A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times, even The total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and made her way 6 blocks to Rexall's Drug Store with the big red Indian Chief sign above the door.  She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention, but he was too busy at this moment. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally, she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!

“And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. I'm talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven't seen in ages,' he said without waiting for a reply to his question.

“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He's really, really sick...and I want to buy a miracle.”

“I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist.

“His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now So how much does a miracle cost?”

“We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I'm sorry but I can't help you,” the pharmacist said, softening a little.

“Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn't enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me ho w much it costs.”

The pharmacist's brother was a well dressed man He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?”

“I don't know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. “I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can't pay for it, so I want to use my money.”

“How much do you have?” asked the man from Chicago 

“One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it's all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.”

“Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “A dollar and eleven cents---the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.”

He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let's see if I have the miracle you need.”

Kim Phuc

I still can’t look at the picture, not even today. It hurts too much. That image of myself as a little girl in Vietnam, running with my arms hanging wide, naked, my skin on fire, my mouth open in terror and crying for help, the smoke all around me-- it still is too powerful. I feel so horrible inside, .like it’s happening all over again. I can smell the burning, I can feel the heat, and deep in my soul, it hurts! So I don’t look. I keep the picture for me to feel that way. For many years, I was just the Girl in the picture- and I hated it. I had been photographed when I was nine years old and my village was hit by napalm. We were running on the highway, away from the explosions. The sky was red, as if heaven were on fire. I could not keep up with my brothers; they ran too fast. As I ran, I turned to see an airplane flying low into the ground. I had never seen one so close before. I watched it drop four bombs into the swirling smoke. I kept running. Suddenly, a force struck me from behind. I fell forward onto the ground. I did not know what I was doing when I pulled at the neck of my shirt. I just felt so hot. My burning clothes fell away from me. I looked at my left arm. It was covered with flames and brownish-black goo. I tried to wipe it off and yelled in pain as my hand bean to burn too. I know I should catch up with my brothers, but I felt so tired and so thirsty, like I was burning from the inside. “Oh, Ma,” I kept crying. “Nong que! Nong que! Too hot! Too hot! That’s when the journalist took my picture. I hardly remember what happened next. The journalists poured their canteens of water over my skin; it was falling off in pink and black chunks. The photographer got a poncho to cover me, then helped me into a van and drove me to the hospital in Saigon. The van swerved around refugees, and with every bump I screamed in agony. The napalm had incinerated my ponytail and left my neck, y back, and my left arm a raw, mushy, oozing mess. It wad killed my two cousins. I wished it had killed me too. It wasn’t until much later that I learned that the picture, taken by AP photosphere Nick Ut, had been printed on the front pages of newspapers around the world and won him the Pulitzer Prize. It made Nick famous. It me famous, too, though I wished with all my heart it had not. For the next fourteen months I remained in an American hospital in Saigon, enduring many surgeries and painful procedures paid for by a private foundation. I had to relearn how to stand, walk and feed and dress myself. Finally, recovered, I was sent back to my village to try to rebuild my life. But my life would never but the same. I could not take the hot sun on my unstable new skin or the blowing dust in my damaged lungs. I suffered bad headaches and sudden, intense pain. My family was forced to live in a hot, airless house in the city as was raged around us. We had little money, not even for the ice I depended on for pain relief.  As the years went by, I remember as a teenager feeling so very ugly. I would look in the mirror at the scars that covered my body and ask, “Why me?” I was able to hide my disfigurement by growing my hair long, wearing long sleeves and resting my left arm on my hip so you could tell it was shorter. It was my shameful secret. One, when I was seventeen, sitting at my desk waiting for the teacher to arrive, I heard some girls talking about a boy who had scares on his hands. “He is so handsome,” one girl said. “Oooh! Yuck!” the others chimed in. “Have you see his scars? So ugly!” The only thing that kept me going was my dream of becoming a doctor. I‘d been so impressed with how the doctors had helped me; I wanted to help people, too. I studied hard and was accepted into medical school. I was thrilled-- but that was short-lived. A few months later, foreign journalists found me. They wanted to interview me ten years after the war. At first, I was flattered-- me? Famous? But the Vietnamese communist government took over, demanding that I act as their anti-capitalist poster girl, their symbol of the war. They told me what to say and do, watching my ever move. The made me abandon medical school and be available to pose for the cameras. Outside, I was smiling; inside, I felt so sad, like I was a victim all over again. I could have no friends; it was too dangerous. They warned my parents that if something happened to me, they would go to prison. In between media interviews, I went to the library, reading every book I could find on religion. I’d hoped that within those pages I would find some answers, some meaning for my life. There, I found my answer, God, I decided, had saved me for a purpose. Through my new faith, I would find that purpose. The Vietnamese government finally relented and allowed me to continue my education, this time in Cuba. It was there that I met my husband-- and decided that I would finally escape the clutches of the communist government. I told no one, just bided my time. And one day, I saw my chance. It was 1992. My husband and I were returning from our honeymoon in Moscow, and the plane needed to refuel in Canada. I looked out the plane window at the wide open spaces of Gander, Newfoundland. We knew nothing of this country except that it was cold--and free. That was enough for me. I had never felt so scared in my life-- or so strong. With pounding hearts, we left our bags on the plane and never turned back. I came here to get away from Vietnam, from the war, and from my life as the Girl in the Picture. I wanted to make my life quiet. It did not work out that way, but that’s okay. I have found something else-- something better. I have found my purpose. I travel and speak out to tell people that war is bad, that tolerance and forgiveness are good, that our real enemy is anger and bitterness. And I found that people listen. I believe that’s because I speak from my heart. They see me as an innocent little girl who suffered so much, who is supposed to be angry, who is supposed to be dead. Although I did not become a doctor, I did find another way to heal. In 1997, I established the Kim Foundation, a non-profit group that provides funds for medical assistance to children who are victims of war and terrorism. In 1997, I was appointed a Goodwill Ambassador for Pear for UNESCO. I could have stayed frozen in time, forever the Girl in the Picture, forever the victim. But I no longer run away, and I am no longer a victim. It was the photograph that saved my life, but it was my reaching out to others that finally convinced me it was a life worth saving.
 
www.kimfoudnation.com
 

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Nicolas Winton.mp4 (24.9 MB)

Nicolas Winton chartered trains to rescue children in Czechoslovakia from Hitler. These children were taken to England where families adopted them. He saved the lives of 669 children this way and these children had children who had children and today there are 7,000 people who would otherwise not be.  Nicholas hid his story until his wife discovered numerous documents in a scrap book in their attic 50 years after the event occurred. She handed his story over to people who would honor him in a television program. In this video, he sits in an audience unaware that he is surrounded by the children he saved. The audience doesn't know who Nicolas Winton is. They never met the man who saved their lives until now. No more needs to be said.  Bless you, Mr. Winton.

It is said…

This story is about two tenors – Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras -- who moved the world through their song.

Their story begins before they were even born with the bitter entanglement between the Catalanes and Madrilenos in Spain. These two groups of people shared common ground – Spain – but neither lived or live as friend or neighbour.  History lives eternally in the people of today and without solution there is no resolution.  And so the old fairy tales fail to fade and the historical baggage is carried forward.  Placido Domingo is Madrileno and Jose Carreras is Catalan and true to their ancestors, they carried on the hatred for one another and refused to step on stage together and sing their song.

In 1987, Carreras was diagnosed with Leukemia.   His career ended abruptly as he made his way through the maze of medicine. Frequent bone marrow transplants and blood transfusions eventually exhausted his financial reserves and he was no longer able to afford further medical care. Grace came in the form of a discovery. Carreras had stumbled across a foundation that had been set up soleyly to support people suffering from Leukemia. Thanks to the support of this foundation -- The Hermosa Foundation, Carreras conquered the disease and was able to return to the stage.

Grateful for what the foundation had done for him, Carreras went to support it. In his investigation, he discovered that the founder, president and leading contributor of the foundation was Placido Domingo.  He later found out that Placido had formed this organization to help him with his treatment, but had chosen to remain anonymous in order for Carreras to accept help from his “enemy.”

Then one day, in a humbling public display of atonement, Carreras interrupted a performance with Placido in Madrid, knelt down and asked forgiveness.

One fine summer day, Annie Apple hanging on a non-descript apple tree in an apple orchard somewhere revels at a neighboring banana bush. It notices the camaraderie of the banana family and their closeness. “They have each other’s company and they are one solid bunch,” Annie thought. Annie apple’s life was unbearable hanging alone on a branch, dangling by a precarious stem that is at the mercy of the wind’s whim. “I wish I were a banana. After all, everyone likes bananas. Why, if I were a banana, I could be a banana split, banana flambé, banana bread or even a chocolate covered frozen banana. “Oh, I want to be a banana,” Annie apple begged. So one day, Annie apple got a banana outfit to look like a banana, banana perfume to smell like a banana and banana flavoring to taste like a banana. And Annie called herself Anniebanani.  

On the same summer day, Bonnie Banana noticed an attractive apple nearby. Swaying so playfully in the summer breeze, Bonnie Banana reveled at the delightful sight. “I want to be an apple. Look at me smothered, unable to move, claustrophobic. I have no privacy, no space. I want to dance, sway in the wind, be independent like that apple. After all, everyone likes apples. Why, if I were an apple, I could become apple crisp, apple juice, applesauce, even an apple pie,” Oh, I want to be an apple,” Bonnie begged. So, Bonnie Banana got an apple outfit to look like an apple, apple perfume to smell like an apple and apple flavoring to taste like an apple. And Bonnie called herself Banappie.

In the end, Annie Apple looked, smelled and tasted like Bonnie Banana….99%
And Bonnie Banana looked, smelled and tasted like Annie Apple… 99%.

You can be something that you are not 99% or you can be who you are 100%.
Some people like Bananas and some people like Apples.