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Thanks For The Choice, Ken
As a recovered alcoholic for nearly twelve years, I could write a book
about how much I owe to Alcoholics Anonymous and Ken B., my first
sponsor. His love and unwavering dedication to other alcoholics come
back to me on an almost daily basis.
In November 2004 my stepdaughter lay dying of cancer in the hospital.
Being retired, I was the “late shift,” staying through the night with
her while working family members got badly needed sleep.
I took a short break outside to walk and stretch. Coming back, I
re-entered the hospital through the emergency room, and noticed a young
man at a payphone, hanging up the receiver.
He asked where the coffee machine was. Since it was on my way, I offered
to show him. As we walked, he told me he’d gotten a call from his
brother, telling him their mother had been in an auto accident and was
in intensive care.
But he had come to the wrong hospital and needed to get to a city about
50 miles away. Unfortunately, he was out of money and gas. He told me
he’d been at his building maintenance job when he’d gotten the call and
had left immediately.
My first thought was the same as most people’s might be: he’s just a
panhandler. But I looked closer — his clothes were paint-splattered and
drywall dust still clung to his shoulders.
I remembered a conversation with my sponsor Ken B. about unselfish acts.
He said Mother Teresa had done so much good because she wanted to live
in a world where those acts of kindness and love could occur. It was up
to her to do her part to create that world.
Reaching into my wallet, I pulled out my last five-dollar bill and gave
it to him. That would give him enough gas to visit his mother and drive
home afterward. When he offered to repay it I told him, “You may or may
not be what you say. That’s none of my business. If you want, keep a
five tucked in your billfold to give to someone else in need.”
When I told someone else about the incident, I was asked, “Why?” The
unspoken message was that I’d been taken advantage of.
Recalling the conversation with Ken B., I pointed out that it was a
win-win thing for me. If the story were true I’d been able to help this
man see his mother, possibly for the last time. If not, then a woman was
not in a hospital bed faced with a long and painful recovery. What a
relief to know that!
I choose to live in a world in which a person can reach out in a time of
need and a stranger will be there to do what they need the most. In
recovery, I have been given back that choice, thanks to Ken B.
by Dale W.
Washington, USA
You Knew What I Was When You Picked Me Up
“You Knew What I Was When You Picked Me Up”
By: Iron Eyes Cody,
Reprinted from Guidepost, November 1989
On film in Hollywood I have played many American Indian roles…. the warrior, the medicine man, the chief wearing his double-tailed eagle headdress and smoking the peace pipe. And in a TV spot for the “Keep America Beautiful” Campaign, I was an Indian drifting alone in a canoe. As I saw how our waters were being polluted, a single tear ran down my cheek, telling the whole story. All three versions of my public service “tear” commercial are still playing after 17 years.
But now I have another story to tell, an old legend, with a warning as potent as that tear.
Many years ago, Indian youths would go away in solitude to prepare for manhood. One such youth hiked into a beautiful valley, green with trees, bright with flowers. There he fasted. But on the third day as he looked up at the surrounding mountains, he noticed one tall rugged peak, capped with dazzling snow.
I will test myself against that mountain, he thought. He put on his buffalo shirt, threw his blanket over his shoulders, and set off to climb the peak. When he reached the top he stood on the rim of the world. He could see forever, and his heart swelled with pride. Then he heard a rustle at his feet, and looking down, he saw a snake. Before he could move, the snake spoke. “I am about to die,” said the snake. “It is too cold for me up here and I am freezing. There is no food and I am starving. Put me under your shirt and take me down to the valley.”
“No,” said the youth. “I am forewarned. I know your kind. You are a rattlesnake. If I pick you up you will bite, and your bite will kill me.” “Not so,” said the snake. “I will treat you differently. If you do this for me you will be special. I will not harm you.”
The youth resisted for a while, but this was a very persuasive snake with beautiful markings. At last the youth tucked it into his shirt and carried it down to the valley. There he laid it gently on the grass, where suddenly the snake coiled, rattled and leapt, biting him on the leg.
“But you promised……” cried the youth.
“You knew what I was when you picked me up,” said the snake as it slithered away.
And now, wherever I go, I tell this story. I tell it especially to the young people of this nation who might be tempted by drugs. I want them to remember the words of the snake: You knew what I was when you picked me up.
Processionary Caterpillars
Processionary caterpillars feed upon pine needles. They move through the trees in a long procession; one leading and the others following- each with his eye half closed and his head snugly fitted against the rear extremity of his predecessor. Jean-Henri Fabre, the great French naturalist, after patiently experimenting with a group of these caterpillars, finally enticed them to the rim of a large flowerpot where he succeeded in getting the first one connected up with the last one, thus forming a complete circle which started moving around in a procession which had neither beginning nor end.
The naturalist expected that after a while they would catch on to the joke-get tired of their useless march and start off in some new direction. But, not so. Through sheer force of habit, the living, creeping circle kept moving around the rim of the flowerpot-around and around, keeping the same relentless pace for seven days and seven nights-and would doubtless have continued longer had it not been for sheer exhaustion and ultimate starvation.
Incidentally, an ample supply of food was close at hand and plainly visible, but it was outside the range of the circle; so they continued along the beaten path. They were following instinct-habit-custom-tradition- precedent-past experience-”standard practice”-or what ever you may choose to call it; but they were following it blindly.
They mistook activity for accomplishment. They meant well-but they got no place.