Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield

Author:Jack Canfield
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: ebook, book
ISBN: 978-1-4532-7531-3
Publisher: Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing
Published: 2010-09-01T16:00:00+00:00

Who Is Helping Whom?

How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because some day in life you will have been all these.

George Washington Carver

The apartment door unlocked as usual, I let myself in.

Viola was not there, at least not where I typically found her, in her wheelchair in the living room. I followed the light through the half-opened bedroom door. There she sat on the floor beside her bed—with no way to get back up.

“Are you hurt?” I asked.

“No,” she replied with a smile, “just my feelings.”

I thought of my first visit as her physical therapist. She had been propped up in bed with a thick crocheted blanket over her two short stumps of legs. But no one would have noticed, she postured herself with such dignity.

I learned she had been the pastor of a church while she raised two girls and stood by an alcoholic husband. At night while her family slept, she remained on her knees. In the end they all prospered and called her blessed.

Years later, cut down by diabetes, her stature remained just as tall. In contrast, I had recently experienced my second divorce and the weight of it had bent me over. As I trudged along inner-city streets to provide home health care, seldom did I look up to smile at passersby. I felt more worthless than the local drug addicts.

“I’m so embarrassed,” said Viola, bringing me back to her present needs. “Somehow, I just slipped off the side of my bed, but I’m fine, really I am,” she said, her eyes bright. Despite her words, I knew she had landed with a terrible bump. Her hospital bed stood high off the floor, and she had had no way to break her fall.

I reached in her direction. “Let me help you.”

“It might hurt your back to pick me up,” she said, “and I don’t want to be a burden to you.” She seemed like Joan of Arc in the flames, more concerned about her executioner being burned than herself. “My son-in-law will soon be here to lift me.”

Although my eyes gazed downward at her, my heart looked up to her. I realized she was debilitated in body, certainly, but not in spirit.

For many weeks I continued to provide therapy. As I exercised Viola’s muscles, strength not only flowed into her body but into mine as well. Eventually she met all her treatment goals and the sessions ended—but not the friendship.

Like a moth around a Tiffany lamp, I was drawn to her radiant pecan-colored face. She spoke of her life and her family. When she spoke of her Lord, it was not as a preacher would, but as one who had had a personal encounter. I visited her often and even brought my children to absorb her light.

“What did you think about Viola?” I asked them.

“She is a lady without legs—but with love that can’t

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