http://thisibelieve.org A public dialogue about belief — one essay at a time Sat, 11 Feb 2012 05:20:01 +0000 en hourly 1 People from all walks of life describe their personal philosophies in a brief essay. This I Believe, Inc. clean This I Believe, Inc. wp@thisibelieve.com wp@thisibelieve.com (This I Believe, Inc.) This I Believe, Inc. A public dialogue about belief—one essay at a time believe,belief,murrow,npr,beleive,beleif,bob,edwards,featured,essay,history,philosophy http://thisibelieve.org/images/TIB-logo-rss.jpg http://thisibelieve.org http://thisibelieve.org/essay/27746/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/27746/#comments Fri, 10 Feb 2012 20:00:37 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/27746/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/27746/feed/ 0 Kathy Heffernan’s son, Sam, struggled through elementary school. But his sixth grade teacher took the time to encourage Sam’s strengths and inspired him to be a better student. Heffernan believes all children deserve such a loving, dedicated teacher. On Valentine’s Day, my eleven-year-old son Sam begged me to allow him to buy his teacher an enormous red heart filled with delectable chocolates. We compromised, and he bought her a smaller but respectably sized heart. On his small budget, $4.99 was a huge investment, and I was touched by his generosity. Sam has not always loved teachers. He doesn’t yet admit that he likes school, but he does like to hang out in his classroom after three o’clock, and he is excited about some class projects. Last year, Sam’s most memorable achievement was having the longest “missing assignment” list in the entire fifth grade. He struggled all year to keep his head above the academic sea. Many nights Sam sank into tears of frustration while working his way through another pile of homework. In defense of his fifth grade teacher, she didn’t really assign two hours of homework each night. Sam was bringing home all of the work he had not finished in class each day. His focus was somewhere else when the other students were doing their class work. He may have traveled to Narnia or Middle Earth or Alagaesia. Wherever he was, it must have been much more interesting than fifth grade because he spent a lot of time there. Sam approached sixth grade with the anticipation of one awaiting a root canal. I must admit I was concerned when I first met Mrs. Hogan. She was a beginning teacher. She seemed so young and sweet and inexperienced. How was this new teacher going to lift up a boy who had learned to dread school? As the first weeks of school flew by, the same missing assignment issue reappeared. Then, slowly, it began to disappear. Sam had his assignment notebook filled in every day. Amazed, I wondered aloud which bribe had inspired him. “Mrs. Hogan checks everyone’s notebook every day, Mom.” Sam reported. As I observed this teacher’s interactions with my son at the end of each day, I realized that Sam’s inattentiveness and disorganization were not the primary things that Mrs. Hogan noticed about him. She recognized Sam as a knowledgeable, capable student who loves to read. He rose to her expectations. Sam began to do his homework without numerous reminders or a major search through his crowded backpack. He brought home less and less class work. He earned six A’s on his second-quarter report card. I still don’t know how much of this miracle is due to the magic of maturity and how much is due to the magic of Mrs. Hogan. I do know that my son loves his sixth grade teacher, and I think there is a magic in relationships that can motivate children when nothing else will. I believe that every child should have at least one teacher whom he absolutely loves and admires. Every child should have a teacher who inspires his best effort. Every child should have a teacher who inspires the purchase of a candy-filled heart on Valentine’s Day. This I Believe, Inc. clean 27746 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/25233/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/25233/#comments Fri, 03 Feb 2012 20:00:03 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/25233/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/25233/feed/ 0 Common objects can often evoke powerful memories. For Opal Ruth Prater, it was a shirt that belonged to her late husband. It reminded Prater of the beautiful life they shared, and how her love for him is as strong as ever – even 15 years after his de... I found the shirt hanging on the back of a chair in the cook shed when we came home from the funeral. It had been a beautiful day when he last wore it. We had cut the last of the corn, gathered pumpkins, and picked the last of the green beans. Then he took the kids down the ridge to pick apples, and the warmth of the day combined with the heat from his labor forced him to remove it. There it hung on that old, straight-back chair, mocking me with its emptiness. With a cry, I snatched it up. It smelled of sunshine and fresh air, that wonderful outdoorsy scent of my husband emanating from this final source. I buried my head in it and cried, as I had been unable to cry before. My children gathered around me, their small hands patting, trying to comfort me. These four beautiful children were now my only reason to go on, and from them I drew the strength to dry my tears. My husband, Dusty, had had a heart condition, one that could be controlled with medication, the doctors told us. “He should live to be an old man.” When he lay down in the yard that lovely fall day, he was only forty-one years old. Our idyllic mountain home became a lonely, haunted place. Days passed slowly without Dusty there to laugh with me, read to me while I cooked supper, and rub my back until I fell asleep at night. When things got really rough, I would slip out to the cook shed, bury my face in his shirt, and cry out my sorrow and frustration. That was as close as I could get to the lost half of me. Then the day came when we had to go out for groceries. It stormed while we were out and delayed our trip home, so we went to bed right after our return. The next morning, I went out to the cook shed for a few moments of meditation before the children woke up. Some of our goats and sheep had taken shelter in the shed from the previous day’s storm, and they had knocked Dusty’s shirt off the chair and trampled it underfoot. I grabbed it up, but its wonderful, comforting smell was gone. Fifteen years have passed since my husband’s death. My children are grown, and I have to admit that they turned out pretty well. I still catch myself thinking, “We didn’t do half bad, did we, Honey?” I heard someone say of a departed husband, “I loved him.” How do you get to the point where you can speak of that love in the past tense? If that love is past, why does the memory still have such power to invoke both happiness and sadness? I believe that as long as I am alive, Dusty’s memory will live in me. I see his eyes peeking out at me from my grandson’s face. I find something of his spirit in each of our children. My husband’s death affected our family greatly, but his life impacted it more. He will live as long as one of us is alive to remember and to love him. And sometimes on a warm fall day, I catch that outdoorsy scent of fresh air and sunshine, and my face is buried in Dusty’s shirt once more. Although I know he sleeps, I hear his shout of laughter somewhere just ahead, and I think he waits for me. I believe that love is stronger than death. This I Believe, Inc. clean 25233 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4996/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4996/#comments Fri, 27 Jan 2012 20:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4996/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/4996/feed/ 0 Election year battle lines are being drawn between and even within the parties, leaving some voters yearning for choices other than the political extremes. Cande Iveson lives in America’s heartland, and she believes the middle ground is vital to our de... I was born in the middle, geographically speaking, in the heart of the country: Missouri. In my six-year-old head, I could play it all out: our house in the middle of town; my town in the middle of the state; my state in the middle of the United States; the United States in the middle of North America; the pattern extending out to the farthest reaches of the starry universe. As a child, being in the middle seemed somehow extraordinary, magical, fabulous—the best place to be. Growing up, I came to understand that the middle was also a place between two opposing points of view. And in the last few years this middle ground hasn't been so comfortable. I’ve even doubted whether there was a real middle, or just an empty space between extremes. There seemed some pervasive expectation that sufficient force would persuade people in the middle to choose, picking one extreme over the other. It felt like an English speaker trying to communicate with a non-English speaker: If they don't understand you the first time, speak louder—as if clarity comes from volume alone. Add the implication that those in the middle were somehow flawed, weak or indecisive and you have bleak times indeed! Today, I reject this implication and, confidently, I reaffirm my belief in the intrinsic value of the middle. I can be (and am) a political independent with Democratic and Republican friends, social and professional. I comfortably hold some deep and traditional religious values within the context of my more freethinking faith tradition. In matters of public policy I am soundly liberal (soft-hearted) and fiscally conservative (hard-headed). I am a patriot without a flag decal. I am a true believer in things that I can't see and I think faith is all about doubt. None of these strike me as contradictory. Being in the middle is more than not being something else. It is not just a non-extreme, a non-position, but has its own, legitimate, truth. I also believe that there are a huge number of other people in the middle. Just like me they have felt jaded, excluded, isolated, helpless. They don't see themselves, their values, reflected in either extreme. They see the focus on extremes as a tug-of-war offering limited positive outcomes. A taut rope either breaks in the middle or one side prevails, leaving a significant percentage of players in an untenable heap. I believe it is possible for a strong middle to break this stalemate with strong values, clear insights, resistance to extreme choices and sheer numbers. I believe in a radical, activist middle that will restore our sense of balance, and I am ready to participate. I believe that being in the middle can, once again, seem extraordinary, magical and fabulous—the best place to be. This I Believe, Inc. clean 4996 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/34651/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/34651/#comments Fri, 20 Jan 2012 20:00:20 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/34651/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/34651/feed/ 0 Policeman Tim Wilson knows the dangers of his job. That’s why he has a letter to his family sealed in an envelope in his locker at work. If something bad does happen to him, Wilson wants his kids to understand why it’s important to strive to be a bett... I believe that my actions define my beliefs, not my words. I wrote a letter to my kids a few years ago. It’s three pages long, and it sums up what I’ve learned in four decades of life. My kids are too young to understand now, but by the time they reach adulthood, they will have heard most of the advice in that letter: live in the moment, do not attach yourself to physical things, treat others the way you would like to be treated, find happiness in the service of others, make the most out of today, follow your dreams, don’t take yourself too seriously, be aware that there are hypocrites and manipulators in the world, et cetera. I sealed the letter in a plain white envelope, and wrote instructions not to open it unless something horrible happened to me. A “Marvin the Martian” magnet holds it to the side of my musty gray metal locker at work. It is surrounded by police uniforms, spare change, “tribute of mourning” ribbons for my badge (to honor fallen colleagues), pictures of my kids, The Far Side cartoons, poems, scraps of paper with handwritten notes, business cards, dust, and lint—remnants of almost twenty years of serving others. As a police officer, I’ve seen life snuffed out or irrevocably changed in an instant. I realize that could happen to me at any time. Yet knowing that letter is there in my locker makes me more comfortable with my own mortality. If something does happen to me, my children will get that letter. In it, they will read about my love for them and about the advice that I want to pass on to them when they are old enough to understand it. Every day, when I open my locker, I see the letter. It reminds me to be careful at work, and to show my children and the people I come into contact with that I truly understand and practice everything I’ve written. If that day comes and my children finally read the letter, I hope that because of my actions, they will take my written beliefs to heart and improve upon my example. But for me, it’s not enough to write down my beliefs. I try to be the best person I can be every day—even in very difficult circumstances, even with offensive people. I’m more successful some days than others. I curse too much, sometimes I’m cynical, and I don’t go to church as often as I should. I also get depressed, yell at my kids occasionally, and sometimes I’m not as loving or as compassionate as I should be. In fact, I am far from perfect, but I hope my children will eventually realize that perfection is an illusion. What really matters is that, instead of just writing about our beliefs, we all take action to be the best humans we can be. This I Believe, Inc. clean 34651 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/10761/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/10761/#comments Fri, 13 Jan 2012 20:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/10761/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/10761/feed/ 0 For many people, work defines the pace of their lives. That’s especially true for New England dairyman Dave Stewart. He believes his cows help him appreciate the slower rhythms of the natural world, and embrace the responsibilities of farm and family... I believe in Monique and Julie, my cows. I believe in my cows for their alchemical conversion of sunshine into milk. Cows work their magic with the simple ingredients of grass, water, and a dry shelter from wind and rain or the summer sun. I believe in my cows because we drink their milk, eat homemade yogurt and cheese, and enrich the gardens’ soil with their manure. My cows and I are faithful allies in the effort to keep our pastures safe from their natural enemies: trees. The woods may have looked lovely dark and deep to a poet who lived down the road in Derry, but trees are patient partisans waiting to advance and reclaim land which is rightfully theirs. We hold the trees back, my cows and I, for our co-conspirators: grass and clover, vetch and weed. Throughout the growing season, I watch for the places where I will turn out the animals to strip the leaves off the seedlings that sprout in the sunshine at the edge of field and forest. I believe my cows stretch time. Despite the demands of single-handing a small, diversified farm and shepherding two teenagers, I find time to stop and watch how a healthy cow moves, and how a sick or stressed animal shrinks and shies. When I drop off dairy to my neighbors, we talk about our families and wonder where time has gone. After dinner, my kids undo time by making ice cream soup out of the laboriously frozen product that had been my goal minutes before. Morning and night, I, like my grandfather the dairy farmer before me, confirm Orion's progress through New Hampshire’s dark winter skies. Walking to the barn I remember the grad student I was at the time of his death a quarter of a century ago. I fretted over the responsibilities that life's defining events would bring. But milking the cows reminds me that the ability to shoulder a burden is a gift on loan. Soon enough, age or infirmity will end my twice daily walks to the barn and the cows will slip into memory, where the burden will be light and easily shared with anyone who will listen. Tonight, though, fatigue gathers in my arm as I carry a sloshing pail of milk back to the house. A brittle cold snap has settled over the farm, leaving my fingers and toes numb and slowing my work in the barn. But the glow from the kitchen windows and the glitter of starlight on the snow warms me. Thanks to my cows I appreciate the responsibilities of my here and now. Ayuh, I believe in my cows. This I Believe, Inc. clean 10761 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7628/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7628/#comments Fri, 06 Jan 2012 19:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7628/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/7628/feed/ 0 People sometimes tell Brian Schoeni and his wife they are on track for sainthood because they’ve adopted three girls from China. But Schoeni believes adoption isn’t about the parents. It’s about the children who are in need of a home and loving family. I believe in adoption. You don’t need a PhD to figure that out when you see my family. My wife and I are average-looking Caucasians. According to our daughters’ homeland, I have a big nose. They, on the other hand, have small noses. Not to mention dancing almond eyes that are black – unless you get up close and look at them in bright sunshine – and black hair that is hot to the touch as it soaks up the Colorado sun. Yes, we are from America’s middle; they are from China’s. But the geographies of land and face are irrelevant. I believe in adoption because of its intentionality; because of how it changes lives; because of the way it puts skin and bones, laughter and tears on the whole idea of hope. My wife and I knew we’d have kids. When we finally got serious about it, all roads led back to adoption. We adopted because we wanted to. Or maybe we did it because we were supposed to. But make no mistake: our parenthood is anything but unplanned. We did paperwork. We worked extra jobs to pay agency fees. And we waited. And then, a day that started with a sewage backup in our master bathroom ended with an e-mail delivering the most amazing picture: a wide-eyed girl wearing multiple sweaters, her hair tied up in a topknot with red, white, and pink ribbons. Our daughter. I printed out that photo and carried it everywhere, including to the other side of the world, where I got to hold the real thing, and realize just how big – and small – the world really is. Sometimes people – usually strangers who see us out and about – act like my wife and I are on track for sainthood because we’ve adopted three girls who, by no fault of their own, found themselves navigating life without a family. Those people don’t get it. Adoption is not about me and my kids. It’s about all of us. It’s about taking something that in some ways is selfish – wanting to be a parent – and transforming it into something that affirms the best in humanity: the ability to love someone unconditionally, simply because I choose to. I am not alone. Families that grow by way of adoption are everywhere, and we defy stereotypes. I’m not old. I’m not infertile. I’m not driven by pity or piety. I’m just a guy who knows I’m the luckiest dad in the world. I wish that adopting was on everyone’s radar. Not as some peripheral blip, some second-choice backup plan, but as part of that very first “should-we-become-parents?” conversation. I know adoption isn’t a perfect fit for every parent-to-be. But I do believe this: adoption is a perfect fit for every kid in every corner of our world who needs the love of a family. This I Believe, Inc. clean 7628 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/23878/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/23878/#comments Fri, 30 Dec 2011 20:02:05 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/23878/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/23878/feed/ 0 No gift, dinner invitation, or gesture of friendship escapes Michelle Lee’s notice. As a dedicated thank-you-note writer, Lee believes expressing gratitude is more than a social grace. It helps her fully appreciate the love and support she receives d... I believe in meaningful expressions of gratitude. More specifically, I believe in the power of the well-written thank-you letter. My sister and I were taught at a very early age to write thank-you letters for birthday and Christmas gifts. We carefully copied addresses from our mom’s address book into our own pretty little books, and a new box of stationery was always among my gifts wrapped under the tree. We wrote our letters on December 26. At the latest. Every year. It was an important ritual in our home, and it has turned me into an avid thank-you-letter writer as an adult. I still send a great deal of personal mail, and I am entirely smitten with all of the trappings of letter writing: unique stamps, beautiful stationery, fountain pens. I feel an incredible rush of satisfaction sticking a stamp on a carefully penned thank-you letter and sending it off in the mail. Nearly every Monday morning I sit down with my favorite pen and write a few thank-yous. I write them for parties I attend, dinners I’m fed, or just to thank a friend for listening. It is one of the highlights of my week. Several years ago I even sent my mom a thank-you letter to thank her for teaching me to count my blessings on paper. Sending letters of thanks out into the world has made me more appreciative of the tremendous love, support, and kindness I receive daily. My father died when I was twenty-seven. Even then, I found comfort in writing letters of thanks for the many gifts of words I received. At a time when all I wanted to do was retreat into my own grief, the act of giving thanks forced me to stay connected to the world and to the lives of the living. And while it may seem trivial, my belief in well-written thank-you letters has secured my popularity. Since real thank-you letters are woefully few and far between, my social graces are considered a charming eccentricity, and my friends and family always seem genuinely moved by my efforts. I was a middle school English teacher, and as I told my students, good manners are the cornerstone of a quality community. I believe that expressions of gratitude like thank-you letters keep me going. I am more motivated to do kind things for others when I feel appreciated, and I feel that I perpetuate kindness and generosity by genuinely expressing my thanks. What many people consider to be a dreadful chore has become one of my favorite pastimes. So simple, the thank-you letter, but so powerful. This I Believe, Inc. clean 23878 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8665/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8665/#comments Fri, 23 Dec 2011 20:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8665/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/8665/feed/ 0 As a young immigrant to America, Becky Sun heard about a magical man who brings Christmas presents. Unfortunately, her parents didn’t know about the tradition, so Santa failed to visit their house. When she finally met Santa years later, I believe in Santa Claus. No, I didn’t always believe, but nine years ago, on Christmas Eve, he knocked on my front door and handed me a stocking filled with candy and toys. Unlike the majority of my friends, I wasn’t introduced to the jolly guy until second grade. My family emigrated from Taiwan to a small town in central Georgia, where my dad got a visa for his family and a job doctoring inmates at a nearby penitentiary. I had just learned English, and from what little I could gather from my classmates, there was this guy who would come down one’s chimney and put toys in one’s stocking on Christmas Eve! What a great country, I thought. After I looked up stocking in my Chinese-English dictionary, I knew what I had to do. On that fateful night, after everyone went to bed, I took my longest, cleanest knee sock and attached it to a nail already on the mantel. Obviously, the previous owners of this house were no strangers to this Santa character. Unfortunately, my parents were. I woke up before everyone else on Christmas Day and ran to the fireplace. To make a sob story short, I was hit with the reality of a flaccid sock and the biggest lie ever told. I indulged in a few tears, quickly took down the sock, and stuffed it in the back of a drawer. Santa was dead. Every December since then, the topic of Christmas memories would inevitably come up, and I would regale my friends with my poor-little-me story. I had to make it as wry as possible, or else I would cry. How could I know that Santa was just late? Nine years ago, on Christmas Eve, an older man with a white beard and a red cap knocked on my front door. He said, “I’ve been looking for you for twenty-five years.” He handed me a bulging red stocking, winked, and left. On top of the stocking was a card. It read: “For Becky—I may have missed you in the second grade, but you’ve always lived in my heart. Santa.” Through tear-blurred eyes, I recognized the curlicue handwriting of Jill, a friend I had met just two months before. I later discovered that the older man was her father. Jill had seen the hurt little girl underneath the jaded thirty-something woman and decided to do something about it. So now I believe that Santa is real. I don’t mean the twinkle-eyed elf of children’s mythology or the creation of American holiday marketers. Those Santas annoy and sadden me. I believe in the Santa Claus that dwells inside good and thoughtful people. This Santa does not return to the North Pole after a twenty-four-hour delivery frenzy but lives each day purposefully, really listens to friends, and then plans deliberate acts of kindness. This I Believe, Inc. clean 8665 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/14838/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/14838/#comments Fri, 16 Dec 2011 17:00:00 +0000 Dennis Whiteman http://thisibelieve.org/essay/14838/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/14838/feed/ 0 Susan Hall has a hectic life filled with a full-time job, household chores, and raising a developmentally challenged child. But when her son got her to stop and enjoy some music with him, Hall learned how loving it is to sit with someone and simply lis... It showed up last Christmas, a gift borne by eager grandparents. Long and unwieldy, we managed it through the front door, grandparents on the porch, I inside, angling it this way and that. Since the unwrapped present’s box boldly declared its contents, I dispensed with the usual wait-until-Christmas rule. We pried apart the box’s sharp staples, and there it was: the mother of all electronic keyboards. My son loves music. Diagnosed at age one with a rare seizure disorder that stalled his cognitive development, he is fond of rhythm, buttons, and lights. And so we have known some keyboards over the years. They’ve been presents from all over the place: eBay, garage sales, a local grocery store. Our basement is a bone yard of broken keyboards, some still working erratically if pounded in the right spots. The new present was spectacular. A song bank stores one hundred familiar tunes. By pressing a sequence of buttons, my son can change the instruments and tones in startling ways. We’ve heard everything from “Ode to Joy” with a disco beat to a haunting church organ rendition of “Happy Birthday.” I love the keyboard not because my son loves it, not because it is a great educational toy, but because it safely occupies him for long stretches. As long as I hear the stops and starts of the music blaring from my son’s room, I have time to fold towels, grade a paper, throw a roast in the oven, or read about my son’s disability. I have time to fantasize about mounting some public and terrific response to my son’s affliction. The keyboards have been great babysitters. One day I wandered into my son’s room. “Beautiful Dreamer” was playing. I sat down on the floor to cut my toenails. My son leaned back and flashed me a beatific smile. I smiled back: the music was nice, the piano just right. A few days later my son, insistent, led me to the bathroom connected to his bedroom. He climbed up on the toilet and reached into a basket perched on the windowsill. Then he handed me a pair of nail clippers. Instantly I understood. And so I sat for a while on his bedroom floor, just listening with him. “Four-four,” I requested, naming the number for my favorite tune, “Red River Valley.” He surprised me by accommodating my request, and we shared some smiles. As we listened, the sunlight came streaming through the blinds. It was brilliant and perfect and infused with that certain and unnamable something else. The other day, curious, I looked up the lyrics to “Red River Valley.” Come and sit by my side if you love me, Do not hasten to bid me adieu. And so I have come to believe in sitting and listening with someone as a powerful act, a loving action full with possibility. This I have learned from my son and his special music, a belief forged only after I was able to take a moment and listen. This I Believe, Inc. clean 14838 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/podcast-special-bob-edwards-and-dan-gediman-discuss-life-lessons/ http://thisibelieve.org/essay/podcast-special-bob-edwards-and-dan-gediman-discuss-life-lessons/#comments Wed, 14 Dec 2011 17:31:12 +0000 John http://thisibelieve.org/?post_type=essay&p=1000005503 http://thisibelieve.org/essay/podcast-special-bob-edwards-and-dan-gediman-discuss-life-lessons/feed/ 0 Bob Edwards talks with Dan Gediman about the new book, This I Believe: Life Lessons. They discuss and listen to essays exploring the power of saying hello, listening to your inner voice, discovering the strength that comes from tragedy, and much more. Bob Edwards talks with Dan Gediman about the new book, This I Believe: Life Lessons. They discuss and listen to essays exploring the power of saying hello, listening to your inner voice, discovering the strength that comes from tragedy, and much more. This I Believe, Inc. clean 1000005503