessed.
     Next you fill the corn tortilla with cheese and onions.  The queso is sweet and rich, made from the milk of life.  It is symbolic of the joy and richness of this world.  But how can you appreciate the queso without the onion?  The onion may make us weep, yet it also makes us realize that there is a reason the cheese tastes so sweet.  That reason is because there is a contrast to the queso, a balance to the joy . . . sorrow is not necessarily bad.  It is an important part of learning to appreciate this life.
     Then the enchiladas are covered with the most delicious sauce in the world - a sauce so red and rich in color it reminds me of the blood of the Cristo, a sacrifice of love.  Still to this day my mouth waters when I smell enchilada sauce cooking on the stove.
     The most important ingredient in the sauce is agua.  Water is the vital source of all we know and are.  It feeds the rivers that make the great oceans.  Water rains from the skies to nourish the fertile earth so that the grains, grasses, flowers and trees may grow.  Water comforts us when we hear the sound of it flowing over mountain cliffs.  Water quenches our thirst and bathes our tired bodies.  We are baptized with water when we are born, and all the rest of our days spent on this Earth are intertwined with water.  Water is the spirit of the sauce.
     The enchilada sauce also has garlic, salt, chili powder and oil.  These are the things that add the spice and zest to life, just as they do to the sauce.  Making the sauce is a lot like making your own life: You get to choose the combination of ingredients, and you get to decide just how spicy and salty you like it.
     When everything is put together, you have the "whole enchilada."  You must look at the enchiladas you have made and be happy with them; after all, you are the one who has to eat them.  No use whining about maybe this or maybe that; there is joy and sorrow and laughter and tears.  Every enchilada is a story in itself.  Every time I dip, fill, roll and pinch an enchilada, I think of some part of my life that has gone by or some part that is still to be.  M'ija, you have got to pinch a lot of enchiladas in this life!  Make that experience a good one, and you will become una viejita like me.

I couldn't believe that my auntie, who had never spoken more than two words about her philosophy on life, had just explained the universe to me.  I wiped my hands on my apron and began to laugh.
     "Thank you," I said, between tears and smiles. "I will never forget what you just told me!"
     And I never have.

Reprinted by permission of Renee Fajardo (c) 2004 from Chicken Soup for the Latino Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Susan Sanchez-Casal.  In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.  All rights reserved.

limau_nipis

The Feeling
By Ellie Braun-Haley

     I sat in a beautiful city park one day watching my three-year-old granddaughter swinging when I felt this take- your-breath-away feeling.  It was a feeling I had often experienced on our own little piece of land out in the country.
     It is strange how we ended up buying that place.  We were looking for a place to live and finally discovered an old farmhouse on an acre and a half thirty minutes from the city.  The house had been built as a one-room schoolhouse in 1911, and the basement was still a dirt cellar.  Looking at this old place, I regretted the thought of giving up my beautiful home in the city, with wall-to-wall carpets, a lovely fireplace and a bay window.  I knew my husband wanted a country place, but giving up my city home was not going to be easy.  Then we walked out across the land, and this beautiful feeling hit me.  I commented to my husband, "It feels so good here."
     We looked through the old place and once again walked out in the yard, and as we traveled down a wee slope to a tree-lined enclosure this wondrous feeling again came upon me.  "Honey, it feels so good here!"  I guess I told him that at least three or four times that day and again in the weeks and months that followed our purchase of the home.  I received that glorious feeling each time I walked into a small enclosure we called our Secret Garden.
     But I was not the only one to feel this warm energy.  Each time we had company I encouraged them to spend some time alone in the Secret Garden, and every single person said the same thing.  They felt a good, warm feeling come over them.
     Now here I was in a park with my granddaughter and I had that same amazing feeling.  I called to my rambunctious little granddaughter, "Jani, come over here and sit with Grandma."
     She climbed up on the park bench and managed to slow her energetic little body long enough to listen.  "Jani, will you sit here with me and just close your eyes and see if you feel anything?"
     Bless her; she didn't question my weird request.  She merely closed her eyes and sat perfectly still.  I waited to see if she would experience what I did.  And then I kept on waiting, as she seemed in no hurry to open her eyes.  This was surprising for such a lively little bundle of energy.
     Finally I could wait no longer.  "Jani?"  I touched her shoulder, gently encouraging her to open her eyes.  As she did, I asked her, "Jani, did you feel anything?"
     She beamed a beautiful, radiant smile and said, "Oh Gamma, it feel like God giving me a hug!"

Reprinted by permission of Ellie Braun-Haley (c) 2000 from Chicken Soup for the Grandma's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and LeAnn Thieman.  In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent.  All rights reserved.

seribulan

If I have the free time...will try to type stories from my book...
if I remember, too...

tieyramisu

Semalam gi Popular... ada promotion... beli Chicken Soup's book... dapat kusyen kecik free... warna merah...
tak ingat sampai bila... around Nov abis la. Tak silap celebrate Chicken Soup series dah keluarkan 100+ kut.

seribulan

an appropriate article from the paper, I think...

BOOK REVIEW: Dad抯 way with Chicken Soup
Review by Fong Leong Ming

Nov 10:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
  
CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE GIRLFRIEND扴 SOUL
(RM46.85, pp290)
CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL: STORIES FOR A BETTER WORLD
(RM46.85, pp400)
Compiled, edited and written by Jack Canfield and friends

DEAR daughter,

Are you surprised that I am writing to you? Well, it抯 because I have quite a few serious issues to discuss with you

taiyo_sensei

buku2 citer nii best

kat library skol aku ader tapi yang aku menyampah tuuu die ltk kat pra-u nyer library jerrrr
pra-u library tuu tuk form 6 jerrr yang lain takleh masuk.....

dulu leh lak aku masuk library tuuu pinjam buku tuh
skang ngada2 cikgu tu tak kasi pinjam.....

best laaa jumpa thread ni kat cni

limau_nipis

Flying A Kite
By Vicki L. Kitchner

     Her skin was the color of rich, hot chocolate and her brown eyes twinkled with intelligence and humor.  Her name was Michelle and she spent her days in a purple wheelchair because she had been born with Cerebral Palsy.  She rolled into my classroom

sherrina

anyone has the ebooks of the chicken soup?