In today’s high-speed society, the time-honored virtue of patience is in short supply. We expect patience in others—sometimes impatiently—but we often deny ourselves the serenity, steadiness, and balance that patience could bring to our own up-and-down lives.

As the story of Helen Keller shows, patience is not shoulder-shrugging indifference but rather action that calls upon the very strength of the soul. A severe illness in infancy left Helen deaf and blind—and rather unruly. When she was six, her parents hired 20-year-old Anne Sullivan, herself partially blind, to work with the restless child.

One evening after Helen’s out-of-control display at dinner—eating off the plates of others and even off the floor—Anne locked the two of them in the dining room and patiently taught etiquette. “I gave her a spoon,” Anne wrote, “which she threw on the floor. I forced her out of the chair and made her pick it up. . . . Then we had another tussle over folding her napkin.” 1 Hours later when the two emerged, Anne reportedly announced, “She folded her napkin.”

Eventually, Helen learned to read, write, and speak. In 1904 she graduated with honors from Radcliffe College, her long-time tutor Anne having patiently spelled out lectures into her palms.

Our perseverance may never be tried quite so dramatically, but we all face situations that require patience—with ourselves, with our neighbors, with our family. Are we gracious and compassionate when others make mistakes? When our dreams collide with our limitations, do resilience and a little humor accompany our efforts?

Our greatest blessings and deepest joys always come from helping others, from opening our hearts to someone in need. Service is evidence of our love, but it can also be its catalyst. While it’s true that we serve those we love, it is equally true that we love those we serve.

A young man who often helped babysit and care for his younger sister recalled how close he felt to her during those years when she needed him. As they both grew older, though, they went through a time when they weren’t getting along so well.

Then one day, after playing soccer in the sweltering heat, he was just about to cool off with a cup of ice-cold juice when he noticed that his sister was hot too and had nothing to drink. So he gave her his drink. In that selfless moment, he felt a renewal of his love for her.1

In similar manner, an elderly man watched his wife of many decades slowly going blind. She could no longer see well enough to paint her own fingernails. Without being asked, he began to paint her fingernails for her. He knew that she could see her fingernails when she held them close to her eyes, at just the right angle, and they made her smile. He liked to see her happy, so he kept painting her nails for more than five years before she passed away.

The wise observation of human behavior is a trademark of the Chinese culture, its history and people. For more than 3,000 years of recorded history, the Chinese have shared great wisdom through beloved folktales and proverbs.

One Chinese folktale recounts the misfortune of a poor man who was so hungry that he stole a pear. He ate the pear as quickly as possible, but not before he was arrested and put in jail. Behind bars, the man finished eating the pear, all the way down to the last seed, which he carefully saved.

Days and months passed while the man awaited his trial. At last, he devised a plan. He asked the guard if he could present the emperor with a rare gift. The guard consented, and the man offered his pear seed to the emperor. The poor man said that it would produce pears made of pure gold, but only if the one who planted it had never lied, cheated, or stolen anything. The seed was of no use to him, a common thief, but perhaps the emperor could plant it.

His majesty thought for a minute and declined. The poor man then offered the seed to the prime minister, who likewise had his conscience pricked and refused to plant the seed. Next he offered it to the commander of the royal army, the chief magistrate, the chief warden—all the way down to the lowest page in the emperor’s court. No one would plant the seed because no one had a completely clear conscience. They now saw the poor man in a new light and decided to set him free.¹

The story is told of an inquisitive widow in 17th-century England who lived next to a man she considered quite eccentric. Each day her neighbor would sit outside in the heat of the sun and, for hours at a time, blow soap bubbles through a clay pipe, staring at them until they popped.

One day, the woman received a visit from a Fellow of the Royal Society, England’s renowned academy of science. When she described this bizarre behavior, her visitor asked if he could get a better look at the man she described as a poor lunatic.

“That poor lunatic,” he said, “is none other than the great Sir Isaac Newton, who is studying the refraction of light upon thin plates—a phenomenon beautifully exhibited upon the surface of common soap bubbles.”¹

It’s easy to find fault in others. But when we do, we may be revealing more about ourselves than those we criticize. The famed psychologist Carl Jung wrote, “Everything that is unconscious in ourselves we discover in our neighbour, and we treat him accordingly.”² In other words, sometimes our hasty judgment of others stems from the worst that is in us rather than what we assume is the worst in them.

We may think we know a hundred bad things about someone. But there may be one thing about him or her that we don’t know—something that, if we truly understood it, could completely change our perspective.

We are shaped and tempered by our exposure to nature and wildlife—by the opportunity to rub shoulders with the trees. As Wallace Stegner, Pulitzer Prize–winning writer of the American West, put it, “We all need something to take the shrillness out of us.”¹

Considering the shrillness of our modern society, how grateful we should be that national parks dot the land. When we get caught up in self-important deadlines and schedules, the pinnacles of Bryce Canyon, the wildlife of the Everglades, or the depths of the Grand Canyon can enlarge our perspective and invite us to contemplate our true place in the universe, and the consistency of Yellowstone’s Old Faithful can teach us that alarm clocks aren’t the only way to measure time.

Every once in a while, we need to see the raw courage of a flower pushing through a boulder. We need to see the elegant cactus in Saguaro National Park confirming that life can thrive in the hardest of conditions. We need places set apart where we can witness for ourselves that some things are most beautiful without our interference. And sometimes we need to see with our own eyes how many stars there really are in the night sky—without competition from the city lights.

The tranquil vistas of the Great Smoky Mountains, the pristine beaches of Cape Cod, and the backwoods of the Appalachian Trail—to name just a few—remind us to check our pace and take time to be awe-inspired.

The well-known words of Sam Walter Foss, written more than a hundred years ago, inspire us with their simple eloquence:

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

Where the race of men go by—

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish—so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat

Or hurl the cynic’s ban?—

Let me live in my house by the side of the road

We’re all more alike than we are different. We want happiness and health, well-being for our loved ones, contentment, and a sense of security in an insecure world. Whatever differences we may have are minor in comparison. And yet sometimes we let these differences get between us and justify disrespect. All human beings deserve respect. As we interact with each other, we can disagree without being disagreeable.

Most often, we teach respect by example. A woman recalls how her father, many decades ago, sincerely prayed each night for the leader of the country, even though that leader came from a different political party. Sometimes their family agreed with the president’s actions, and sometimes they didn’t. Regardless, they prayed for him. And now, as a grandmother, she teaches her grandchildren to do the same.

Respect is not something we reserve for people we like, people who share our outlook, or people who like us. We respect each other because we exist together on this earth, and we need each other’s consideration and civility to make our world a safe and happy place. Indeed, civility and decency are the hallmarks of a civilized people.

Respect is born as we value each individual soul, and its influence can spread quickly. Think of how you feel when others show deference to you and your way of thinking. You are more inclined to show them the same regard. Then, as you introduce the spirit of respect in other interactions, that spirit extends to countless others.

When we associate with people who look past differences and into the hearts of other human beings, we hold on to the memory of such noble souls for generations. Even if their sphere of influence is only as wide as their family and community, they contribute to the well-being of the whole human family by respecting others, one person at a time.

In her endearing novel Pride and Prejudice, beloved author Jane Austen writes of a fictional clergyman, “Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man,” with “a very good opinion of himself.” For all his pretensions to piety, Mr. Collins does nothing in the novel to bless or help others; rather, he takes every opportunity to belittle those of a lower social standing, and he advises the father of a wayward daughter to “throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offence.” 1

Such overblown self-righteousness reminds us that those who really are good and who do the most good for others do so quietly. They don’t wear their goodness like a medal and call attention to their acts of charity or even bravery. In fact they usually prefer anonymity, content to let gratitude in the hearts of others be the only monument to their service.

Mother Teresa, who spent her life serving the poorest of the poor and doing good to all she met, felt no need to promote herself. When praised for her work, she said, “I’m just a little pencil in [God’s] hand.”2 She believed that “there should be less talk” and more action. “Take a broom and clean someone’s house,” she taught. “That says enough.”3

With so much to worry about these days, it’s easy to feel distressed. In addition to our personal difficulties and disappointments, we read the headlines and hear news reports about suffering and sorrow throughout the world, and sometimes we wonder if everything will be all right.

Because the world’s problems receive such wide publication in this day of mass communication, it may seem as if our generation has more than its share. The truth is, however, that trouble is not new. Those who went before us had to face problems that, though different from ours, were just as challenging. And knowing that so many from generations past saw their way out of difficulty and apprehension, we too can hold on to the hope that things will get better.

Thousands of years ago, the Psalmist gave assurance that still brings comfort today: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.” ¹That message of positive expectation, of faith in the future, is a most comforting and universal hope. Tomorrow always comes, and with it, the chance for improvement, recovery, and renewal. But our hope, if it is to have any depth or meaning, must rest on something greater than ourselves.

More than a hundred years ago, German composer Johannes Brahms set to music the words of 17th-century poet Paul Fleming: “Let Nothing Ever Grieve Thee.” The message both reminds and inspires us to look to the divine source of hope and there find reassurance, comfort, and peace.

Ancient proverbs remind us that “wisdom is better than rubies” (Proverbs 8:11) and that “wisdom is the principal thing; therefore get wisdom” (Proverbs 4:7). Wisdom tells us when to act and when to wait, when to indulge and when to hold back, when to speak and when to remain silent.

Wisdom is not easily or cheaply acquired, though. It takes time and experience to become wise—and often that means making mistakes along the way. A loving father once said to his child, “My son, you will go out into the world, and every once in a while you will stub your toe and fall down; but for goodness’ sake, do not stub your toe twice in the same place.”[1]

We all have our share of stumbles, and this gives us abundant opportunities to gain wisdom. We respect the wise because they always seem to make good choices, but even wise people aren’t immune from occasional follies. Yet because they yearn for knowledge and discernment, they turn their errors into good sense and good judgment.

Wisdom is not just an abstraction. It is born in the daily details of life’s experiences. And if we are willing, it will lead us to truth and to improved lives.

Of course, making mistakes is not the only way to get wisdom. We can also seek out and learn from wise men and women who have gone before. Either way, the key ingredient in our search for wisdom is a teachable heart.

All through life, we work toward goals, and when we achieve them, we often discover that we’re not done yet. The progress we’ve made helps us realize that we have other mountains to climb: more work to do, more learning to pursue, more love to give, more of our own character to refine.

Few people have understood this concept as well as the early pioneer settlers of the American West. In their journals we feel their growing pains as they walk mile after mile of their long and arduous trek. Their hope and faith in a promised valley of peace helped them endure hunger, disease, and discomfort of every kind. But minutes after finally arriving and unloading their wagons, they must have realized that their journey wasn’t really over. The wilderness would have to be tamed. Houses would have to be built. Seeds must be planted, and even if all went well, it might be years before they actually tasted the full fruit of their labors.

How often have we stood at such a crossroads in our life, realizing that the point toward which we traveled was only a way station for further growth and progress? Maybe we thought our troubles would be over once we graduated from high school or college, once we got married, when we found a new job, or when we paid off the mortgage and the kids were grown. After meeting those goals, though, we saw vistas of growth and opportunity that we didn’t know were there before. And we faced a decision: we could become complacent and linger in our present state of accomplishment, or like the pioneers, we could plow forward with faith, break the soil with new resolve, and plant seeds of progress.

Milestones are best marked by moving forward with our lives, understanding that the journey’s end is really just the beginning of another kind of journey.

Mention a song by George and Ira Gershwin, and folks start humming and tapping their toes. These two talented brothers left a singular imprint on American music, from Broadway to Hollywood, George composing the music and Ira writing the lyrics. In the process, they elevated American music to new heights of artistic merit. You would expect that they had been trained at acclaimed musical conservatories or were great protégés of celebrated teachers.

Actually, their upbringing was much humbler than that. They were born in New York City near the turn of the 20th century to poor Russian immigrants. Their father changed jobs nearly 30 times by Ira’s 18th birthday; the family moved up and down Manhattan just as often. Perhaps their famous refrain “I got plenty of nothin’, and nothin’s plenty for me” was autobiographical.¹

So much of who we are and what we have are gifts from those who have gone before us. Our forebears planted seeds that bear bounteous fruit for our generation, and the fruits of selfless sowing are apparent all around us. An inspiring example of this can be found here in the great state of Ohio, longtime home of John Chapman, better known as Johnny Appleseed.

Some 200 years ago, Johnny Appleseed walked these hills and valleys, exploring the new territory and planting apple trees. In Ashland, Ohio, a memorial describes him as “an eccentric pauper-philanthropist who followed the advancing fringe of civilization. . . . Barefooted and in rags, this kindly man carried appleseeds from the cider presses of Pennsylvania and planted them in small spots he cleared throughout Ohio. So was begun Ohio’s great apple industry.”¹

Johnny Appleseed was known for his benevolence, his kind-heartedness to animals and all peoples, his love of nature, and his leadership in conservation efforts. A deeply religious person, he lived simply, followed the Golden Rule, and made friends wherever he went. He committed his life to a mission greater than himself. Yes, there are tall tales and myths about the man, but his real-life legacy lives on. The stories about his goodness and generosity have endeared him to the whole country and made him an American legend.

A popular children’s story tells of a little girl named Mary who loses her parents to an epidemic illness. Orphaned and lonely, she is sent to live with her uncle, who is somewhat ill-equipped to care for a grieving child.

One day the little girl decides to explore her new surroundings. In the process she discovers a long-unopened door in a high wall behind a tangle of overgrown plants. Mustering her strength and courage, she opens the door and finds behind it an untended but beautiful garden—a secret garden.

All gardens offer a refuge from the bustle of noisy streets and the hardness of steel and brick. In a garden we can dig in the life-giving soil, linger in the sunlight, sample sweet fragrances, and witness the law of the harvest in action.

In 1955 Richard L. Evans, the announcer and writer of the Spoken Word for more than four decades, dedicated a book of his messages with these words: “To Alice and our four sons, who have helped to make life sweetly cherished, always—and forever.”¹ Richard L. Evans was known throughout the world not only as a broadcaster and writer but also as a church leader and president of the exceptional community-service organization Rotary International. He truly spent his life going about doing good.

Through it all, he always remembered something that too many people never come to realize—that his most valued contribution, his most important commitment, was to his family. Over 50 years ago on this broadcast, he said:

“Much of life is made up of things we think we will one day do: of things we postpone, of things we set aside, of things we leave too late. And one of the things we could best determine to do this day, would be for fathers and sons (and daughters) to draw a little nearer, to come a little closer—to take a little more time for a closer kind of companionship with those who mean the most.

“Too many of us wait too long for the cherished times together, for the intimate outings, for the quiet hours of an evening, for the fuller talking out of personal problems with the close confidence of an understanding heart. It is not so much the sending; it is not so much the preaching of the precepts; it is not altogether, even, the providing—but the going with, the doing with, the being with that brings a closer kind of kinship.”²

Our world is beautiful because it is full of life. One of the great lessons of creation is that life, though it seems fleeting at times, is still worth creating. Flower gardens bursting with color, oceans crowded with fish, and towering trees heavy with fruit stand as monuments to the dynamic beauty of life in all its forms. But life’s most beautiful creations are not in flowerbeds and tree branches but in human hearts. And the same spirit of reverence for life that typifies nature can also beautify the landscape of our lives.

In 1905 Dr. Albert Schweitzer, a religious leader and organist in Germany, gave up his pulpit to become a physician, though he never stopped teaching. With full purpose of heart, he moved to Africa and spent decades there operating a hospital for the poorest of the world’s poor. He described his work with a simple phrase: “Reverence for life.”

In a tribute to Dr. Schweitzer, one writer said, “If Schweitzer had done nothing in his life other than to accept the pain of these people [of Africa] as his own, he would have achieved moral eminence.”¹

He was awarded the 1952 Nobel Peace Prize for his efforts, but to Dr. Schweitzer, “reverence for life” was not a medical or humanitarian accomplishment but simply an expression of the rich goodness that comes from the soul. “Just as white light consists of colored rays,” he said, “so Reverence for Life contains…love, kindliness, sympathy, empathy, peacefulness, power to forgive.”²

Are not these virtues the true beauties in the garden of life? And they exist within all of us, though too often we allow them to become dormant.

Have you ever wondered why the city boy can’t sleep in the country and the country boy can’t sleep in the city? Or why a mother can sleep through the sounds of traffic, arguing neighbors, and barking dogs, but if her baby coughs, she’s instantly alert?

There’s actually a simple explanation. Our brain has the amazing ability to sort and prioritize. It screens out many of the normal, everyday sensations that commonly surround us and makes us aware of things we need to pay attention to.

If we were to concentrate on everything happening around us all the time, it could make us crazy. The way the wind blows against our skin, the tickle in our throats, the beating of our hearts, the colors, the sounds, and smells that surround us—there are simply too many things to think about all the time. Our marvelous brain screens out the ordinary and common, allowing us to focus on those things that are unusual or important.

But while this is wonderful in some ways, it causes difficulties in others. Those things we see a lot tend to become increasingly easy to ignore. And sometimes, the things we tend to ignore are the things that need our attention the most.

Are our friends and families so familiar that we sometimes take them for granted? Does it have to take losing someone we love to make us realize how much they meant to us all along?

Most of us have attended a funeral, a wreath-laying ceremony, or a graveside service and heard the solemn music of “Taps.” This tune, created on the battlefield of the Civil War, has sounded officially over soldiers’ graves since 1891. When played at dusk, these 24 notes signal “lights out” at the end of day. But when played during daylight, “Taps” carries the sobering message—a soldier has fallen.

Many of us remember the single bugler who paid the nation’s final tribute to President John F. Kennedy at Arlington National Cemetery in 1963. Seldom has the stirring melody had a larger audience than on that day. But that same tune has filled the air for small families clustered on a windy hillside around the grave of a young private and for aging veterans gathered to say good-bye to a wartime buddy. “Taps” is the dignified tribute played for fallen soldiers of every war and every rank, for the famous and the unknown. It humbly reassures the mourning families of these soldiers that the nation mourns with them.

“We cannot listen to Taps without our souls stirring,” Air Force Chaplain Edward Brogan has said. “Its plaintive notes are a prayer in music—of hope, of peace, of grief, of rest.” ¹This simple but noble melody expresses, in a way only music can, these deepest of human emotions as we honor our fallen heroes.

The story of Elijah is thousands of years old. Artists, poets, and composers have long been fascinated with his remarkable life. The prophet Elijah sealed the heavens from rain and was fed by ravens, then by a widow whose barrel of meal was never empty again. On other occasions, he divided the Jordan River and called down fire from heaven to ignite wood drenched with water. In the end, he ascended into heaven in a chariot of fire.

On the other hand, when we demonstrate strength of character and become more resolute, choosing wisely, we take responsibility for our choices and begin to recognize purpose in our life. We may not be able to call down fire from heaven, but we can seek divine guidance. As we do, we’ll feel good about right decisions and uneasy about wrong ones. But first, we must decide.

More than two decades ago, a young woman soon to graduate from college and get married reflected on her life and was filled with gratitude for the goodness and example of her mother. After praying for divine assistance to express in words her love and appreciation, Mary Rita Schilke Korzan wrote a poem titled “When You Thought I Wasn’t Looking” and dedicated it to her mother. Years later she was surprised to find the poem in a book with the words “author unknown.” Mary eventually unraveled the mystery of lost authorship, driven by a desire that those who read the poem would know the person who inspired it—her mother.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

You hung my first painting on the refrigerator

And I wanted to paint another.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

You fed a stray cat

And I thought it was good to be kind to animals.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

You baked a birthday cake just for me

And I knew that little things were special things.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

You said a prayer

And I believed there was a God that I could always talk to.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

You kissed me good-night

And I felt loved.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

I saw tears come from your eyes

And I learned that sometimes things hurt—

But that it's alright to cry.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

You smiled

And it made me want to look that pretty too.

When you thought I wasn’t looking

You cared

And I wanted to be everything I could be.

When you thought I wasn’t looking—

I looked . . .

And wanted to say thanks

For all those things you did

We’re all familiar with the fable of the tortoise and the hare. The hare boasted that he could easily beat the plodding tortoise in a race. After jumping out to a comfortable lead, the hare took a nap midway through the contest. When he awoke, he found that the slow and steady tortoise beat him to the finish line.

We see this simple story played out in the race of life. Some shoot out the gate, hard-driving and fast-moving down the life course. Others are late bloomers and don’t find their way right off. Most of us are somewhere in between. We steadily move forward with faith and hope, with the courage to believe that things will work out in the end.

Somewhere along the way, we learn that life is not a competition. We don’t need to beat anybody else; we’re content as long as we surpass our own best efforts, continuing to learn and grow and progress. We know we must endure to the end, but that is not a burden that weighs us down and takes the joy out of life. Instead, enduring gives purpose and meaning to our most mundane tasks.

For 74 years, ever since she was a teenager, a woman in a small town has been keeping the country store. Now she is 92 years young and still helping people. Her eyesight dimming, she has to get close to the cash register to ring up a sale, but customers keep coming. And she keeps getting out of bed and going to work. She may use a walker now, but she’s grateful she can still walk. Of her perseverance, she simply says, “I keep going.”¹

As seasons change, we often reorganize our homes, clear out clutter, and start fresh. We donate outgrown clothing and toys, books and furniture we no longer need, and items that simply collect dust. Afterward, our homes look larger and brighter, and our souls feel invigorated.

But sometimes our minds and hearts need a good housecleaning just as much as our homes do. We need a chance to rid ourselves of unhealthy habits, negative attitudes, or useless excuses. For years some of us cling to grudges and misunderstandings as if they were priceless treasures, when really they’re cluttering our lives.

Many of the discouraging messages we heard earlier in life are still hanging in our closets like worn-out clothing and need to be tossed. Old offenses need to be swept out too, and while we’re at it, let’s get rid of the unkind gossip we’ve heard, the snap judgments we’ve made, and the less-than-loving thoughts we’ve had about others. Just as a fresh coat of paint and a colorful new rug can revive a dreary room, so also can a patient, understanding attitude toward others bring a fresh perspective and add new life to our relationships with others.

We all benefit from a spotless, organized home; just imagine how we’d benefit from a clean mind, unsoiled by the memories of unhappy times long past. Deep cleaning is never easy, but remember that while your kitchen floor and your carpet may have spots you can’t remove, there are no permanent stains on the soul. The effort is worth it, because homes, like lives, tend to stay cleaner longer once we’ve felt the exhilaration of a good spring cleaning.

The world-renowned Tabernacle organ is an engineering marvel and an artistic masterpiece. The Organ Historical Society recognized it as “an instrument of exceptional historic merit,” and it has an exceptional history.

Pioneer organ builder Joseph Ridges grew up in England, across the street from an organ factory. Fascinated by the mechanics of such marvelous instruments, Ridges became an organ builder. He worked night and day on the first organ he built while living in Australia. Not long after it was completed, he disassembled it, packaged the parts in soldered tin shipping cases, and sailed with it to California.

In the spring of 1857, 12 wagons pulled by 14 mule teams carried the organ to the Salt Lake Valley to an old adobe tabernacle. Then, as the new Tabernacle was being built, Brigham Young asked Ridges to build a larger organ to accompany the Choir. Three hundred miles from Salt Lake City, Ridges and his crew found straight, knot-free pinewood, without pitch or gum, to use for the pipes. To make wood glue, they boiled cowhides in kettles they set up on the city streets, and they used calf skins to create the bellows. For the other items they needed, they traveled to Boston with $900—all the money the Church could spare.¹

Early in his youth, George Washington wrote down a list of what he considered the rules of civility. The first suggested that “every action done in company [of other people] ought to be with some sign of respect to those that are present.”¹ Young George Washington learned the importance of acting with courtesy toward others.

That was more than 200 years ago. Today, common courtesy seems less common, and some people take kindness as a sign of weakness. But the reality has not changed—courtesy is as important as courage. It represents the best part of being human.

Courtesy is kindness come alive. It is shown most often in little things: the driver who slows so that other cars can merge, the person who stands on a crowded bus to give a seat to one who needs it more, the customer who says a sincere “thank you” to a helpful clerk. Through courtesy we give expression to kindness by showing respect, making someone’s life a little easier, or brightening someone’s day. Of a courteous man it was said, “Yesterday was dark and rainy, but [he] passed [by] and the sun shone.”²

Spring always comes. No matter how dark and cold the winter, the light and life of spring bring newness of hope. If a tree, so stark and bare, can give birth to beautiful pink blossoms; if grass, so yellow and brittle, can transform into lush, green lawn; if a bulb so forgotten and buried can shoot through the dirt, find life-giving sunlight, and give rise to a bright red tulip, then we can hope.

One year an eight-year-old boy discovered the miracle of it all. He was helping his mom plant flower bulbs, something he’d done many times before, but somehow he had never really stopped to think about it. This year, he fingered the bulbs that were to be planted in disbelief. They were so unsightly and unpromising, they might as well have been rocks. How could it be possible? Would these lifeless lumps really turn into brilliant flowers?

And then, of course, in time, they did. After a long winter, spring came, as it always does, and the bulbs they had buried came back to life as beautiful daffodils and tulips. Not just once, but every year they came back, sometimes even stronger than before. The boy was awestruck.

Truly, it is miraculous.

These words penned by Isaac Watts in the 18th century still comfort the weary soul today. Who has not wandered from wisdom’s path? Who has not felt the need for mercy? Paraphrased from the beloved 23rd Psalm, the hymn reassures that the Good Shepherd is ever mindful of His sheep: “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness.”[2]

The message is not that bad things will never happen to us, but rather that we will not have to face bad things alone.

Even in dark hours, the Good Shepherd knows His sheep and the path they trod. And the sheep know the Good Shepherd. They trust Him. They’ve felt His gentle touch. They’ve heard His loving voice. They know His loyal and unchangeable heart. They know that when danger comes, He will not desert them. He will stand with them and defend them. [3]

The Greek philosopher Epictetus said, “He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things he has not, but rejoices for those which he has.”¹ When we achieve this kind of contentment, it is truly ours, because it comes from within us, independent of our circumstances.

An old Jewish folktale tells of a man who lived in a small house with six children, his parents, his in-laws, and four grandchildren. The noise, clutter, and confusion finally got the best of him and he went to his rabbi pleading for advice.

The rabbi told him to bring chickens into his house. This, of course, only made matters worse. When the man came back for more advice, the rabbi instructed him to bring in sheep, goats, cats, dogs, ducks, and a donkey.

Finally, the man returned to the rabbi barely holding onto his sanity. He had done what the rabbi had asked, but now everything was worse—much worse.

This time the rabbi told him to remove the animals. Once he did, he could not believe the order and serenity he felt inside his little house. He was, at last, content.

His house was still crowded—filled with the same noise, clutter, and confusion he had complained about before. But while the chaos surrounding him remained, the chaos inside him was gone.

Anyone who is determined can find hundreds of reasons to be miserable. It isn’t hard to find chaos in our lives. But aren’t there just as many wonderful reasons to be content?

The famous artist Norman Rockwell painted hundreds of magazine covers during his lifetime. But he didn’t just paint life, he lived it. He knew success and failure, joy and sorrow—just as we all do.

Early in his career, he learned to keep trying, even when he didn’t feel like he could. Once, when the Saturday Evening Post rejected a cover illustration he had painted, he felt like giving up. But he remembered something he read in a book: “If you fall on your face, don’t lie there and moan, get up.”

So he did just that. He went directly to the barbershop, climbed into a chair, and said to the barber, “Give me everything you’ve got.” After a shave, a haircut, a shoeshine, and whatever else was offered, he rose from the chair a new man. He walked briskly, chin up and chest out, to the offices of another magazine, where he sold the painting. The next morning he started a new cover for the Saturday Evening Post.¹ 

He would go on to paint more than 300 covers for the Post, each portraying commonplace life and lasting values. He told stories with his brush and paint that have influenced generations. His painting of daily life could bring a tear, a smile, and a comforting reassurance that we all have common hopes, dreams, and experiences.

Norman Rockwell’s autobiography ends with these words:

“I get up early every morning. I’m at work by eight. . . . I realized a long time ago that I’ll never be as good as Rembrandt.

“I think my work is improving. I start each picture with the same high hopes, and if I never seem able to fulfill them I still try my darnedest.

“. . . Somebody once asked Picasso, ‘Of all the pictures you’ve done, which is your favorite?’ ‘The next one,’ he replied.”²

Life is a continuing series of transitions. We grow from babies to children to adolescents to adults, and we look back at pivotal moments that set the course of our lives. Sometimes we call those moments “rites of passage”—memorable experiences that nudge us into another stage of growth and development and leave us forever changed.

For example, our first day of school officially marks the end of early childhood. We get on the school bus for the first time, and we come home a little older and wiser. Years later, we go to our first dance. We dress up; we learn our steps; we practice asking someone to dance—and then somehow we muster the courage to do it. We’re never quite the same after that.

All of the “firsts” that lead to adulthood help shape us into the adults we become. Some of those firsts are painful, like not making a team or getting turned down by someone we like. Some firsts are joyful, like our first job or our first kiss.

Then, as we get older, we relive these landmark moments with our children and grandchildren, and they become a new series of landmarks in our lives. Part of being a mother is getting a lump in your throat on the day your son graduates from high school. The same thing happens to a father when he gives his “little girl” away on her wedding day, and to a grandmother when her first grandchild moves across the country to “follow her dream.”

We all know it’s difficult to feel very good about life when we don’t feel physically well, and we know that exercise will increase our stamina and strength. But sometimes we’re hesitant to begin. Maybe we think we are not athletic enough, strong enough, or young enough. Maybe we’re afraid of our own limitations.

In reality, though, even a little more attention to physical well-being can enrich our lives. Some level of physical activity, whatever our circumstances allow, may be just what we need.

Of course, we all have different capacities and interests, and exercise can take many forms. Find something you can do—something you enjoy doing.

A simple walk can clear your mind and open your eyes to the beauties of nature. Planting flowers, raking leaves, and sweeping the front porch can all be forms of exercise. Playing tag with children is good for the soul; laughing with friends is good for the heart; even walking out to get the mail can refresh the body and boost the spirit. Do your best to move your body, and you will be surprised how much you strengthen your soul at the same time.

The poet William Wordsworth, who was known for his long walks, wrote:

While on I walked, a comfort seemed to touch

A heart that had not been disconsolate:

Strength came where weakness was not known to be,

At least not felt; and restoration came

Like an intruder knocking at the door

Of unacknowledged weariness.¹

People grow up; they change. We must never stop believing in the capacity of every individual to change and improve.

At his high school reunion, a man reconnected with people he hadn’t seen for three decades. At first, he viewed his classmates the same as they were 30 years ago. But he soon discovered life hadimproved nearly every one. Some who’d been vain and brash decades ago were nowgracious and composed. Some who’d been shy and retiring in high school were now more confident.

While a few still clung to vestiges of adolescent vanity, most came togetheron cordialcommon ground. Age and experience had softened and enlarged their hearts. Thirty years ofjoy and heartache, success and failure, growth and development had taught themto appreciate others—and themselves—in new ways.

Over a lifetime, most people change for the better. How often do we hear of a stubborn or irresponsible teenager who is now a family man with teenagers of his own? We’ve all known rowdy, restless youngsters who grew up to be competent, contributing members of their community. Maybe we think of our own immature past and feel grateful when others appreciate us for who we are, rather than remembering who we were.

Indeed, we all change—and we all can continue to change. As we strive to improve our own lives, may we patiently allow those around us to do the same. May our lives and relationships be enriched as life’s lessons help us all change for the better.

The pages of our nation’s history are filled with stories of great people who faced conditions of depravation, financial ruin, severe sorrow and suffering—even death—yet pressed on for the greater good of the country.

Martha Washington had such strength of character.

In the winter of 1778 she arrived at Valley Forge to a rabble of desperate soldiers wrapped in thin blankets, starving, freezing, and disheartened. She organized the wives of officers to feed, clothe, nourish, encourage, and pray with the soldiers.

This was not her first or last foray to the battlefield. Throughout the Revolutionary War, she would join her husband, General George Washington, for winter encampments from Massachusetts to Pennsylvania, where she continued to strengthen and encourage this unlikely, rag-tag army that went on to defeat the greatest military force in the world. They called this diminutive, five-foot, soft-spoken heroine “Lady Washington.” Years later, as she faced the unrelenting demands of public life, she wrote to a friend, “I am still determined to be cheerful and happy, in whatever situation I may be; for I have . . . learned from experience that the greater part of our happiness or misery depends upon our dispositions, and not upon our circumstances.”¹

This was wise counsel for those early patriots, and it is wise counsel for us today.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” So begins the tender expression of poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She then describes the depth of her devotion: “I love thee to the level of everyday’s most quiet need.”¹

Such love is not expressed only in a nice card or a special gift. The greatest love poems are written in the book of daily, selfless sacrifice with the pen of thoughtfulness and the ink of kindness. How loving are those who give of their time and forget personal comfort in order to care for another.

Love usually isn’t mysterious—it always deepens as we open our hearts to another, as we are thoughtful and considerate. Many couples, newly married, wonder how their young love could ever become any stronger. They soon learn that the more they serve one another, the more they give of themselves, the greater grows their love. The seeds of true love, planted in romance, grow and blossom as we serve each other. This kind of love then bears the fruit of pure and wholesome joy, and our love yields a bountiful increase.

Those we love cannot question our devotion when they receive our loving service. A man who had a hard time telling his wife he loved her demonstrated that love as he cared for her through several years of illness. When he finally spoke of his love, she responded, “I know you love me. You have taken such good care of me.”

Life is good. Despite the hardships and heartaches of life, we can find joy in everyday living. The more we look for life’s simple blessings, the more we hope and the more we rise above the disheartening strains and sorrows of life.

Life is good because of everyday moments that bring a smile or warm the heart: the flight of a bird, the melting of an icicle, the smell of bread in the toaster, the toothless smile of a child. A few months ago, a family was driving down the road, busily chatting and laughing along the way. The father asked his unusually quiet seven-year-old son, “Jacob, what are you doing back there?” Jacob enthusiastically responded from the backseat, “I’m just living life!” And that was good enough.

We can find goodness in life, if we’ll look for it. Take notice of the love and laughter of family and friends, the kindness of strangers, the beauties in nature, the special moments that bring peaceful reassurance that God is watching over us and everything will be all right.

The longer we live, the more we become aware of the sorrows and sufferings of life—and, ironically, the more we can become aware of life’s beauties and blessings.

Sometimes, it takes courage to believe that life is good. We can begin with something as easy as knowing that the sun will rise and winter will turn to spring. From there we can trust that good will triumph over evil, that kind and decent people far outnumber those who are not, that losses truly can give way to gains. We can hope and pray for the sweet assurance, the quiet confidence that comes to those who trust in God and do their best each day to go forward with life. We can choose to believe that life, no matter its difficulties, really is good.

Joe Fairbanks grew up in a family of nine children. Money was tight, and, like many in similar circumstances, he wore mostly hand-me-downs.

But Joe was different from other children. He was born with Down syndrome, and as a result he had trouble with language. He often felt frustrated as he struggled to communicate.

When Joe was 23, his mother needed to travel to the Philippines for work, and she took Joe with her. Before they left, she bought her son some new clothing for the trip. Oh, how he loved shopping for clothes. He tried on each outfit, asking over and over again, “How do I look?”

A little while after their arrival in the Philippines, heavy rains caused mudslides that covered villages, schools, and homes. Newspapers carried stories about the devastation and loss of life. On the front page of one was a stark photograph of a man holding a dead child in his arms.

Joe stared at the image for a long time, his face etched with profound sorrow. Later, he came to the lobby of the hotel where they were staying dressed in his old clothes. At his side was a large plastic bag.

When his mother opened the bag, she discovered it contained all of the new items of clothing that they had bought for the trip.

His mother took him to the front desk of the hotel, where Joe's desire to help created some attention. A small crowd gathered as they realized what Joe wanted to do.

“Me give my clothes,” he said.

Nearly every eye swelled with tears. The hotel clerks took the clothing and promised to get it to those in need.

In that moment, Joe spoke a language more perfect and eloquent than any other in the world. He spoke a language that is native to every race and culture. It binds hearts, overcomes barriers, and transforms lives. The language Joe spoke best of all was the language of love.

Sometimes we think we can’t help, give, or do because we can’t help, give, or do perfectly. Maybe we think our house isn’t clean enough to invite someone inside, or we can’t cook well enough to have someone over for dinner. Such feelings of inadequacy can become crippling. Not only do they keep us from nurturing loving relationships, they also keep us from recognizing and receiving blessings.

The story is told of an elderly Chinese woman who walked to the well each day with two large pots hung on the ends of a pole she rested across her back. One pot always delivered a full pot of water to her home; the other pot had a crack in it. It dripped water the whole way home, and the most it ever brought to the woman was half a pot of water. When asked why she continued to use the cracked pot, she pointed to the trail of flowers that grew along the path. Years ago, when she first discovered the crack, she planted flower seeds alongside the path where the pot dripped. Before long, she began to enjoy fresh flowers all the way home. The cracked pot, though imperfect, was as valuable to the old woman as the pot without flaws.

A deep commitment to something beyond ourselves is what gives meaning to life. Martin Luther King Jr. said, “If a man hasn’t discovered something that he will die for, he isn’t fit to live.”[1]

What are you willing to give everything for? To many, our families, our children, inspire our greatest devotion. We teach and sacrifice and do our best for our loved ones—because we love them so much. In a sense, we give our lives for them in all of the small sacrifices we make. We stay up all night with our children when they are sick; we provide the necessities of life for them; we protect and guide them; we hope they’ll have a better life than we’ve had. Such selflessness will outlive us and, we hope, will inspire our children to do the same for their children.

Some have a passion for service in other ways. They’re willing to pay the price to see the fulfillment of their dream. History is filled with the lives of courageous men and women who have given their all for a worthy cause. The life mission of Martin Luther King Jr. was his nonviolent struggle for civil rights. His dream was that his four little children would “one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”[2] His devotion to this dream of equality has left an enduring legacy.

The longer we live, the more we have occasion to attend the funerals of those who have been dear to us. During such memorial services, we are consoled by tributes to our departed loved ones. We listen to descriptions of their life, activities, and personality. These tributes are tender and sobering; they give us a chance to pause, to reflect, and to consider sincerely our own mortality. It’s been said that “if you want to know how to live your life, think about what you want people to say about you after you die—and live backward.”[1]

If your loved ones and associates were asked to choose a few words to describe you, what words do you think they would choose? What would you want them to say? If we can live, in some measure, with this end in mind, it will become clear how we need to grow and what we must change.

Of course, we must all live in the present, but thinking about the end of our life can truly be a new beginning. Honest self-reflection is hard work; it’s not easy to acknowledge our flaws and foibles—and we all have a few. But growth will come to those who are open-hearted, humble, and willing to change. Like old Scrooge in Charles Dickens’s classic tale A Christmas Carol, we can look at where our life is headed and begin to become the kind of person we’d like to be.

New beginnings can be invigorating. Just as a fresh blanket of snow changes the landscape into “unmarked territory,” calling out to little explorers with their sleds and snow boots, blank pages of a new calendar can give us a sense of opportunity, possibility, and even resolve. Whether beginning a new day, month, or even year, something about starting over generates energy and commitment. We work a little harder, reach a little farther, and somehow do a little more. What may have seemed out of reach just days before suddenly enters the realm of possibility when a new year comes.

Not long ago, a group of school children gathered for a long-jump competition. They marked a line in the dirt from which they stood and jumped. Their teacher used a stick to mark where their feet landed as each child took a turn jumping as far as he or she could. Interestingly, most of the children jumped to about the same spot, until a new group of children (their same age and size) joined the game. As soon as one of the new jumpers leaped a little farther, the other children started increasing their own jumps to reach the mark he had set. Anytime someone exceeded the longest distance, everyone seemed to be able to jump a little farther than before.

“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” (Luke 2:14). Thus sang the herald angels to the humble shepherds in celebration of the birth of the baby Jesus. On that wondrous night in Bethlehem, the shepherds came from their fields to honor the Christ child. Later, they spread the good tidings they had received, making “known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child” (Luke 2:17).

The traditions of Christmas remember that sacred event. Today, Nativity scenes adorn churchyards, families gather from great distances, bells ring, carolers sing, and friends send Christmas cards, all in the spirit of spreading “good tidings of great joy . . . to all people” (Luke 2:10).

The first Christmas card is a good example of this legacy of good will. Commissioned in 1843 by Henry Cole and designed by British artist John Calcott Horsley, the hand-painted cards featured three panels. The center depicted a family gathered around a table at Christmas. Two side panels illustrated good deeds—one showed a woman clothing the naked, the other a man feeding the hungry. The card carried the greeting, “A merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you.”

With his card, Cole not only sent the message to his friends, “You are remembered,” but he also encouraged them to bless the lives of others by following the teachings of the Master whose birth they were celebrating.

One hundred and sixty years ago, Hans Christian Andersen gave us the story of “The Little Match Girl,” which has become a beloved Christmas story. It is the tale of a poor little girl who was trying to sell matches to those who passed by on a cold, wintry street. Her family was destitute, and the pennies she brought home helped put a little food on the table.

Dressed in meager clothing, she became frightfully cold and stepped into an alleyway to get out of the wind. Shivering in the shadows, she thought, “Maybe I could light a match and warm my hands a bit.” As she struck the match, the flame shot up, and there before her eyes, as if the wall of the building had dissolved, was a beautiful dining table filled with wonderful things to eat. But as the match went out, so did the little girl’s vision. She struck another match and seemed to see a shining Christmas tree with lights all aglow, but this too disappeared as the flame burned out.

Finally, desperate to get warm, she lit all the matches at once. The alley was bathed in a dazzling flash of light, and there, standing over the match girl was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Dressed in white, she seemed to be glowing in the match light. She smiled in a most loving way. “Hello, my dear,” she said, “I’ve come to take you home.” “Oh, Grandmother!” said the little girl. And as she took her grandmother’s hand, she didn’t feel cold anymore.

For most of us, Christmastime brings joy and warmth and the love of home and family. But for many, these blessings exist only in dreams and visions—reality can be much harsher. Is there something you can do to bring the warmth of Christmas to someone less fortunate? Is there someone you can reach out to? This Christmas, may we extend love and compassion and hope to all of Heavenly Father’s beloved children.

With the advent of Christmas, we rejoice in good things to come. School children make red and green paper chains, counting down the days; grown-ups circle special events in their planners. Everyone seems to enjoy looking forward. Not knowing what lies behind the unopened door of an advent calendar brings a thrill of excitement that is so much a part of Christmas.

Looking forward with hope has defined Christmas since the beginning. Imagine how long wise men looked to the heavens before they saw that bright new star. Consider how shepherds may have waited for news of the Messiah before the angels announced His birth. Think of how Mary must have anticipated the birth of the babe as she journeyed to Bethlehem. Each year as we look back to those transcendent events, we also look forward to the hope, joy, and peace we now call Christmas.

Our joy is enlarged as we look back to times of great anticipation in our own lives. We remember how much we used to look forward, as children, lying awake in our beds wondering what Christmas morning would bring. Each year that sense of joyful expectation is renewed as we look at photographs of twinkling eyes beneath twinkling lights and feel the excitement all over again.

Christmas is marked by a spirit of anticipation, of preparation, of longing for good things to come. In our thoughts we go to Bethlehem, and as we do, we nurture our belief that good will triumph and love will prevail. We find ourselves believing in more than Christmas-day surprises. We feel the love of God, and with that love, we anticipate all good things to come.

Sometimes young people, while searching for the person they want to marry, become excited when they find someone who shares their interests, opinions, and tastes. “We have so much in common!” they exclaim, and on this basis they anticipate an idyllic life together, free of disagreement or discord.

But it doesn’t take long for married life to teach the important lesson that no two people are—or even should be—exactly alike. Soon little differences come out of hiding. One spouse leaves the shampoo on the wrong side of the shower; one likes to talk a bit more than the other; and the thermostat never seems to find a temperature that both can agree on. Then other questions arise that are less trivial: Where should we live? What’s the best way to raise our children? How should we spend our money?

Wise couples know that while unity is important in a marriage, expecting to see eye to eye about everything is like trying to write a symphony using only one note. Beautiful music, like a beautiful marriage, makes use of a diversity of notes, tempos, and instruments. In some measures, all of the instruments play in unison, but in others each plays a different note to create sublime harmonies.

Differences enrich our lives and expand our vista. In the complicated issues of life, married couples are blessed by each other’s fresh perspective and life experiences. That’s why God has given each of us unique gifts and insights—so that in all of our relationships we can help and edify one another. When we resent or merely tolerate differences, we create dissonance; when we celebrate them, we create glorious music.

At this season of autumn and harvest, we count our many blessings and give thanks.

Our thoughts turn to a thanksgiving and harvest festival celebrated four centuries ago by Pilgrims and Native Americans.

You’re familiar with the story: The Pilgrims, new to this land, had survived their first winter in the New World; they had worked hard building homes and cultivating crops; and they were at peace with their Native American neighbors. The harvest festival would be a time of thanksgiving shared by the colonists and the Native Americans who had helped them survive. Had the Pilgrims been more self-centered, they might not have celebrated a day of thanks. Or they might have forgotten the generosity of the Native Americans and not invited them to the festival; they might have hoarded their harvest and closed their hearts. Instead, with open and thankful hearts they welcomed their neighbors to their tables of plenty.

This model of fellowship can inspire us today. A truly grateful heart is an abundant heart that breaks down walls of estrangement, builds bridges of understanding, and opens doors of friendship. At times it may seem easier to turn inward, to keep others at a distance, to withhold our time, our means, and our hearts from others. But that can lead to unhappiness, to animosity, to smallness of heart.

When we feel grateful, our hearts overflow with good feelings for others. Rabbi Harold S. Kushner writes of a man whose small plane crash-landed but who was fortunate enough to escape before it burst into flames. A reporter asked him what was going through his mind as the plane neared the ground. His answer revealed the abundance of his heart: “I realized I hadn’t thanked enough people in my life."[1]

Across an ocean, there is a cemetery built for Allied soldiers who died in World War II. It includes a memorial with an inscription that captures the sentiment of those who fought: “For your tomorrow we gave our today.”

Similar words adorn a monument at Arlington National Cemetery, where others of our brave soldiers are laid to rest:

Winston Churchill, known for his bulldog tenacity and stirring oratory, is regarded as one of Britain’s greatest heroes and statesmen. But despite his achievements in the affairs of nations, Churchill’s more personal interactions showed signs of the strains of his heavy responsibilities.

In those desperate days of World War II, Churchill’s wife, Clementine, wrote him this loving reproof: “My Darling,” her note began, “I hope you will forgive me if I tell you something I feel you ought to know. One of the men in your entourage (a devoted friend) has been to me and told me that there is a danger of your being generally disliked by your colleagues and subordinates because of your rough, sarcastic and overbearing manner.”

She continued: “I must confess that I have noticed a deterioration in your manner; and you are not as kind as you used to be. . . . I cannot bear that those who serve the Country and yourself should not love you as well as admire and respect you—Besides, you won't get the best results by irascibility and rudeness.” She signed her letter, “your loving devoted and watchful Clemmie.”[1]

Though the consequences are less dramatic, we, like Winston Churchill, are called upon daily to balance pressures and people. How successful are we? Do we set aside selfish instincts to favor the needs of others? Do we lead with love and kindness rather than coercion and criticism? Despite the daily pressures we face, trust, courtesy, and good manners can be a consistent part of the simple routines of our lives.

Great beauty is often forged in the crucible of affliction. If we look ahead with the eye of faith and never lose hope, we can emerge triumphant over even the most difficult trials.

Examples of this abound in the inspiring African American spiritual. Sung by slaves, spirituals provided hope and eased the weariness and burden of daily tasks. Above all, they were an expression of spiritual devotion and a heartfelt yearning for freedom from bondage.

The biblical themes of the spiritual often carried a hidden message of hope and trust in God. Lyrics about the Exodus, for example, were a metaphor for eventual victory over oppression. The promised land or home represented freedom from slavery; the River Jordan was a code name for the Ohio River, which stood between the slaves and free country to the north; and swing low, sweet chariot referred to the Underground Railroad. Tales of God’s deliverance in Old Testament times gave the slaves hope that He would deliver them too.

The authors of early spirituals are unknown. Their songs were spontaneous and unwritten, flowing from heavy but hopeful hearts. After the Civil War, African American musicians began to compose arrangements of these songs, and today they are a beloved part of the world’s musical repertoire. The legacy of the African American spiritual is more than musical; it is one of hope and promise.

More than seven decades ago, the editor of American Magazine received a letter from an ambitious young man asking, “Why should I be honest?” It’s a question that continues to echo down the generations. In a world that glorifies the pursuit of personal gain, why care about honesty and integrity?

American Magazine asked its readers to send their responses to the young man’s question, and the letters poured in by the thousands. Among them was a poem by Dale Wimbrow titled “The Guy in the Glass.” The magazine published the poem, and since then it has become a beloved expression of the inner virtue that guides men and women of honor.

When you get what you want in your struggle for pelf,
And the world makes you King for a day,
Then go to the mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that guy has to say.

For it isn’t your Father, or Mother, or Wife,
Who judgment upon you must pass.
The feller whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the guy staring back from the glass.

He’s the feller to please, never mind all the rest,
For he’s with you clear up to the end,
And you’ve passed your most dangerous, difficult test
If the guy in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and “chisel” a plum,
And think you’re a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you’re only a bum
If you can’t look him straight in the eye.

What is a song? We may think of it as a pleasant combination of beautiful voices and music. But is it more than that? If we listen carefully, we can hear a special kind of music from unexpected sources—the everyday sounds of home, the natural sounds of the earth, or a simple expression of kindness.

A young man who had been away for a very long time came back to his boyhood home. As he climbed the porch stairs, he noticed the familiar creak of the second stair from the bottom, and he heard the happy voices of his loved ones inside. It was music to his ears. “I felt,” he recalled, “like the house and