> > Susan's Magic Carpet > > Wrinkles of confusion rippled across Holly's forehead as > she unwrapped the gift from her best friend, Susan. > "I...I thought you could use it for something." Susan's > stammered explanation did nothing to help us understand why a > twelve-by-eighteen-inch dark blue carpet remnant was being > presented as a birthday gift. > My heart went out to our daughter. Starting out at a new > school during her freshman year had been a difficult adjustment. > Until she met Susan, Holly had experienced little success making > new friends. > The murmured "thanks" was barely audible as Holly tried > valiantly not to allow her disappointment to show. She laid the > piece of carpet on the kitchen counter, and the two girls headed > outside to play with the family dogs. > The extent of Holly's disappointment over the incident > didn't become evident until the following evening when she came > downstairs to say good night. "Well, I guess we know how much > my best friend thinks of me, huh, Mom?" Her attempt at a breezy > tone failed miserably. > Still bewildered by the situation myself, I didn't have > much to offer in the way of enlightenment. "I'm so sorry, > honey," was all I could manage to say. > The next morning, I carried a bulging kitchen sack outside. > My heart wrenched as I lifted the lid of the trash can and saw > Susan's carpet lying among the other discarded items. > Hesitating only a moment, I reached in and plucked it from amid > the debris. After giving it a light brushing, I brought it into > the house and tucked it away in the hall closet. Overshadowed > by the business of daily living, the carpet was soon forgotten. > Prior to Holly's birthday, Susan had been a regular visitor > in our home. On several occasions, she rode the bus home with > Holly and was one of the few friends ever permitted to stay over > on a school night. The girls did their homework together and > went to bed at a reasonable hour. > Now as I slid the evening meal into the oven, I realized it > had been nearly three weeks since we'd even heard mention of > Susan's name. I missed her warm smile and eager-to-please ways. > A rustle at the front door told me Holly had arrived home > from school. "Susan invited me to come over to her house after > school tomorrow," she announced as she plunked her books down on > the kitchen table. Although her voice carried a so-what > attitude, I sensed she was pleased by the invitation. > In spite of the number of times Susan had visited with us, > our invitations were never returned. "She wants you to come, > too, so you can meet her foster mom." The words "foster mom" > dangled in the air like a spent birthday balloon. Susan never > talked about her home life, and we didn't find it necessary to > pry. > Arrangements were made, and the girls rode home together on > the school bus the following day. As I negotiated the winding > country road that led to her house, Susan babbled nervously > about her foster mom and the seventeen cats she had taken in and > cared for with Susan's help. Several of these foster kitties > scattered as we pulled into the rutted gravel driveway. > A tall angular woman wearing a shapeless tan sweater over > navy blue pants stood in the screened doorway to greet us as we > approached the small farmhouse. "Excuse the mess," she > apologized, holding the door open while we threaded our way > through stuff that seemed to be everywhere. Knowing my > reputation for neatness, Holly's eyes darted in my direction to > quickly assess my reaction to such chaos. Susan's foster mom > waved a hand toward the kitchen counter, which was barely > visible through the assortment of cat medicines. "This is my > medicine cabinet," she explained. > Susan ushered us through the house. It seemed to be alive > with four-legged fur balls roaming underfoot and sprawling > across the backs of the dingy sofa and chairs. She proudly > showed us her room, which was sparsely but neatly decorated with > used furnishings. A tarnished picture frame sitting on a crate > beside the bed contained pictures of Susan's parents and > siblings from whom, we later learned, she had long since been > separated. > As the girls flopped down on the grayish-white bedspread to > compare notes about the school day, I followed Susan's foster > mom - who introduced herself as Glenda - into the kitchen. > After clearing a small area, Glenda placed a couple of mugs on > the table. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured us each a > cup of steaming black coffee. The tightness of her features > began to relax as we sipped our coffee and chatted about her > cats. > A warm glow shone in her eyes as she revealed to me her > fondness for Susan. But her expression turned pensive when she > referred briefly to the girl's past. In a short time, I came to > respect this generous-hearted woman who had opened her home to a > young girl and attempted to make a difference in her life. > As daylight began to fade, we offered our thanks for the > visit and said good-bye. > Holly sat quietly in the car on the way home. Stealing a > glance, I noticed her back was ramrod-straight. Her head and > shoulders were thrust forward as if willing the car to move > faster. No sooner had we come to a stop in the driveway than > she flung open the car door and walked purposefully toward the > side gate. Curious, I shifted into park and followed. A lump > caught in my throat as I observed my daughter standing next to > the trash can peering inside. Her shoulders slumped as she > replaced the lid and shuffled into the house. > After pulling the car into the garage, I went inside and > headed for the hall closet. By this time, Holly was sitting at > the kitchen table staring out the window. > "Is this what you were looking for?" I placed the piece of > carpet on the table in front of her. > "Thanks, Mom." A tear or two slipped from her eye and > splashed onto the dark blue remnant that, as if by magic, had > become the most precious birthday present in the whole world. > > By Karen Taylor > Reprinted by permission of Karen Taylor (c) 1999, from Chicken > Soup for the Christian Family Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor > Hansen, Patty Aubery and Nancy Mitchell Autio. > »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« You're Just Jealous Because The Voices Are Talking To Me Richiele Sloan ICQ #63829109 (Missi) »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«