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Is
happiness catching up with us? Is it falling behind?
Something to think about now and then.
Miss
Lucy, Upside Down
When we were youngsters growing up in our sleepy
southern town, most of my friends parents and
grandparents seemed rather staid and sober folk. But
there was one memorable exception: Miss Lucy, a
widow lady in her sixties, or thereabouts, who lived
with her sister Clara. Clara was prim and proper,
but Miss Lucy was full of charm and enthusiasm.
One
day in the course of assuring some of us that age
need not be a barrier to anything, Miss Lucy
asserted she could still stand on her head whenever
she felt like it. When we looked doubtful, she
proceeded to do so, clamping her skirt between her
knees and beaming at us while upside down.
"Oh,
Lucy," said Clara disapprovingly. "Do be
your age!"
Miss
Lucy righted herself and looked at her sister.
"Be your age?" she asked. "What sort
of nonsense is that? How can anyone be anything but
their age? The trick is to love your age, whatever
it is. Love it when you're young and strong and
foolish. Love it when you're old and wise. If you
love your age, you'll never go around wishing you
were some other age. Think about that."
I
do not know whether Miss Lucy's words had any effect
on her sister. I do know they did on me. They were
spoken more than 50 years ago, but I remember them
still.
Barbara,
On Options
I know a woman who is badly crippled by arthritis.
Barbara's hands are almost useless, and she is in
constant pain. And yet she is always cheerful and
uncomplaining.
Not
long ago I tried to tell her how much I admired her.
"If I had to endure the suffering you face
every day," I said, "I'd be
miserable."
She
smiled. "I'll quote you something I read
somewhere: 'Pain is inevitable. Misery is
optional.'"
She
went on to say that physical pain is a fact that
comes with living, just as illness or financial woes
or broken relationships are facts. But misery is a
state of mind, a reaction to the facts, that can be
controlled or altered by an act of will.
"There
really is an option," Barbara said. "You
can choose to dwell upon your troubles—or not. You
can choose to be filled with gloom and despair, or
you can bar the door to them."
"Not
always an easy choice," I said.
"No,
it's not," my friend agreed. "But I've
developed a simple technique that seems to work for
me. If I find I'm beginning to feel sorry for
myself, or discouraged, or depressed, I open the
doors and windows of my mind and invite those
unwelcome visitors to leave. Then I ask the Lord to
fill the spaces left by the hobgoblins with his
peace and light and love. And he does."
Now,
whenever I am feeling low, I try to remember what my
friend Barbara said: Misery is optional.
Hobgoblins, begone!
The
Unknown Bricklayer
All churches have something to say to a visitor, I
think, if you stand still and listen. The other day
I found myself in The First African Baptist Church
in my hometown, Savannah. Gaunt and angular, it
stands facing Franklin Square with a certain power
that is hard to explain unless you know something
about its history.
It
was built by slaves at the beginning of the Civil
War. Their owners allowed them to work on it at
night by the light of bonfires after their other
tasks were done. The women brought bricks in their
aprons to the men as they worked. Records of the
construction are almost nonexistent except for a
single phrase in an old ledger: "The man who
laid the first brick was the man who laid the
last."
How
could people held in bondage and denied education
build a brick edifice capable of seating more than a
thousand worshipers? The answer is that someone must
have led them, one of their own number, someone who
laid the first brick with faith and hope and
determination, and then four years later laid the
last. Today, no one knows who that leader was, but
the church is his monument and his glory.
More
often than I like to acknowledge, I become
discouraged in the middle of a project. Sometimes I
give up altogether. But now I have a phrase to
remember when that temptation comes, when it is
easier to stop than go on: The man who laid the
first brick laid the last.
Glenn,
On Giving
Does it bother you when a beggar or a panhandler
approaches you on the street? It does me. It is not
that I am afraid of the panhandler. Rather, I am
uneasy about my own reaction. What should it be?
I
was walking to work one day in New York with Glenn
Kittler, a warm and wonderful man who lived in an
uptown apartment with a cat named Louie. As we came
to a corner we were approached by a faded woman,
poorly dressed, who told us pitifully that she
needed money because her children were hungry. Glenn
pulled out some change and gave it to her.
As
we moved on, I said disapprovingly, "That
woman's here every day with the same story. She'll
probably buy a drink with the money you gave
her."
"Perhaps,"
Glenn said. "But, you know, I think God
sometimes sends people like that just to test our
charity." We walked a little farther, then he
said quietly, almost to himself, "The act of
giving is more important than the merit of the
receiver."
There
are times when I need to remember that.
Dr.
Karl, On Life's Purposes
Someone once asked me who of the many people I have
interviewed over the years had impressed me most.
Not an easy question, but I found my mind going back
to a visit I made to the Menninger Foundation in
Topeka, Kansas, and the time I spent with Dr. Karl
Menninger, considered the dean of American
psychiatrists. I felt then that I was in the
presence of a towering genius, and nothing since has
caused me to change my mind.
I
can recall his office vividly—the Navajo rugs on
the floor; the Native American artifacts everywhere;
Dr. Karl wearing a yellow shirt with turquoise cuff
links, peering at me with eyes that were penetrating
and kind.
We
were talking about the importance of hope in human
affairs. "If you lose all hope," the
doctor said, "you stop trying and you stop
caring. That won't do. I think each of us is put
here to dilute the misery in the world. You may not
be able to make a big contribution, but you can make
a little one, and you've got to try."
Help
dilute the misery in the world. A tremendous
challenge and an uncompromising yardstick. It might
profit all of us to think about it at bedtime once
in a while. Ask yourself honestly which of your
actions during the day came close to fitting that
definition. If you can think of a few, sleep
soundly.
If
not, do not despair. The sun will rise again
tomorrow. You will have plenty of opportunities
then.
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A book
about looking
and seeing. Gordon helps
us to see that there's a
lot more to commonplace
happenings than meets
the eye, and that most
people would find a
lot more in them if
they would just take
the time to truly see. |
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