You know, he almost didn't see the old lady, stranded on the side of the road. But even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed help. So he pulled up in front of her Mercedes and got out. His Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached her. Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped to help for the last hour or so.

Was he going to hurt her? He didn't look safe, he looked poor and hungry. He could see that she was frightened, standing out there in the cold. He knew how she felt. It was that chill which only fear can put in you. He said, "I'm here to help you ma'am. Why don't you wait in the car where it's warm? By the way, my name is Bryan".

Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad enough. Bryan crawled under the car looking for a place to put the jack, skinning his knuckles a time or two. Soon he was able to change the tire. But he had to get dirty and his hands hurt. As he was tightening up the lug nuts, she rolled down the window and began to talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only just passing through. She couldn't thank him enough for coming to her aid. Bryan just smiled as he closed her trunk. She asked him how much she owed him. Any amount would have been all right with her. She had already imagined all the awful things that could have happened had he not stopped.

Bryan never thought twice about the money. This was not a job to him. This was helping someone in need, and God knows there were plenty who had given him a hand in the past... He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to him to act any other way. He told her that if she really wanted to pay him back, the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could give that person the assistance that they needed, and Bryan added "...and think of me". He waited until she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed for home, disappearing into the twilight.

A few miles down the road the lady saw a small cafe. She went in to grab a bite to eat, and take the chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a dingy looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole scene was unfamiliar to her. The cash register was like the telephone of an out of work actor - it didn't ring much. Her waitress came over and brought a clean towel to wipe her wet hair. She had a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole day couldn't erase. The lady noticed that the waitress was nearly eight months pregnant, but she never let the strain and aches change her attitude.

The old lady wondered how someone who had so little could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Bryan. After the lady finished her meal, and the waitress went to get change for her hundred dollar bill, the lady slipped right out the door. She was gone by the time the waitress came back. She wondered where the lady could be, then she noticed something written on the napkin under which were 4 more $100 bills. There were tears in her eyes when she read what the lady wrote. It said:

"You don't owe me anything, I have been there too. Somebody once helped me out, the way I'm helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here is what you do: Do not let this chain of love end with you".

Well, there were tables to clear, sugar bowls to fill, and people to serve, but the waitress made it through another day. That night when she got home from work and climbed into bed, she was thinking about the money and what the lady had written. How could the lady have known how much she and her husband needed it? With the baby due next month, it was going to be hard. She knew how worried her husband was, and as he lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft and low, "Everything's gonna be all right; I love you, Bryan."

　　My Dear Shu-Wu1, 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　May 14
　　　　
　　Your letter gives me a joyful surprise2. Your English is astonsihingly good. This is not “flannel”or“butter”3 but my sincere opinion (my hand upon my heart!). The idea found from your version of Chairmans statement is, to say the least, quite unjust4. Perhaps your hand is recovering some of its old cunning momentarily lost through long lack of practice5. At any rate, it would be a pity-nay, a sin, a crime6-to let your7 English get rusty & become finally unserviceable.
　　Yours in haste
　　　　
　　By a slip of pen, you wrote “allocation”instead of “Collocation”9.This is a mere peccadillo. Don’t let meticulousness about such trifles cramp your style.
　　　　
　　书武：
　　看了来信，又惊又喜。你的英语之好，出人意外。这不是兜圈子的奉承话，而是真诚的意见(我手按在胸前发誓!)。你以前翻译主席文章的段落，我看了以后有些想法。现在看来，那些想法至少是很不公正的。你长期以来缺乏实践，一时失去的原有的灵巧手法，也许逐渐得到恢复。不管怎么样，让你的英语生锈，最终变得无法利用，那是件憾事——不，是罪过，是犯罪。
　　钱钟书匆匆
　　5月14日
　　又及，由于笔误，你把collocation写成allocation.这只是一个小错。别把这些小事看得过重，变得谨小慎微，妨碍你写作方式的完善。
　　　　
　　注解：

　　1、My Dear ……是英语书信的一种格式，并不非译出来不可。这里可译作：书武。林书武当时是中国社会科学院语言研究所研究人员。1970年冬，下放河南息县劳动锻炼，在那段时间跟钱钟书有过一段交往。此信写于1971年5月。
　　2、a joyful surprise: 又惊又喜。英语的短语，译成汉语时往往变成动词短语。
　　3、flannel, 花言巧语。此信中用双引号有两处。第一处有“所谓的”的意思，注8为第二处，意指原词。
　　4、这是一个复杂句，但并不难分析。要说的是：“to say the least”,是个插入语；英语句子常用插入语。例如：Your composition, to put it bluntly, is ill瞱ritten.你的作文，坦率地说，写得很不好。
　　5、momentarily lost修饰cunning; through long lack of practice, 这里又是名词短语变作译文中动词短语的例子。
　　6、sin和crime, 几乎是同义词。这里连用，旨在加强语气。
　　7、词底下划一横线，表强调之意。
　　8、钱钟书的署名采用威妥玛氏拼音符号。猜想他以前已有这种用法。
　　9、Co 底下加二道短横线，意为要注意。
　　　　 　　　
　　第二封信

　　My Dear Lin1, 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　May
　　　　
　　Excuse this belated reply to your very kind May Day greetings. Its almost iterally “a day after the fair”. What with fixing the mosquito net, queuing for sweets at the co-op store, fetching & distributing letters, & the thousand and one odds and ends which eat away ones time, the red letter day was over before I know where I was3. Well4, here go my best wishes in which my wife joins. Your letter makes me ashamed. I feel guilty like a swindler who has won your “gratitude”without doing anything to earn it. Your characteristic generosity has led you to overestimate the aids to study I gave. Yes, vocabulary is important. Pedagogues used to distinguish a pupils active or5 writing & speaking vocabulary.As you know, the latter is far more extensive than the former. How to turn the supinely passive into the nimbly active—that’s the big problem6. However, enough of shop talk. Tomorrow to the battle & more power to your elbow!7
　　Yours Sincerely,

　　林：
　　5月1日承蒙来信祝贺节日，迟复为歉。称之为“定期集市后的一天”，此语非虚。安蚊帐，在合作社小店排队买糖果，往邮局取信，回来分发，以及忙乎耗费时间的没完没了的琐事，不知不觉中纪念日已经过去了。在此，我和妻子向你致以最良好的祝愿。你的来信，使我感到惭愧。我像个骗子，没干什么就获得了你的感谢，感到内疚。我对你的学习，帮助甚少，你特有的忠厚，使你过高估计这种帮助。是的，词汇是重要的。教师通常把词汇分为积极的和消极的词汇，前者为写和说的词汇，后者为阅读的词汇。正如你所知道的，学生的词汇中，后者远比前者多得多。如何把呆板的消极词汇变成灵活的积极词汇，这是个大问题。但有关行内的议论，就说这么多吧。明天就要投入战斗了，加油干!
　　钱钟书谨上 　　　　　　　　　　　　　 5月2日
　　　　
　　注解：
　　1、此信写于1972年5月2日，距上封信近一年。
　　2、Excuse my late arrival, 或Excuse me for coming late都可以说，但中国学生似乎更喜欢采用后一个句型。所以信中说Excuse this belated reply, 更显得新颖。
　　3、这是一个复杂句。Thousand and one odds and ends, 极言琐事繁多。Red瞝etter day: 日历上节日、纪念日都是用红色字体印，故称。这个句子定是神来之笔，百读不厌。
　　4、Well是个多义词。作为感叹词，也可以表达多种意思，不能一律译作、“嗳”、“嗯”、“啊”。这里信中用来改变话题。
　　5、Or,除了常见的“或者”义之外，这里是“等于”、“即”的意思。
　　6、How to ……是个话题，that是主话。这样的写法突出重点，又很生动。7、两句都是不完全句。前一个常用，如快下课时说，Enough for the time being(暂时就谈这么多)， So much for today(今天就讲这么多)。后一个是口号式句，简洁有力。　　　　
　　　　
　　第三封信

　　My Dear Lin1,
　　　　
　　I am deeply grateful, but I have smiting of conscience2. As you know, I have my own ration of sugar, & I must not deprive you of yours3. As to the tibits, a healthy young man has more need of them to stay his hunger4 between the meals--much more that and old man does. So I am returning them with heartfelt thanks--accompanied with a little token of esteem5. The latest No. of Broadsheet is worth glancing at.6
　　 Your thankfully

　　林：
　　很感谢你，但我深感不安。正如你知道的，白糖，我有自己的定量，我不应该取你的。至于那些精美的点心，健康的小伙子比老人更加迫切需要，以便在两顿饭之间充饥。所以我怀着衷心的谢意把糖和点心还给你，同时附上一些英文报纸杂志，聊表敬意。最近一期的Broadsheet(报纸)值得一看。
　　钱钟书 谨上
　　　　
　　注解：

　　1、这封信没署日期。大概写于1972年钱钟书杨绛离开河南明港，提前返回北京的几个月前。信中提到“白糖”、“点心”等话，指的是林书武为了感谢钱钟书赠送英语书报，对林书武学习上的指导，送给钱钟书的东西。
　　2、smite和conscience搭配，是地道的英语，如：His conscience smote him. 他受到了良习的谴责。也可以说成：He had smiting of conscience.
　　3、to deprive you of yours, 夺取你的东西，不能说成to deprive yours.同类动词还有一些，例如：rob, Those barking of a dog robbed me of my sleep. 狗吠了又吠，弄得我无法入睡。
　　4、to stay ones hunger是地道的英语，学生往往想不到这种用法。充饥，不要说成to fill ones hunger, 要采用这里的说法。
　　5、a little token of esteem, 当时钱钟书还送给林书武一些英文报纸杂志。
　　6、to be worth 接动词的ing形式，表示值得做……，这里的is worth glancing at, 值得一看。注意：跟to be worthy的差别：to be worthy of something: 应该得到某事物；to be worthy to do sth.:应该做某物。
　　　　
　　总的来说，钱钟书这三封英语信，是珍贵的学习资料。除了其思想内容之外，单从英语写作技巧来说，就有许多值得学习的地方。以下仅提出两点。1、这三封信句法变化丰富，相邻的两句句型绝不相同。简单句，复杂句，定语从句，非完全句，等等，变化多端，多有神来之笔。钱钟书的英文信，富有灵气。2、用词特点之一是多用近义词，如flannel和butter; sin 和crime; 词的搭配很地道，如“充饥”，“值得一看”等等的英语表达式，都是不可更改的。

The next week, the man next to me raised his hand and volunteered this story:

"While making my list, I remembered an incident from high school. I grew up in a small town in Iowa. There was a sheriff in town that none of us kids liked. One night, my two buddies and I decided to play a trick on Sheriff Brown. After drinking a few beers, we found a can of red paint, climbed the tall water tank in the middle of town, and wrote, on the tank, in bright red letters: Sheriff Brown is an s.o.b. The next day, the town arose to see our glorious sign. Within two hours, Sheriff Brown had my two pals and me in his office. My friends confessed and I lied, denying the truth. No one ever found out.

"Nearly 20 years later, Sheriff Brown\'s name appears on my list. I didn\'t even know if he was still alive. Last weekend, I dialed information in my hometown back in Iowa. Sure enough, there was a Roger Brown still listed. I dialed his number. After a few rings, I heard: `Hello?\' I said: `Sheriff Brown?’ Pause. `Yup.’ `Well, this is Jimmy Calkins. And I want you to know that I did it.’ Pause. `I knew it!’ he yelled back. We had a good laugh and a lively discussion. His closing words were: `Jimmy, I always felt badly for you because your buddies got it off their chest, and I knew you were carrying it around all these years. I want to thank you for calling me...for your sake.’"

Jimmy inspired me to clear up all 101 items on my list. It took me almost two years, but became the springboard and true inspiration for my career as a conflict mediator. No matter how difficult the conflict, crisis or situation, I always remember that it\'s never too late to clear up the past and begin resolution.

A little girl had been shopping with her Mom in Wal-Mart. She must have been 6-years-old, this beautiful red-haired, freckle-faced image of innocence. It was pouring outside. The kind of rain that gushes over the top of rain gutters, so much in a hurry to hit the earth it has no time to flow down the spout. We all stood there under the awning and just inside the door of the Wal-Mart.

We waited, some patiently, others irritated because nature messed up their hurried day. I am always mesmerized by rainfall. I got lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world. Memories of running, splashing so carefree as a child came pouring in as a welcome reprieve from the worries of my day.

The little voice was so sweet as it broke the hypnotic trance we were all caught in: "Mom, let's run through the rain," she said.

"What?" Mom asked.

"Let's run through the rain!" she repeated.

"No, honey. We'll wait until it slows down a bit," Mom replied.

This young child waited about another minute and repeated: "Mom, let's run through the rain."

"We'll get soaked if we do," Mom said.

"No, we won't, Mom. That's not what you said this morning," the young girl said as she tugged at her Mom's arm.

"This morning? When did I say we could run through the rain and not get wet?"

"Don't you remember? When you were talking to Daddy about his cancer, you said, 'If God can get us through this, he can get us through anything!"

The entire crowd stopped dead silent. I swear you couldn't hear anything but the rain. We all stood silently. No one came or left in the next few minutes.

Mom paused and thought for a moment about what she would say.

Now some would laugh it off and scold her for being silly. Some might even ignore what was said. But this was a moment of affirmation in a young child's life. A time when innocent trust can be nurtured so that it will bloom into faith.

"Honey, you are absolutely right. Let's run through the rain. If God let's us get wet, well maybe we just needed washing," Mom said.

Then off they ran. We all stood watching, smiling and laughing as they darted past the cars and, yes, through the puddles. They got soaked. But they were followed by a few who screamed and laughed like children all the way to their cars.

And yes, I did. I ran. I got wet. I needed washing.

So the king made it known to all the land that if any person could discover the secret and find out where it was that the princesses danced in the night, he would have the one he liked best to take as his wife, and would be king after his death. But whoever tried and did not succeed, after three days and nights, they would be put to death.

A king’s son soon came. He was well entertained, and in the evening was taken to the chamber next to the one where the princesses lay in their twelve beds. There he was to sit and watch where they went to dance; and, in order that nothing could happen without him hearing it, the door of his chamber was left open. But the king’s son soon fell asleep; and when he awoke in the morning he found that the princesses had all been dancing, for the soles of their shoes were full of holes.

The same thing happened the second and third night and so the king ordered his head to be cut off.

After him came several others; but they all had the same luck, and all lost their lives in the same way.

Now it happened that an old soldier, who had been wounded in battle and could fight no longer, passed through the country where this king reigned, and as he was travelling through a wood, he met an old woman, who asked him where he was going.

’I hardly know where I am going, or what I had better do,’ said the soldier; ’but I think I would like to find out where it is that the princesses dance, and then in time I might be a king.’

’Well,’ said the old woman, ’that is not a very hard task: only take care not to drink any of the wine which one of the princesses will bring to you in the evening; and as soon as she leaves you pretend to be fast asleep.’

Then she gave him a cloak, and said, ’As soon as you put that on you will become invisible, and you will then be able to follow the princesses wherever they go.’ When the soldier heard all this good advice, he was determined to try his luck, so he went to the king, and said he was willing to undertake the task.

He was as well received as the others had been, and the king ordered fine royal robes to be given him; and when the evening came he was led to the outer chamber.

Just as he was going to lie down, the eldest of the princesses brought him a cup of wine; but the soldier threw it all away secretly, taking care not to drink a drop. Then he laid himself down on his bed, and in a little while began to snore very loudly as if he was fast asleep.

When the twelve princesses heard this they laughed heartily; and the eldest said, ’This fellow too might have done a wiser thing than lose his life in this way!’ Then they rose and opened their drawers and boxes, and took out all their fine clothes, and dressed themselves at the mirror, and skipped about as if they were eager to begin dancing.

But the youngest said, ’I don’t know why it is, but while you are so happy I feel very uneasy; I am sure some mischance will befall us.’

’You simpleton,’ said the eldest, ’you are always afraid; have you forgotten how many kings’ sons have already watched in vain? And as for this soldier, even if I had not given him his sleeping draught, he would have slept soundly enough.’

When they were all ready, they went and looked at the soldier; but he snored on, and did not stir hand or foot: so they thought they were quite safe.

Then the eldest went up to her own bed and clapped her hands, and the bed sank into the floor and a trap-door flew open. The soldier saw them going down through the trap-door one after another, the eldest leading the way; and thinking he had no time to lose, he jumped up, put on the cloak which the old woman had given him, and followed them.

However, in the middle of the stairs he trod on the gown of the youngest princess, and she cried out to her sisters, ’All is not right; someone took hold of my gown.’

’You silly creature!’ said the eldest, ’it is nothing but a nail in the wall.’

Down they all went, and at the bottom they found themselves in a most delightful grove of trees; and the leaves were all of silver, and glittered and sparkled beautifully. The soldier wished to take away some token of the place; so he broke off a little branch, and there came a loud noise from the tree. Then the youngest daughter said again, ’I am sure all is not right -- did not you hear that noise? That never happened before.’

But the eldest said, ’It is only our princes, who are shouting for joy at our approach.’

They came to another grove of trees, where all the leaves were of gold; and afterwards to a third, where the leaves were all glittering diamonds. And the soldier broke a branch from each; and every time there was a loud noise, which made the youngest sister tremble with fear. But the eldest still said it was only the princes, who were crying for joy.

They went on till they came to a great lake; and at the side of the lake there lay twelve little boats with twelve handsome princes in them, who seemed to be waiting there for the princesses.

One of the princesses went into each boat, and the soldier stepped into the same boat as the youngest. As they were rowing over the lake, the prince who was in the boat with the youngest princess and the soldier said, ’I do not know why it is, but though I am rowing with all my might we do not get on so fast as usual, and I am quite tired: the boat seems very heavy today.’

’It is only the heat of the weather,’ said the princess, ’I am very warm, too.’

On the other side of the lake stood a fine, illuminated castle from which came the merry music of horns and trumpets. There they all landed, and went into the castle, and each prince danced with his princess; and the soldier, who was still invisible, danced with them too. When any of the princesses had a cup of wine set by her, he drank it all up, so that when she put the cup to her mouth it was empty. At this, too, the youngest sister was terribly frightened, but the eldest always silenced her.

They danced on till three o’clock in the morning, and then all their shoes were worn out, so that they were obliged to leave. The princes rowed them back again over the lake (but this time the soldier placed himself in the boat with the eldest princess); and on the opposite shore they took leave of each other, the princesses promising to come again the next night.

When they came to the stairs, the soldier ran on before the princesses, and laid himself down. And as the twelve, tired sisters slowly came up, they heard him snoring in his bed and they said, ’Now all is quite safe’. Then they undressed themselves, put away their fine clothes, pulled off their shoes, and went to bed.

In the morning the soldier said nothing about what had happened, but determined to see more of this strange adventure, and went again on the second and third nights. Everything happened just as before: the princesses danced till their shoes were worn to pieces, and then returned home. On the third night the soldier carried away one of the golden cups as a token of where he had been.

As soon as the time came when he was to declare the secret, he was taken before the king with the three branches and the golden cup; and the twelve princesses stood listening behind the door to hear what he would say.

The king asked him. ’Where do my twelve daughters dance at night?’

The soldier answered, ’With twelve princes in a castle underground.’ And then he told the king all that had happened, and showed him the three branches and the golden cup which he had brought with him.

The king called for the princesses, and asked them whether what the soldier said was true and when they saw that they were discovered, and that it was of no use to deny what had happened, they confessed it all.

So the king asked the soldier which of the princesses he would choose for his wife; and he answered, ’I am not very young, so I will have the eldest.’ -- and they were married that very day, and the soldier was chosen to be the king’s heir.

"The vast, the unbounded prospect lies before us."

Death, old age, are words without a meaning, a dream, a fiction, with which we have nothing to do. Others may have undergone, or may still undergo them -- we "bear a charmed life," which laughs to scorn all such idle fancies. As, in setting out on a delightful journey, we strain our eager sight forward,

"Bidding the lovely scenes at distance hail,"

and see no end to prospect after prospect, new objects presenting themselves as we advance, so in the outset of life we see no end to our desires nor to the opportunities of gratifying them. We have as yet found no obstacle, no disposition to flag, and it seems that we can go on so for ever. We look round in a new world, full of life and motion, and ceaseless progress, and feel in ourselves all the vigour and spirit to keep pace with it, and do not foresee from any present signs how we shall be left behind in the race, decline into old age, and drop into the grave. It is the simplicity and, as it were, abstractedness of our feelings in youth that (so to speak) identifies us with Nature and (our experience being weak and our passions strong) makes us fancy ourselves immortal like it. Our short-lived connexion with being, we fondly flatter ourselves, is an indissoluble and lasting union. As infants smile and sleep, we are rocked in the cradle of our desires, and hushed into fancied security by the roar of the universe around us -- we quaff the cup of life with eager thirst without draining it, and joy and hope seem ever mantling to the brain -- objects press around us, filing the mind with their magnitude and with the throng of desires that wait upon them so that there is no room for the thoughts of death. We are too much dazzled by the gorgeousness and novelty of the bright waking dream about us to discern the dim shadow lingering for us in the distance. Nor would the hold that life has taken of us permit us to detach our thoughts that way, even if we could. We are too much absorbed in present objects and pursuits. While the spirit of youth remains unimpaired, ere "the wine of life is drunk," we are like people intoxicated or in a fever, who are hurried away by the violence of their own sensations: it is only as present objects begin to pall upon the senses, as we have been disappointed in our favourite pursuits, cut off from our closest ties that we by degrees become weaned from the world, that passion loosens its hold upon futurity, and that we begin to contemplate as in a glass darkly the possibility of parting with it for good. Till then, the example of others has no effect upon us. Casualties we avoid; the slow approaches of age we play at hide and seek with. Like the foolish fat scullion in Sterne, who hears that Master Bobby is dead, our only reflection is, "So am not I!" The idea of death, instead of staggering our confidence, only seems to strengthen and enhance our sense of the possession and enjoyment of life. Others may fall around us like leaves, or be mowed down by the scythe of Time like grass: these are but metaphors to the unreflecting, buoyant ears and overweening presumption of youth. It is not till we see the flowers of Love, Hope and Joy withering around us, that we give up the flattering delusions that before led us on, and that the emptiness and dreariness of the prospect before us reconciles us hypothetically to the silence of the grave.

Life is indeed a strange gift, and its privileges are most mysterious. No wonder when it is first granted to us, that our gratitude, our admiration, and our delight should prevent us from reflecting on our own nothingness, or from thinking it will ever be recalled. Our first and strongest impressions are borrowed from the mighty scene that is opened to us, and we unconsciously transfer its durability as well as its splendour to ourselves. So newly found, we cannot think of parting with it yet, or at least put off that consideration sine die. Like a rustic at a fair, we are full of amazement and rapture, and have no thought of going home, or that it will soon be night. We know our existence only by ourselves, and confound our knowledge with the objects of it. We and Nature are therefore one. Otherwise the illusion, the "feast of reason and the flow of soul," to which we are invited, is a mockery and a cruel insult. We do not go from a play till the last act is ended, and the lights are about to be extinguished. But the fairy face of Nature still shines on: shall we be called away before the curtain falls, or ere we have scarce had a glimpse of what is going on? Like children, our step-mother Nature holds us up to see the raree-show of the universe, and then, as if we were a burden to her to support, lets us fall down again. Yet what brave sublunary things does not this pageant present, like a ball or fete of the universe!

To see the golden sun, the azure sky, the outstretched ocean; to walk upon the green earth, and be lord of a thousand creatures; to look down yawning precipices or over distant sunny vales; to see the world spread out under one's feet on a map; to bring the stars near; to view the smallest insects through a microscope; to read history, and consider the revolutions of empire and the successions of generations; to hear the glory of Tyre, of Sidon, of Bablyon, and of Susa, and to say all these were before me and are now nothing; to say I exist in such a point of time, and in such a point of space; to be a spectator and a part of its ever-moving scene; to witness the change of seasons, of spring and autumn, of winter and summer; and to feel hot and cold, pleasure and pain, beauty and deformity, right and wrong; to be sensible to the accidents of Nature; to consider the mighty world of eye and ear; to listen to the stock-dove's notes amid the forest deep; to journey over moor and mountain; to hear the midnight sainted choir; to visit lighted halls, or the cathedral's gloom, or sit in crowded theatres and see life itself mocked; to study the works of art and refine the sense of beauty to agony; to worship fame, and to dream of immortality; to look upon the Vatican, and to read Shakespear; to gather up the wisdom of the ancients, and to pry into the future; to listen to the trump of war, and the shout of victory; to question history as to the movements of the human heart; to seek for truth; to plead the cause of humanity; to overlook the world as if time and Nature poured their treasures at our feet -- to be and to do all this and then in a moment to be as nothing -- to have it all snatched from us as by a juggler's trick, or a phantasmagoria! There is something in this transition from all to nothing that shocks us and damps the enthusiasm of youth new flushed with hope and pleasure and we cast the comfortless thought as far from us as we can. In the first enjoyment of the estate of life we discard the fear of debts and duns, and never think of that final payment of our great debt to Nature. Art we know is long; life, we flatter ourselves, should be so too. We see no end of the difficulties and delays we have to encounter: perfection is slow of attainment, and we must have time to accomplish it in. The fame of the great names we look up to is immortal: and shall not we who contemplate it imbibe a portion of the ethereal fire, the divina particula aura, which nothing can extinguish? A wrinkle in Rembrandt or in Nature takes whole days to resolve itself into its component parts, its softenings and its sharpnesses; we refine upon our perfections, and unfold the intricacies of Nature. What a prospect for the future! What a task have we not begun! And shall we be arrested in the middle of it? We do not count our time thus employed lost, or our pains thrown away; we do not flag or grow tired, but gain new vigour at our endless task. Shall Time, then, grudge us to finish what we have begun, and have formed a compact with Nature to do? Why not fill up the blank that is left us in this manner? I have looked for hours at a Rembrandt without being conscious of the flight of time, but with ever new wonder and delight, have thought that not only my own but another existence I could pass in the same manner. This rarefied, refined existence seemed to have no end, nor stint, no principle of decay in it. The print would remain long after I who looked on it had become the prey of worms. The thing seems in itself out of all reason: health, strength, appetite are opposed to the idea of death, and we are not ready to credit it till we have found our illusions vanished, and our hopes grown cold. Objects in youth, from novelty, etc., are stamped upon the brain with such force and integrity that one thinks nothing can remove or obliterate them. They are riveted there, and appear to us as an element of our nature. It must be mere violence that destroys them, not a natural decay. In the very strength of this persuasion we seem to enjoy an age by anticipation. We melt down years into a single moment of intense sympathy, and by anticipating the fruits defy the ravages of time. If, then, a single moment of our lives is worth years, shall we set any limits to its total value and extent? Again, does it not happen that so secure do we think ourselves of an indefinite period of existence, that at times, when left to ourselves, and impatient of novelty, we feel annoyed at what seems to us the slow and creeping progress of time, and argue that if it always moves at this tedious snail's pace it will never come to an end? How ready are we to sacrifice any space of time which separates us from a favourite object, little thinking that before long we shall find it move too fast.

For my part, I started in life with the French Revolution, and I have lived, alas! To see the end of it. But I did not foresee this result. My sun arose with the first dawn of liberty and I did not think how soon both must set. The new impulse to ardour given to men's minds imparted a congenial warmth and glow to mine; we were strong to run a race together, and I little dreamed that long before mine was set, the sun of liberty would turn to blood, or set once more in the night of despotism. Since then I confess, I have no longer felt myself young, for with that my hopes fell.

I have since turned my thoughts to gathering up some of the fragments of my early recollections, and putting them into a form to which I might occasionally revert. The future was barred to my progress, and I turned for consolation and encouragement to the past. It is thus that, while we find our personal and substantial identity vanishing for us, we strive to gain a reflected and vicarious one in our thoughts: we do not like to perish wholly, and wish to bequeath our names, at least, to posterity. As long as we can make our cherished thoughts and nearest interests live in the minds of others, we do not appear to have retired altogether from the stage. We still occupy the breasts of others, and exert an influence on power over them, and it is only our bodies that are reduced to dust and powder. Our favourite speculations still find encouragement, and we make as great a figure in the eye of the world, or perhaps a greater than in our lifetime. The demands of our self-love are thus satisfied, and these are the most imperious and unremitting. Besides, if by our intellectual superiority we survive ourselves in this world, by our virtues and faith we may attain an interest in another, and a higher state of being, and may thus be recipients at the same time of men and of angels.

"E'en from the tomb of the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires."

As we grow old, our sense of the value of time becomes vivid. Nothing else, indeed, seems of any consequence. We can never cease wondering that that which has ever been should cease to be. We find many things remain the same; why then should there be change in us. This adds a convulsive grasp of whatever is, a sense of fallacious hollowness in all we see. Instead of the full pulpy feeling of youth tasting existence and every object in it, all is flat and vapid -- a whited sepulchre, fair without but full of ravening and all uncleanness within. The world is a witch that puts us off with false shows and appearances. The simplicity of youth, the confiding expectation, the boundless raptures, are gone: we only think of getting out of it as well as we can, and without any great mischance or annoyance. The flush of illusion, even the complacent retrospect of past joys and hopes, is over: if we can slip out of life without indignity, and escape with little bodily infirmity, and frame our minds in the calm and respectable composure of still-life before we return to absolute nothingness, it is as much as we can expect. We do not die wholly at our deaths: we have mouldered away gradually long before. Faculty after faculty, interest after interest, attachment after attachment disappear: we are torn from ourselves while living, year after year sees us no longer the same, and death only consigns the last fragment of what we were to the grave. That we should wear out by slow stages, and dwindle at last into nothing, is not wonderful, when even in our prime our strongest impressions leave little trace but for the moment and we are the creatures of petty circumstance. How little effect is made on us in our best days by the books we have read, the scenes we have witnessed, the sensations we have gone though! Think only of the feelings we experience in reading a fine romance (one of Sir Walter's, for instance); what beauty, what sublimity, what interest, what heart-rending emotions! You would suppose the feelings you then experience would last for ever, or subdue the mind to their own harmony and tone: while we are reading its seems as if nothing could ever put us out of our way, or trouble us: -- the first splash of mud that we get on entering the street, the first twopence we are cheated out of, the feeling vanishes clean out of our minds, and we become the prey of petty and annoying circumstance. The mind soars to the lofty: it is at home in the grovelling, the disagreeable and the little. And yet we wonder that age should be feeble and querulous, -- that the freshness of youth should fade away. Both worlds, would hardly satisfy the extravagance of our desires and of our presumption.

NOTES:
1 Hazlitt's "On The Feeling of Immortality in Youth" was first published in the Monthly Magazine, March, 1827 and can be found reproduced in Miscellaneous Essays (London: Dent, Everyman's Lib., 1913); Winterslow, Essays and Characters Written There (Oxford University Press, 1906); and, Selected Essays Geoffrey Keynes, Ed. (London: Nonsuch Press, 1930); and, Hazlitt's Essays Introduction by Herbert Paul (London: Cassell, nd).

　　One day, my mother was sewing a quilt. I silently sat down beside her and looked at her.

　　“Mom, I have a question to ask you,” I said after a while.

　　“What?” she replied, still doing her work.

　　“Is there love between you and Dad?” I asked her in a very low voice.

　　My mother stopped her work and raised her head with surprise in her eyes. She didn’t answer immediately. Then she bowed her head and continued to sew the quilt.

　　I was very worried because I thought I had hurt her. I was in a great embarrassment and I didn’t know what I should do. But at last I heard my mother say the following words:

　　“Susan,” she said thoughtfully, “Look at this thread. Sometimes it appears, but most of it disappears in the quilt. The thread really makes the quilt strong and durable. If life is a quilt, then love should be a thread. It can hardly be seen anywhere or anytime, but it’s really there. Love is inside.”

　　I listened carefully but I couldn’t understand her until the next spring. At that time, my father suddenly got sick seriously. My mother had to stay with him in the hospital for a month. When they returned from the hospital, they both looked very pale. It seemed both of them had had a serious illness.

　　After they were back, every day in the morning and dusk, my mother helped my father walk slowly on the country road. My father had never been so gentle. It seemed they were the most harmonious couple. Along the country road, there were many beautiful flowers, green grass and trees. The sun gently glistened through the leaves. All of these made up the most beautiful picture in the world.

　　The doctor had said my father would recover in two months. But after two months he still couldn’t walk by himself. All of us were worried about him.

　　“Dad, how are you feeling now?” I asked him one day.

　　“Susan, don’t worry about me.” he said gently. “To tell you the truth, I just like walking with your mom. I like this kind of life.” Reading his eyes, I know he loves my mother deeply.

　　Once I thought love meant flowers, gifts and sweet kisses. But from this experience, I understand that love is just a thread in the quilt of our life. Love is inside, making life strong and warm..

Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them work, family, health, friends and spirit and you’re keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back.But the other four balls family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life. How?

Don’t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special.

Don’t set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you.

Don’t take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as they would be your life, for without them, life is meaningless.
　
Don’t let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.

Don’t give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.

Don’t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us to each together.

Don’t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.

Don’t shut love out of your life by saying it’s impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give it; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.

Don’t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you’ve been, but also where you are going.

Don’t forget, a person’s greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated.

Don’t be afraid to learn. Knowledge is weightless, a treasure you can always carry easily.

Don’t use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved.

Life is not a race, but a journey to be savored each step of the way.

Yesterday is history, Tomorrow is a mystery and Today is a gift: that’s why we call it ‘The Present’.

The waterfall behind our house at the lower end of Lake Edenwold is a thundering cascade of spring runoff from the melting snows of winter. It's been a three-week drum roll leading up to today, when the cymbal will crash and the earth will arrive at that point in its orbit around the sun where it will be light for as many hours as it will be dark.

Today is really the celestial climax to a prelude whose crescendo has been growing now for a month in the forests and lakes all around us. Beginning in late February and through the month of March on my Saturday morning hikes through the lower Highlands, I have watched spring slowly unfold before my eyes.

A pair of hooded mergansers suddenly appeared on our lake earlier this month and I heard the unmistakable call of a wood duck. Several thousand feet overhead, an enormous, migratory flock of Canada geese undulated like strands of limp black thread suspended against a steel gray sky; their wild honking clearly audible in spite of the flock's altitude.

Just a little more than one week ago, as I came to a place in the woods where the forest suddenly yields to what is a wild flower meadow in the late spring and summer, the bare trees were filled with hundreds of red-winged blackbirds, their cacophonous chatter filling the otherwise still morning air. It was an eerie harbinger of spring, reminiscent of the Alfred Hitchcock movie "The Birds." Later that same afternoon, a small flock of cedar waxwings, another migratory species of songbirds stopped for a rest in a nearby tree only two blocks from our house.

Man has always been fascinated with the arrival of spring. King Solomon weighed in on it when he wrote these words from his "Song" in the Old Testament: "See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance."

The arrival of spring has always marked a rebirth of sorts, not just for nature but also for us humans. It is a time of awakening, a time to forget the old and to embrace the new.

For most kids it's simply a time when they can play outside longer, riding their new bicycles and skateboards or shooting hoops in driveway basketball courts. For some adults it can be a serious time, a release from the seasonal depression caused by the reduced hours of sunlight during the dark months of winter.

But for most of us, it is a release from the mundane things that after three months have added up to the point where we are all just ready for a change. You know: things like having to wear layers of heavy clothing, white-knuckle drives to work on icy roads, and leaving home mornings in the dark only to drive back home again in darkness later the same afternoon.

The crocus and daffodils will soon start peeking their heads above last year's pine bark nuggets and what's left of the winter snow still piled in the beds under the white pines out by the road.

They are yet another prelude to the appearance of more flowers and birds: the warblers and the tanagers that will shortly appear in the trees around my home.

I can't wait to inhale the aromas of things like the warming earth, new mown grass, and fresh piles of damp cedar mulch. And I am looking forward to that first morning when I can sit outside on my deck with a cup of coffee and feel comfortable without having to don a fleece or a heavy woolen shirt.

Whatever your passion in life, take time like the busy King Solomon to pause from it for a moment over the next few weeks and just sit and watch and enjoy the spectacle of spring unfold before your eyes.

And give thanks.

It wasn’t a tarpaper shack to Emily, it was Home. As far as she was concerned, it was Heaven. With her feet up on the front porch railing, relaxing at the close of a long day, she could still smell the tar. She’d insisted on a front porch, no matter how small the house. It didn’t matter; the smell would go, but her new home would stay.

Emily married North West Mounted Police Constable Earnest Harding almost a year ago, and spent the first six months of the union nagging her new husband to build her a house of her own.

He always said they couldn’t afford to buy their own property until he was older and been promoted. She always said she was a farm girl, he knew that very well when he married her. She needed her own house to grow her own plants inside during the long winters, and her own dirt to plant outside flowers in the spring.

She insisted with a little stamp of her foot that her fingers and toes would simply fall off from the lack of being able to sink into HER OWN DIRT!

Besides which, if she’d had to live in that little tiny bedroom off her sour and grim mother-in-law’s kitchen one moment longer, she surely didn’t know how she’d have held her tongue!

It was late summer of 1905, the day of Emily’s seventeenth birthday.

Earnest finally promised to build this little house one day last winter. Emily had suddenly burst outside in her shawl one bright morning, looked around the large yard snow-covered yard, and then ran across the street to the line of young trees on the hillside, looking for a windfall branch.

After looking around the base of the third tree, she found a strong enough stick and ran back to the wintry yard. She began carving lines into the crisp February snow on the north side of the yard, between the carriage house that faced the back alley and the narrow dirt road going up Scotsman’s Hill at the front.

Impatiently, Emily kicked snow into a groove she’d just made. There was no way she wanted so much of her house right next to Ma Harding’s. Back, back a few feet. She’d make it to fit so they’d not touch or have very much of the houses right next to each other, and still leave room for the privy out back.

Emily concentrated fully on her task, arranging small rooms, dividing them with snow lines. There! She’d done it! She could prove to Earnest that a house – HER OWN HOUSE – would fit right here, right in this yard. Right in the half of the property they’d given Emily and Earnest as a wedding present.

Well, they probably didn’t mean it literally, but Emily dragged Earnest out to show him her snow house, and she won her point. And now she had her feet up on her own front porch railing, looking over the tops of the small hedges and little bushes between her and the hill across the road.

After a moment her eyes were drawn again to the earthen pot she’d just suspended from the front porch roof support. In it was a still-young slip of climbing ivy. She’d carefully taken a cutting from her mother’s large, healthy specimen, itself rooted from her grandmother’s and planted under her bedroom window on the day Emily was born. Lovingly tended until she was grown enough to remove a snippet of her own to take care of.

She’d borne the little plantling with her all across the country with her new husband, taken on her last visit to her parent’s farm in Ontario. Watered with her own tears more than once by now, but none the worse for the salt it seemed.

In the first six months of her marriage the tiny plant grew roots in the little blue bottle her mother gave her with it, and then in the earthen pot it was thriving in now. Six months ago, after Earnest promised her house for this year’s birthday, she’d snipped off the top bit. The plant had grown too spindly, but thickened nicely once a bit was snipped off the end. And the new cutting, placed in her mother’s little bottle on her bedroom windowsill, thrived and grew despite the frosty disapproval of Emily’s mother-in-law.

Mrs. Harding – the older Mrs. Harding, Emily reminded herself; that title was for her now too! And she even had the address to prove it! Ma Harding, as she insisted on being called, could just go jump in the river for all Emily cared, now that she had HER OWN HOUSE!

No more holding the dish drying rag with seeming patience and sweetness while the old bat took her sweet time about meticulously washing each item three times over. Knowing full well the newly married Emily wanted only to rush to the side of her eager young husband, and be done with the everlasting chores!

Emily took her gaze down from the ivy, doubled in size since she’d lovingly dug a little hole for the second snippet, using a fingertip to manipulate the earth inside the pot, and tenderly placed the brand new root tendrils under a little mound of soil. If plants could smile back, she knew that these two little miracles, these links to her own childhood home and mother, would be smiling at her right now.

She was fully aware of why she incurred the wrath of her mother-in-law more and more often, more deeply. To begin with, the dragon lady had been the only woman in the lives of her son and her husband, and in the lives of most of her husband’s fellow Mounted Policemen. In short, the centre of attention.

Until the night, a bit less than a year ago, when Earnest came home from a training session in the East, holding Emily, his bride, by the hand.

Emily and Earnest first met at Union Station in Toronto, amid the crowds and the confusing vastness of the largest building either of them had ever seen. Earnest, just in from the west, literally bumped into pretty little Emily, fresh from the farm.

Emily, aside from her love of the earth, showed no interest in anything or anyone in her home area. Her mother finally threw up her hands in frustration at Emily’s perpetual restlessness, and sent her to the aunt in Toronto to find a job, a husband, or both. Emily thought she was merely visiting her aunt, but the grown women knew what the girl needed. And in her first few minutes in the bustle of Toronto’s busy train station, here it was looking her right in the face.

Mutual ‘excuse me’s’ died on the lips of both startled young people as each searched the eyes of the other. Both unwilling – or unable – to believe their own senses. Earnest, a mere five years older than Emily, had never seen such a girl; tall and slender, but with an ample bosom, and not too tall that she diminished him in the least, at six foot one. He figured her to be about five feet seven, with her shoes off.

Earnest couldn’t believe the feelings, the excitement that welled up in him when he pictured her bare feet! He raised his eyes, then let them travel slowly from the girl’s long, wavy dark hair, enlarged green eyes, down the length of the homemade cotton dress, to the legs bare from the knees down. He couldn’t help but notice the deep colour in her cheeks as his gaze came again to rest on Emily’s face; this time, on her naturally red lips.

Emily remained tongue tied, gazing wide-eyed and mute at the first male who had ever found and touched the female inside her, with one careless bump on the shoulder and a couple of glances. She didn’t understand the flood of feelings hitting her, but felt her legs go weak as Earnest continued to hold her gaze.

Seeing her begin to falter, Earnest’s strong arm shot out and around the waist of the only girl he’d ever met who’d actually excited an instant reaction in him. His arm felt as if it had been around this woman’s waist hundreds of times. In Earnest’s mind, at the touch of her, she was already elevated from the status of girl to that of woman.

For both young people, feelings and thoughts were kaleidoscopic, so fast there was no time for words. With his strong arm around her waist, Emily allowed a display of weakness. She allowed Earnest to fold her towards him, and rested her head on his broad shoulder.

Emily inhaled the smells of him, man smells she’d never noticed before. A shiver raced through her, and she glanced shyly upward. In a soft and tentative voice, slightly breathless, she said, “Hello. I’m Emily. Who are you?”

It was not long, only two weeks that seemed to be outside the ordinary frames of time and existence, holding only the two of them. Sneaking visits in High Park in the evenings when her aunt was with friends and Earnest’s training was over for the day.

The divine evening when Earnest wore his dress uniform and escorted her to the new Ballroom on the lakeshore. Emily sat on her front porch, looking west at the setting sun, remembering the lights and music, floating and reflecting off the surface of Lake Ontario. A magical time in a magical place; a heartbeat from the Real Life of job hunting for her and training for Earnest. So far removed in its own dreamlike orbit as to seem a dream itself.

It was while slow dancing to the music of an orchestra she never knew the name of, in a place that seemed more smoke than substance, that Earnest said, “Gee, Honey, why don’t we just get married? You don’t need to find any job that could keep you here in the big city, too far away from me!”

He stopped dancing, drew her by the hand back to their outdoor table. A breeze blew off Lake Ontario, ruffling the short curly bits of stray hair around Emily’s face, making a sweat damp tendril stick to her neck. Earnest plucked it off and blew on the side of her neck gently to cool her, making gooseflesh race all over Emily. She looked at their feet, unsure of herself and of him. The time they spent together flew like nothing she’d known, and their time apart crawled like a slow-moving beetle.

Earnest tilted her chin up, and then changed his mind and got down on one knee, taking her left hand in his. An officer and a gentleman before all else, Earnest raised his intended’s hand to his lips and placed a simple kiss. Didn’t matter that he wasn’t a very high up member of the Mounted Police; he had ambitions.

“Miss Emily,” he began, looking up at Emily. “I am sorry to have blurted out my intentions. I should have done this properly and all, talked to your parents and my parents and the preacher and all, but I just want to marry you, Emily. I want to take you home as my wife, because I love you, and I know I’ll always love you. I think I always have loved you, as crazy as that sounds...” He paused for a breath.

Emily’s heart was pounding. She was a deeply romantic girl, believed fully in love and destiny. She was literally swept off her feet by the surge of emotions swelling inside her chest - and other body parts Emily hadn’t paid much attention to before.

Before she could hear any misgivings her brain might conjure up, Emily listened to the pleadings of her heart and the demands of her body. She clapped her hands together in excitement as she answered, “Yes! Oh, Earnest, yes! Let’s find out what we have to do!”

Emily hadn’t thought far enough ahead to realize this life transition would include a new mother, a new woman in her life who had absolutely no desire to have a grown daughter, even if it was a daughter-in-law. Certainly not a rival female who made the other officers and men envious and lonelier than before, one who made them stand in line to get their names down for the next training session back East. One who took the attention of the men away from where it should be firmly riveted, in the older Mrs. Harding’s mind, on her!

Inside the larger house, just vacated by Earnest and Emily – thank God that whining little wretch was out from under her roof! – Nora Harding sat and contemplated the new undercurrents in her home. Or perhaps the lack of undercurrents would be a better way of looking at it.

She couldn’t believe her eyes last year when her young Ernie came home with a wife! Nora knew she shouldn’t let him go on that stupid training thing! But her husband insisted that if she wanted her son to rise up through the ranks - and in a growing frontier town at that, where there could be some real power to be had - she’d better bloody well let him do what he had to do! The ‘bloody’ shouted at the top of His Lordship’s lungs, just in case she’d suddenly come down with a case of deafness, Nora presumed.

Mr. Harding was not really a Lordship, but had the pretensions of one. He would have been, if not for the meaninglessness of being born a fifth son of a petty nobleman. Emigration to Canada had seemed preferable to Nigel Harding over penniless obscurity in dear old England. He often decried his circumstances, a mere hireling with a uniform. And a horse, if the beasts could only stay alive in this cursed climate! A far cry from the Lord of the Manor in a much more genteel existence than the one he and Nora endured in Canada.

Fort Calgary, this Godforsaken outpost they’d been assigned to when the Harding men answered a recruiting poster in the shipping office five years before, in London, left a lot to be desired. The Hardings seemed unable to completely acclimatize themselves to the altitude, about twenty five hundred feet above sea level. Or to the harsh extremes of temperature. Not fit for man nor beast; no wonder the bloody horses couldn’t stay alive!

The area was deceptive and treacherous weather-wise. A detail of men could set out early on a beautiful summer day for a rendezvous with outlying settlers, only to limp home, demoralized, in a driving blizzard a few hours later. No one knew how to deal with the weather this area dealt out. Extremes ranged from far below freezing in the winter - temperatures that make it impossible to draw a breath and take any benefit from it - to summer temperatures so hot it’s impossible to move an inch from the weight of the heat on the body.

But beautiful! Every moment, it was beautiful! And there was no crowding, no class definitions, no beggars on the streets or drunkards in the pubs. Just about everybody here seemed to be a hard working, deep thinking, progressive spirited individual. Nigel well knew how hard it was to find an individual under a uniform in peacetime. But he also knew how many young men, even older ones like himself, used the Northwest Mounted Police as a means to an end.

Sure, they did their job, but they also seemed to have underlying plans, most of these men. They were eager to make an impression, to keep order in the community and the countryside. But at the same time they were taking a look around, thinking about what part of that same countryside they’d like to own, what they would like to raise on the farmsteads and ranches they envisioned.

Behind the young couple’s back, Nigel and Nora had secretly cheered the young girl’s resolve to have her own house. They were relieved to have their own space back. They’d gotten used to the quiet of their home, just the two of them, when Earnest was back East for his training.

Nora’s open disapproval of the wife came from feelings she didn’t know how to control. She was not prepared to have her place in Earnest’s heart usurped so abruptly. She’d anticipated Earnest eventually finding a young woman, perhaps one of her friend’s daughters from England. Somehow the years passed too quickly; Earnest grew up far too soon, before she expected it or had a chance to accept the transition. She had no other children to stand in his place in her heart at the loss of this one.

Nora prayed to God daily that she would find an increase in patience for her daughter-in-law. But when she could see the need for acceptance and reassurance in the girl, she pushed her farther away instead of gathering her in. Nora knew this was not the right thing to do, but somehow she could not help herself. Not only had Emily come into her home and stolen her son, but her husband and any and all other men who were about could not keep their eyes away from Emily either. Nora’s well-kept and efficiently maintained good looks were no longer enough to awaken the men’s interest - not with Emily’s smoking, newly awakened sexuality among them.

It was not the girl’s fault men found her so remarkable, so desirable. There was a scarcity of women in and around Fort Calgary, unless one wanted to choose a native bride, and few had looked in that direction as yet. The Fort had only been in operation since 1888 – it was the same age as that girl out there! - carving a foothold for commerce and peaceful existence out of the former wilderness.

It had not been long since herds of buffalo roamed the same hill that marched up towards the south, outside the house. Now, the beautifully scenic frontier town had new hordes to contend with; the impending arrival of a million inhabitants over the next century.

The sisters that were always the best of friends weren't so close and Mary Jane started arguing with her mom and little things like that. Well one day it just got out of hand the arguing and yelling. M.J. and her mom were going to cheerleading practice and were going at it pretty bad and her mom said the most hurtful thing to her "Mary Jane i can't believe the person you've become i want you out of my house and my life."

Those words pierced her heart so hard and so fast that she just plunged out of the car and down an embankment her mom stopped on a dime, yelling and praying she was okay. The car that was behind her saw the whole thing and happened to be a pastor, he got out and ran down the hill to find M.j.'s mom lying there holding her daughter helplessly yelling and screaming for her daughter to wake up " I love u sweetie wake up GOD PLEASE let her wake up i love her don't take her from me i need her god PLEASE."

The pastor walked over and called 911 and he began to pray, " Dear lord watch over this young lady bring her back we need her here don't take her away just yet." well the ambulance came and so did the helicopter they knew there was something seriously wrong. M.J.'s mom Gabrielle called Carlie from the hospital and had her rush right over. Carlie arrived and didn't even recognize her dear sister, so pale and bruised and filled with aggone her eyes began to water up. Then she asked " Is she gonna be okay." the doctor replied, "Carlie your sister is on life support and is unconscious the odds aren't good." Poor Carlie dropped to her knees and begged for her sister to wake up and be okay."

M.J. I need you want you here you gotta cheer with me be my brides maid at my wedding, throw me a baby shower when I'm expecting, M.J. its to soon don't go please i love you." and right then Mary Jane took her last breath. Word traveled fast and everyone was devastated friends, family, and even complete strangers. Mary Jane will always be remembered and loved. But you never know when its your time to go so try and be the best person you can be and don't do something in the heat of the moment you might not get a chance to regret it.

I was especially interested in flowers that year because I was planning to landscape my own yard and I was eager to get Grandpa's advice. I thought I knew pretty much what I wanted—a yard full of bushes and plants that would bloom from May till November.

It was right after the first rush of purple violets in the lawns and the sudden blaze of forsythia that spring that Grandpa had a stroke. It left him without speech and with no movement on his left side. The whole family rallied to Grandpa. We all spent many hours by his side. Some days his eyes were eloquent—laughing at our reported mishaps, listening alertly, revealing painful awareness of his inability to care for himself. There were days, too, when he slept most of the time, overcome with the weight of his approaching death.

As the months passed, I watched the growing earth with Grandpa's eyes. Each time I was with him, I gave him a garden report. He listened, gripping my hand with the sure strength and calm he had always had. But he could not answer my questions. The new flowers would blaze, peak, fade, and die before I knew their names.

Grandpa's illness held him through the spring and on, week by week, through summer. I began spending hours at the local nursery, studying and choosing seeds and plants. It gave me special joy to buy plants I had seen in Grandpa's garden and give them humble starts in my own garden. I discovered Sweet William, which I had admired for years in Grandpa's garden without knowing its name. And I planted it in his honor.

As I waited and watched in the garden and by Grandpa's side, some quiet truths emerged. I realized that Grandpa loved flowers that were always bloom; he kept a full bed of roses in his garden. But I noticed that Grandpa left plenty of room for the brief highlights. Not every nook of his garden was constantly in bloom. There was always a treasured surprise tucked somewhere.

I came to see, too, that Grandpa's garden mirrored his life. He was a hard worker who understood the law of the harvest. But along with his hard work, Grandpa knew how to enjoy each season, each change. We often teased him about his life history. He had written two paragraphs summarizing fifty years of work, and a full nine pages about every trip and vacation he'd ever taken.

In July, Grandpa worsened. One hot afternoon arrived when no one else was at his bedside. He was glad to have me there, and reached out his hand to pull me close.

I told Grandpa what I had learned—that few flowers last from April to November. Some of the most beautiful bloom for only a month at most. To really enjoy a garden, you have to plant corners and drifts and rows of flowers that will bloom and grace the garden, each in its own season.

His eyes listened to every word. Then, another discovery: "If I want a garden like yours, Grandpa, I'm going to have to work." His grin laughed at me, and his eyes teased me.

"Grandpa, in your life right now the chrysanthemums are in bloom. Chrysanthemums and roses." Tears clouded both our eyes. Neither of us feared this last flower of fall, but the wait for spring seems longest in November. We knew how much we would miss each other.

Sitting there, I suddenly felt that the best gift I could give Grandpa would be to give voice to the testimony inside both of us. He had never spoken of his testimony to me, but it was such a part of his life that I had never questioned if Grandpa knew. I knew he knew.

"Grandpa," I began—and his grip tightened as if he knew what I was going to say—"I want you to know that I have a testimony. I know the Savior lives. I bear witness to you that Joseph Smith is a prophet. I love the Restoration and joy in it." The steadiness in Grandpa's eyes told how much he felt it too. "I bear witness that President Kimball is a prophet. I know the Book of Mormon is true, Grandpa. Every part of me bears this witness."

"Grandpa," I added quietly, "I know our Father in Heaven loves you." Unbidden, unexpected, the Spirit bore comforting, poignant testimony to me of our Father's love for my humble, quiet Grandpa.

A tangible sense of Heavenly Father's compassionate awareness of Grandpa's suffering surrounded us and held us. It was so personal and powerful that no words were left to me—only tears of gratitude and humility, tears of comfort.

Grandpa and I wept together.

It was the end of August when Grandpa died, the end of summer. As we were choosing flowers from the florist for Grandpa's funeral, I slipped away to Grandpa's garden and walked with my memories of columbine and Sweet William. Only the tall lavender and white phlox were in bloom now, and some baby's breath in another corner.

On impulse, I cut the prettiest strands of phlox and baby's breath and made one more arrangement for the funeral. When they saw it, friends and family all smiled to see Grandpa's flowers there. We all felt how much Grandpa would have liked that.

The October after Grandpa's death, I planted tulip and daffodil bulbs, snowdrops, crocuses, and bluebells. Each bulb was a comfort to me, a love sent to Grandpa, a promise of spring.

It was one week before high school graduation when I found the note. I didn’t know it then, but by the end of that week, my life would be changed forever.

I had been cleaning out my locker, looking through old papers and taking down all the pictures I had taped to the door. Everything seemed to hold memories from the past year, so I was careful not to throw away anything with sentimental value. I found the note on the top shelf of my locker, laying on top of my biology book. It had my name , Marly, printed neatly at the top, and though I didn’t recognize the handwriting, I thought that it was probably from one of my friends. But as I read it, I realized that it couldn’t be. It was signed, 'from a secret admirer.' I knew I shouldn’t take it seriously, but I couldn’t stop my heart from beating fast or my face from turning red.

I kept thinking that it was just a prank. But who could’ve written something so sweet and touching just for a good laugh? I heard laughter from the end of the hall, but when I looked down there I saw that those laughing were paying no attention to me.

That evening I kept replaying the words of the note in my head. I reread it so many times during my last hour class, I almost had it memorized.

We never spent any time together, it said, but in my mind we did... In my mind we shared so much... from our first kiss to popcorn at the movie theater on our first date. We laughed at inside jokes that no one else got, you taught me how to dance in my backyard. Of course, none of those things really happened... I only imagined them. Outside of my mind we never existed as a couple, you never even knew my true feelings for you. And I’m afraid you never will if I don’t tell you now. Please meet me Friday night after the prom, in the park.

I spent that entire evening thinking about the note and who could’ve written it. It wasn’t every day I got a note from someone who had been admiring me from afar.

The next day at school, I showed the note to my best friend, Christy. We sat down by our lockers, musing over who the mysterious person could be. Every time a boy walked by I contemplated the question: Could it be him? I tried to act like it wasn’t important to me. After all, it could just be a cruel joke someone was playing on me and I would look stupid if I made a big deal out of it.

By the end of third hour, everyone knew about the note I had received. At noon, a crowd had gathered around my locker. Some wanted to see the note but I was cautious of who I let read it. I guarded it as if it were some great treasure, and to me, it was.

"What if its him?" Diane Johansen said, pointing in his direction and laughing. She started doing a dead-on impersonation of Jimmy. I couldn’t help but laugh as Diane talked with a stutter and shook, as Jimmy often did. I instantly regretted it. I looked at him. I didn’t see love or admiration in his eyes, I saw pain.

Throughout the rest of the day I kept thinking about Jimmy. He had lived across the street from me for years, yet I knew so little about him. I remembered my mother telling me to be nice to him when I was younger. She said that he needed a friend. When I asked her why he acted so different, she told me that his mother had done bad things when she was pregnant with him. It wasn’t until I was older that I really understood this. I would occasionally wave at him on the street, but not if my friends were with me. I tried to make myself feel better by thinking that I had at least treated him better than others had.

Jimmy was pleasantly interesting. Sometimes I could see in his room through his window as I passed by. He was often playing his guitar, or sitting at his desk writing. After I got the note, I wondered if he had been writing things for me. From then on I tried to see Jimmy through the window. It was my only way of looking into his world. I wondered if my admirer had ever done the same.

One evening, I got a call from Christy.

"I think I know who your admirer is!" she shrieked.

My heart pounded. "Who?"

"You’re not going to believe this, but I think its Russell Moore! At church I overheard him say you were cute! Can you believe it?"

There was a long silence.

"Well, aren’t you excited?" she asked.

"I guess," I said.

"Who do you want it to be?" she asked.

I couldn’t think of anyone but Jimmy so I said that I didn’t know.

Later that evening, I considered writing Jimmy a letter. I thought I could be an 'admirer' myself. He thinks I hate him. He thinks I’m like everyone else. What if I don’t get the chance to tell him different? But I decided against it. I guess I wasn’t as brave as my secret admirer was. It was strange. I wondered if I was falling in love with him. All of a sudden I wanted to see him, talk to him, hear his voice. I wondered why I felt that way.

The next day was the day of the prom. I woke up that morning feeling nervous. I could’ve cared less about the dance, it was where I was going afterwards that I was thinking of.

The decorations at the dance were beautiful. The music was great. But I couldn’t enjoy myself. I was restless up until I left at 11:45. I began walking towards the park. Although it was May, it was a cool evening. A breeze stirred the branches of the trees. I wrapped my jacket tight around me. Then I spotted a small park bench where I decided to wait.

Thirty minutes passed and he still hadn’t arrived. Maybe no one was coming in the first place, I thought, maybe he doesn’t exist. I let a few tears slip out, then told myself I wouldn’t cry.

Just then I got a call on my cell phone from Christy. She sounded upset.

"Marly!" she shouted, "Jimmy McAllister was in an accident by the school! He’s hurt really bad!"

"Oh my God!" I exclaimed choking on tears. "I’ll be right there."

I tried to run, blinded by tears. I tripped a few times but finally made it back to the school. I saw that his truck had slid into a ditch alongside the school. They were carrying Jimmy into the ambulance on a stretcher. I don’t know what made me do it, but I looked inside his badly damaged truck. Laying on the seat was a red rose. Attached to the rose was a card that read, 'for Marly.'

When the bundle was nestled in her arms and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without ears.

Time proved that the baby’s hearing was perfect. It was only his appearance that was marred. When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother’s arms, she sighed, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks.

He blurted out the tragedy. “A boy, a big boy...called me a freak.”

He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music.

“But you might mingle with other young people,” his mother reproved him, but felt a kindness in her heart.

The boy’s father had a session with the family physician... “Could nothing be done?”

“I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured,” the doctor decided. Whereupon the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man.

Two years went by. One day, his father said to the son, “You’re going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need. But it’s a secret.”

The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs.

Later he married and entered the diplomatic service. One day, he asked his father, “Who gave me the ears? Who gave me so much? I could never do enough for him or her.”

“I do not believe you could,” said the father, “but the agreement was that you are not to know...not yet.”

The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come. One of the darkest days that ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over his mother’s casket. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish brown hair to reveal the mother had no outer ears.

“Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut,” his father whispered gently, “and nobody ever thought mother less beautiful, did they?”

REMEMBER...

Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance,
but in the heart.
Real treasure lies not in what can be seen,
but what cannot be seen.
Real love lies not in what is done and known,
but in what that is done but not known.

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way of letting him know you've been thinking about him and concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.

Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so that you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gather up school books, toys, paper, etc. Run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order; and it will give you a lift too.

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they're small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.

Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.

Some Don'ts: Don't greet him with problems and complaints. Don't complain if he is late for dinner. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest that he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.

Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.

Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or other pleasant entertainment. Instead try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to unwind and relax.

The goal! Try to make your home a place of peace and order where your husband can relax in body and spirit.

I would get up every morning at the orphanage, make my bed just like the little soldier that I had become and then I would get into one of the two straight lines and march to breakfast with the other twenty or thirty boys who also lived in my dormitory.

After breakfast one Saturday morning I returned to the dormitory and saw the house parent chasing the beautiful monarch butterflies who lived by the hundreds in the azalea bushes strewn around the orphanage.

I carefully watched as he caught these beautiful creatures, one after the other, and then took them from the net and then stuck straight pins through their head and wings, pinning them onto a heavy cardboard sheet.

How cruel it was to kill something of such beauty. I had walked many times out into the bushes, all by myself, just so the butterflies could land on my head, face and hands so I could look at them up close.

When the telephone rang the house parent laid the large cardboard paper down on the back cement step and went inside to answer the phone. I walked up to the cardboard and looked at the one butterfly who he had just pinned to the large paper. It was still moving about so I reached down and touched it on the wing causing one of the pins to fall out. It started flying around and around trying to get away but it was still pinned by the one wing with the other straight pin. Finally it's wing broke off and the butterfly fell to the ground and just quivered.

I picked up the torn wing and the butterfly and I spat on it's wing and tried to get it to stick back on so it could fly away and be free before the house parent came back. But it would not stay on him.

The next thing I knew the house parent came walking back out of the back door by the garbage room and started yelling at me. I told him that I did not do anything but he did not believe me. He picked up the cardboard paper and started hitting me on the top of the head. There were all kinds of butterfly pieces going everywhere. He threw the cardboard down on the ground and told me to pick it up and put it in the garbage can inside the back room of the dormitory and then he left.

　　( 2 )

I sat there in the dirt, by that big old tree, for the longest time trying to fit all the butterfly pieces back together so I could bury them whole, but it was too hard to do. So I prayed for them and then I put them in an old torn up shoe box and I buried them in the bottom of the fort that I had built in the ground, out by the large bamboos, near the blackberry bushes.

Every year when the butterflies would return to the orphanage and try to land on me I would try and shoo them away because they did not know that the orphanage was a bad place to live and a very bad place to die.

Today is difficult. The ward heaves with patients and I am kept busy emptying bed-pans, filling out forms, changing dressings. Finally, late in the afternoon, I get a few moments to make coffee, to take it over to the orange plastic chair beside her bed. I am thankful to be off my feet, glad to be in her company once again.

‘Hello, Jasmine,’ I say, as if greeting myself.

She does not reply. Jasmine never replies. She is down too deep.

Like me, she has been sea-damaged. I too am the daughter of a fisherman, so I bait my words like fish-hooks, cast them into her ears, imagine them sinking down through cold, dark water. Down to wherever she may be.

‘I have little time today,’ I tell her, touching her hair.

With Jasmine, it is always difficult not to touch. She is that rare thing, a truly beautiful woman. Because of this, people invent reasons to walk by. I catch them looking, drinking her in, feeding on her. They are barracuda, all of them. Wheelchair-pushing porters who slow to a crawl when they near her bed. Roaming visitors with greedy eyes. Doctors who stop, draw the thin screen of curtain, and continually re-examine that which does not need examination.

Great beauty is something Jasmine and I do not share. I am glad of it.

‘Your father may be here soon,’ I say. ’Last week he said he would come.’

Jasmine says nothing. Her left eyelid flickers, perhaps.

It is two months since the incident on her father’s fishing boat, since she fell overboard, sank, became entangled in the nets. It was some time before anyone noticed, then there was panic. Her father hauled her back on board and sailed for home. When he finally arrived, he carried ashore what he thought was his daughter’s body.

‘Jasmine,’ I whisper. I want her to take our baited name. I want her to swallow it.

Fortunately, there was a doctor in the village that morning, a young man visiting relatives. It was he who brought this drowned woman back from the brink, he who told me her story. She opened her eyes, he said, looked up at her father and spoke a single word - then sank again, this time into coma.

Barracuda. That is what Jasmine said.

When her father visits, he touches her hair, kisses her cheek, sits in the orange plastic chair at the side of her bed and holds her hand. Like my own father, he has the big, brown, life-roughened hands of a fisherman. He too smells of the sea, and pretends he is a good, simple man.

Jasmine. We share so much, we are almost one.

I remember early mornings, my hair touched to wake me, my father lifting me half-asleep from my bed, carrying me, dropping me into his boat. His voice rough in my ear, his hands rough on my skin. I never wanted to go, but I was just a child. He did as he wished.

I remember salt water, hot sun, my mother shrinking on the shore. I remember the rocking of the boat, the screams of the gulls.

‘Jasmine, you have a life inside you. Can’t you hear it calling?’

Nothing.

The ward door bangs, and I see Jasmine’s father walking towards us, carrying flowers. He smiles at me.

Even in death, my own child had my father’s smile, and Jasmine’s will have this man’s. I know it.

He stops by her bed and touches her hair. Something stirs deep inside me. I watch Jasmine’s eyelids, waiting for her to bite.

Grandma and Penny quickly became very attached to each other, but that attachment grew much stronger about three years later when Grandma had a stroke. Grandma could no longer work, so when she came home from the hospital, she and Penny were constant companions.

After her stroke, it became a real problem for Grandma to let Penny in and out because the door was at the bottom of a flight of stairs. So a mechanism using a rope and pulley was installed from the back door to a handle at the top of the stairs. Grandma just had to pull the handle to open and close the door. If the store was out of Penny's favorite dog food, Grandma would make one of us cook Penny browned beef with diced potatoes in it. I can remember teasing my grandmother that she loved that dog better than she loved her family.

As the years passed, Grandma and Penny became inseparable. Grandma's old house could be filled to the brim with people, but if Grandma went to take her nap, Penny walked along beside her and stayed by her side until she awoke. As Penny aged, she could no longer jump up on the bed to lay next to Grandma, so she laid on the rug beside the bed. If Grandma went into the bathroom, Penny would hobble along beside her, wait outside the door and accompany her back to the bed or chair. Grandma never went anywhere without her faithful companion by her side.

The time came when both my grandmother and Penny's health were failing fast. Penny couldn't get around very well, and Grandma had been hospitalized several times. My uncle and I lived with Grandma, so Penny was never left alone, even when Grandma was in the hospital. During these times, Penny sat at the window looking out for the car bringing Grandma home and would excitedly wait at the door when Grandma came through it. Each homecoming was a grand reunion between the two.

On Christmas Day in 1985, Grandma was again taken to the hospital. Penny, as usual, sat watching out the window for the car bringing Grandma home. Two mornings later when the dog woke up, she couldn't seem to work out the stiffness in her hips as she usually did. The same morning, she began having seizures. At age fifteen, we knew it was time. My mother and aunt took her to the veterinarian and stayed with her until the end.

Now the big dilemma was whether to tell Grandma while she was still in the hospital or wait. The decision was made to tell her while she was in the hospital because when we pulled up at the house, the first thing Grandma would look for was her beloved Penny watching out the window and then happily greeting her at the door. Grandma shed some tears but said she knew that it had to be done so Penny wouldn't suffer.

That night while still in the hospital, Grandma had a massive heart attack. The doctors frantically worked on her but could not revive her. After fifteen years of loving companionship, Grandma and Penny passed away within a few hours of each other. God had it all worked out – Penny was waiting at door when Grandma came Home.

It would seem that happiness is something to do with simplicity, and that it is the ability to extract pleasure form the simplest things-such as a peach stone, for instance.

It is obvious that it is nothing to do with success. For Sir Henry Stewart was certainly successful. It is twenty years ago since he came down to our village from London, and bought a couple of old cottages, which he had knocked into one. He used his house a s weekend refuge5. He was a barrister. And the village followed his brilliant career with something almost amounting to paternal pride.

I remember some ten years ago when he was made a King's Counsel6, Amos and I, seeing him get off the London train, went to congratulate him. We grinned with pleasure; he merely looked as miserable as though he'd received a penal sentence. It was the same when he was knighted; he never smiled a bit, he didn't even bother to celebrate with a round of drinks at the "Blue Fox"7. He took his success as a child does his medicine. And not one of his achievements brought even a ghost of a smile to his tired eyes.

I asked him one day, soon after he'd retired to potter about his garden,8 what is was like to achieve all one's ambitions. He looked down at his roses and went on watering them. Then he said "The only value in achieving one's ambition is that you then realize that they are not worth achieving." Quickly he moved the conversation on to a more practical level, and within a moment we were back to a safe discussion on the weather. That was two years ago.

I recall this incident, for yesterday, I was passing his house, and had drawn up my cart just outside his garden wall. I had pulled in from the road for no other reason than to let a bus pass me. As I set there filling my pipe, I suddenly heard a shout of sheer joy come from the other side of the wall.

I peered over. There stood Sir Henry doing nothing less than a tribal war dance9 of sheer unashamed ecstasy. Even when he observed my bewildered face staring over the wall he did not seem put out10 or embarrassed, but shouted for me to climb over.

"Come and see, Jan. Look! I have done it at last! I have done it at last!"

There he was, holding a small box of earth in his had. I observed three tiny shoots out of it.

"And there were only three!" he said, his eyes laughing to heaven.

"Three what?" I asked.

"Peach stones", he replied. "I've always wanted to make peach stones grow, even since I was a child, when I used to take them home after a party, or as a man after a banquet. And I used to plant them, and then forgot where I planted them. But now at last I have done it, and, what's more, I had only three stones, and there you are, one, two, three shoots," he counted.

And Sir Henry ran off, calling for his wife to come and see his achievement-his achievement of simplicity.

How?

Don t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others. It is because we are different that each of us is special.

Don t set your goals by what other people deem important. Only you know what is best for you.

Don t take for granted the things closest to your heart. Cling to them as you would cling to your life, for without them, life is meaningless.

Don t let your life slip through your fingers by living in the past or for the future. By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.

Don t give up when you still have something to give. Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.

Don t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect. It is this fragile thread that binds us each together.

Don t be afraid to encounter risks. It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.

Don t shut love out of your life by saying it s impossible to find. The quickest way to receive love is to give; the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly; and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.

Don t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you ve been, but also where you are going.

There is a story many years ago of an elementary teacher. Her name was Mrs. Thompson. And as she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children a lie. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. But that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy.

Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he didn’t play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. And Teddy could be unpleasant.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child’s past records and she put Teddy’s off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy’s first grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners...he is a joy to be around.”

His second grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is an excellent student, well-liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle.”

His third grade teacher wrote, “His mother’s death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best but his father doesn’t show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren’t taken.”

Teddy’s fourth grade teacher wrote, “Teddy is withdrawn and doesn’t show much interest in school. He doesn’t have many friends and sometimes sleeps in class.”

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy’s. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing and a bottle that was one quarter full of perfume. She stifled the children’s laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.

Teddy stayed after school that day just long enough to say, “Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to.” After the children left she cried for at least an hour.

On that very day, she quit teaching reading, and writing, and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children same, Teddy became one of her “teacher’s pets.”

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had finished high school, second in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he’d stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor’s degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer. The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoller, M.D.

The story doesn’t end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he’d met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit in the place at the wedding that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson, did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. And she made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Teddy whispered in Mrs. Thompson’s ear, “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference.”

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, “Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn’t know how to teach until I met you.”

One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.

Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, “Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine.” The crowd and the young man looked at the old man’s heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn’t fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.

The people stared — how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man’s heart and saw its state and laughed. “You must be joking,” he said. “Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “Yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love — I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren’t exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared. Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn’t returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges — giving love is taking a chance.

Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space in my heart. So now do you see what true beauty is? ”

The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands.

The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man’s heart. It fit, but not perfectly, as there were some jagged edges. The young man looked at his heart, not perfect anymore but more beautiful than ever, since love from the old man’s heart flowed into his. They embraced and walked away side by side.

Once upon a time the colors of the world started to quarrel: all claimed that they were the most important, the most useful, the favorite.

Green said: "Clearly I am the most important. I am the sign of life and of hope. I was chosen for the grass, trees, leaves- without me, all animals would die. Look over the countryside and you will see that I am in the majority.

Blue interrupted: "You only think about the earth, but consider the sky and the sea. It is the water that is the basis of life and drawn up by the clouds from the deep sea. The sky gives space and peace and serenity. Without my peace, you would all be nothing"

Yellow chuckled: "You are all so serious! I bring laughter, gaiety, and warmth into the world. The sun is yellow, the moon is yellow, the stars are yellow. Every time you look at a sunflower, the whole world starts to Smile. Without me there would be no fun!"

Orange started next to blow her trumpet: "I am the color of Health and Strength. I may be scarce, but I am precious for I serve the needs of human life. I carry the most important vitamins. Think of carrots, pumpkins, oranges, mangoes and pawpaw. I don't hang around all the time, but when I fill the sky at sunrise or sunset, my beauty is so striking that no one gives another thought to any of you."

Red could stand it no longer: He shouted out, "I am the ruler of all of you- I am blood- life's blood! I am the color of danger and of bravery. I am willing to fight for a cause. I bring fire into the blood. Without me, the earth would be as empty as the moon! I am the color of passion and love the red rose, the poinsettia and the poppy."

Purple rose up to his full height: He was very tall and spoke with great pomp:" I am the color of royalty and power. Kings, Chiefs, and Bishops have always chosen me for I am the sign of authority and wisdom. People do not question me they listen and obey"

Finally, Indigo spoke, much more quietly than all the others, but with just as much determination: Think Of Me. I am the color of silence. You hardly notice me, but without me you all become superficial. I represent thought and reflection, twilight and deep water. You need be for balance and contrast, for prayer and inner peace"

And so the color went on boasting, each convinced of his or her own superiority. Their quarreling became louder and louder. Suddenly there was a startling flash of bright lightening- thunder rolled and boomed, Rain started to pour down relentlessly. The colors crouched down in fear, drawing close to one another for comfort. In the midst of the clamor, Rain began to speak, "You foolish colors, fighting amongst yourselves, each trying to dominate the rest. Don't you know that you were each made for a special purpose, unique and different? Join hands with one another and come to me. Doing as they were told ,the color united and joined hands. The rain continued, "From now on, when it rains, each of you will stretch across the sky in a great bow of color as a reminder that you can all live in peace. The rainbow is a sign of hope of tomorrow." And as Whenever a good rain washes the world and a Rainbow appears in the sky let us remember to appreciate one another.

　　Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn"t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.

　　I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.

　　For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.

　　Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.

　　So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God"s way of healing people when they"re sad. "I"m glad you can cry whenever you"re sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."

　　Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.

　　"I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of "Away in a Manger" during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.

　　My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son"s first solo.

　　Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."

　　Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.

　　"Okay," Patrick said. "I"ll do it."

　　From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner"s Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.

　　For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.

　　Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.

　　Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.

　　There was eternity in Patrick"s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.

　　His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.

　　After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."

　　As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.

　　I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.

　　He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.

　　"Patrick, do you remember when you asked me why you had never seen me cry?"

　　He nodded.

　　"Well, I"m crying now."

　　"Why, Dad?"

　　"Your singing was so wonderful it made me cry."

　　Patrick smiled proudly and flew into my arms.

　　"Sometimes," my son said into my shoulder, "life is so beautiful you have to cry."

　　Our moment together was over too soon. Untold treasures awaited our five-year-old beneath the tree at home, but I wasn"t ready for the traditional plunge into Christmas just yet. I handed Catherine the keys and set off for the mile-long hike home.

　　The night was cold and crisp. I crossed a park and admired the full moon hanging low over a neighborhood brightly lit in the colors of the season. As I turned toward home, I met a car moving slowly down the street, a family taking in the area"s Christmas lights. Someone rolled down a window.

　　"Merry Christmas," a child"s voice yelled out to me.

　　"Merry Christmas," I yelled back. And the tears began to flow all over again.

　　Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprised, I mumbled something about crying when he wasn"t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment -- the dragon-filled moat separating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.

　　I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, secretly dying within.

　　For most of my adult life I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness, even joy.

　　Strange as it seems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways for men to deal with feelings than tears. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be passed to the next generation.

　　So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God"s way of healing people when they"re sad. "I"m glad you can cry whenever you"re sad," I said. "Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope to do better."

　　Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.

　　"I was wondering if Patrick would sing a verse of "Away in a Manger" during the service on Christmas Eve," the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.

　　My wife, Catherine, and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son"s first solo.

　　Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himself seemed less convinced and frowned. "You know, Mom," he said, "sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared."

　　Grownups feel that way too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations took only a few minutes.

　　"Okay," Patrick said. "I"ll do it."

　　From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out several bars of Wagner"s Ride of the Valkyries on the piano.

　　For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza several times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision myself at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.

　　Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the congregation in darkness as a spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dressed in white, with a pair of angel wings.

　　Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he seemed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.

　　There was eternity in Patrick"s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any reserve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.

　　His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.

　　After the service, I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. "Mom," he said as his costume was stripped away, "I have to go to the bathroom."

　　As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a Merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.

　　I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. "Patrick, I need to talk to you about something," I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his nose and cheeks, the dimple on one side.

　　He looked at my moist eyes quizzically.

　　"Patrick, do you remember when you asked me why you had never seen me cry?"

　　He nodded.

　　"Well, I"m crying now."

　　"Why, Dad?"

　　"Your singing was so wonderful it made me cry."

　　Patrick smiled proudly and flew into my arms.

　　"Sometimes," my son said into my shoulder, "life is so beautiful you have to cry."

　　Our moment together was over too soon. Untold treasures awaited our five-year-old beneath the tree at home, but I wasn"t ready for the traditional plunge into Christmas just yet. I handed Catherine the keys and set off for the mile-long hike home.

　　The night was cold and crisp. I crossed a park and admired the full moon hanging low over a neighborhood brightly lit in the colors of the season. As I turned toward home, I met a car moving slowly down the street, a family taking in the area"s Christmas lights. Someone rolled down a window.

　　"Merry Christmas," a child"s voice yelled out to me.

　　"Merry Christmas," I yelled back. And the tears began to flow all over again.

One of the reasons many of us find it hard to love ourselves is because we do not realize that we are already loved in the most divine way. God loves us, totally and unconditionally.

It's hard for many of us to believe this fact because we know how imperfect we are, and we believe we have to be perfect before God will love us. The truth is that God's love makes us perfect, even with our imperfections. By knowing this truth intellectually and believing it spiritually, we not only love ourselves more; we love others more as well.

Do you love yourself? You may think you do, but do you really? There's only one way to find out-by taking a closer look at what you think, say, and do. You may not like some of what you find, but if you're serious about really loving yourself, you can use this insight to do some positive inner work.

Here are three ways I've found for gaining greater personal insight for deeper love.

Listen to your words and listen even more closely to your thoughts. Why? Because your words and your thoughts will determine your actions. One of the things that has helped me to listen to my thoughts has been to keep a journal. It is not necessary for you to write in it everyday, but it helps to record various insights you gain as you go about living your life. Instead of using a big notebook, you might use a small note pad that you can keep in your purse or pocket for easy access to record your thoughts as they occur to you. (I've found that if I don't immediately write down ideas and insights as they come, it's hard to remember them later, at least with the same degree of clarity.) Whichever method you choose, what's most important is that you write your thoughts down. It will help you know what's in your heart.

Be honest with yourself by paying attention to your actions. Actions speak louder than words, and they always tell the truth. What do your actions say about you? If you say you love your job, but your actions say otherwise, which do you think is more true - your words or your actions? On the other hand, if you say you're not good at a certain job, but your actions say otherwise, that's also important. What do you do with this insight? You can use it to make more beneficial choices in your life. By being honest with yourself based on your previous actions, your actions moving forward will be based on truth instead of just what you tell yourself.

Take time out during the day for quiet time to listen to your inner voice. I call this inner voice the voice of God. This is similar to point number one, but it takes it a step further - beyond the natural mind to the supernatural heart. You may want to use your quiet time to meditate or pray. However you use this time, the key is to shut out all of the noise around you by focusing deep within yourself. Breathing deeply during quiet time will also help you focus. I know it's hard to find quiet time during a particularly busy day, but it's so important - even if it's just 10 minutes a day and you have to sneak away to get it. Quiet time can really make a difference in your life. It enables you to hear God speaking to your heart reminding you of His perfect love for you.

Despite what your subconscious may be telling you, you can have love with no limits. The key is to unconditionally love yourself first.

You, their teacher, met us at the door. You introduced yourself and showed the girls to their seats. We gave them each a good-bye kiss, and then we walked out the door. We didn't talk to each other on the way back to the parking lot and on to our respective jobs. We were too involved thinking about you.

There were so many things we wanted to tell you, Teacher. Too many things were left unsaid. So I'm writing to you. I'd like to tell you the things we didn't have time for that first morning.

I hope you noticed Beth's dress. She looked beautiful in it. Now I know you might think that's a father's prejudice, but she thinks she looks beautiful in it, and that's what's really important. Did you know we spent a full week searching the shopping malls for just the right dress for that special occasion? She wouldn't show you, but I'm sure she'd like you to know that she picked that dress because of the way it unfurled as she danced in front of the mirrors in the clothing store. The minute she tried it on, she knew she'd found her special dress. I wonder if you noticed. Just a word from you would make that dress all the more wondrous.

Her shoes tell a lot about Beth and a lot about her family. At least they're worth a minute of your time. Yes, they're blue shoes with one strap. Solid, well-made shoes, not too stylish, you know the kind. What you don't know is how we argued about getting the kind of shoes she said all the girls would be wearing. We said no to plastic shoes in purple or pink or orange.

Beth was worried that the other kids would laugh at her baby shoes. In the end she tried the solid blue ones on and, with a smile, told us she always did like strap shoes. That's the first-born, eager to please. She's like the shoes – solid and reliable. How she'd love it if you mentioned those straps.

I hope you quickly notice that Beth is shy. She'll talk her head off when she gets to know you, but you'll have to make the first move. Don't mistake her quietness for lack of intelligence. Beth can read any children's book you put in front of her. She learned reading the way it should be taught. She learned it naturally, snuggled up in her bed with her mother and me reading her stories at naptime, at bedtime and at cuddling times throughout the day. To Beth, books are synonymous with good times and loving family. Please don't change her love of reading by making the learning of it a burdensome chore. It has taken us all her life to instill in her the joy of books and learning.

Did you know that Beth and her friends played school all summer in preparation for their first day? I should tell you about her class. Everybody in her class wrote something every day. She encouraged the other kids who said they couldn't think of anything to write about. She helped them with their spelling. She came to me upset one day. She said you might be disappointed in her because she didn't know how to spell 'subtraction.' She can do that now. If you would only ask her. Her play school this summer was filled with positive reinforcement and the quiet voice of a reassuring teacher. I hope that her fantasy world will be translated into reality in your classroom.

I know you're busy with all the things that a teacher does at the beginning of the school year, so I'll make this letter short. But I did want you to know about the night before that first day. We got her lunch packed in the Care Bear lunch box. We got the backpack ready with the school supplies. We laid out her special dress and shoes, read a story, and then I shut off the lights. I gave her a kiss and started to walk out of the room. She called me back in and asked me if I knew that God wrote letters to people and put them in their minds.

I told her I never had heard that, but I asked if she had received a letter. She had. She said the letter told her that her first day of school was going to be one of the best days of her life. I wiped away a tear as I thought: Please let it be so.

Later that night I discovered a note Beth left for me. It read, 'I'm so lucky to have you for a dad.' Well, Beth's first-grade teacher, I think you're so lucky to have her as a student. We're all counting on you. Every one of us who left our children and our dreams with you that day. As you take our youngsters by the hand, stand a little taller and walk a little prouder. Being a teacher carries with it an awesome responsibility.

The heaviness in all our hearts was almost unbearable. Turning back to my stepson"s casket I somehow helped my children pluck a rose from the brother spray to press in their Bibles. With tears streaming down my face, I rested my hand on the son spray. I no longer knew my place.

God, I silently screamed, how did I fit in Conan"s life?

From the moment I"d met my stepson, I was in awe of this angelic little boy whose bright, blond hair seemed to glow with a heavenly radiance. At only a year-and-a-half, he was built like a three-year-old. Solid and stocky, sleeping curled in my lap, his tiny heart beat against mine, and a maternal bonding began stirring inside me.

Within a year I became a stepmother to Conan and his older sister, Lori. Soon after that, a visit to the doctor revealed some disheartening news.

"You have an infertility disease," the doctor had said. "You might not ever have children of your own."

At twenty-two, that news was shattering. I had
always wanted to be a mother. Suddenly, I realized being a stepmother might be as close as I would get, and I became even more involved in their lives.

But thankfully, four years later we joyfully discovered I was pregnant. Chase was born, then two years later we were blessed with our daughter, Chelsea.

I loved being both a mom and a stepmother, but as in any blended family, it had its ups and downs. Chuck"s ex-wife had custody of his kids and gave them more freedom than we gave our children. Needing to be consistent with our rules, I"m certain we appeared overly strict to his kids. On their weekend visitations, I usually felt like an old nag.

As a second wife, I was jealous of my stepchildren"s mother. I complained about her and her husband within earshot of my stepkids, and even grumbled about buying my stepchildren extras on top of paying child support. Somehow I overlooked the important fact that my stepchildren were the innocent ones thrust into a blended family.

Then one day at a gathering of my own family, I watched as my mother went up to my stepmother and gave her a hug. I turned and saw my father and stepfather laughing together. Having always appreciated the cooperative relationship my parents and stepparents had, it occurred to me that Chuck"s children longed for the same. So Chuck and I decided to work hard at bridging gaps instead of creating them.

It wasn"t easy, and changes didn"t come overnight, but they did come. By the time Conan was fifteen, a peace had settled between parents and stepparents. Instead of griping about child-support payments, we voluntarily increased them. And finally Conan"s mom gave us copies of his report cards and football schedules.

I was proud of my kids and stepkids. After graduation, my stepdaughter married, and she and her husband built a house together. At seventeen, Conan had become a sensible, intelligent young man. With rugged good looks and a deep, baritone voice, I wondered what fortunate girl would snatch him up.

But then came that phone call, changing our lives forever - Conan was killed instantly by a drunk driver.

Over the years we"d been married, Chuck had reassured me that I was a parent to his children, too. He sought my opinion in matters concerning them and relied on me to make their Christmases and birthdays special. I enjoyed doing those things and looked upon myself as their second mother.

But in his grief immediately upon Conan"s death, Chuck suddenly stopped seeking my opinion and began turning to his ex-wife. I knew they had to make many final decisions together, and I realized later that he was trying to spare me from the gruesome details, but for the first time, I began to feel like an outsider instead of a parent.

I also knew the driver responsible for the accident had to be prosecuted, which meant Chuck and his ex-wife would have to stay in contact. Those ugly jealousies from the past began to resurface when, night after night, he talked to her, seldom discussing their conversations with me.

And it stung when friends inquired only about Chuck"s coping, or sent sympathy cards addressed just to him, forgetting about me and even our two children. Some belittled my grieving because I was "just" a stepparent. Did anyone realize my loss and pain? I"d had strong maternal feelings for Conan; he considered me his second mother - or did he? As the weeks turned into months, that question haunted me, dominating my thoughts. I became driven to understand just what my role had been.

I rummaged through boxes of photos and dug out old journals, searching the house for mementos, even Christmas ornaments he had made.

There were several comforting journal excerpts, one describing Mother"s Day phone calls from Conan to me, and a beautiful white poinsettia he gave me at Christmas. And I cherished the memories old photos brought back - his loving bear hugs after cooking his favorite meal - or a kiss for simply doing his laundry. As comforting as these things were, they still weren"t enough.

One beautiful spring day, almost a year after he died, I was lovingly caressing the pressed rose from his grave that I kept in my Bible. Suddenly, I felt compelled to visit his grave alone. I had never done that before, but I desperately needed some answers.

Arriving at the gravesite, I remembered Chuck mentioning that the permanent headstone had recently arrived. Chuck had told Conan"s mom to select what she wanted. As I looked down on the shiny marble surface, I noticed she had chosen a bronze sports emblem, along with a picture of Conan that had been permanently embedded under a thick layer of glass.

I bent down and lovingly ran my fingers over his engraved name and the dates commemorating his short life. Through a mist of tears, memories of a rambunctious, fun-loving little boy filled my heart. The child I"d mothered part-time for so many years may not have come through my body, but I had been chosen by God to provide a maternal influence in his life. Not to take his mother"s place, but to be just a "step" away. I suddenly felt very honored to have been chosen.

"It was a privilege to be your stepmother," I whispered out loud, bending to kiss his picture.

Finally, a sense of peace was beginning. With a heavy sigh, I got up to leave. But as I turned to walk away, the sun glistened on the border of the headstone, causing me to look back.

"Oh my gosh! How could I have not noticed it before?"

The entire border of the headstone was trimmed in gold shafts of wheat . . . exactly like a gold shaft-of-wheat pin Conan had given me years ago. Chills ran up and down my spine. I hadn"t seen that pin in years.

Somehow, I just knew it was the missing link. I had to find that pin.

The ride home was a blur. I was so excited. Finally, I was upstairs in my bedroom tearing apart my jewelry box. Where was it? Dumping the contents on the bed, I frantically tossed earrings and pins to and fro.

Nothing.

God, this is important. Please help me find it, I prayed.

Turning from the bed I felt compelled to search my dresser. Rummaging through drawer after drawer proved futile, until finally, in the last drawer, clear in the back I felt it. It was a small, white box with my name scribbled on top in a child"s handwriting. Prying it open, I was instantly transported back in time.

Conan had been about ten years old, and it was the night before going on vacation to Florida. He was going with us, and I was packing in my room when I heard a knock on my door. Conan stood there, his eyes downcast and his hands behind his back.

"What is it, son?" I asked, concerned by this unexpected visit.
Shuffling his feet, he quickly mumbled, "I don"t know why I don"t call you "Mom" very often, even though I call my stepdad "Dad.""

I hugged him and reassured him he was free to call me whatever he was comfortable with. Then suddenly, with a wry smile on his pudgy face, he handed me the small, white box.

"You choose," he said, and darted from the room.

Assuming I"d find two items inside the box, I opened it. Instead, I found the single gold wheat pin he"d bought at a garage sale with his own money.

Scribbled inside the lid of the box were the words, "I Love You. To Mom or Connie."

That had been almost a decade ago, yet as I pushed the spilled contents of my jewelry box aside and slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, it felt like yesterday.

Thank you, God, for finding this pin, and for the closure that comes with it.

Wiping the tears from my face, I reflected on an angelic little boy whose heart beat close to mine.

I still choose "Mom."

He was a unique manager because he had several waiters who had followed him around from restaurant to restaurant. The reason the waiters followed Jerry was because of his attitude. He was a natural motivator. If an employee was having a bad day, Jerry was there telling the employee how to look on the positive side of the situation.

Seeing this style really made me curious, so one day I went up to Jerry and asked him, "I don"t get it! You can"t be a positive person all of the time. How do you do it?"

Jerry replied, "Each morning I wake up and say to myself, "Jerry, you have two choices today. You can choose to be in a good mood or you can choose to be in a bad mood." I choose to be in a good mood. Each time something bad happens, I can choose to be a victim or I can choose to learn from it. I choose to learn from it. Every time someone comes to me complaining, I can choose to accept their complaining or I can point out the positive side of life. I choose the positive side of life."

"Yeah, right, it"s not that easy," I protested.

"Yes, it is," Jerry said. "Life is all about choices. When you cut away all the junk, every situation is a choice. You choose how you react to situations. You choose how people will affect your mood. You choose to be in a good mood or bad mood. The bottom line: It"s your choice how you live life."

I reflected on what Jerry said. Soon thereafter, I left the restaurant industry to start my own business. We lost touch, but I often thought about him when I made a choice about life instead of reacting to it.

Several years later, I heard that Jerry did something you are never supposed to do in a restaurant business: he left the back door open one morning and was held up at gunpoint by three armed robbers. While trying to open the safe his hand, shaking from nervousness, slipped off the combination The robbers panicked and shot him.

Luckily, Jerry was found relatively quickly and rushed to the local trauma center. After 18 hours of surgery and weeks of intensive care, Jerry was released from the hospital with fragments of the bullets still in his body.

I saw Jerry about six months after the accident. When I asked him how he was, he replied, "If I were any better, I"d be twins. Wanna see my scars?" I declined to see his wounds, but did ask him what had gone through his mind as the robbery took place.

"The first thing that went through my mind was that I should have locked the back door," Jerry replied. "Then, as I lay on the floor, I remembered that I had two choices: I could choose to live, or I could choose to die. I chose to live."

"Weren"t you scared? Did you lose consciousness?" I asked.

Jerry continued, "The paramedics were great. They kept telling me I was going to be fine. But when they wheeled me into the emergency room and I saw the expressions on the faces of the doctors and nurses, I got really scared. In their eyes, I read, "He"s a dead man." "I knew I needed to take action."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Well, there was a big, burly nurse shouting questions at me," said Jerry.

"She asked if I was allergic to anything. "Yes," I replied. The doctors and nurses stopped working as they waited for my reply. I took a deep breath and yelled, "Bullets!"

Over their laughter, I told them. "I am choosing to live. Operate on me as if I am alive, not dead."

Jerry lived thanks to the skill of his doctors, but also because of his amazing attitude. I learned from him that every day we have the choice to live fully.

Attitude, after all, is everything.

You never know who these people may be - a roommate, a neighbor, a professor, a friend, a lover, or even a complete stranger - but when you lock eyes with them, you know at that very moment they will affect your life in some profound way.

Sometimes things happen to you that may seem horrible, painful, and unfair at first, but in reflection you find that without overcoming those obstacles you would have never realized your potential, strength, willpower, or heart.

Illness, injury, love, lost moments of true greatness, and sheer stupidity all occur to test the limits of your soul. Without these small tests, whatever they may be, life would be like a smoothly paved straight flat road to nowhere. It would be safe and comfortable, but dull and utterly pointless.

The people you meet who affect your life, and the success and downfalls you experience, help to create who you are and who you become. Even the bad experiences can be learned from. In fact, they are sometimes the most important ones.

If someone loves you, give love back to them in whatever way you can, not only because they love you, but because in a way, they are teaching you to love and how to open your heart and eyes to things.

If someone hurts you, betrays you, or breaks your heart, forgive them, for they have helped you learn about trust and the importance of being cautious to whom you open your heart.

Make every day count. Appreciate every moment and take from those moments everything that you possibly can for you may never be able to experience it again. Talk to people that you have never talked to before, and listen to what they have to say.

Let yourself fall in love, break free, and set your sights high. Hold your head up because you have every right to. Tell yourself you are a great individual and believe in yourself, for if you don"t believe in yourself, it will be hard for others to believe in you.

You can make anything you wish of your life. Create your own life and then go out and live it with absolutely no regrets.

And if you love someone tell them, for you never know what tomorrow may have in store.