�Who Says You Can�t Teach an Old Dog a New Trick or Two�

When Alex, who was diagnosed with childhood cancer just before her first birthday, was four, she told her parents she wanted to set up a front-yard lemonade stand. Her plan: to give the money to doctors to help them find a cure. Her first “Alex’s Lemonade Stand”, held with the help of her older brother Patrick, raised an astonishing $2,000 in one day. While bravely fighting her own cancer, Alex continued to set up lemonade stands every year. As news spread of the remarkable girl so dedicated to helping other sick children, people everywhere were inspired to start their own lemonade stands—donating the proceeds to her cause.

In 2004 when Alex passed away at the age of eight—her stand and inspiration had raised more than $1 million towards finding a cure for the disease that took her life. Alex’s Lemonade Stand Foundation was started by her parents in 2005 to continue the work that Alex began. Our mission is simple: to raise money for and awareness of childhood cancer causes—especially research into new treatments and cures—and to encourage and empower others, especially children, to get involved and make a difference for children with cancer.

Since Alex set up her first lemonade stand in 2000—truly exemplifying the saying “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade”—we have raised more than $50 million. That money has helped to:

• Fund more than 200 cutting-edge research projects

• Create a travel program to help support families of children receiving treatment

• Develop resources to help people everywhere affected by childhood cancer

“Hello,” she said.

I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.

“I’m building,” she said.

“I see that. What is it?” I asked, not really caring.

“Oh, I don’t know, I just like the feel of sand.”

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.

A sandpiper glided by.

“That’s a joy,” the child said.

“It’s a what?”

“It’s a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.”

The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye ‘joy’, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

“What’s your name?” She wouldn’t give up.

“Robert,” I answered. “I’m Robert Peterson.”

“Mine’s Wendy… I’m six.”

“Hi, Wendy.”

She giggled. “You’re funny,” she said.

In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.

“Come again, Mr. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”

The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.

The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.

“Hello, Mr.. P,” she said. “Do you want to play?”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

“I don’t know. You say…”

“How about charades?” I asked sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Then let’s just walk.”

Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.

Strange, I thought, in winter.

“Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t go to school. Mommy says we’re on vacation.”

She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.

“Look, if you don’t mind,” I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, “I’d rather be alone today.”

She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.

“Why?” she asked.

I turned to her and shouted, “Because my mother died!” and thought, My God, why was I saying this to a little child?

“Oh,” she said quietly, “then this is a bad day.”

“Yes,” I said, “and yesterday and the day before and — oh, go away!”

“Did it hurt?” she inquired.

“Did what hurt?” I was exasperated with her, with myself.

“When she died?”

“Of course it hurt!” I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.

A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn’t there. Feeling guilty, ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-coloured hair opened the door.

“Hello,” I said, “I’m Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was.”

“Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I’m afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies.”

“Not at all! She’s a delightful child.” I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said.

“Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukaemia.

Maybe she didn’t tell you.”

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.

“She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we couldn’t say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly…” Her voice faltered, “She left something for you, if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?”

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with “MR. P” printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues — a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:

A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love, opened wide… I took Wendy’s mother in my arms. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I uttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words — one for each year of her life — that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.

The next time you watch a TV show – drama or sitcom notice just how often the problems are caused by dishonesty. Whether it’s a lie or an omission of a truth, whether it’s a little white lie, or a big black lie, you’ll see it really doesn’t matter. Dishonesty creates problems. In fact after you’ve done this for a while you’ll probably realize that all the dramas in life wouldn’t be possible if there wasn’t a lie to propel them.

Now I’m sure you think you’re honest. But what society considers honest and what rigorous honesty really is are two very different things. In fact most of us lie so often that we don’t even notice it anymore. Yes you too! But don’t beat yourself up over it – just commit to becoming aware of this issue, and then doing your best each day to be as honest as possible.

In court the definition of honesty is telling “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” We as a society have altered the definition of the truth to suit are needs. We now as a society believe a person should only tell the truth when …

• it doesn’t make someone uncomfortable
• it doesn’t create a conflict
• it doesn’t make us look bad
• it may affect a positive outcome in our favour from happening in the future

Here we are not talking about the big lies, but the consistent, persistent “lies of omission” the “white lies” the lies we tell people on a consistent basis – daily.

About five years ago, I entered a program where I committed to rigorous honesty. I couldn’t believe it – the first day I had to pretty much quit talking to stop from lying and five years later I still find myself reacting at times with a lie, but fortunately in most cases I can now catch myself before I blurt it out, but not always and that has taught me to be compassionate and understanding as to just how hard it is for others as well.

In fact when I first committed to telling the truth it was terrifying. I felt so inadequate. When you are honest with someone they get to see all of you, including the parts you wish weren’t there, yes – every little flaw. But surprisingly after a short time I didn’t feel I needed the lie anymore and you know what – it felt OK to be me – for the first time. Why? I could accept I wasn’t perfect and I could finally trust myself and once I could trust me I could trust others and then we both felt respected.

As a person who has lived both lives (the life of lies and the life of truth), I can confidently tell you they are very different lives. That said, if you’re like me, most of your lies aren’t big and blatant untruths but more likely lies of omission (not saying what you really think and feel for fear of reprisal from others) or lies of embellishment (adding a little extra to a story to make it sound better). In any case, I’m sure most people wouldn’t think getting rid of these lies would make that much difference, but it does.

The Intention Behind Honesty

When a person first becomes rigorously honest, it can be quite a challenge knowing when and what to say. In a close relationship, I’ll be considerably more open and forthright than I would be, say, to the lady working at the post office.

Really, what would be the purpose of sharing my most innermost feelings with a lady working at the post office? What would be my intention? She wouldn’t understand why I was sharing my feelings with her and in the end she would just feel confused. But, in the case of my wife, there’s no reason for me to not be totally revealing, open and forthright. To establish and experience true intimacy within a relationship a person must be willing to commit to complete honesty – in addition it must be safe for both parties to express their truths in a safe environment without fear of criticism and judgement. Remember it is you that is interpreting the way you feel and determining your understanding from what others are saying. So there is never a need to criticize or to judge. Accept what they have to say, learn and grow.

Thomas Paine states, “It is necessary to the happiness of man that he be mentally faithful to himself.”

Becoming honest is an uphill battle of enormous proportions. After all haven’t we all been taught that it’s better to lie to someone than to hurt their feelings and that some thing’s are never to be told to anyone, ever?

I dare say that the masses have become so adept at lying, that for the most part we’ve forgotten that we are, in fact, lying? Or maybe we are taught to lie because we as a society believe we can actually hurt others emotionally.

If we truly had the power to make other people feel certain emotions, then we should be able to create other people’s reactions at will. But if you said the same thing to a hundred people, you’d get as many different responses as there are people, each person reacting according to their personal beliefs and interpretations of the words you spoke or wrote.

They found out that the new baby was going be a girl, and day after day, night after night, Michael sang to his sister in mommy’s tummy.

He was building a bond of love with his little sister before he even met her.

The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen.

In time, the labor pains came. Soon it was every five minutes, every three, every minute. But serious complications arose during delivery and Karen found herself in hours of labor.

Would a C-section be required? Finally, after a long struggle, Michael’s little sister was born. But she was in very serious condition. With a siren howling in the night, the ambulance rushed the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit at St. Mary’s Hospital,Knoxville , Tennessee.

The days inched by. The little girl got worse. The pediatrician had to tell the parents there is very little hope. Be prepared for the worst.

Karen and her husband contacted a local cemetery about a burial plot. They had fixed up a special room in their house for their new baby but now they found themselves having to plan for a funeral.

Michael however, kept begging his parents to let him see his sister. I want to sing to her, he kept saying.

Week two in intensive care looked as if a funeral would come before the week was over.

Michael kept nagging about singing to his sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care. Karen decided to take Michael whether they liked it or not.

If he didn’t see his sister right then, he may never see her alive. She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and marched him into ICU. He looked like a walking laundry basket.

The head nurse recognized him as a child and bellowed, ‘Get that kid out of here now. No children are allowed!’

The mother rose up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered lady glared steel-eyed right into the head nurse’s face, her lips a firm line.

‘He is not leaving until he sings to his sister’ she stated. Then Karen towed Michael to his sister’s bedside.

He gazed at the tiny infant losing the battle to live. After a moment, he began to sing.

In the pure-hearted voice of a 3-year-old, Michael sang:
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, You make me happy when skies are gray.

Instantly the baby girl seemed to respond. The pulse rate began to calm down and become steady.

‘Keep on singing, Michael,’ encouraged Karen with tears in her eyes.

‘You never know, dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.’

As Michael sang to his sister, the baby’s ragged, strained breathing became as smooth as a kitten’s purr
‘Keep on singing, sweetheart.’

‘The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms’

Michael’s little sister began to relax and rest, healing rest, seemed to sweep over her.

‘Keep on singing, Michael.’ Tears had now conquered the face of the bossy head nurse.
Karen glowed.

‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Please don’t take my sunshine away.’

Five years after my sons’ eventful summer of singing on the Victoria causeway, they found themselves signing a major label recording contract with Polydor Records in Nashville. While living in Nashville we would take the opportunity to, once a month, sing at the children’s hospital.

During one of those visits after the boys had performed, I asked the hospital’s PR representative if there were any shut-ins and could we possibly go to their room and sing them a song or two. After checking she said that there were indeed a couple of kids we could visit. After singing to the two children we were walking down the hall on our way out of the hospital, and I noticed a little girl about three or four years old lying in a bed.

I asked the nurse if we could sing for her and she said she didn’t think it was a good idea because the little girl only had a couple of weeks left to live. I have said before I didn’t always have my emotions in check, so I proceeded to say with a somewhat challenging tone, “Well, ask the mom?” The nurse refused, and my voice began to rise as I said, “If she only has two weeks left why do you want to prevent her from experiencing something so positive and uplifting?” Just then the doctor walked by and asked what the problem was? I explained that I thought that the nurse should ask the mother if the boys could sing for her daughter. The doctor responded by saying, “Let me ask.” Thankfully, the mother invited us in. The boys introduced themselves to this frail little girl and proceeded to sing a song on their album that Garth Brooks had written: “When God Made You.” Everyone broke into tears. Then the boys sang a little ditty that Clint (one of the triplets) and I had written called: “With a Little Smile.” Then everyone was back to smiling. As we were leaving the room, I realized I had one of the boy’s CD’s with me, so I went back and asked her if she would like it. She nodded and I gave it to her. I then told her that we were going out on the road to sing but if she was there when we got back in four weeks, I would give her the boy’s other CD.

When we got back off of the road, I had the record label book us another show at the hospital. After the show we walked down to her ward to see if she was still there, CD in hand. We had just opened the doors to the ward and the head nurse came over to us and said, “Mr. Moffatt, she’s been asking for that CD every day since you guys left.”

She had made it past the two weeks, so I came up with another idea. I told her that in two months the boys would be doing a show with Toby Keith in downtown Nashville and that if she could get strong enough to leave the hospital, I would get her front row tickets to the concert. Two months later she was sitting front row. After that show we headed out to Las Vegas and didn’t get back until November. When we returned to Nashville, we had the record label again schedule a show at the hospital, and after the show we went straight to her ward. When we got there the nurse we spoke to said she was gone. Our hearts all dropped, and she then realized what she had said and corrected herself saying, “No, no she’s gone home.”