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The Priceless Gift
By Irene (Seida) Carlson

I love to give and receive presents; they are always so much fun to open. One day my grandson, Justin, sent me six dollars and thirty cents. I could not think of one good reason why he would send me that amount of money. I thought about it for a couple of days and then called my grandson.
I asked him, "Why did you send Grandma six dollars and thirty cents?"
Justin told me that I always did such nice things for him, that he wanted to give me everything he had.
After hanging up the phone, this old grandma sat down and had a good cry. I knew in my heart that I would never again receive a gift given with such pure and innocent love.
The Swing
By Teresa Cleary

Meg, Katie and I sat rocking on the swing on Meg's front porch. Because Katie had the longest legs, it was her job to keep us moving with a gentle push every now and then. Today, our swinging was sporadic. Katie was caught up in Meg's description of the heart surgery she would undergo in two days.
"The doctors say now is the best time," Meg explained. "I've grown all I'm going to, I'm healthy and they don't want to wait any longer. The walls of my aorta are weakening every day."
Katie and I listened quietly. We'd always known that one day Meg would have heart surgery, but we weren't prepared for it to happen this summer. We were having too much fun.
Katie and I had always known Meg was different. She often complained about the way her eyes protruded from her head and about the extra-thick glasses she wore. We teased her about her slightly bucked front teeth, lovingly calling her "Bugs" after Bugs Bunny. But we never teased her about her heart condition. Meg's family had known from her birth that one day she would require an operation. Now, the day had come.
Meg went shopping with her mom the next day, so Katie and I didn't see her until late. We sat on the porch swing, each of us lost in our own thoughts. When Meg's dad called her in, I hugged her tightly. "I'll be praying for you," I said.
"Thanks," she replied with a smile. "Pray for the doctors, too." We all laughed. Meg's remark had broken the tension.
I didn't sleep very well that night, so it was late when I got up the next morning. I went outside for some fresh air and looked down the row of houses to Meg's. I saw her dad and brother with their arms around each other.
They're home early, I thought. I went in the house just as the phone rang. It was Katie.
"Teresa, I have terrible news."
I could tell she was crying. My heart sank.
"Meg died," Katie said flatly. "When the doctors touched her aorta, it was so weakened, it just dissolved. She died on the operating table."
I was in shock. "Katie, I'll talk to you later," I said, and hung up the phone. As I headed for my room, I passed my mom in the hall.
"Any news on Meg?" she asked.
I shook my head, still too stunned to tell anyone the news. I didn't want to believe it. I shut my door and lay down on my bed.
It can't be true, I told myself. Meg can't be dead. Katie heard wrong. It was some other girl who died. Meg will call and tell me everything's okay.
As the hours stretched on, I knew Katie was right - but I couldn't admit it. I heard Katie's mom call mine to tell her the news. When my mom knocked on my door, I told her to go away. "I want to be alone," I pleaded.
On the way to the funeral home, I kept telling myself that Meg was okay. But when I walked into the room with my parents and saw Meg lying there, reality hit. My friend was dead. I walked over to the casket and looked at Meg's peaceful face. She looked like she could jump up any minute and ask why everyone was so sad, but she didn't. Meg was dead.
I cried hot, angry tears. I couldn't understand why Meg had died, and I was mad at God for allowing it to happen. The world is full of horrible people. Why didn't you take one of them? Why did you have to take the sweetest, kindest person I know?
God didn't give me any easy answers. At Meg's funeral, her pastor read John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish, but have eternal life."
I knew Meg was a Christian, and I was comforted by the fact that she was promised eternal life. As the days passed, I drew on God's promises for those who believe in him. Jesus told his disciples that he was going to prepare a place for them in heaven. I knew that included a mansion for Meg. I missed Meg terribly, but I could feel my anger lessening.
One evening several weeks later, Katie and I were walking when we found ourselves heading for Meg's front porch. We sat on the swing, both uncomfortably aware of the space between us.
"I miss Meg," Katie said as she gave a push.
"Me, too," I replied placing my hand on the empty seat. "But you know," I told Katie with a smile, "Bugs will have perfect teeth in heaven."
Katie laughed. "You're right, and she can't complain about her eyes or her thick glasses anymore!"
"And no heart defect . . ."
The front door opened and Meg's mom came out. "I thought I heard someone," she said. "I was hoping you girls would stop by. Please keep using the porch swing. Meg's dad put it up for the three of you, and we hate to see it empty."
"We'll be back," we promised.
"No heart defect," Katie said with wonder, as our swinging resumed.
We scooted together, closing the space that had separated us. "Do you suppose there are porch swings in heaven?" Katie asked.
"I'm sure of it," I said firmly. "And I'm sure Meg will be saving us a place on one when we get there."
 
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The Therapy Team By Terry Perret Martin My sister found Jake roaming the streets. He was all skin and bones, his fur was matted, and he was filthy and exhausted. The only thing shiny about him were his big eyes. They looked just like the eyes of a deer. My family telephoned me to come look at him as soon as my sister brought him home. When I saw Jake I knew. My family didn't even have to ask, and I didn't need to say a word. "We knew you'd take him," said my sister. The next day, I took Jake to the vet. After his examination, the vet said, "I'm afraid this dog has a serious heart condition. I don't expect him to make it to the end of the week." I'd only had him one night, but the news hit me hard. Jake looked at me and I at him and I said, "Let's go home, boy." A month passed as Jake proved the doctor wrong. Jake blossomed; clearly he adored people and loved life. Grateful for his recovery, we simply took things one day at a time. Then, one morning, I noticed a newspaper article requesting dogs and volunteers for a pet-assisted therapy program. I thought this would suit Jake - and I must have gotten over twenty calls from friends and family who had seen the article and insisted that Jake would be perfect - so I scheduled an interview. Jake was, as the interviewer said, "enthusiastic," and he went on to pass several more interviews, vet visits and discipline tests with flying colors. He was now an official hospital volunteer. I was so proud, and Jake was too. For the next six years, we spent every Friday night at the hospital in the oncology/hematology unit; we saw hundreds of patients. One particular visit stands out. We were working with another team, Sherry and her dog, MacDuff. It had been a long Friday night after a long Friday, and we were all tired. It was well past eleven o'clock, and as we passed the elevator, the doors opened and a man in his fifties and his grown son stepped out. They almost ran into Jake and Mac. "Oh, how beautiful," said the son. "Can we pet the dogs?" "Sure, that's why we're here," Sherry replied. The son knelt down and embraced the dogs, then jumped up and asked, "Can they visit a patient?" He glanced at his father, lifting his eyebrows to seek approval. His father looked down at the floor and said slowly, with emotion, "My wife is very ill." I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, "We've seen lots of very sick patients. Which room is she in?" They led the way down the hall, and as we entered the silent room, we saw the patient lying on her side under the covers. She was asleep, twisted in a fetal position. She was very pale, and we knew instantly that this should be a short visit. I pulled a chair over next to her head. I sat down and Jake hopped right up into my lap. I gently took the woman's clenched fist and let her knuckles stroke Jake's long soft ears. I spoke directly to her, "This is Jake, and he's got very long ears. We think he's part cocker spaniel and part Irish setter." Her hand relaxed, slowly opened and lightly gripped onto Jake's ear. Jake glanced at me with his big deer eyes; we knew we'd made contact. I asked the woman, "Did you ever think you'd see a dog in the hospital?" She opened her eyes just a bit and answered very slowly, but clearly, "No, I never thought I'd see a dog here." She started to gently pat Jake's head unaided, with a completely open hand. I smiled. She smiled. Jake smiled. I said, "He's got a partner here. MacDuff would like to see you if it's okay with you." Sherry lifted MacDuff up. The patient's face filled with delight when she saw Mac, a beautiful sheltie. She exclaimed, "My father used to raise shelties." She asked her son to help her up so she could hug Mac. Every eye in that stark hospital room was on them. Her husband and son beamed. We didn't stay much longer after that hug, but the once-solemn room was now filled with warmth. For Sherry and I, this was an absolutely lovely visit with a devoted family. But as we enthusiastically told the nurse about the patient talking and hugging Mac, she interrupted, "You must have the wrong room." We confirmed the name and the room. The nurse stood very still. "What is it?" Sherry asked. She replied, "I have goose bumps." The nurse went on to explain that this patient was very sick. Only 5 percent of her brain was functioning. On her arrival, they didn't think she'd make it through the first night. She'd been there a week, but had not awakened - she wasn't expected to awake. Family and friends had been keeping a vigil by her bedside the entire time. Now we all had goose bumps. As the nurse scurried down the hall to check on her patient, we saw the father and son holding tightly to each other outside the room. They were jubilant. We turned and looked down at Mac and Jake sound asleep in the middle of the nurses' station. I guess miracles are exhausting. For the next six years, I was blessed with Jake's company, and I'm grateful for every second. My dog, and others like him, had a power that left me in awe: He lay with people as they prepared for death. He listened as a young mother rehearsed her words to her children, telling them that she wouldn't be there to celebrate their joys or comfort them in their sadness. He had the ability to help patients overcome pain even morphine couldn't mask. He comforted family members as they said their last good-byes to loved ones. I felt so privileged to be a part of our therapy team, not only because I witnessed what Jake was able to do, but because I had the voice to tell of it, and to celebrate it, both during his lifetime and even now, long after he is gone. It's simple: My dog Jake worked miracles with his love. Halloween Angels By Steven J. Lesko Jr. Submitted by Laurie S. Brooks On Halloween, I brought my wife home from the hospital to live out her remaining days. Remembering that the children would come for trick-or-treat, and realizing I was not prepared with any candy, I quickly gathered whatever I could find in the house. The first arrivals were three girls about fifteen years old. I apologized for my poor treats and told them I was not able to get any because of my wife's illness. They thanked me and went off. About a minute later they returned, and each one gave me a handful of candy from their bags. Through my tears, I tried to return it, but these wonderful young ladies rushed off, leaving me with: "We hope she gets well." I do not know these beautiful young women, but I'd like them to know that their simple act of kindness brought joy and hope to me when there was none. Even though my wife has since passed on, the memories of a sad time will be brightened by the thought of the kindness of these three angels. May God bless them. A Jelly Bean for Halloween By Evelyn M. Gibb The bag of assorted candies was ready, and I'd been looking forward to visits from pint-sized goblins. But Halloween morning, my arthritis flared up, and by evening, I could barely move. I couldn't possibly answer each knock on the door to distribute the goodies, so I decided to fasten the candy bag to the door and watch the parade of trick-or-treaters from my darkened living room. The first to arrive was a ballet dancer with three little ghosts. Each picked out a sweet in turn. When the last tiny hand emerged full-fisted, I heard the ballerina scold: "You're not supposed to take more than one!" I was pleased big sister would play conscience for the little one. Princesses, astronauts, skeletons and aliens followed. More children showed up than I had expected. The candy was running low, and I was about to turn off the porch light when I noticed four more visitors. The three oldest reached into the bag and pulled out Hershey bars. I held my breath, hoping there would be one left for the tiny witch. But when she pulled out her hand, all it held was a single orange jelly bean. Already the others were calling, "C'mon, Emily, let's go. There's no one home to give you more." But Emily lingered an extra moment. She dropped the candy in her bag and then paused, facing the doors. Deliberately, she said, "Thank you, house. I like the jelly bean." Then I watched her scamper away to join her fellow trick-or-treaters. One dear little witch had cast her spell on me.
 
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