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Inspired by a Different Kind of Traveling Salesman

Posted on by Richard H. Schneider

He came to our little Methodist church in Glencoe, Illinois, like an old newspaper blown to the front door. No big announcements, no hoopla. The pastor simply said one Sunday morning that Harry Denman, a layman and traveling evangelist, was coming by to speak that evening.

I had never heard of him, and at first I rebelled. Why couldn't they fit him into the regular service? Sunday evening had my favorite television shows.

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Come that evening, however, I was grudgingly ensconced in a pew. A craggy-browed, graying man in a rumpled suit ambled to the podium. He certainly didn't look like much.

It was his voice that first got me: deep and sonorous, yet with a friendly homeyness. He was easy to listen to. But he reached me even more when he spoke of Jesus. I had always thought of Jesus as being "up there" with God, far removed from the world's nitty-gritty.

But as Harry Denman talked in simple, matter-of-fact terms, I began to feel Christ's presence. This man obviously knew him—knew him as those sweaty fishermen on the Galilean wharves had.

I sat mesmerized as he told how Jesus can help us through our darkest nights, how he can guide us. "Prayer is not just talking and asking; it is listening to God," he said.

Then he spoke about our part in the relationship: love. "I'm not very sympathetic to the idea of just telling people, 'God loves you.' So many people are doing that, and it's not enough," he said. "Love has to be seen."

He admitted he himself had once wanted to put up billboards saying God Loves You. But he felt the Lord telling him, "You don't have to put up billboards. You are a billboard."

I found myself enrapt. Religion, I was beginning to understand, was more than listening to Sunday sermons, and life wasn't just looking forward to job promotions and vacations with the ultimate goal of a company pension.

Life and religion, it seemed, could be an ongoing adventure, with exciting possibilities, and a destination so wonderful I wanted to do everything I could to be ready for it.

Harry Denman left the next morning as quietly as he had come, traveling to his next engagement by Greyhound bus (often his mode of travel), carrying only a briefcase with a fresh shirt, pajamas and a change of underwear—which was just about all he owned.

Intrigued by this unprepossessing person who walked so humbly with God, I endeavored to learn more about him, and read his biography, Harry Denman, written by Harold Rogers.

Born of poor parents in Birmingham, Alabama, in 1893, Harry Denman left school at the age of 10 and worked as an errand boy. His Sunday-school teacher encouraged him to get an education; he eventually worked his way through college and by age 31 had earned his master of arts degree.

He went on to hold leadership positions in the Methodist church, including secretary of its General Board of Evangelism, which he almost singlehandedly forged from one man and a helper in a tiny office to an organization of some 250 people.

But Harry's first love was speaking. He traveled continually and was booked two years in advance. He made more than 400 talks in 19 countries in just one year alone.

During some 50 years of going all over the world, he talked with bartenders, porters, airline pilots, housewives, boys and girls. Cab drivers told this genial old-shoe of a man their troubles and drove away with a good tip, in more ways than one.

When he discovered that one cab driver's wife had left him because of his alcoholism, Harry asked, "Does your wife know you're now sober?"

"She wouldn't believe me," said the driver. Harry took down the woman's address and wrote a letter assuring her that her husband had stopped drinking.

At a restaurant he noted the waitress's wedding band and inquired about her family. Learning she had a brand-new daughter, he asked if the baby had been baptized yet.

"We want to," she said, "but because of my work schedule we haven't been able to make those arrangements." Before leaving the restaurant, he talked with the owner and arranged for the waitress to have the next Sunday off for the baptism.

"It's our actions that speak, not what we say," Harry often said. "Maybe you have a friend or business associate who's in trouble. Help in any way you can, but always watch for the right moment to tell him where you turn for strength and courage."

It was because of this that Billy Graham called Harry the greatest practitioner of personal evangelism in America. "He was one of the great mentors for evangelism in my own life and ministry," Billy Graham wrote, "always ready to share his advice and wisdom with me whenever I would ask him."

Too immersed in his work to marry, he felt all families were his family, and his files bulged with letters and photos of graduations and weddings, and children's drawings.

Since he traveled by air in his church-supported years, he also gained the admiration of hundreds of airline stewardesses. He prayed with them, sent them books, and often wrote parents to compliment their daughters.

Stewardesses, senators, shoeshine men, Africans, Koreans, Jews—Harry Denman knew no distinction among people, regardless of their economic or educational status, or race.

"I never think of anyone as a person of another race," he said. "To me we are just children of God." He began a drive to register black voters and often spoke in defense of Jews.

To Harry no one was beyond God's love and concern. When speaking to a church women's group he was told of a prostitute living nearby. "What have you done about it?" he asked.

"We are praying for her."

"But have you gone to call on her?" he asked. "Have you told her that God loves her and that you love her? Too often we try to substitute prayer for action. We want the Lord to do what we are not willing to do ourselves."

His Bible was his constant companion. He read it on planes, in hotel lobbies, everywhere. Every day he would copy a portion of it by longhand in a stenographer's notebook.

He eventually copied the whole New Testament and Psalms, feeling that in this way he could better absorb them to guide his every thought and action.

A reporter described him as an evangelistic gyroscope who spun around the world. Harry never carried a watch. "There are clocks everywhere," he said, but he also found asking the time usually started a conversation that turned to deeper things.

Never once, he said, had he sensed resentment from any one of the many thousands of people he talked to about Jesus.

A close friend of religious leaders from Oral Roberts to Bishop Fulton Sheen, Harry observed, "We have different churches, but we ought to have an ecumenical movement which will help us work together."

At age 83 he held his last preaching mission, speaking 12 times in one week in Tuscumbia, Alabama. Exhausted, he entered a hospital in Birmingham shortly thereafter. From then on, though no longer preaching, he could still pray and write letters.

At the bottom of his letters he drew a cross, saying, "This is the church." The horizontal beam was labeled "Sacrificial love for all persons." The vertical beam carded the words "Obedient faith in God." And he always concluded his letters (and his prayers) with "Sincerely your friend, Harry Denman."

On November 8, 1976, Harry Denman died. He left nothing material except a rumpled suit, an extra shirt and a change of underwear. What he really left was a legacy of love for his fellowman, a memory of his humility and complete artlessness, and millions of changed lives.

I am grateful to be one of them.

Inspiration and Healing

Posted on by Edward Grinnan

Is there a link between how we think and how we feel? Does a positive attitude pay off in healing and better health outcomes?

Depends on who you ask. In an op-ed column in last Tuesday’s New York Times, Richard Sloan, a professor at Columbia University Medical School, argued in the negative. He doesn’t believe the data supports the notion that there is a causative relationship between a good attitude and good health.

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The primary concern behind Sloan’s article is valid: If a person’s mind has power over the body then wouldn’t it stand to reason that he or she is in part blameworthy for their physical ails? Sloan argues that it is cruel and unfair to hold a sick person accountable on those grounds and I totally agree. My wife has lupus and it is very hurtful when people seem to think that if only she had a more optimistic outlook she would get better. It is hard to be positive when you’re sick. Some days you are just completely bummed out.

To Sloan’s other point I have to take exception. I think the jury is still out on whether a person’s thinking can directly impact health and healing. We may never be able to prove this. Still, in a more general way it makes sense that optimism is a key advantage in keeping or regaining your health. A positive person is more likely to eat right, exercise, take medicine, get rest and follow through on physical therapy. These things are good for her, she believes in them, she does them. Her health is more likely to improve than the negative, fatalistic patient who is probably less motivated toward positive behaviors that improve health.

Some of the most inspirational stories Guideposts has ever published are about amazing journeys in healing, where faith, prayer and a strong spirit play crucial roles. Some people get better because of a miracle. For most, though, they recovered because they took on the battle with an optimistic view. I can’t see where not believing helps you as much as believing.

What do you think? Is a positive attitude good for your health? Post below.

Inspirational Story: Finding a Way to Make a Difference

Posted on by Palmer Harston

Africa-bound! And only seven hours left of a 19-hour flight before I would arrive in South Africa for my third volunteer trip in three years. But this time it was different. I tried to get some sleep, but couldn’t. The doubts had begun to creep in. I’m doing this for the kids, I reminded myself. I didn’t want to worry about traveling to an orphanage in a remote area, or the fact that I was going alone, without friends or family. Or that I’d be there for a whole year, not just a summer. But I couldn’t help worrying. Plus, I had one challenge other volunteers fighting AIDS in Africa didn’t—I was in a wheelchair.

At eight years old, I was paralyzed from the waist down in a car accident. I spent months in an Easter Seals rehabilitation hospital, learning how to use a wheelchair, how to get up from the floor and how to dress myself. Basically how to live my life as independently as possible. My first day home, I found the usual list of chores on my bed. “Things happen,” Mom said, “but our responsibilities to ourselves and others don’t change.” Making my bed and cleaning my room took forever. But I could still do them, just a little differently than before the accident. I could still do a lot of things. Like swing on the uneven bars in gymnastics, as long as my coach boosted me up. Or be a part of the Friday night family dance parties my mom, dad, sister and I always had. Dad popped in a Beach Boys CD. “Surfin’ U.S.A.” came on. I pumped my arms in the air and twisted in my seat. At 16 I got a driver’s license like all my friends—only I had a car with hand controls.

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Junior year at college, three friends and I volunteered at a Christian orphanage in Durban, South Africa, that took in abandoned babies with HIV. More than a third of the population in the KwaZulu-Natal province had the virus. This was bigger and scarier than anything I’d ever dealt with. But I felt a pull like I’d never felt before. I’m needed here. I know that’s what God is telling me. That I had a responsibility to oth­ers and that I could make a difference.

A church in Durban arranged for a driver to take my friends and me back and forth from our host family to the orphanage. Most buildings were one story, and my friends carried me up the rare staircase or big hill. I fed the babies, rocked them to sleep, prayed by their beds, administered medicine. I returned the next summer with my sister. My chair was never an issue.

I can do more, I thought. This time, after graduation, I made a year-long commitment to Lily of the Valley Children’s Village, outside Mophela, South Africa, where 90 percent of the children are infected with HIV. I would see to the kids’ medical needs and teach math and English.

“You can’t find a friend to go with you?” Mom asked.

I assured her that I could do plenty by myself. Still…I didn’t tell anyone at Lily of the Valley about my wheelchair. I wasn’t sure they would approve. As far as they knew, I was like any other young volunteer who comes over to help out.

Now I stared at the bulkhead in front of me, wishing that the jet engines could drown out my doubts. Who would help me if I got stuck? Would I prove to be more of a burden than a help? Okay, God, I finally prayed, I’ll go anywhere you want, but you have to be my legs.

Soon enough, I arrived in Mophela. People stared at me from the doorways of mud huts. Out in the overworked fields, farmers’ heads turned. Even a skinny cow that wandered across the dirt road seemed to gawk at me. It was a bumpy drive from the town to the children’s village, a circle of one-story houses bordering a game reserve. Wildebeests and giraffes strolled by in the distance. The driver brought my chair around. I climbed in and wheeled into the village.

Kids came up to me, touching my chair curiously. A woman ran out of a cottage shouting in Zulu. The children scattered.

The woman in charge looked baffled, but she was too polite to say anything about my chair. She showed me through the children’s village—22 cottages, each one with a house mother and six children—to the small house where I would be staying. The ground was flat but sandy. My wheels sank and slipped. I strained my arms to get going again.

“Do you need help?” the woman asked.

“No, I got it,” I said.

That afternoon, I met the six, seven and eight-year-olds in my “homework club.” The kids often missed class due to illness, and the schools were overcrowded, so extra instruction was needed. I read books to them and drew pictures. I asked dozens of questions. They just stared at the ground, not saying a word.

Those first few weeks were hard, harder than anything I had done before. Sometimes the kids went home with relatives, neglected to take their meds and came back sick. In class, some remained shy, others listless. I forced myself to keep trying. I needed to prove myself. But how could I tell if I was doing any good?

One night, a big storm hit, the only rain Lily had seen in weeks. I rolled out of my cottage the next morning and my chair lurched, the wheels sinking into mud. I gripped the wheels tight and pushed hard. The chair wouldn’t budge.

All of my worst worries seemed to be coming true. The problems I’d come to fight were too big. I was stuck, hopelessly stuck. I was alone. And a burden to people whose lives were already so heartbreakingly hard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw people running toward me. Children, some older ones, some younger. Two of the oldest grabbed the handlebars and the others pushed me forward. The wheels came free. The kids shouted with delight.

“Thank you!” I said, surprised. “Aren’t you sweet!”

The children laughed. “You help us,” one of the older boys said. “We help you.”

You help us. We help you. That echoed in my ears all day. The next morning, there was a knock at my door. “Miss Harston, can we help you?” I opened up. The kids were waiting to push me through the mud to homework club.

The next day, same thing. And the day after that. It became our little ritual. In class, two six-year-old boys decided it was their job to help me up from sitting with them on the floor.
The more they helped me, the easier it got to help them. The kids and I bonded. One day, I tore open a care package from my parents—on top was a CD: The Beach Boys. Soon we were having after-homework-club dance parties. Sometimes the kids came over to my house. We baked cookies and they sat on my couch, practicing English by reading Bible stories. The children’s favorite was David and Goliath. “Even the smallest of us can overcome the worst things,” I told them. Weren’t we all living the story now? Fighting the giants of AIDS and poverty?

I wasn’t alone during my year in Africa. Not at all. I’d asked God to be my legs, and he’d sent the very people I was helping to help me. He’d shown me, more than ever, that anyone, even in a wheelchair, can make a difference.   
 

Download your FREE ebook, True Inspirational Stories: 9 Real Life Stories of Hope & Faith

Inspirational Quotes for Animal Lovers

Posted on by Sabra Ciancanelli

Animals are some of the greatest companions in our lives. We hope you’ll enjoy this uplifting slideshow featuring inspiring quotes about our finned, feathered and furry friends. For more inspiration about animals, treat yourself to 60 uplifting personal accounts of how God blesses us in refreshing and remarkable ways through the living example of our animal companions in Paws from Heaven.

Subscribe to Guideposts’ New Inspiring Pets Magazine ‘All Creatures’!

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Inside Oprah’s ‘Super Soul’ Gospel Brunch

Posted on by Brooke Obie

In the Old Testament, the Promised Land was a place God agreed to give to the newly freed descendants of Abram. In Negro Spirituals, it was a place free from slavery and oppression—if not on earth, then in Heaven. For Oprah Winfrey, descendant of enslaved people and daughter of rural Mississippi, it is the name of her own immaculately manicured 65-acre estate in Montecito, California. And Guideposts.org is there.

“I don’t do this, ever,” Oprah Winfrey tells the handful of us journalists gathered in a circle around her at a wooden table, under the shade of full-grown pines and oaks. She is emphasizing the rarity of allowing a group of journalists and about 300 celebrity friends, collaborators and guests to come to her home. 

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It is a Sunday morning and we’ve all just journeyed via golf carts into her estate. The uphill ride from a staff parking lot, through wrought iron gates, revealed majestic views in all directions: mountains, streams, fountains and even the Santa Barbara coast was visible in the distance if you peaked through her palm trees. Contrasting with the smog-filled Los Angeles just 2 hours to the south, the air in The Promised Land is noticeably sweet with eucalyptus and pleasantly breezy on an eighty-degree day. Other than the sound of gravel crunching beneath golf cart tires, we are wrapped in a comforting stillness.

The significance of Oprah’s home goes far beyond its sensory beauty. This is the property of a Black woman born into poverty to a single mother in the Jim Crow South. This is the palatial estate of a woman who has endured tragedy, abuse, racism, sexism and more to become the first Black billionaire in North America and a notable philanthropist. This is the milk-and-honey land of a human being who has achieved the extraordinary, revolutionized the talk show format and introduced millions of people around the world to ways in which they can deepen their relationship with God, spirit and self. It’s a dream, fulfilled. And she’s inviting us into it. 

So we find ourselves down a narrow cul-de-sac, just off of one of her guest houses, seated in an area that her staff has nicknamed The Secret Garden. The exceptional event she’s invited us all here to celebrate is the launch of her latest book, The Wisdom of Sundays. It’s a collection of life-changing insights she’s gained from conversations on her Emmy-Award winning show Super Soul Sunday. It’s a book launch party with the Oprah treatment: an experience for the soul. 

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She’s planned a stirring gospel concert at her on-property amphitheater, headlined by gospel pioneer BeBe Winans, and a delicious soul food brunch prepared by acclaimed chef Art Smith.

Colin Cowie, who produced her famous 2005 Legends Ball weekend, returned to produce the Wisdom of Sundays Gospel Brunch, with no detail left to chance. Mauve roses in full bloom decorate the tables and match the floor-length gown with a bedazzled belt that Ms. Winfrey wears. The napkins are embroidered with inspirational quotes from the new book.

“Your life is always speaking to you,” reads a gold-lettered Oprah quote against a white cocktail napkin. “The fundamental spiritual question is: Will you listen?”

“Whenever I really, really, really believe that something is going to be impactful, I try to put everything I have into making that possible,” she says of forgoing the traditional book tour in favor of the fête. “And so, inviting people into my home, which I don’t do, is what I decided to do.”

After our inspiring chat (which you can read here), celebrity guests like, Hamilton creator Lin-Manuel Miranda, Julia Roberts, Reese Witherspoon, Kerry Washington, Angela Bassett, Arianna Huffington, George Lucas and Guideposts cover stars Courtney B. Vance, DeVon Franklin, Meagan Good, Roma Downey and more, shuffle into the amphitheater and sit on cushion-covered stone seats for the gospel extravaganza. 

Winans, whom she introduces as “my favorite musical director,” Donald Lawrence and the Tri-City Singers usher in Sunday morning praise and worship with the gospel anthem “I Am Healed.” 

As Oprah promised, “The Winans family and BeBe, they know some music.” 

There’s not a dry eye in the arena when Emily David, a survivor of Hurricane Harvey whom Oprah supported after the America’s Got Talent contestant lost everything in the floods, sings “Bridge Over Troubled Waters”—or when Tony-winner Cynthia Erivo sings the classic, “Stand,” followed by Oprah’s favorite song, “I Surrender All.” Singer Andra Day performs her inspirational hit “Rise,” and icons Yolanda Adams and Erica Campbell join the hallelujah ensemble to close out the concert with the Mary Mary hit, “Thank You, Lord.”

“I want to do something that launches this book into the world in a way that leaves the people who were a part of it [uplifted],” she says. If the laughter, full bellies and tears of joy from her guests throughout the day are any indication, it’s an intention that she’s fulfilled.

In Our Imperfection, Grace Abounds

Posted on by Pablo Diaz

As much as they may take a toll on our emotions, our imperfections make us human. They can cause us to feel inadequate, unsuitable—even valueless. Yet, our imperfections can teach us to be humble, compassionate and gracious. We have empathy for others because of our own limitations and short comings. Without them, we would expect nothing less than perfection at all times.

The most pressing challenge we all face is accepting our own limitations and faults. The sooner we can accept that our faith in God doesn’t make us perfect, the sooner we can embrace and appreciate His daily grace. When we see our imperfections as stumbling blocks, God sees them as opportunities. Through our vulnerabilities, we discover the power of love, grace and forgiveness with His help.

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Throughout history, there are many individuals who impacted the world and other people in great ways, but they, too, had their imperfections. With their limitations and shortcomings, God used them. This reminds me of when I was a child, and my mother would buy me a box of new crayons at the start of each school year. At first, the crayons were new and in perfect shape, but over time, they became worn down and flawed. It didn’t mean that the crayons were useless. On the contrary, some of my best artwork was done with overused and misshaped crayons.

The same thing takes place in each of our lives. We come into the world as a newborn, but it isn’t long before our flaws and weaknesses are revealed. Some of our shortcomings become part of our life struggle, while others go away or become manageable. People of faith have their faults, defects and limitations, but it doesn’t stop God from doing great things through them. In spite of our imperfections, God continues to make us instruments of peace, love, justice and kindness.

Lord, in our imperfections, Your grace abounds.

Indulge Yourself and Reduce Your Stress

Posted on by Amy Wong

Are these economic doldrums we’re stuck in taking a toll on your positive attitude? Mine too. I’m fortunate—I have a good job and little debt, and I’ve been able to up my donations to charity.

Still I find myself stressing about money more than usual, and acting in austerity mode when it comes to things like dinners out, travel, spa treatments. Sure, these are occasional indulgences even in the best of times, but I’ve cut out the last two almost entirely. You don’t really need a massage. You shouldn’t be spending money treating yourself, not in this economy. You should save it just in case… That’s my thinking.

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Or it was, until I came across an article in the science section of The New York Times, a short piece about a recent study on the effects of massage. Participants got 45 minutes of either deep-tissue Swedish massage or light massage. Blood samples were taken before and after. Even the researchers were astounded by the results: Just a single session of massage significantly reduced the level of the stress hormone cortisol and boosted the level of the hormone oxytocin, which is linked to contentment and calmness. I always feel more relaxed after a rubdown but here was proof that massage actually relieves stress. And who doesn’t want less stress these days?

It’s hard to keep thinking positive when you’re worried about negative cash flow. Sometimes you need a little indulgence, especially one guaranteed to make you feel good. Go ahead, treat yourself! Guess where I’m headed as soon as I post this blog?

In Celebration of Chocolate

Posted on by Holly Lebowitz Rossi

In his book, In Defense of Food: An Eater’s Manifesto, Michael Pollan tells the story of a researcher who showed the words “chocolate cake” to a group of Americans, asking for their gut-reaction word associations. “Guilt” emerged as the top response.

When the same exercise was done with a group of French people, the top response was quite different—it was “celebration.” 

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As Valentine’s Day approaches, I’m thinking about the gulf that yawns between “guilt” and “celebration.” Imagining the feeling I get when I take in a forkful of luscious chocolate cake, a spoon of creamy ice cream or a few squares of a favorite chocolate bar, I wonder where my inner French eater might be hiding? 

For some people, that little zing of American guilt may be a big part of what makes treats like chocolate so pleasurable. For others, a psychological principle called “the disinhibition effect” means that breaking a healthy eating rule once—like no chocolate on weekdays—actually makes us more likely to break it again, which drains chocolate of its “treat” status.

But I suspect that for most of us, we just like chocolate; it makes us feel good. We enjoy its sweet-bitter flavor balance, we associate it with birthdays, Valentine’s Day and other special occasions, and we feel like the day is a little bit more special when we have some. 

We’re in good company—chocolate’s positive associations are centuries-old.

Societies have long associated chocolate with medicine. Aztecs, Mayans and European cultures used various preparations of cacao, the base ingredient in chocolate, for its anti-inflammatory properties that lower cholesterol and treat ailments from diarrhea to headaches to coughs to fatigue. To this day, scientists are learning more about medicinal chocolate—though aficionados are often disappointed to learn that to have health benefits, chocolate needs to be free of the fat and sugar that many of us find so delicious.

Then there’s the tradition of Valentine chocolates. In the 14th century, the poet Chaucer wrote that Saint Valentine’s Day is a day in which birds and other creatures choose their mates. It was 500 years later, though, that historians believe chocolate was first connected with Valentine’s Day. In mid-19th century England, the Victorian sensibilities around public expressions of love met the Cupid- and heart-bedecked boxes of chocolate made by Richard Cadbury. Just step into any grocery, drugstore or sweet shop in February, and you’ll understand that the Western world hasn’t looked back.

But back to Michael Pollan and the invitation to ditch the guilt when it comes to Valentine’s Day chocolate—or any day chocolate. One of Pollan’s rules for a healthy relationship with food is never to eat anything your great-grandmother wouldn’t recognize as food. So if you’re snapping off a piece of a chocolate bar, or smoothing frosting onto a rich cake, you can feel good that you are tucking into food with a special, positive history. Maybe then you can remember to celebrate every single bite.

Important Things: September 11, 2001

Posted on by Kathryn Slattery

It was a September morning like any other. The air was still summer warm. The sky was a brilliant robin’s egg blue. I stepped onto the 8:25 a.m. Metro North commuter train, headed toward my office at Guideposts magazine on 34th Street in New York City.

“Excuse me.” I squeezed between a young woman wearing earphones who was thumbing through the color photo-filled pages of Star Magazine, and a middle-aged gray-bearded man reading The New York Times.

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Drat. The dreaded middle seat. Oh, well, at least I don’t have to stand.

I put on my sunglasses and folded my arms tightly across my chest, as though doing so might somehow make me not only smaller, but invisible. Before closing my eyes I sneaked glances at the headlines in my seatmates’ reading material—a microcosm of everyday life in twenty-first century America.

On my left, in Star, there was the insatiable culture of celebrity (“Look Who’s Got Cellulite!”). On my right, in the New York Times, bitter partisan politics (“Campaigning for Mayor: City Voters Have Heard It All”).

Oozing from the pages of both—as well as from the jokes told the night before on the late night TV talk shows—was the prevailing tone of world-weary, been there-done that, above-it-all irony.

I’d just dozed off, when someone’s cell phone chirped. Followed by another, and then another. Passengers began speaking in hushed, urgent tones, something about one of the World Trade Center’s twin towers being hit by a plane. Not a small private plane. A big commercial airliner.

How awful, I thought. What a terrible accident.

Several minutes passed, and a second shrill chorus of cell phones announced a second strike.

This was no accident. We were being attacked.

The bearded man next to me became agitated as he punched the buttons on his cell phone to no avail. “My staff is on the 86th floor of Tower One,” he said. “My God, I hope they’re all right.”

As the train rounded the bend north of 125th Street, passengers across the aisle left their seats to peer out the train’s west windows at the terrifying spectacle of the towers burning.

At Grand Central Station, I wedged myself into the crowd at the Hudson News kiosk, transfixed by the horrifying images on the elevated Fox News TV monitors. Fiery orange explosions. People jumping from the towers. Skirts billowing. A man and woman holding hands as they plummeted.

This can’t be happening.

Walking south on Fifth avenue, I watched aghast as the blue sky filled with black smoke hemorrhaging from ugly gashes in both towers. At street level there was the surreal sensation of being in a 1950s Japanese horror movie. People with radios and cell phones pressed to their ears shouted breaking news. 

“They’ve hit the Pentagon!”

“There’s a plane headed for the White House!”

At the office, I frantically tried to phone my husband Tom, who had driven into Manhattan earlier in the morning for a breakfast meeting with a client somewhere in the city… But where exactly? Downtown? Uptown?  If only I had asked!

I tried to call our daughter Katy at her New York University dorm downtown, on Greenwich Street. I tried to call my sister in her classroom at Middle School 131 in downtown Chinatown, where she taught sixth grade science. But none of their cell phones were working.

“Did you hear?” A young ashen-faced staffer cried out from her office across the hall. “The south tower has fallen!”

I phoned my mother back at our house in New Canaan, Connecticut, and told her not to worry. I phoned my friend Alison, and told her I couldn’t get in touch with Tom, Katy, or my sister, that they were all downtown, and would she please pray?

“Of course,” she replied. “Oh, my God, Kitty. Are you near a television? The north tower is falling…”

My desk phone rang. It was Tom. He was safe. I sobbed with relief. His breakfast meeting had not been downtown, but just five blocks away on 39th Street at the Williams Club where Tom, an alumnus of Williams College, was a member.

We agreed to meet there, where the staff was busy setting up phone banks, and tables with bottled water and emergency provisions.

As the morning dragged on, men and women covered in white dust, looking like ghosts, staggered up the steps and through the door. Survivors from the horror downtown, they had walked the four miles to the Williams Club in shock.

Once we had finally gotten through to Katy and my sister, and made sure they were safe, and called my mother, and our son Brinck at his high school to reassure them that we were all okay, Tom and I headed for home via the West Side Highway. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

Across from us on the southbound lane, an endless convoy of ambulances and emergency vehicles from the northern suburbs, including New Canaan, moved toward what the newscaster on the radio was calling “Ground Zero.”

I turned around in my seat and looked south where a dismal dirty gray cloud filled the empty space where the twin towers had stood. It seemed impossible that they were gone.

National Guardsmen, armed with rifles and wearing camouflage uniforms and black boots, stood at the Henry Hudson Bridge toll gates, and inspected our car before letting us pass.

When we finally made it home, Tom and I pulled my father’s flag—the flag that had covered Dad’s casket when he died—out from the darkness of the closet and hung it over the front door. Across the street and next-door, our neighbors had put out their flags, too.

As I stood looking at the flag, I remembered how as a teenager, my father’s patriotism had embarrassed me. At high school football games I wanted to hide when he placed his right hand over his heart and lustily bellowed every word to the Star Spangled Banner.

Back then, my father’s old-fashioned, unapologetic patriotism seemed not only corny, but irrelevant.

Forged by the fires of adversity and sacrifice, his patriotism was the birthright of a different generation—the Greatest Generation—surely something that could never burn in my privileged baby boomer’s heart.

Until now.

The two towers were not all that fell on that awful day. If only for a moment, all that was trivial about everyday American life fell away, too. The culture of celebrity. Partisan politics. Irony. All were unmasked as the cheap, shallow, frivolous imposters that they were.

Rising out of the ruins, all that remained standing were the Important Things: Faith. Family. Friends. Freedom. Essential and enduring, they offered meaning and hope to a nation and people suffering incalculable heartache and loss.

Now, I thought, is the time to say, “I love you.” Now is the time to say, “I’m sorry.” Now is the time to say, “Thank you.” Now is the time to make peace with God. Now is the time. Tomorrow may be too late.

On September 11, 2001, it was all so clear.

This story is excerpted with the author’s permission from her latest book, Heart Songs: A Family Treasury of True Stories of Hope and Inspiration. For information on the Inspiring Voices publishing service that published Kitty’s book, visit their website.

I’m a Positive Thinker, Thanks to My Tiger Mother

Posted on by Amy Wong

By now you’ve probably heard about the Tiger Mother, Amy Chua, whose new memoir—or at least, the infamous excerpt that was published in the Wall Street Journal under the headline “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior”—has the media and the blogosphere in an uproar. I don’t usually get involved in these debates (after all, here at Guideposts, we’re more about what connects us than what divides us) but I’ve got to jump in on this one. I was raised by a Chinese mother, my own Tiger Mom, and it didn’t turn me into a robotic overachiever with major self-esteem issues and no imagination. Far from it. I’m convinced my upbringing helped make me a confident, resilient, creative person…a positive thinker.

I’ll admit, my mom would be considered somewhat permissive by Ms. Chua’s standards. I know other Chinese mothers in our suburban community thought so. My brother and I were allowed to go on play dates and sleepovers. Except for music lessons, which were non-negotiable, we could choose our own extra-curriculars once we got to junior high (and no, they didn’t have to be math team and science club).

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By Western standards, though, my mother would definitely qualify as a Tiger Mother. “Your mom’s so strict!” I got that a lot from my non-Asian friends…and their parents. My brother and I weren’t allowed to watch TV, play video games or eat junk food. We were forced to play the Chinese parents’ chosen instruments: I got the piano, my brother the violin. From an early age, we were assigned chores and the list got longer as we got older. Every skill my mom deemed useful (from manipulating chopsticks to drawing to trigonometry) we had to practice, practice, practice until we were proficient at it. Any grade lower than an A required an explanation and a corrective plan of action.

Sound like crushing expectations? They weren’t. Sure, I complained occasionally (what kid doesn’t?) but really, I didn’t feel downtrodden. In fact, I wound up feeling empowered. Take learning to use chopsticks. Once I understood the motion (“like a bird opening and closing its beak”), Mom had me practice picking up and transferring slippery things—grains of uncooked rice, frozen peas, marbles—from one bowl to another. I tried for a while but all I succeeded at was scattering rice and peas and marbles. So I threw my chopsticks down and declared, “I can’t do this! It’s too hard!”

My mom said calmly, “No, you have to work harder. Tomorrow, practice again.” She made me go back to it day after day until one afternoon, it all came together. Suddenly the chopsticks felt like an extension of my fingers, and I was moving rice, peas, even marbles with ease. Like magic, except I knew it wasn’t. It was my own effort. What a confidence booster, finding out I had it in me to accomplish something I thought was impossible!

Learning not to give up when I ran into a problem helped me develop resilience. So did my mom’s honesty with criticism and praise. She didn’t constantly find fault with what we did but she didn’t go around lavishing praise on every single thing we did either. Whatever she said, we could trust that it was sincere. Mom might not have known the term “constructive feedback” but that’s what she gave—specific, directed at the task and not the person. The grade or test score mattered less than the effort we put into it. If I just dashed something off, even if I got a good grade, my mom would call me on it. And vice versa.

In high school, I was put in Advanced Placement chemistry without having taken regular chemistry, and I got a C+ first quarter. There was no punishment or shame. “It means you don’t have a grasp of the basic concepts,” my mom said. “What can you do to learn them?” I came up with a plan. I borrowed an introductory chemistry textbook and we went over it together, chapter by chapter, every night. I did dozens of practice tests. And I picked the brain of my friend Ted, the chem genius. Slowly but surely, I “got” chemistry and my mom commended me for my hard work. The bonus? I scored high enough on the AP exam to fulfill a college science requirement. To this day, criticism or poor performance doesn’t demoralize me. I see it as an opportunity to grow. It spurs me to work harder and do better next time.

The knock against Chinese-style parenting and education is that it doesn’t foster creativity. Yes, rote repetition can be mind-numbing. But as Ms. Chua points out, Chinese parents “assume strength, not fragility” when it comes to their children’s psyches, and my mom’s operating from that assumption fed rather than stunted my imagination. She wasn’t worried that a setback would crush my spirit, so she didn’t rush to fix my problems (academic, interpersonal, or whatever) for me. Instead she let me come up with solutions on my own (the AP chemistry class was just one example). If one idea didn’t work, I was free to imagine and try something different. I’d call that creative problem-solving.

And I’d have to say thank you to my Tiger Mother for helping me develop such a positive, can-do attitude.

I Blew Out My Knee but I’m Staying Positive

Posted on by Amy Wong

I broke my collarbone when I was too young to remember it and walked on crutches at my college graduation because of a sprained ankle. But I had never injured myself so badly that I ended up in the emergency room. Until Saturday.

I was taking my favorite bootcamp class at the gym, using heavy ropes—the rope is 30 to 40 pounds, 40 to 50 feet long, anchored in the middle and you whip, wave, and swing the ends. A great cardio and strength workout. Only this time while I was doing rope jumping jacks, my left foot landed awkwardly—on the rope instead of the floor—and my knee twisted and buckled. I crumpled to the ground.

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Next stop: the ER. X-rays were negative but I knew I’d done something terrible to my knee. MRIs Tuesday confirmed it: complete ACL tear, medial meniscus tear, partial gastroc (calf muscle) tear. I’m having surgery but not until I do several weeks of physical therapy to strengthen the leg and regain full range of motion.

Meanwhile I’m laid up at home. Big black hinged knee brace. Crutches. I’m under doctor’s orders not to move around unless absolutely necessary. It’s torture for an active (some might say hyperactive) person like me. And I never knew it could be so difficult to do everyday things like walk my dog, pick up groceries, carry a plate, take a shower. As you might imagine, staying positive is a challenge.

I’ve been relying on a positive thinking technique I learned from best-selling author, speaker and all-around positive person Jon Gordon: Turn each negative thought into a Power Thought, full of positive energy. Look for the blessing or opportunity in each obstacle. (By the way, I just edited senior editor Evan Miller’s inspiring story on Olympic hurdler Lolo Jones—look for it in your July Guideposts—and discovered Lolo does the same thing. How cool is that?)

For example:

Negative Thought
OMG, who’s going to walk Winky?
Power Thought
Thank you, God, for Cynthia, Chris and everyone else at New York Dog Nanny. They took over Winky’s walks on short notice, and even better, she loves having all these new people to play with her.

Negative Thought
Out of the office a week, probably longer? I’m going to fall so behind on work I’ll never catch up!
Power Thought
Good thing I have a job where I can do almost everything from home—write, edit and discuss stories, look at layouts, post blogs. I’d rather be in the office to talk with coworkers face-to-face but I’m actually getting more editing done at home because I have fewer interruptions.

Negative Thought
I’ve done intense workouts four or five times a week the past three years. I got myself in the best shape of my life. And this is what I get for working so hard to stay fit? Why did I even bother?
Power Thought
Accidents happen. It’s how I pick myself up from them that matters. My orthopedist said being in good shape will make recovery from surgery much smoother. My legs have always been my strength fitness-wise. This is an opportunity to work on the weaker parts of my body—arms, upper body, core. Watch out, Michelle Obama, my triceps are gonna look as good as yours!

Have you found blessings in a bad situation? I’d love to know how.

P.S. Want to know more about Power Thoughts? Read Jon’s article.

Human Resources

Posted on by Edward Grinnan

Nobody’s got any money. It’s true. Everyone is broke. Most of us have never seen things this bad. I remember my father’s generation talking about the Depression. It always seemed like such a remote period of history, like talking about dinosaurs.

Now it doesn’t seem so distant. Not that we are there yet. But this downturn has really caused people to change the way they live to an extent that I have never seen. And as a Guideposts.com poll revealed last fall, the hard times are compelling folks to not only reassess their finances but their values as well.

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One troubling consequence of a downturn like this one is that it produces greater numbers of people in need while generating less money to help them. Donations to non-profits (including GUIDEPOSTS) are down dramatically. So what can we do to help those that need help most?

More and more I hear about people and communities committing time and effort to good causes when money is not available. True, most charities and non-profits need your cash to survive and provide services. But when money is this tight, the only thing some people can still give is their time. Instead of just writing a check, they show up.

That’s a good thing, I think, because volunteerism really does connect us to a cause in a way a simple donation might not. And at the end of this fiscal crisis we just may find out that one of its good consequences is that it has made us all more responsive to the organizations that serve the least of us…in good times and in bad. It’s a great oppurtunity for all of us to get involved.

The other day I heard about two interesting faith-based environmental groups. The first, A Rocha, is an international effort that helps protect the environment in third world countries while also creating essential services and infrastructure such as clean water, health care and education.

The second, Green Hands USA, helps people develop their own community-based environmental projects.

And of course you can always become a GUIDEPOSTS prayer volunteer on ourprayer.org. Help us answer over a half a million annual prayer requests by name and need. In these tough times prayer is the most present help of all, for the pray-er as well as the prayed for.

Have an interesting way to help people when cash is short? I’d love to hear about it.  

Edward Grinnan is Editor-in-Chief and Vice President of GUIDEPOSTS.