It all started with a group of employees in a bank in Ontario. They were happy in their own lives and wanted to do something to help others. At Christmas time in 1993 they asked to be given the name of a family that might be in a poor financial position. At the same time, in that city, a young woman, Dianne, was trying to recover from a bad experience. Dianne had lost all of her material possessions. She had been a manager for a business in London and when daughter was born, she knew she had to stay home and be a mommy. When Dianne's child was eight months old, the horrendous circumstances in her life caused her to flee to a Woman's Shelter. When she was able to safely return to her home, her estranged spouse had taken everything of value. Gone were all the photos of the past eight years of her life. The furniture had been taken, the silverware, the teakettle, everything.

When Christmas rolled around Dianne was phoned and asked by a caseworker if she would consider allowing an unnamed group of employees provide her with some Christmas gifts. Dianne said that she would be appreciative of anything they gave her. She was then asked about her favorite perfume and if she had towels and the clothing sizes of herself and her toddler. The representative asked her if she could name anything in particular that she really wanted. Since she did not have a vacuum cleaner, silverware, teakettle, ironing board or a dozen other items we might consider basic, it was a simple chore to provide a request. Dianne said above all else she would really like a tea kettle for herself and any kind of toy for the baby that could come apart and be put back together again.

Gaining insight from the representative and taking the request into consideration, the employees made their decisions. They supplied the basics and then went overboard. Among the gifts was a lovely tailored new green suit for Dianne.

In September of 1994, I saw the green suit for the first time and I complimented Dianne on it. Her face lit up with the memories and good feelings she had toward the employees of a branch of Canada Trust. She smiled and told me the beautiful story of how she received it. The bank employees were not there to see the lovely smile, a direct result of their actions. They never met Dianne or the baby, yet their gesture of good will in December of 1993 was still rippling out in late 1994 affecting Dianne, then me as I heard the story and now it ripples out to affect you in 1999. The ripples we make, every action, every word of ours can affect people around us.

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Today I was at the gas station and a lady by the name of Trish waited on me. I asked her if I could give her a business card and then told her about “For Goodness Sake.” She told me a story right then. Here is the story she gave me as I stood there:

Trish was working at the Olds, Alberta hospital. It was a cold winter day, a very cold winter day! When Trish went to leave work that day her car needed its own hospital. The car was dead. Well at least the battery was! Now Trish was in trouble because home was at least a twenty minute drive away to the town of Didsbury and she could not afford a tow truck. She really thought about hitch hiking!

As Trish stood outside a man with a fresh bandage on his hand walked out of the emergency door of the hospital. He realized she was in trouble and offered to assist. Well the car could not be encouraged to turn over, even with booster cables. The stranger then offered to drive Trish home.

“Oh, no you can't,” she said, “you don't understand. I don't live here. I live in Didsbury.”

The stranger insisted on making the drive to the next town. Trish knew he had just been in emergency and was likely feeling some pain from his injury. She didn't wish to inconvenience anyone, especially someone who had just been injured. Again the stranger insisted.

Trish accepted the ride home. When they arrived there she had a few dollars (definitely not enough for a tow truck) and she offered them to the man as a small token of her gratitude. She wanted to at least help pay for the gas. The man refused. He wanted nothing but to see her home safely.

Trish said, “I've never forgotten that stranger and I never will. I don't even know his name. I wish I did. I am so grateful for his goodness!”

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In 1993, I had come to terms with the destruction of Hurricane Andrew (it had caused me a lot of personal problems) and I had returned to Oaxaca, Mexico to continue my idyllic life there. I can only stay 6 months at a time and I had my reservations to return to the U.S. Upon my return, I was planning to spend a nice long time visiting my mother and getting caught up with all the things that had sort of slipped by in the last couple of years. I was really looking forward to it.

On August 25, I received a phone call at Instituto Cultural (this is a language school where I do volunteer work) The news hit me so hard. I was told that my mother had died suddenly. The shock was terrible, and made even worse with the thought that I wanted to be with her so much. I of course made reservations on the next flight. I could get a late evening flight out of Oaxaca and a five-hour layover in Mexico City before flying out at 2:30 am. Needless to say, I was in a terribly distraught state, almost frantic at the length of time it would take me to reach Jacksonville (16 hours) and I knew my sister was having to deal with everything immediately.

I found a sort of platform to sit on, as there are no comfortable places on the ground floor of the Mexico City airport. I couldn't go upstairs to the waiting rooms until I could check in and there was no one at the counter.

I know I must have looked a fright - grief does that - and I just wanted to be there (at home with my family). Suddenly, I heard a loud commotion - it sounded like a large group of people having a wonderful time - and I was a little apprehensive at what could be happening. I looked down the almost empty concourse and saw a group of people coming my way. It was made up of various ages and both sexes - starting with a chubby little girl of about 8 years, up through a woman who appeared to be close to my own age. The floors of the airport had just been cleaned and waxed and the young ones in this group were having a great time pulling each other along, and slipping and sliding. Lots of laughter, and I knew somehow that it was one of the wonderful extended families so common in Mexico.

They spotted me, and came up to where I was sitting, with my feet propped up on my suitcase (full of way too much since I didn't know what I'd be needing) and they surrounded me and started bombarding me with the usual questions aimed at foreigners. Do you speak Spanish? Where are you from? Where are you going? Etc., etc. Well, of course I wasn't really up to conversation in Spanish, or in English for that matter, but I tried to be polite and answer them. Then they started telling me why they were at the airport in the middle of the night. A close relative had died suddenly and they were meeting members of the family from a distant country because the funeral was the next day. Well, I was a bit taken aback at their merriment (I understand more now) and I didn't tell them my own reason for traveling alone at such a late hour. They talked with me for about 1/2 hour and then it was time for them to meet their relatives, so they gave me abrazos (hugs) and besitos (kisses) and scurried off down the airport walkway.

I looked at the medal and it was an oval of silver with the Madonna and Child in bas-relief. I was so touched at the obvious perception of this young child that when I was with my sister at the funeral home the next day, I asked if the medal could be pinned to my mother's clothing, and it was.

(This story was sent from Mexico)

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This is a story that took place a few years ago in Spain. I was working as a radio announcer at a Canadian Military Base in Germany and each year we took a month camping holiday to explore a different country. This particular year had taken us to the Basque region of Spain on our way to the beaches of Portugal.

I had a Dodge Family Wagon camper, which is very unusual in Spain. I also had brake problems from a lot of mountain driving. The brake pads on my front brakes had worn out and were causing a lot of metal to metal contact. I knew that I couldn't continue to Portugal without brakes. I also couldn't return to Germany. I also knew that it would be nearly impossible to get brake parts and I was looking at shipping my camper home on a truck. We were stuck in a Spanish campground.

It had been raining for a few days and we were a little dejected with the weather and brake problems. I went for a walk in the small town one afternoon and passed what appeared to be a small garage. When I went into the building I found it was a rather large garage which had been cut into the side of a cliff. With a lot of hand signs, some very broken German and English, I managed to explain my problem to the mechanic. He told me to bring my brake shoes to the garage and he would see what he could do.

Well, he found the largest set of Fiat brake pads he could find, which just about fit on my well worn brakes, but there was no way to attach the pads to my metal retainers. He set up his lathe, cut special bolts, drilled holes and tapped threads to screw the Fiat pads onto my brake shoes. He spent most of the day doing the repair and then drove me back to the camp ground.

I tried to pay him for the parts and his labor but he refused take any money. I even offered to take him and his family to a restaurant for a meal. He refused.

He saved our holiday and we continued on to Madrid and then back to Barcelona and spent the rest of our holidays on the beach. I still think of this Spaniard's kindness to this day.

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