Being a mommy, I can see the streaks of tears.....

Sunglasses We have a picture of him somewhere, a broken-hearted five-year-old, slumped on a bench at Disney World, eyes fighting back tears, lips so tense you can almost see them quivering, his felt Mickey Mouse ears cocked to one side.

Or maybe we don't have a picture, except in our minds. And yet it's the same image my husband and I share: A sunny day, white light glinting off the windows on Main Street, reflecting off dozens of chrome carriages with chrome wheels, light and heat shimmering everywhere and our two children clamoring for sunglasses, "Please, Mommy? Please, Daddy? Pleeese!"

We ducked into a shop and Rob picked out Donald Duck glasses, blue and white plastic things that slid down his nose and made him look far more like Scrooge McDuck than Donald Duck. But we didn't tell him this. He loved those glasses. Lauren, three and already into fashion, chose pink Minnie Mouse glasses because she was dressed in pink that day.

They wore them out of the dark store into the day, up Main Street, through the castle and into Fantasyland. During "Peter Pan's Flight" they took them off and clutched them in their hands and they did the same in "Pirates of the Caribbean." On "Mr. Toad's Ride" they had them on, I know, because we have a picture of them smiling and waving.

Somehow, somewhere, after that, maybe when he was getting off that ride, maybe when he stopped to tie his sneaker or fix his Mickey ears, or maybe when we were having lunch, the Donald Duck glasses disappeared. And Robbie, who was five and loved those glasses, cried.

"If you had loved them you would have taken better care of them," is what we said to him. Or something like that. Imagine. But we were young and new at this parenting thing and weren't we supposed to teach him to take care of what was his? Wasn't it our duty to make sure that he knew that money didn't grow on trees?

What did those sunglasses cost? A dollar? Two dollars? What harm would it have done to wipe his tears and say, "Come on, we'll get you another pair. I know you didn't mean to lose them." Would he have grown up to be a bad person? Would he have been corrupted in some unforeseeable way?

Lauren said, "You can have mine, Robbie." But he didn't want hers. They were pink and for girls. And his were blue and for boys. And they were gone and he had loved them and he was miserable.

If I had it to do over, I'd have marched back down Main Street and bought a brand new pair of Donald Duck glasses and pretended that I found them on the ground. I would have yelled, "Hey, look what I have!" And he would have leaped up and come running and laughed and thrown his arms around me and put on those glasses and this would be the memory of that day.

You live and you learn.

A few months ago we were in Orlando, not exactly at the scene of the crime, but close enough. Our son, long an adult, was there on business and we flew down to meet him, and in the flurry of rental cars and restaurants and going here and there, guess what? He lost his sunglasses.

We didn't scold him, didn't even think about saying, if you really liked them you would have taken better care of them, because people lose things all the time. Instead we did what most adults do for other adults: We helped him figure out where he could have lost them and — what do you know — he found them in a meeting room he'd been in the day before.

He was grinning when he walked to the car, his steps light and quick, his sunglasses hiding his eyes, nothing of the five-year-old left in him to see.

Except I saw.

He was my first child and the first has it the hardest, because you're new at this and you go by the book and you don't want to mess up and be too soft, but you mess up anyway, because what do you know?

I know that as parents we have an obligation to teach our children. But I also know that everything doesn't have to be a lesson. That sometimes, lost sunglasses are just what they are: lost sunglasses and nothing more.

By Beverly Beckham Reprinted by permission of Beverly Beckham © 1999, from Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul II by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marci Shimoff and Carol Kline.

The bible in 50 words

God made Adam bit Noah arked Abraham split Joseph ruled Jacob fooled Bush talked Moses balked Pharaoh plagued People walked Sea divided Tablets guided Promise landed Saul freaked David peeked Prophets warned Jesus born God walked Love talked Anger crucified Hope died Love rose Spirit flamed Word spread God remained.

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brought to you by:Daily-Blessings

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Black Tulips When I was a child growing up in The Netherlands, I often begged my mother to tell me this story about an experience her family had at the end of World War II.

During the terrible last winter of the German occupation, the "hongerwinter," food was very scarce in the Netherlands. People were so desperately hungry they began to eat small animals and many things not normally considered edible, including tulip bulbs. People discovered the bulbs could be cooked like potatoes or turnips, or even eaten raw.

For centuries, my mother's family, the Van der Veldes, had owned a highly successful tulip business which provided jobs for many in our village of Ridderkerk. Their bulbs were popular throughout Europe and abroad, and the family name was known far and wide. But the war shut their business down, and during the winter of hunger, my grandfather, Arnoldus, donated all his tulip bulbs to feed the hungriest villagers.

All, that is, except for a few irreplaceable bulbs. For years, Arnoldus had been trying to cultivate a black tulip, something no gardener had ever been able to do. He was now very close. By careful selection, he had created a dark-purple tulip. These few bulbs he guarded vigorously to prevent people from stealing them for food. He did not even give them to his family to eat, because they would make just one meager meal, and eating them would destroy his chance of restarting his business and restoring his village after the war.

One day, underground Radio Orange announced that the war was over. There was great rejoicing, but more hardships were still to come. The German forces that had occupied and terrorized the Netherlands for five long years started to withdraw, battalion by battalion. But as they pulled back, some soldiers deserted and fled toward Germany, sacking and looting as they went. There was much destruction, and the Dutch people still faced grave dangers.

My grandfather, Arnoldus, looked at his pale, thin children and realized that the hunger could continue for a long time as the war left poverty in its wake. He wondered if it might be time to feed his precious bulbs to his children. Certainly it would be better than losing the bulbs to the marauding bands of fleeing German soldiers. After hours of agonizing, he made his decision. He seized a shovel and went into the garden. There he found my mother, Albertha, his seven-year-old daughter, looking flushed and agitated.

"Papa! Papa! I must tell you something," Albertha said. Over her shoulder, Arnoldus saw a band of drunken, looting Germans coming toward them down the street. He whispered to Albertha to run inside the house and frantically began digging for his bulbs. Over and over his shovel came up empty. He was too late. Someone had already stolen them.

Crazed with grief and rage, he ran toward the street screaming, "They have stolen my tulip bulbs!" Albertha, watching from the doorway, cried out and ran to stop him. Before she could reach him, a German soldier raised his pistol and shot him. Although the German surrender had been signed, a curfew was still technically in effect, and my grandfather had violated it.

Arnoldus survived his wounds and mended slowly. When he could finally leave his bed, he sat by the window staring out into the garden. He so regretted that he hadn't given the bulbs to his family sooner. The war was over and spring was coming, but life remained very hard. Many houses had been bombed. There was little food and few jobs.

Finally the weather warmed, and Arnoldus was able to sit outside. Albertha stayed close to him, attending to his every need, rarely leaving him even to play with her friends. She had become quiet and reserved, although she had been a happy, bubbly child before the war. Sometimes she would try to cheer her father by pointing to the pile of rubble next door, all that was left of their neighbors' bombed house. She reminded her father that at least their family still had each other and a roof above their heads. Arnoldus realized the truth in her words and often glanced over at the ruins to remind himself of how lucky they had been.

One day, he noticed something sprouting among the broken bricks and concrete. He pointed out the green leaves to Albertha. Suddenly, all her reserve left her. She began to cry hysterically. Between convulsive sobs, she told him that these were his black tulip bulbs. He held her close and listened with amazement as she told her story.

Just before her father was shot, she had been in the garden when a friendly German soldier had approached her. Carl Meier was stationed in the family's neighborhood during the Occupation. He had Van der Velde bulbs in his own garden back home in Germany, and appreciated their value. Carl had watched as Arnoldus gave away the precious bulbs to feed his neighbors, and he suspected that there were more hidden away. The soldier warned Albertha that a band of German looters was on their way down the street. He urged her to hide the remaining bulbs away from the yard, which would surely be searched. And he begged her not to mention his name to anyone, as he could be court-martialed for his warning.

Just then, the laughing and shouting of drunken soldiers could be heard coming down the road. Carl Meier fled. With no time to summon her father, Albertha scrabbled in the dirt with her bare hands, scooped up the bulbs from their hiding place, and reburied them in the rubble next door.

As she clambered back over the fence into her own garden, she found her father digging with a shovel. She tried to tell him what she had done, but he was so intent on his work that he ignored her.

For some time, it was uncertain whether Arnoldus would survive his gunshot wound. When he began to recover, Albertha went to retrieve the bulbs, knowing that seeing them would raise his spirits. She climbed over the fence and gasped with horror. An unstable wall had collapsed on the spot, covering the bulbs. It seemed impossible to the little girl that anyone could ever move the heavy slab. Overwhelmed with sorrow, Albertha decided not to tell anyone what she had done.

However, during the last cruel days of winter, ice must have formed in the cracks of the wall, gently forcing them apart. With the warmth of spring, the ice had melted, and the tender shoots had made their way upward toward the sun. Arnoldus had survived and so had his bulbs. Now father and daughter stood looking at the young green leaves.

It took some time, but my grandfather rebuilt his business, starting with those few bulbs. The rare dark-purple tulips eventually became an enormous source of income for the people in Ridderkerk and provided many much-needed jobs. The recovery of Ridderkerk persuaded its people that there could again be happiness after so much misery and new life after so much death. As the tulips rose from the ruins and came to bloom again, so did the Netherlands.

Although the Van der Veldes tried to locate Carl Meier, he was never found. But the family did find a way to honor his courage and kindness. When my mother's little brother was born the following year, the grateful family named him Karel, the Dutch version of "Carl."

By Carin Klabbers-Ouwens Translated by Philip Klabbers, the Netherlands Reprinted by permission of Carin Klabbers-Ouwens © 1999, from Chicken Soup for the Gardener's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marion Owen, Cindy Buck, Cynthia Brian, Pat Stone and Carol Strugulewski.

-- SAR01 (compstar@bright.net), May 11, 2002