Bill Andrews was a big, awkward, homely guy. He dressed oddly with ill fitting cloths. There were several fellows who thought it smart to make fun of him. One day one fellow noticed a small tear in his shirt and gave it a small rip. Another worker in the factory added his bit, and before long there was quite a ribbon dangling. Bill went on about his work and as he passed too near a moving belt the shirt strip was sucked into the machinery. In a split second the sleeve and Bill were in trouble. Alarms were sounded, switches pulled, and trouble was avoided. The foreman, however, aware of what had happened, summoned the men and related this story:

“In my younger days I worked in a small factory. That’s where I first met Mike Havoc. He was big and witty, was always making jokes, playing little pranks. Mike was a leader. Then there was Pete Lumas. He always went along with Mike. He was a follower. And then I remember Jake. He was a little older than the rest of us — quiet, harmless, apart. He ate his lunch by himself. He wore the same patched trousers for three years straight. He never entered into the games we played at noon, wrestling, horse shoe and such. He was indifferent.

“Jake was a natural target for practical jokes. He might find a live frog in his dinner pail, or a dead rodent in his hat. But he always took it in good humor.

“Then one fall when things were slack, Mike took off a few days to go hunting. Pete went along, of course. And they promised all of us that if they got anything they’d bring us each a piece. So we were all quite excited when we heard that they’d returned and that Mike had got a really nice big buck. We heard more than that. Pete could never keep anything to himself, and it leaked out that they had a real whopper to play on Jake. Mike had cut up the critter and had made a nice package for each of us. And, for the laugh, for the joke of it, he had saved the ears, the tail, the hoofs — it would be so funny when Jake unwrapped them.

“Mike distributed his packages during the noon hour. We each got a nice piece, opened it, and thanked him. The biggest package of all he saved until last. It was for Jake. Pete was all but bursting; and Mike looked very smug. Like always, Jake sat by himself; he was on the far side of the big table. Mike pushed the package over to where he could reach it; and we all sat and waited. Jake was never one to say much. You might never know that he was around for all the talking he did. In three years he’d never said a hundred words. So we were all quite hypnotized with what happened next.

“He took the package firmly in his grip and rose slowly to his feet. He smiled broadly at Mike — and it was then we noticed that his eyes were glistening. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down for a moment and then he got control of himself.

“I knew you wouldn’t forget me,” he said gratefully; “I knew you’d come through! You’re big and you’re playful, but I knew all along that you had a good heart.” He swallowed again, and then took in the rest of us.

“I know I haven’t seemed too chummy with you men; but I never meant to be rude. You see, I’ve got nine kids at home — and a wife that’s been an invalid — bedfast now for four years. She ain’t ever going to get any better. And sometimes when she’s real bad off, I have to sit up all night to take care of her. And most of my wages have had to go for doctors and medicine. The kids do all they can to help out, but at times it’s been hard to keep food in their mouths. Maybe you think it’s funny that I go off by myself to eat my dinner. Well, I guess I’ve been a little ashamed, because I don’t always have anything between my sandwich. Or like today — maybe there’s only a raw turnip in my pail. But I want you to know that this meat really means a lot to me. Maybe more than to anybody here because tonight my kids,” he wiped the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand, “…tonight my kids will have a really…” He tugged at the string.

“We’d been watching Jake so intently we hadn’t paid much notice to Mike and Pete. But we all noticed them now, because they both dove at once to try to grab the package. But they were too late. Jake had broken the wrapper and was already surveying his present. He examined each hoof, each ear, and then he held up the tail. It wiggled limply. It should have been so funny, but nobody laughed — nobody at all. But the hardest part was when Jake looked up and tried to smile.”

This was where the foreman left the story and the men. He didn’t need to say anymore; but it was gratifying to notice that as each man ate his lunch that day, he shared part with Bill Andrews and one fellow even offered him his shirt.

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, “Look what I found!”

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn – not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose
And declared with overacted surprise,
“It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too.
That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you.”

The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, “Just what I need.”

But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it mid-air without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.

You’re welcome,” he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life,
And appreciate every second that’s mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy,
Another weed in his hand,
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

“Mommy, look!” cried my daughter, Darla, pointing to a chicken hawk soaring through the air.

“Uh huh,” I murmured, driving, lost in thought about the tight schedule of my Day.

Disappointment filled her face. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart?” I asked, entirely dense.

“Nothing,” my seven-year-old said. The moment was gone. Near home, we slowed to search for the albino deer that comes out from behind the thick mass of trees in the early evening. She was nowhere to be seen.

“Tonight, she has too many things to do,” I said.

Dinner, baths and phone calls filled the hours until bedtime.

“Come on, Darla, time for bed!” She raced past me up the stairs. Tired, I kissed her on the cheek, said prayers and tucked her in.

“Mom, I forgot to give you something!” she said. My patience was gone.

“Give it to me in the morning,” I said, but she shook her head.

“You won’t have time in the morning!” she retorted.

“I’ll take time,” I answered defensively. Sometimes no matter how hard I.tried, time flowed through my fingers like sand in an hourglass, never enough. Not enough for her, for my husband, and definitely not enough for me.

She wasn’t ready to give up yet. She wrinkled her freckled little nose in anger and swiped away her chestnut brown hair.

“No, you won’t! It will be just like today when I told you to look at the hawk. You didn’t even listen to what I said.”

I was too weary to argue; she hit too close to the truth. “Good night!” I shut her door with a resounding thud.

Later though, her gray-blue gaze filled my vision as I thought about how little time we really had until she was grown and gone.

My husband asked, “Why so glum?” I told him.

“Maybe she’s not asleep yet. Why don’t you check,” he said with all the authority of a parent in the right. I followed his advice, wishing it was my own idea.

I cracked open her door, and the light from the window spilled over her sleeping form. In her hand I could see the remains of a crumpled paper. Slowly I opened her palm to see what the item of our disagreement had been.

Tears filled my eyes. She had torn into small pieces a big red heart with a poem she had written titled, “Why I Love My Mother!”

I carefully removed the tattered pieces. Once the puzzle was put back into place, I read what she had written:

Why I Love My Mother

Although you’re busy, and you work so hard You always take time to play I love you Mommy because I am the biggest part of your busy day!

The words were an arrow straight to the heart. At seven years old, she had the wisdom of Solomon.

Ten minutes later I carried a tray to her room, with two cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When I softly touched her smooth cheek, I could feel my heart burst with love.

Her thick dark lashes lay like fans against her lids as they fluttered, awakened from a dreamless sleep, and she looked at the tray.

“What is that for?” she asked, confused by this late-night intrusion.

“This is for you, because you are the most important part of my busy day!” She smiled and sleepily drank half her cup of chocolate. Then she drifted back to sleep, not really understanding how strongly I meant what I said.