Whistleblower.

I bought a whistle yesterday to become a Whistleblower for Peace.

If you haven't heard of this, Falling Whistles is a non-profit organization fighting to end war in Congo. It all started with a journal entry and the newfound knowledge that children are abducted and forced to fight. And not only that: the ones too young and small to carry and operate a gun are given only a whistle and sent to the front lines of battle. Their sole responsibility is to use that whistle to make enough noise to scare away the enemy. If they don't succeed, they are the ones hit with the first round of bullets. They are the sacrifice for the rest of the army.

Basically, blow this whistle until you die.

So, from this the idea was born that "Their weapon could be our voice." Whistles are sold online or at retail stores including Lolabella and JMR. 100% of the proceeds go to help rehabilitate and educate the children that have escaped from the war. The question is, can this little whistle be the symbol that helps end war in Congo? Buy a whistle and spread the word.

Click on the picture to see the Falling Whistles website and find out more.

The Circus.

Once when I was a teenager, my father and I were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus. Finally, there was only one family between us and the ticket counter. This family made a big impression on me. There were eight children, all probably under the age of 12. You could tell they didn't have a lot of money. Their clothes were not expensive, but they were clean. The children were well-behaved, all of them standing in line, two-by- two behind their parents, holding hands. 

They were excitedly jabbering about the clowns, elephants and other acts they would see that night. One could sense they had never been to the circus before. It promised to be a highlight of their young lives.

The father and mother were at the head of the pack standing proud as could be. The mother was holding her husband's hand, looking up at him as if to say, "You're my knight in shining armor." He was smiling and basking in pride, looking at her as if to reply, "You got that right."

The ticket lady asked the father how many tickets he wanted. He proudly responded, "Please let me buy eight children's tickets and two adult tickets so I can take my family to the circus."

The ticket lady quoted the price.

The man's wife let go of his hand, her head dropped, the man's lip began to quiver. The father leaned a little closer and asked, "How much did you say?"

The ticket lady again quoted the price.

The man didn't have enough money.

How was he supposed to turn and tell his eight kids that he didn't have enough money to take them to the circus?

Seeing what was going on, my dad put his hand into his pocket, pulled out a $20 bill and dropped it on the ground. (We were not wealthy in any sense of the word!) My father reached down, picked up the bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, "Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket."

The man knew what was going on. He wasn't begging for a handout but certainly appreciated the help in a desperate, heartbreaking, embarrassing situation. He looked straight into my dad's eyes, took my dad's hand in both of his, squeezed tightly onto the $20 bill, and with his lip quivering and a tear streaming down his cheek, he replied, "Thank you, thank you, sir. This really means a lot to me and my family."

My father and I went back to our car and drove home. We didn't go to the circus that night, but we didn't go without.

Dan Clark

A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul

Halfway.

I'm halfway through my senior year. Halfway! Only about four more months.

This week I went up to Sundance with a group of students from Grenobles, France. It taught me how little French I have learned in the last six years, but also that you don't always have to understand each other perfectly to make new friends. And also that it's not cool to say "C'est chouette!" Apparently it's the French version of "It's groovy!" Way outdated. Embarrassing.

I always thought a good way to deal with problems was to go out and dance and party and do crazy stuff and forget about everything else. But it turns out that one of the best things is laying on the couch for 3 hours on a Friday night and talking. Talking about the past, the present, the future, and the way things change. Sometimes that is better than getting lost in people and loud music.

Have I told you that you are strong?

"A woman named Helen Keller fought her way 

through long, silent darkness.

Though she could not see or hear, 

she taught us to look at and listen to each other.

Never waiting for life to get easier, 

she gave others courage to face their challenges."

Of Thee I Sing - Barack Obama

The Giving Gift.

After he had unwrapped his gifts on Christmas morning the the 5 year old boy’s mother asked him which one of his presents he wanted to donate to a poor child who had less than him. “None”, the boy replied. His mom sat him on her lap and explained to him thatsharing with those who were less forunate was part of the holiday spirit and how a child who had less would probably be very happy to receive a gift. This took some convincing from mom but the boy eventually agreed to part with one of his gifts. Mom told him that he could have until the following morning to decide. The day after Christmas the boy put his four gifts in front of him and tried to decide which one to part with. It was a difficult decision. His eyes scanned over the toy flute, book of Aesop’s Fables, Popeye book bag, and the toy dump truck with doors that really opened. He decided that he part with the flute. “Where do we take it?” he asked his mother. His mother explained that there was a Salvation Army box two streets away and that the people who emptied this box would make sure that it got to a child who needed a gift. “How will they know it is for a child?”, he asked. His mother told him that he could tape a note to the flute and she helped him to write one that read, “Please make sure this gets to a kid who doesn’t have a lot of toys.” After securely attaching the note to the flute the boy said, “I forgot to write my name, how will they know who this came from?” His mother explained that they wouldn’t need to know who it came from and how sometimes part of giving was doing it so that others wouldn’t know where it came from, like putting coins in the poor box at church. “Well, can I please write my name?” His mother said it would be okay and he wrote his name at the end of the note.

This parting with a gift the day after Christmas became a yearly ritual. When he was 8 years old the boy so treasured the gifts that he had that the decision needed to be made by eeny-meny-miny-mo and he had to part with a set of checkers. “I really love these, mom,” the boy said. His mother said that he could select something else but he didn’t want to have to decide again. His mother left the room and returned with a piece of cardboard, the boy’s crayons, and his bottle cap collection. Together they created a board and set of checkers. “I bet no other kid in the world has checkers like these,” he said. That year he decided all on his own not to put his name on the note that he attached to the checkers box. Three months later when he saw a checkers set at his friend Jerry’s house he fought back the temptation to say “that was mine” after Jerry had told him that an army man had brought it to his door.

When he was 10 years old the laundromat where his mother worked closed shortly after Thanksgiving and gifts were sparse. On Christmas he looked over his three inexpensive gifts. His mother came and sat beside him and told him that this year he didn’t have to part with a gift. At first this sounded great but when he woke up the morning after Christmas he thought about how much fun he had seen Jerry have with the checkers and how the giving gift could be secret and magical. He told his mother that he wanted to put his new football in the Salvation Army box. “You don’t have to do that,” his mother said. He told her that he wanted to. She got teary-eyed and gave him a big hug.

Six months later his mother’s birthday was approaching and the boy emptied his piggy bank and counted out three dollars and forty-nine cents. “What would you like for your birthday?” he asked his mother. She was silent for a moment and then she spoke, “I’ve noticed Billy playing catch football with his dad and it looks like a lot of fun. I think I would like a football.” That year his mother got a football for her birthday.

The giving gift tradition continued into adulthood. One Christmas his own 5 year old boy asked him, “What was the best gift you got for Christmas when you were a kid?” He wanted to explain to his son that the best gift he ever received didn’t come in a box, it wasn’t wrapped and you couldn’t even hold it in your hand.

He tried to explain the giving gift as best as he could in words that a young child might understand. "Do you still do that, Dad?" His father explained that he had not missed a Christmas in over 30 years. The following day the father selected a new sweater and wrote directly on the white box, “Please give this to someone who needs it.” As he was getting ready for the drive to the Salvation Army box his son asked, “Can I come?” The father asked the boy to have his mother help him put on his boots, hat, and coat while Dad went to warm up the car. The father sat in the car waiting for ten minutes and thought about the Christmas of the first giving gift. He was just about to go back inside to see what was taking his son so long when the little boy came running out with a new play-doh set in his hands. “Dad, can you help me write the note?”

By Brian Joseph

Perception.

Too much beauty in the world is about having big eyes and full lips.
What about having eyes that can see the way to change the world, and lips that can speak the words to do it?

I'm not quite sure what to think.

There are some things that I hate.

I hate when my car has a cracked radiator, and in order to find that out I have to smoke out an entire street with my overheating engine.
I hate homework, especially statistics.
I hate cold weather.
I hate seeing people being judged. People are judgmental. It's weird how after someone pulls through a challenge, you can look back and say wow, they are so cool and strong. But when they're in the middle of it, it's so easy for people to judge them.
I hate meatloaf.
Most of all, I hate when someone tells you something you already know, but haven't been able to admit. And then all of a sudden, there it is, written out for you in plain English and you know you're going to have to agree and it's not going to be easy.

But then again, there are some things that I love.

I love having the heater in my car working again... and okay, I secretly loved my smoking car because it was funny.
I love learning, especially psychology and French.
I love snow.
I love seeing people overcome judgment. When someone can pull out and be who they are, no matter what anyone says.
I love tofu.
But most of all, I love having people in my life that tell me what I need to hear, even if it is going to be hard. They have faith in me. They care. I love that, and I love them.