Spreading Kindness Around the World

“Mom, we want to write a book,” my five-year-old twins, Delilah and Nathenial, told me one day.

I looked at my kids curiously. “What do you mean?”

Are they joking? I thought. I don’t know the first thing about getting a book published. Still, I didn’t want to squash their creativity. “Okay…what do you want it to be about?”

“An envelope that travels all over the world spreading kindness,” Nathenial said, his eyes shining.

Over the next few months,my kids dreamed up more of the story. The main characters were a pair of twins just like them. I wrote down everything, making sure not to miss a detail. The kids even sketched scenes with colored pencils.

The theme of Delilah and Nathenial’s story was being kind to others, no matter how little you might have. I wondered if that was partly because I’d told them what my life had been like when I was their age.

I remember my father died when I was five. My mom, younger sister and I ended up on the streets,sleeping in parks and homeless hotels for more than a year. I found myself standing in any line I could to get donated food.

Despite—or maybe because of—our hardships, I tried to help others. I handed out snacks to people who were homeless, took in stray (走失的) animals and helped give out donations at a church where the woman in charge would send me home with food. After I gave birth to our twins, I not only taught them to be kind but also to make sure they knew that anything was possible.

I guess I did a pretty good job, because here the twins were, at age five, managed to write a book. After we self-published The Magical Envelope last Children’s Day, the kids decided to donate it to the kindergarten in our community.

The twins, now eight, continue to amaze me.

My kids understand more about the hardship I endured.

There are lots of chances in front of us. Whether you can seize them or not depends on the choices you make. This reminds me of one choice I made during my childhood.

Two tickets. Only two tickets to the final basketball game.

Three pairs of eyes focused on the tickets in Dad’s out-stretched hand. Mike, the oldest, asked the question running through everyone’s mind, “Only one ticket for us three? But, Dad, which of us will go with you?” Avery, the youngest, repeated the question quietly. I asked Dad if there was any chance to get more tickets. I might be the middle sister, but I was just as eager as my basketball-crazy brothers for a night out with Dad. Dad said he’d got the tickets from a friend and there were only two available.

Seeing that none of us would give up the chance, Dad told us he would choose which of the three of us deserved to go by the following morning.

The next morning, we hurried into the kitchen and looked for Dad, only to find that he had gone out. We were told to get started on our Saturday cleanup as soon as we finished breakfast. Mike complained that he couldn’t concentrate on chores with the game a mere eleven hours away. He slurped the last of his milk, grabbed the basketball and headed towards the back door. Avery dashed after his brother. Before I realized it, the door snapped shut. I glanced out the window and saw Mike practicing his shot while Avery cheered him on.

Seeing the mess on the breakfast table—the leftovers on the sticky plates and dirty cups, I felt frustrated. I approached the window and knocked on it. When the boys looked at me, I held up a kitchen sponge and dishtowel. Mike casually nodded to me and held up five fingers. Sure, five more minutes! I didn’t believe they would return to do the cleanup in five minutes, especially in Dad’s absence. Apparently, they had made their choice.

Anyway, I chose to do the Saturday morning chores on my own.

Dad was happy to know I found the ticket he had hidden in the cupboard.

It was Hoppy’s first day at his new school. He didn’t know anyone yet, but he had seen some cool kids at the beach during the summer.

Billy, one of the cool kids, sat down next to Hoppy at break and started to have a talk. They discovered they shared the same interest, surfing, but Hobby went to the beach with his dad, instead of hanging out there with friends, which was laughed at by Billy. He invited Hoppy to the beach with his friends. Hoppy nodded, happy to have a new friend.

After school Hoppy met Billy and his three friends at the school gate, one of whom tried to punch Hoppy’s stomach as a way of “greetings”. While walking on the street, they met a boy, having trouble with his bike. Billy and his friends started to tease the boy. The boy looked up uneasily about this interest in him and his flat-tyre.

Billy nudged the boy so that he fell on the kerb (侧石) and broke his glasses. Billy and his friends ran off down the street, laughing. However, Hoppy just stood there.

The boy, Gerald, sat on the kerb, crying now. He looked up at Hoppy and begged him not to hit him. Hoppy smiled and said, “I’ve never beaten anyone up. Only bullies (霸凌) and cowards do that. Really strong people keep their fists in their pockets. That’s what my dad says.” Gerald seemed relieved. They walked to Gerald’s house, talking about going to the beach together. Their friendship grew.

One Sunday, Hoppy went to the beach with his father. Billy and his friends were there. Billy called out to Hoppy, complaining about helping Gerald. He spoke in an unpleasant tone, saying his dad was his babysitter. Hoppy smiled and ignored him.

Gerald arrived to see Hoppy. When he saw the boys, his heart sank. Billy and his gang surrounded him. “Hoppy’s tricked me,” thought Gerald, and he started to walk away. Billy ran after Gerald and tripped him. Gerald fell onto the sand, but picked himself up and asked them to leave him alone. However, Billy didn’t stop and tripped Gerald again.

This time Gerald managed a brave smile as he got up and faced the boys.

Hoppy and his dad came up beside Gerald, but Gerald said to them, “Why don’t you go with your friends?”

I had been in Cancun, Mexico for a week when I lost my bag in a shopping centre. My friend and I were occupied with taking photos in front of a mural (壁画) and forgot that one of my bags was dropped in a corner. When I realized, we had walked away for at least 10 minutes. We quickly retraced our steps to the place where it had been left. By then, it was nowhere to be found. “It can’t be gone. ” I told myself. We called the phone. It didn’t get through. We started asking people around the plaza, including the security guard. After hearing my story, they only shook their heads and looked at me with pity. “Oh no, no. This is Mexico. It’s already taken and you won't get it back. I’m sorry for you,” a man who spoke English said to me. My friend Marcela helped me turn on “Find My iPhone” from her phone. My hope was once again dashed when the results returned “this device is offline”. We sent a message to the phone and left a contact number, begging the person to give back my things. Nothing. At this point, we concluded that the person must have switched off my device. They did not have good intentions. Everything was truly gone.

We walked back to our hotel and the rest of the day passed gloomily. I felt guilty, sad and a mess. That bag contained not only my phone, but also new camera gear I had bought and most of my cash. I had two weeks left in Cancun as I was on a volunteering trip. Thankfully, I had a place to stay with the rest of my volunteer family who are the sweetest people. They comforted me and helped me look on the bright side. By then I had totally given up the idea of being able to get back my things.

Three days later, we suddenly received an unexpected call from a stranger.

I checked my bag and found all of my things were untouched.

As a nurse at the cancer care center where I’ve worked for seven years, I’ll do almost anything to make a patient feel better. But when I met Patty at the center, in 2011, she didn’t want my help.

She was a tiny 44-year-old single mom battling an aggressive head and neck cancer. Unlike many of our other patients, Patty was alone during her treatment, but no matter what I did. I couldn't get her to open up. She just buried herself in book or pulled a blanket over her head to fend off conversation.

Eventually I hit on a reliable way to make Patty smile: mentioning her nine-year-old son, Stephen. She'd tell me how well he did in school, how he'd been selected to read a poem he wrote at a local bookstore. She desperately wanted to live for him. With three kids myself, I totally understood how she felt.

After a year and a half of treatment, in August 2012, Patty was told her cancer had spread, and I learned she wouldn't live much longer. My first thought was, “What's going to happen to Stephen?”

Nurses at the center shared stories at their meetings about how bright and unusual the boy was. but no one seemed to know how to resolve the issue of what would happen to him when his mom died. My husband, Michael, who too works at the center, started hearing about Patty and Stephen.

One morning in October, Patty quietly slipped away. Michael and I picked Stephen up after school, drove him to a nearby park, and sat on a bench by a pond. I finally managed to say, “Stephen, we're sorry to have to tell you this, but your mom came to an end this morning.” The sound that came out of his mouth was like nothing I'd ever heard before. This skinny little guy sat between the two of us and just wailed (哀号) and wailed. It was as if his whole world was just destroyed.