Wishes Do come True If You Let Them.

We’ve all heard the story about Pinocchio, a wooden toy that dreamt he was a real live boy. But what about the little girl Francesca who wished to be a toy, just so she could be loved? Be careful of what you wish for. You just may get it.

GOOD MORNING!

Franchesca lived in a village just outside Marseille, France. Her brother Benji died when he was six and her parents were too busy fighting all the time to realize she needed love, as well.

Every day she found herself delivering messages from one parent to the other.

Even though they sat across a table from one another, they used Francesca as the excuse to not have to speak and not have to deal with the feelings of loss everyone had bottled up inside. Thus, Frannie, (as her brother used to call her) was constantly stuck in the middle.

Try as she might she couldn’t get past the problems. They were always there and yet, she always felt unloved, alone and isolated. The room was so cold and the dim light made her fearful.

So one night, while Momma and Papa bickered and needled each other, as the assails hurled past Frannie’s ears like mosquitoes, she squeezed her bear with all her might. As arguing rang out like clanging pots in the background, she looked longingly into the sky and asked why?

“Why can’t I be loved by someone like I love my dolly? I wish I was a toy.” And just like that, suddenly, Francesca could not move her arms, or her legs. She could not turn her head. She could not wipe the snow from her face, and she could not stop the cold that was coming through her thin, cloth coat.

“I don’t like being cold” she said. “I don’t like it at all.”

But try as she would, Franchesca’s position could not be changed. She simply lay propped up against the back door of the house with wind whipping at her face.

Just then, the door against which she had been leaning opened and she fell backwards into the house and onto the warm, flat, linoleum kitchen floor of the house’s interior.

“Where’s that toy?” hollered the voice of a little boy? “Where is my plaything?”

These words sent shivers of excitement up the toy’s neck. They were just what Frannie had wanted to hear.

“Someone wants me,” she exclaimed! It meant that she would soon be held and coddled like every little girl, and every toy dreams of being.

But instead of hugs, the boy had drugs. He stuffed them inside Frannie’s pocket, and he threw her on the floor.

It’s very rare for a toy to cry. An incredible amount of sorrow has to be felt and the healing properties of the toy are diminished each time a toy feels saddened. But she refused to cry. She knew that things had to get better. After all, at least no one was arguing.

Just then, she felt a hand grab her and yank her so hard that one of her shoes came off. The hand tossed her from side to side, and from hand to hand like a ball.

“Give it to me” said the voice. “Give it to me before I take it from you and you regret it!”

All of a sudden, another hand grabbed at Frannie and yanked and pulled, until she was on the verge of ripping in half.

Worse than ever before, Frannie’s heart began to beat faster, and louder! She was scared. How can this happen to a toy?

Just then, another voice yelled: “Fine, you want it, you go and get it!” And Frannie began to spin out of control as she flew through the air. Not knowing where she might end up, she closed her eyes and announced:

“I wish I was a toy that someone loved!” And when she stopped tumbling, she was a different toy, laying face up in a field of grass, surrounded by flowers and shaded by tall trees.

“Am I in Heaven” she asked aloud. “Could this be what happens to toys when children finish playing with them?”

And with that, Frannie felt a jolt like she had never felt before. She was being held down, rubbed, and licked, and she was trapped in the tight jaws of a big, slobbery, farm dog.

Up and down she went. Left to right — right to left. The rambunctious k-9 had her in such a grip that she was getting soggy.

“This isn’t good. I want to be taken care of and loved, not thrown like a tennis ball and left in the dirt. I wish I were a toy that was loved, and revered. One that everyone would look at and say: “That is the most beautiful toy in the whole world.”

And like a flash of lightning blinding her eyes, Francesca found herself in a

glass case, under very soft, but direct lighting.

“Oh, look at her face. The attention to detail is magnificent,” said the faces on the other side of the windows.

“I love her hair. It’s so long and pretty,” said one observer. While another declared: “I like her big rosy cheeks. I wish I could hold her and brush her hair,” said the younger voice.”

“Oh you can’t do that,” said the first one. “This is the kind of toy that you love by admiring its value. But you can never play with it. It is too fragile and it would break too easily.”

“Oh well,” said the first voice. “I still wish I could play with her. She looks like she is going to cry.”

And with that, the toy fans proceeded on their way. Never looking back and never to return. Sometimes we separate ourselves from others. Sometimes it is with glass, and sometimes it is with fighting.

Once the last museum visitor left, Francesca fell to her knees and began to cry. The sorrow in her tears was so sad that it echoed through the display area.

“Won’t anyone ever love me?” Then she thought. “Mommy and Daddy fight a lot, but they always tuck me into my warm bed at night. They yell at each other, but they always help me with my homework. They argue over little things, but they still kiss each other at the end of the day.”

Fran began to gain some strength. She stood to her feet and wiped her eyes dry. She began to remember the good times when Benji was alive. How they laughed, and how they played. She could see in her mind the colors in the Bastille Day Parade. She could smell the sweetness of her mother’s rolls cooking in the kitchen. She could hear the laughter on the couch as they watched TV on Saturday Night.

“I wish I could be home in the arms of my Momma and my Papa. I wish I could tell them I love them and make them see they should love each other.”

“Fancesca, are you all right?” asked a familiar voice. “Frannie, what’s wrong? Are you crying?” asked another voice. They were her parents. They were not fighting. They were not yelling. They were wiping the tears from her cheek.

Suddenly, the room was filled with love. The soft, red light filling the room was warm, and it was wonderful. She looked up, through the hair that had fallen in her eyes and what she saw made her happy. It was her Momma, and her Papa hugging each other and smiling down at her.

“We’re sorry, Francesca. We didn’t mean to make you our plaything. We didn’t mean to toss you around like a rag doll. This Christmas, let’s all love each other, like we did when we were children and we loved our toys.”

And they lived happily ever after. Let’s learn from our playthings.

Michael J. Herman is a Professional Writer, Motivational Speaker, and State-change Coach.