School volunteers don't get paid money, but sometimes we receive
    special gifts. One morning, just before Christmas vacation, I was
    selling tickets to our grade school's last evening performance of The
    Nutcracker. The evening before had been a sell out. People had lined
    the walls of the auditorium. Some had even peeked in from outside to
    watch the show. 

    One of my customers that day was a parent. 

    "I think it's awful that I have to pay to see my own child perform," she
    announced, yanking a wallet from her purse. 

    "The school asks for a voluntary donation to help pay for scenery and
    costumes," I explained, "but no one has to pay. You're welcome to all
    the tickets you need." 

    "Oh, I’ll pay," she grumbled. "Two adults and a child." 

    She plunked down a ten-dollar bill. I gave her the change and her
    tickets. She stepped aside, fumbling with her purse. That's when the
    boy waiting behind her emptied a pocketful of change onto the table. 

    "How many tickets?" I asked. 

    "I don't need tickets," he said. "I'm paying." He pushed the coins
    across the table. 

    "But you'll need tickets to see the show tonight." 

    He shook his head. "I’ve already seen the show." 

    All the school children saw The Nutcracker with their classes. The
    donation was for evening performances only. I pushed the pile of
    nickels, dimes and quarters back. "You don't have to pay to see the
    show with your class," I told him. "That's free." 

    "No," the boy insisted. "I saw it last night. My brother and I arrived
    late. We couldn't find anyone to buy tickets from, so we just walked
    in." 

    Lots of people in that crowd had probably "just walked in". The few
    volunteers present couldn't check everyone for a ticket. Who would
    argue anyway? As I'd told the parent ahead of this boy, the donation
    was voluntary. 

    He pushed his money back to me. "I'm paying now for last night," he
    said. 

    I knew this boy and his brother must have squeezed into the back of
    that crowd. And being late to boot, they couldn't possibly have seen
    the whole show. I hated to take his money. A pile of coins in a kid's
    hand is usually carefully saved allowance money. I wondered what
    he'd like to buy with it instead. 

    "If the ticket table was closed when you got there, you couldn't pay," I
    reasoned. 

    "That's what my brother said." 

    "Nobody knows the difference," I assured him. "Don't worry about
    it." 

    Thinking the matter was settled, I started to push the coins back. He
    put his hand on mine. 

    "I know the difference." 

    For one silent moment our hands bridged the money. Then I spoke.
    "Two tickets cost two dollars." 

    The pile of coins added up to the correct amount. "Thank you," I said.

    The boy smiled, turned away, and was gone. 

    "Excuse me." 

    I looked up, surprised to see the woman who had bought her own
    tickets moments earlier. She was still there, purse open, change and
    tickets in hand. 

    "Why don't you keep this change," she said quietly. "The scenery is
    beautiful and those costumes couldn't have been cheap." She handed
    me a few dollar bills, closed her purse and left. 

    Little did he know that he had given us both our first gift of the
    Christmas season.

    When I was superintendent of schools in Palo Alto, California, Polly Tyner, the
    president of our board of trustees, wrote a letter that was printed in the Palo Alto
    Times. Polly’s son, Jim, had great difficulty in school. He was classified as
    educationally handicapped and required a great deal of patience on the part of his
    parents and teachers. But Jim was a happy kid with a great smile that lit up the room.
    His parents acknowledged his academic difficulties, but always tried to help him see
    his strengths so that he could walk with pride. Shortly after Jim finished high school,
    he was killed in a motorcycle accident. After his death, his mother submitted this letter
    to the newspaper.

       Today we buried our 20-year-old son. He was killed instantly in a motorcycle
       accident on Friday night. How I wish I had known when I talked to him last that it
       would be the last time. If I had only known I would have said, "Jim, I love you
       and I’m so very proud of you." 

       I would have taken the time to count the many blessings he brought to the lives of
       the many who loved him. I would have taken time to appreciate his beautiful
       smile, the sound of his laughter, his genuine love of people.

       When you put all the good attributes on the scale and you try to balance all the
       irritating traits such as the radio which was always too loud, the haircut that
       wasn’t to our liking, the dirty socks under the bed, etc., the irritations don’t
       amount to much.

       I won’t get another chance to tell my son all I would have wanted him to hear,
       but, other parents, you do have a chance. Tell your young people what you would
       want them to hear if you knew it would be your last conversation. The last time I
       talked to Jim was the day he died. He called me to say, "Hi, Mom! I just called to
       say I love you. Got to go to work. Bye." He gave me something to treasure
       forever.

       If there is any purpose at all to Jim’s death, maybe it is to make others appreciate
       more of life and to have people, especially families, take the time to let each
       other know just how much we care.

       You may never have another chance. Do it today!

    Years ago, while unearthing an ancient Egyptian tomb, an archaeologist came upon
    seeds buried in a piece of wood. Planted, the seeds realized their potential after more
    than 3,000 years! Are there conditions in the lives of people so discouraging, so
    defeating, that human beings - regardless of inherent potentiality - are doomed to lives
    of failure and quiet desperation? Or are there also seeds of possibility in people, an
    urge for becoming that is so strong that the hard crust of adversity is breached?
    Consider this story that came over the wires of the Associated Press on May 23, l984:

    As a child, Mary Groda did not learn to read and write. Experts labeled her retarded.
    As an adolescent, she "earned" an additional label, "incorrigible," and was sentenced
    to two years in a reformatory. It was here, ironically, in this closed-in place, that
    Mary - bending to the challenge to learn - worked at her task for as long as 16 hours a
    day. Her hard work paid off. She was awarded her (GED) high school diploma. 

    But more misfortune was to visit Mary Groda. After leaving the reformatory, she
    became pregnant without benefit of marriage. Then, two years later a second
    pregnancy resulted in a stroke, erasing her hard-earned powers of reading and writing.
    With the help and support of her father, Mary battled back, regaining what she had
    lost. 

    In dire financial straits, Mary went on welfare. Finally, to make ends meet, she took in
    seven foster children. It was during this period that she started taking courses at a
    community college. Upon completion of her course work, she applied to and was
    accepted by the Albany Medical School to study medicine. 

    In the spring of 1984 in Oregon, Mary Groda Lewis - she’s married now - paraded in
    full academic regalia across the graduation stage. No one can know what private
    thoughts went through Mary’s mind as she reached out to grasp this eloquent testimony
    to her self-belief and perseverance, her diploma that announced to all the world: Here
    stands on this small point of Planet Earth a person who dared to dream the impossible
    dream, a person who confirms for all of us our human divineness. Here stands Mary
    Groda Lewis, M.D.