Finding the Goodness by Barbara Quinn

My good friend Janet once told me to keep goodness at the center of all I do and then I will always know what to do. That little piece of advice has brought me through many storms and I am grateful for it. It’s so much easier to lash out and feed anger instead of turning the other cheek. I’m not always successful at finding the goodness and projecting it, but I do know that reaching for this attitude of goodness calms my center, and coupled with gratitude for all that I have, helps me walk through the most difficult of times.

I’m in the midst of a maelstrom right now, reeling in the sudden and inexplicable death of a beloved nephew. I am grateful for all the comfort and support from everyone who has reached out with a kind word or touch. It does make a difference to know people care. Sometimes we think it is better to let people be, to stay away and not bother them. And there is a point where there can be too much support, leaving the distressed seeking the quiet of a darkened room. But after all these years I’ve come to know that we are a lot like those elephants that they focus on, the ones who touch tusks while hovering over the dead body of one of their own, the ones who nudge and protect that body till they are sure it is really not coming back to life. We need each other and our rituals. We need the wisdom of friends and sometimes even strangers to bring us through the difficult times. For wisdom and compassion, I am grateful.

Pondering While Walking the Cove by Kat Magendie

The mist is thick, and I am walking in the clouds, breathing in a part of the sky. As a child I'd always wondered what it was like to walk on a cloud...would I fall through it? Would it be like cotton? Would it be fluffy and nice? Now, I am walking in the cloud, and the cloud settles on my clothes, on my skin, and it is cool and mysterious. I breathe more in, and Cloud fills my lungs.

We pass Old Tree. Old Tree's gnarled trunk has seen and heard and felt ages upon ages on our mountain. I hurry to Old Tree and press my palm against its rough, and then press my cheek to let it tattoo itself upon me. I whisper, "Old Tree, what have you seen? What have you heard and felt? Give up your secrets;" and I feel the vibration of its stories, the stories of its life, and the stories of all the mountain ways. I rub the scarred bark and hope Old Tree is never cut down by one who does not appreciate. When I turn to leave Old Tree, its branches rub together in its good bye so long see you soon.

It is quiet, even Creek is muffled by the distance as I walk. The only sound is the noise in my head, loud louder it is as a bratty child wanting my attention. I look inward, and listen to the chaos, and when I at last lift my head, I have gone many steps without seeing what my mountains offers. Sometimes, there is the sound of our inward self, whining and yapping and calling to us. I do not want this sound so I tell it to shut up, go away. It does, thank you.

There is scat on the road - full of seeds, and I stop to look at it, wondering what critter has been squatting there. Just a few steps farther, and there is a tiny gray body lying in the road - the second one I've seen since the day before. Life can be cruel and life can be short, but little tiny gray critter never thought about that; he just lived. I imagine in the last of its life, Gray Critter didn't think, "Why me? This isn't fair!" Perhaps he only thought of survival, and when survival didn't appear, he was then limp, lifeless, gone. If another gray critter expected him home, there would be no "Why me? Why us? It isn't fair..." there would be the next thing to do. There would be the life to keep living. I don’t know whether to be grateful that someone expects me home and would say, “Why me? Why us? It isn’t fair? Bring her back!” Or to be grateful I may be more like Gray Critter, not thinking, not wondering, “Why me?” This comforts me, in its own strange way.

Big Sister, Little Brother by Kathryn Magendie

I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea. ~Dylan Thomas

I most always think of him as a little boy, not the young man David was when he died at thirty-two. Imbedded in my memories lie his infectious laugh, impish ways, and gentle nature. My little brother once brought home the mangiest, ugliest stray mutt and named him Dinky. Dinky promptly ate my mini-parrot, but I couldn’t stay mad, and now I’m glad. David’s face was so woebegone I’d have had to harden my teenage heart far too much to yell at him or blame him.

A few years before Dinky, David and I planned to stay awake the entire night—oh, this was a daring, exciting feat before the days of endless television and technology. We sat on my bed—as big sister that was quite an honor for a little brother—and played games, told stories. The last I remember the time, it was four a.m. We awoke the next morning, disappointed we hadn’t quite made it, but I’ve never forgotten the little brother-big sister bond we felt.

And years before that, David was feeling poorly, and so climbed in bed with me, feverish and pale. My sisterly heart took over then, too, instead of the “eyewww…go away, brother!” I petted his head and told him he’d feel better in the morning. Instead, he was rushed to the hospital and would have died if my parents had waited any longer. I remember visiting him, awed at the tubes protruding from his small body. When he came home, it was as if he was made of glass and we didn’t want to break him. Who knew that was only a practice for what would later come. A mean tease from whomever or whatever may be in charge. I suppose some could look at it as a reprieve, delay of the inevitable. I suppose.

So, you may be thinking, what does death of a beloved brother have to do with gratitude? Why...gratitude for those days I can pretend he’s not gone by re-living our childhood. Gratitude for the days I see David’s impish face grinning at his big sister who sometimes showed sisterly charity by being kind instead of bossy and mean. Gratitude I remember those kind sister events more than the mean-sister ones. Gratitude for the time he was here on Earth with us, however short.

The Dedicated by Angie Ledbetter

A great man has passed on this week. Fr. Joe was 93 and lived his entire life in service of his church, congregation, and two campuses' worth of students and staff he dearly loved. Daily, no matter the weather, I'd see him shuffling around the large Pre-K through senior high campuses where I work. Even when he felt bad or his old feet were hurting, he never failed to make the journey. He did it every day, he told me, "To pray for all the kids here. Ya know...some of them don't have anyone else praying for them."


Fr. Joe's many kindnesses and selfless actions were admirable and memorable. I asked my fifth and sixth grade students to write a little something about this dear priest yesterday, and was pleasantly surprised by the amount of thought and work they put into their papers. Many mentioned how much Father meant to their lives; his sense of humor; his love of football; but most often, how they just knew he was continuing to pray for them from heaven. What a fine tribute to a man with a servant's heart!


I work with several dedicated teachers and school staff personnel. Among my closest friends are those who give a great deal of time to volunteering, giving to others, and working for causes that move them. My father, President of Istrouma High School's Class of 55, maintains contact with all his classmates and helps organize reunions, get-togethers, and now city-wide 50s functions with other high schools' alums. These, and several more I haven't mentioned, inspire me to watch over the organizations, groups, beliefs, and people I believe in. They role model for me (and others) the importance of being truly dedicated, because none of these people see the fruits of their labors or rewards of their tireless work.


But, like Fr. Joe, their legacies and stories will live on long after their passing. Just ask anyone who had the good fortune of knowing or working with them. I extend my gratitude to these people who stay the course and continue their work long after most people have folded up their tents and gone home. Bravo and amen to you!

The Unthinkable by Angie Ledbetter

Your doctor has given you the worst possible news: you have a fatal disease and a dire prognosis for life expectancy. Your fears are overwhelming. Already, you feel sick and “less than” your former self. How will you spend your remaining time?

Someone dear to me is facing these same questions, and I’ve already lost a few loved ones to cancer. So I ask myself from time to time, How would you handle it? What would you do with the rest of your life?

It’s not a subject anyone wants to think about, but what if you were forced to? I wonder if I would be strong and live with courage and hope? Or would I give up and mourn the loss of extra days? I can’t say for sure, but I hope I’d take the higher path, the harder road.

The thought of an untimely death makes me value each day on this earth even more. I try to fully live out each moment...no matter if it is from inside a concession stand doing school team volunteering, or visiting with someone I love. I try every day to let those whom I love know it. I force myself not to grouse over inconveniences or negative events. I want to see the goodness every day has to offer, and mark it by my noticing. I am grateful for early morning alarms ringing, and I am thankful each night when I put my head on a soft feather pillow.

A friend sent me a true story which helped cement my gratitude for life. I hope you enjoy it too, then pass it on to those you care about. Randy Pausch has pancreatic cancer and only a few months to live. He is a popular professor at Carnegie Mellon University. His message is taken from his “final lecture” to beloved students. Pausch has three young children and an unbelievably heroic attitude. His appearance on Oprah has been downloaded over a million times, so just maybe his words are being heard: http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=8577255250907450469

The Human Embodiment of Gratitude by Barbara Quinn

Growing up, my father used to tell me, “We’re all going the same place so you might as well enjoy the ride.” A little over a year ago he passed away at the age of 86 from a rare type of bile duct cancer. He did enjoy the ride.

My father worked hard, but always came to important functions. We took family vacations, ate dinner together every night, and he spent time with me, talking and being genuinely interested in my activities. He had boundless curiosity, and a ready smile. In college he was an usher at the Metropolitan Opera . He also was a Yankees fan. Now, I love opera and the Yanks, and I strive to enjoy the ride.

Till his last day, he joked around and kidded with us. His spirit was an inspiration, not just to me and my family, but to all who came in contact with him.

I was with him when he passed away. Death is not an easy thing to witness, and certainly is even more difficult to go through. But my Dad, the WW2 vet, soldiered on with incredible courage while I trembled by his side. I was alone with him when the priest came to give him the last sacrament. My Dad was religious, and I knew this would be a comfort, but he hadn’t said a word or opened his eyes for hours, and I wasn’t sure how aware he was. The priest gave him the sacrament and then to my surprise my father spoke.

He said, “Thank you.”

The priest’s eyes met mine. He asked, “Did you hear that?” I did. Oh, I did.

I tried to pull my hand away from my Dad’s for a second to wipe my eyes, but he squeezed it, signaling that I should not let go. I held on tightly. The rest of my family arrived and though my Dad didn’t speak again, we spoke to him, telling him how much we loved him, and that it was ok for him to leave. A few painful hours later, Dad drew his last breath.

I’m grateful to my Dad for so much. While he was alive he showed me the way, showed me how to live. And in death, he also showed the way, leading by example. It’s something to strive for, this being able to utter the words, “Thank you,” as your last. Can there be a finer example of gratitude?