THE WOMAN IN 10-C

I made my way to the back of a small commuter plane, thirty-seat twin-engine propeller jet. I plunked into seat 10-A, grateful to see there was an empty seat between me and a woman in seat 10-C. I was looking forward stretching out and relaxing during the hour-and-a-half flight home to Madison from Cincinnati.

I smiled and nodded to the woman in seat 10-C. She appeared to be in her late fifties and had salt-and-pepper hair. She nodded back. As I buckled my seat belt, I felt her looking at me expectantly, as if she wanted to chat, so I asked pleasantly, “Have you heard how the weather in Wisconsin?”

“No, I haven’t,” she replied.
“Hope it’s not icy,” I said. She offered no response.

Maybe I read her wrong, and she doesn’t want to talk. Rather glad that I wouldn’t have to keep up a conversation, I closed my eyes to rest. Within a few moments, I heard her say something softly.

“Pardon me?” I asked.
“I said you have a lovely skin,” she repeated.
“Thank you.” I smiled. She half smiled and nodded but didn’t say any more, so I closed my eyes again.
“You have to take care of you skin like yours.”

I opened my eyes. “Pardon me?” I wasn’t sure I had heard her correctly.

“Skin like your…you’re so fair-skinned. You have to use sunscreen.”
“Right. Of course, with the crummy weather we’ve been having lately, I don’t have to worry about the sun these days!” Then I thought. Why is this lady so interested in my skin? Is this the best she can do to strike up a conversation?

“Do you have children?” she asked.

Well, at least she’s moving on to a topic I enjoy talking about, I thought. “Yes, I do. Three.”
“Do they have skin like yours? Fair?”
“Uh, yes they do, pretty fair.”
“Do you put sunscreen on them?”

Aha! I’ll bet this lady is trying to sell me some kind of skin-care program! I knew she wanted to talk! Not only is she going to try to sell me products, I’ll bet she’s going to try to talk me into joining a network marketing scheme before we land!

“Yes, I do,” I said aloud. “I always use sunscreen. In fact, I have a whole cupboard full of sunscreen: waterproof, sensitive skin, you name it, we’ve got it. We are always ready for any skin-care emergency!” I closed my eyes again, hoping she’d gotten the message that I sensed she was looking at me. I opened my eyes and she quickly looked away, her face tensed. I noticed her hands clenched in her lap, her knuckles white.

“Excuse me,” I asked. “Are you…alright?”
She looked as if she was trying to speak. “I…I…”
“Ma’am?” she seemed ill. “Ma’am, are you feeling okay?”
“I - I’m sorry. I just…I just came from…my daughter’s. My daughter just passed away.”

I gave a little gasp. I felt ashamed. Here I was thinking the poor woman was trying to sell me something, when she needed was to talk. “I’m sorry,” I said softly. I didn’t know what else to say. After a long pause I asked, “Your daughter…she lived in Cincinnati?”
The woman nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through.”
She nodded. I wanted to say something to comfort but had no words.

“She and her husband have two children. Boys. They are a blessing.”
“I’m sure they are. How old are they?”
“Nine and eleven.’
“Do you have any pictures of your grandsons?”
“Yes.” She smiled and took out her wallet, which was filled with school photos of the boys.
“They are blond like their mother. Suzanne was fair. She…she died of sin ca She smiled and took out her wallet, which was filled with school photos of the boys.
“They are blond like their mother. Suzanne was fair. She…she died of skin cancer. That’s why I hope you…take care of your skin.”
I swallowed hard, but my eyes filled and tears overflowed.
I wiped my eyes and extended my hand. ‘My name is Cheryl.”
She took my hand and. “I’m Louise.”

We talked for an hour. About the recent months she had spent with her dying daughter. About the unfathomable pain-and the sweet moments of surprising joy. About her grandsons, her family, and her two dogs. About my children. Sometimes we laughed.

“Well be arriving in Madison in about ten minutes,” the pilot announced.

I noticed you have a guitar,” Louise remarked.
“Yes, I sing a bit.”
“What kind of songs do you sing?”
“Mostly songs I write.”
“You write songs! Would you sing something?”
“Well, I…” I looked around. At least we were in the very last row of seats. Perhaps I wouldn’t be heard over the roar of the engines.
“If you don’t mind a cappella, I’ll sing you the chorus of a song I’ve been working on.”

    Drop a stone into the water, and in a moment it is gone,
    But a hundred ripples circle on and on and on and on.
    Yes, a hundred ripples circle on and on and on…
    A hundred ripples circle on and on and on…

She squeezed my arm. “That was beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I answered, feeling a little embarrassed.
We would be landing in a few minutes. I was glad that the whine of the engines made it nearly impossible to talk. I looked out the window as we approached the runway. The plane came on a stop, and the lights came on. We got our bags from the overhead bins, chatting about the rain while we waited to get off the plane. As we entered the terminal, I warned Louise to drive carefully in the freezing drizzle.

“My neighbor is coming to pick me up. There is she.” Louise said, pointing
“Well, take care, Louise.” I gave her a quick hug.
She nodded. “You know,” she said, squeezing my hand. “Your song…the ripples…Love is like that, isn’t it? It goes on and on and on. Love never dies.”

I swallowed hard and nodded. Her neighbor approached us, and we exchanged greetings. As I walked away, I thought about the stone in the water. I thought about Louise’s remark, how love never dies. And how every act of love we express can have ripple effect.

You never know what ripples your word or actions might make in the lives of others.

    Offer one small act of kindness and in a moment it is gone
    But a hundred ripples circle on and on and on.
A hundred ripples circle on and one and on….

Such a wonderful story to tell. This story is from the book of Cheryl Kirking, Ripples of Joy.

QUIET ONE

This is one story that I would like to share to you all. A simple kindness means a lot to others. I got this nice story in the book Ripple of Joy. I hope you like it.

The girls on the tenth floor were a rowdy bunch. We worked the afternoon shift at the bank, from 3:00 P.M. until midnight. All the checks bank customers had written during the day passed through our processing machines during those evening hours. It was my job to supervise the little crew and make sure, through all the horseplay and rough girl talk, which work actually got done. Most of the time I was able to balance being good old girl and trying to keep the lid on things so the work was done correctly.

Jan was hired about a year after I started my supervisory job. She was very frail-looking girl with light red hair and pale blue eyes, and she was extremely quiet. Her first night on the job she asked me if she could use the bathroom. I told her she didn’t need permission.

I noticed that the “Previous Experience” section on her job application was sparse. One of my big complaints about my job was that, although I supervised, someone else did the hiring. Here we go again, I thought. This shrinking violet will never fit in here. They’ve given me a problem.

During the first month Jan was absent three days, and I decided to have a chat with her. She looks crestfallen when I called her into my cubicle. She explained to me in hushed and halting tones that she had been diabetic since early childhood, and health was sometimes an issue. She apologized for her absences and swore she could promise better attendance in the future. I was skeptical, but she looked so sincere that I couldn’t doubt she meant to keep her promise.

I noticed that the older girls gave Jan a wide berth, pretty much ignoring her, even at lunchtime when they were all busy talking about boys and hair and clothes and movies. Jan, at her age twenty-two, still lived at home and didn’t have much of a social life. Her mom dropped her off at work, and her dad pick her up. She never contributed to the conversation except to offer to help clean the lunchroom or to help out another girl who had gotten behind her work.

Wanting to encourage her, I offered her tips on how to win the monthly employee contest. When I could, I ate lunch with her. She told me about her luck growing plants and invited me over to her house to see her sunroom, crowded with exotic specimens she had successfully nurtured. One Monday she brought some pictures of an orchid that had bloomed over the weekend. I regret to say that, with my busy life, I never saw the actual flower.

One Friday night about six months after Jan started, we heard shouting down the hallway. Fire!

I ran to take a look. A corner of our paper supply room had burst into flames. I called 911, and the fire department responded right away. The brisk blaze was contained successfully, but not before we had evacuated the tenth floor. With almost two hours lost, our productivity had suffered. I asked for volunteers to work late, but most of the girls had reasons they couldn’t help out. Only Jan quietly said she would be glad to stay.

We worked together until almost 4 A.M. to finish up. She chatted cheerfully about her family and pets. By this time she was comfortable with me and was opening up a lot more. She even talked about a young man at church that she had her eye on. I remember being a bit overtired and telling silly jokes to pass the time. She giggled happily. I noticed she looked pale, but my focus was on getting the work done and getting home. “Thanks so much for staying,” I told her when we were finished. “See ya Monday.”

But I didn’t. I never saw her alive again.

Jan’s mom called Monday afternoon to tell me that Jan passed away Monday morning after we worked together. Her diabetes had taken its final toll on her heart. She had gone to sleep and never awakened.

I was stunned. I had never occurred to me that she was that delicate. She was so young that her death seemed impossible. I forgot to ask her mother about funeral arrangements, but her sister called a few hours later and gave me the information, asking me if I could attend. I said I would.

I felt very odd the morning of the funeral. I hadn’t really known Jan very well and thought I would feel awkward at the service. But I had accepted the invitation and was determined to see it through.

Jan’s father greeted me with warm smile and handshake at the door of the church. “You’re Kim, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am. I’m sorry about your loss.”

He nodded. “We are so pleased that Jan’s best friend could be here today,” he said. “She spoke about you often and told us you were the closest friend she had ever had. Thank you so much for what you meant to my daughter.”

The words had barely sunk in when Jan’s sister and mother surrounded me and voiced the same sentiment. They gave me a place of honor at the front of the church, reserved for those closest to the deceased, and I was the guest of honor at the little reception at the family home after the funeral. I had been important to Jan, and now I was important to her family as well.

Whenever I question whether I truly can have an impact on others, I remembered Jan. I’m grateful I was able to make a little room for her in my busy life back then. Yes, I wish I had done more. But Jan thought me that it’s never too late: Opportunity for small kindness surrounds me everyday.

Next time, I’ll make sure to go see the orchid.

LEARNING LOVE FROM A LABRADOR

I love reading stories and this story that I am about to share to you is one that I got from reading the book, Ripples of Joy. Learn and feel the love and share it to others.

My recovery from an intricate foot surgery was long and difficult, and I was feeling very sorry for myself, confined, as I was to wheelchair or hopping about balanced on a walker. I despaired of ever walking again and enjoying normal mobility. To make matters worse, it was summer, and I missed being near the soothing seaside and watching the waves roll in.

One weekend, my daughter Cindy, her roommate Georgan, and their two handsome Labradors came to visit. They had driven from central California in a van large enough to accommodate all of us, including my wheelchair. When asked where I’d like to go for a drive. I immediately responded, “To the beach!”

“Dog’s Beach” is a special section of the coastline nearby where, for stretch of a mile, dog owners are allowed to bring their dogs. Naturally this is where we went, especially as the dogs had never experienced the ocean and the girls were eager to see their reaction.

My wheelchair could not manage the sand, so the girls set me on the sidewalk high above the water, where I had a good view and could watch them play fetch with the dogs. It was fun to see the girls toss a stick into the waves and see the dogs happily bark as they retrieved the sticks and brought them back for more of the game.

Their play had gone on for about ten minutes when one of the dogs, Sky, suddenly left the water’s edge and ran up the bank of sand to the sidewalk where I was sitting. She came up to me, laid her head on my lap, and gazed into my face with her beautiful eyes as if to say, “Are you all right? I know something must be wrong if you’re not down by the water with us.” I gave her a big hug and encouraged her to go back to play.

A few minutes later, Sky was back again, checking on me, head on my lap, and telling me with her eyes, “I care for you.” Those eyes of hers, those soulful eyes, brought me close to tears.

When we got home and the dogs and girls were hosed off and fed, I was relaxing in an armchair with my cast-enclosed foot up on an ottoman. Soon, Sky was at my armchair, her head up and her eyes telling me that she was still on duty watching out for me. So expressive were her eyes that I could almost hear her words of concern and support.

When the visit was over and the girls had gone back to central California, the memory of Sky stayed with me. She had taught me a lesson: just the expression of caring and concern had a salutary effect. It made me feel warm and secure-and yes, loved.

Time passed. I healed and went back to my work as a school librarian.

Back at work, I used the lesson that I learned from Sky to change how I dealt with staff and students. Where once I had passed another teacher with just a quick “Hi,” I now slowed down, made eye contact, asked “how’s it going today?” and waited for an answer. When students seemed overwhelmed by all the books to choose from, I took time to ask about their interests and guided them to books they might like.

Taking time and extra effort to show caring and support was more than its own reward. The staff now comes into the library with big smiles, and the kid think it’s a good idea to give me a hug as a thank you for the experience of a book they enjoyed.

I hope this will be permanent way of life for me-showing that I care. After all, what should Sky think if I failed to put into practice all she’s taught me?