Walking Proudly
It was no wonder I wasn't looking forward to entering ninth grade. High school is well known for being a battleground, where everyone seems to be going through awkward physical changes, emotional mood swings, and low self-esteem. For me, height was my nemesis.

I had always felt insecure and out of place as one of the taller members of my class in Bala Cynwyd, Pennsylvania, standing a head above the other girls and stooping at the back of the line to avoid sticking out.

I especially hated being around large groups of people, like during the social hour after services at my synagogue. Once the prayers were finished, I would leave as quickly as possible so I could avoid another well-meaning congregant squealing, "Ruthie! Look how tall you're getting!" Ugh.

My grandfather would watch me grow increasingly uncomfortable, but he didn't laugh at my self-consciousness or try to console me. Instead, he would admonish me.

"Stand straight and tall," he'd say, as I unsuccessfully tried to shrink myself.

And each time, I would sheepishly comply. Even at age 15, I understood that his advice was about more than just feet and inches.

My grandfather grew up in war-torn Europe. When German soldiers occupied his hometown, the beautiful and thriving city of Tarnow, Poland, he defied them and eventually wound up joining the Soviet army to fight for his country's freedom. "Stand straight, stand tall," meant something else back then.

I trusted my grandfather more than anyone else in my childhood. And whenever I was afraid of something, he would tell me stories of his life.

After the war, he boarded a boat for America, and on January 27, 1947, he stepped onto the dock of Pier 86 in Manhattan. He was hungry and suffering from seasickness. All alone in a new country, he was frightened about his future.

Still, he marched head-on into the hustle and bustle of the streets of New York. Soon he met other European immigrants, each of them trying to find his or her own way.

If they could do it, why couldn't he? "Stand straight, stand tall," he would remind himself.

At first my grandfather refused to enter an American synagogue. He was angry with God for the loss of his entire family back in Europe. What's the point of praying? he asked himself. Who is listening?

But soon he began to long again for the beauty of Judaism and the comfort of the Jewish community. He felt his faith returning. When he walked into the synagogue that first time, he walked in proudly.

Standing straight and standing tall.

That's an article from the Reader's Digest......
Hope u can like it.