经典美文阅读(经典美文阅读推荐)

下面小编为大家整理了9篇经典美文阅读，欢迎阅读与借鉴!

篇1：美文阅读

当时间抹平起伏过的爱恨

再收到他信息

心里只剩下一种难以言说的空寂

只有自己知道

那些汹涌过的波涛从未停止

它们压抑在心底逆流成河

我不知道我一直惦念着的是我的构想

还是他原本的真实

在分别的时间里他是否改变了

或许我一直在望着他的背影

而当这个背影转过身来

却又这样陌生…

每当遇到他想到他

我就变的不像我自己

这样无法自主的情绪不是我所需要的

它阻碍了我的镇定和冷静

所以我需要一个决定…

关于呐人我只能等待

我的爱人

我

手背轻轻搭在眼睛上

遮住了视线和阳光

心里某个地方狠狠的疼起来

仿若无法呼吸

曾经那么用力爱过的人…

回忆如春草、复苏在彼岸

从细微末节处传来的是什么

让人心颤…

过往如锋利的玻璃

尖锐的折射着记忆里的曾经

物是人非…

那么用力伤了她心的人

为什么还留在心里不去

惶然惊醒眼角有泪

原来___________

历经沧桑的不只是感情

还有心…

忽而开始不知所措________

当一切都回不去了

我还在原地

写着你不曾看见的曾经

呵___________

那些欲言又止的爱情…

被撕扯的好疼！

爱过痛过哭过才知道

不是我的我就不该要

她在你的情话中妖娆

而我只能在回忆里奔跑

以前的我不可一世

以前的我毫无畏惧

以前的我死在不成熟梦幻般的爱恋里

现在不敢爱、因为曾深爱

现在很淡然，因为要看开

现在的我不吵不闹、不悲不喜也不计较

看着镜中的脸庞陌生了嘴角

这是我吗 这不是我 我不是这样

最后我坦然接受

接受这样的动荡不安

原来那些感动，只是情绪的波动

我终被遗忘在遗忘的角落

我无心、回忆蚀心

辗转反侧决定封心

我失心、情愫葬心

失魂落魄终究着了魔

我弃心、往事绕心

千言无语诉不尽沉迷

我封心、爱恋死心

曾几何时

我也任性的像个孩子

曾几何时

我不再允许自己任性

篇2：美文阅读

阅读和写作，不是为了给出答案，它们其实没有这样的力量，只是我们，可以在寻找中获得力量。如同认真走路的时候，会忘记真正的目标在哪里，持续而投入的行走本身，就带来了抵达。

劳作也好，旅行也好，体会也好；由此形成的文学艺术，历史地理，数学物理，哲学宗教也好；活着这过程本身，都应该不断让我们的生存和生活变得更简单和自然，而不是远离简单和自然。

自然的时机，总是刚刚好。所以，我们总是轻轻哼唱：我就是喜欢你现在的样子。你大概不会喜欢前的我，如同我可能也不会爱10年前的你。只是这玄机，有点难读懂，有点难甘心。

自然的搭配，总是刚刚好。所以，随手放的衣服，刻意摆的杯子，都会在合适的地方。磨合和适应，要有先天的相似作基础，应该是一点点痛楚伴随着更多喜悦的新生和成长，不是硬生生地割裂和植入。生长的喜悦和力量有多强大，排异的痛苦和力量就有多强大。

自然的力道，总是刚刚好。所以，辛苦建造的那些原则，防线，心境，一次相遇，一个夜晚，一个眼神，或者一句话，轻易就崩塌了。没有什么不好，因为，这颗心本来就这样简单的柔软着……

篇3：美文阅读

人生一世，消逝的是岁月；谈指间，隐隐欢语，渐渐散去；我曾遥望，希望可以寻找，我们曾经欢笑的日子；我似乎可以闻到杜鹃的香气浓郁，悠远；没有一丝俗气。这片蓝蓝的晴空下，我们笑、我们哭、我们累，痛并快乐着；即将分离的我们，天涯各一方，离开回中的大门，我们也许一生也没机会再次重逢。同胞，记住我们的高三，别让她从记忆的指尖轻轻滑落…

全体高三学子，也许是因为缘分，就这样聚在了一起。没有过多的语言去形容，然后开始了我们记忆深处的波澜历历，往事情怀。你可以去忘记，可以去不屑。但，我们是如此深刻地经历了这段水木年华，这段青涩时光；操场上有我们的影子，是踢球、是漫步；是三三两两的谈天论地；当然，也有孤独的身影面对远方群山的迷惘与不知所措；当我们心怀梦想，却奈何不了现实的残酷而整日消沉；当我们为了未来而努力拼搏，却忽视了身边的一花一木、一水一草。我们似有所失，似有所得。但也是自己踏过的步子，怜影若思…

曾记得，三年前的我们怀揣一份希望，来到这个陌生的地方。梦想有一天可以走出这儿，创造自己的辉煌。那一年，骄阳艳艳、柳色青青；一刻一刻的年轮，承载了我们心中的豪言壮语；那一年，我们从相识到相知，注定了三年的嘻笑时光、恨哭爽朗…

不经易间，岁月的双手推着我们匆匆而往。来到高三，一起想想过去的日子，似乎没有留下什么…记忆中，我们总是成群逃课，网吧常有我们的身影。然后编着一个个哭笑不得的理由给老班发短信；我们总是成群在下课铃还沉睡中冲往食堂，打上饭得意洋洋地望着后面蜂拥而至的同胞偷偷坏笑。然后数落着同伴极不雅的吃相欢笑如常，却不知自己领上哪来的饭汤…我们总在课堂上公然睡觉，让周公给我们诉诉衷肠。老师在讲台上练嗓子依旧神情激昂，底下的我们却不争气的鼾声雷响…我们是爱玩的孩子。课间的我们比什么时候的精神都好，我们在群殴中肆意欢笑；眼瞅着同学的头发被弄成爆米花也不肯罢抄那些笑，纯真的笑，多年之后，能否在耳旁回荡…

后黑板的倒计时一天一个模样。我们…紧张了！为了那炎炎夏日中的四张考卷，我们再也不能如此地疯、如此地闹了。总听得笔在簌簌作响，一个个为命运奔忙。我们累了，就告诉自己：时间不多了，熬出来就轻松了。轻松地笑笑，继续匆忙。但，有些我们，放弃了，力不从心了！总会望着同胞努力的背影迷茫。每天轻松地活着好似潇洒，关灯后的被窝里泪水沱滂；因为我们放弃的不是自己，而是所有爱我们的人们的希望！于是，似笑非笑，常也如常。开到凌晨的灯，纤弱的身影，掩藏了心中的些许悲伤…高三，你，让我奢望！一年一年春草嫩、夏叶娇、秋果硕、冬雪寒。我们一起经历了这段纯真的时光。毫无功利，毫无凄凉。对班级的爱，好似一杯清香龙井，终究不散那浓浓郁香…记忆的洪荒中，她是我们的家，我们的珍藏…

步入红尘中染色的我们，追逐太多，心亦太累；栖息的港湾，希望可以进驻我们这些永远的朋友！别管以后有多灿烂的黄昏晚霞，倘若我们可以重逢，我们都要记得，高三，你、我都来过…

篇4：美文阅读

春很温柔的笑了

一种淡淡的甜甜的'味道

微风细雨的扶着柳絮

寒冬总算灰溜溜的离开了

尽管心里有点委屈

可是时间到了，该散了

最终用默默的眼神祝福着

夹杂着瞬间流泪的幸福

随着时间淡忘着一切

忘记了曾经的执着感

忘记了心跳的那份动力

春天的气息渐行渐近

初春的嫩绿，莫愁的心境

慢慢的习惯了这个季节

喜欢上了这个季节的夜晚

不免有时仰头看看星空的闪烁

惬意的跟星星说些调皮话

原来这里的夜空很晴朗

晴暖的没有风动的噪美

明朗的纯洁中隔着透亮

透视远方的尽头你会发现

隔壁的阁楼在这样的夜晚

竟舍不得停留在飘渺的梦里

我悄悄地趴在窗台

尽情的呼吸着纯净的气息

渴望着那片晴朗的夜空

忧郁的眼神在空中寻觅着

那片夜的鬼魅和迷惑

那条银河系中最璀璨的星子

而那颗永远为你守候的心

在这片星空下

化作一位晴空万里的守望者

然后用我的勇气

拾起遗失在你那里的星空晴朗

篇5：美文阅读

我觉得我的户主

将会是一个很幸福的人

天天有我这种红颜贤妻

给他助攻

帮他泡妞

不要问何至纵容他此步

他毕竟泡到了我

作者何绿荷的文集

寞叹悲歌凉凄雪

此情到是须问天，永恒的记忆，红色蒲公英的情牵，莫失莫忘，千年缘。我道逍遥叹，此生不换，终于明白，君莫悲，凉凄雪，三个人都电影，我却始终不能有姓名，忘记时间，云荒只如初见，淌血的心，玉水明沙。六月的雨，一直很安静。寂难永劫，魔与道，花与剑。铁锁镇妖，水水龙吟，余情幽梦。

篇6：经典美文阅读

经典美文阅读

经典美文阅读【1】

美文欣赏:你可以选择自己想过的生活

Occasionally, life can be undeniably, impossibly difficult. We are faced with challenges and events that can seem overwhelming, life-destroying to the point where it may be hard to decide whether to keep going. But you always have a choice. Jessica Heslop shares her powerful, inspiring journey from the worst times in her life to the new life she has created for herself:

生活有时候困难得难以置信，但又不容置疑。我们面临的挑战与困境似乎无法抵御，试图毁灭我们生活，甚至使你犹疑是否继续走下去。但是你总有选择的余地。从人生低谷走向新生活的杰西卡·赫斯乐普，在这里与我们分享她启迪心灵、充满震撼力的生活之旅。

In 201x I had the worst year of my life.

201x年是我生活中最艰难的一年。

I worked in a finance job that I hated and I lived in a concrete jungle city with little greenery. I occupied my time with meaningless relationships and spent copious quantities of money on superficialities. I was searching for happiness and had no idea where to find it.

我做着讨厌的财务工作，住在难寻绿色的高楼林立的城市。我忙于无意义的交往，在一些肤浅表面的东西上大笔开销。我寻找快乐，却又不知道它在哪里。

Then I fell ill with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome (CFS) and became virtually bed bound. I had to quit my job and subsequently was left with no income. I lived with my boyfriend of then only 3 months who financially supported me and our relationship was put under great pressure. I eventually regained my physical health, but not long after that I got a call from my family at home to say that my father’s cancer had fiercely progressed and that he had been admitted to a hospice.

然后我患上了慢性疲劳综合症，几乎到了卧床不起的地步。我不得不辞掉工作，同时也就断了财源。我和那时仅相处了3个月的男友住在一起，经济上完全依赖于他，我们的关系承受着巨大压力。终于我恢复健康，但不久，我接到家里的电话，父亲的癌症急剧恶化，已经住进了临终关怀中心。

I left the city and I went home to be with him.

我离开了城市，回家陪父亲。

He died 6 months later.

6个月之后，他去世了。

My father was a complete inspiration to me. He was always so strong that, for a minute after he drew his last breath, I honestly thought he would come back to life. I couldn’t believe I would never again cuddle into his big warm chest and feel safe no matter what.

父亲的事让我彻底清醒。他一直很强壮，在他咽气之后一分钟里，我真的认为，他会活过来。我不能相信，我再也不能依偎在他温暖的怀抱里，享受他宽大的胸怀带给我的安全感。

The grief that followed was intense for all of us 5 children and our mother, but we had each other.

母亲和我们5个兄弟姐妹极为难过，但至少我们还拥有彼此。

But my oldest sister at that time complained of a bad back. It got so bad after 2 months that she too was admitted to hospital.

但是，那时我大姐开始抱怨着背痛，2个月后，因疼痛加剧也住进了医院。

They discovered that she had highly advanced cancer in her bones and that there was nothing that they could do.

医生们检查发现，她已是骨癌晚期，对此他们已无能为力。

She died 1 month later.

1个月之后，她也走了。

I could never put into words the loss of my sister in my life.

大姐的逝去让我陷入难以形容的痛苦之中。

She was a walking, talking angel and my favourite person in the whole world. If someone could have asked me the worst thing that could ever happen, it would have been losing her.

在这个世界上，她是一个能走路、会说话的天使，我最喜欢的人。如果有人问我，世界上发生的最坏的事情是什么，那就是失去她。

She was my soul-mate and I never thought I would journey this lifetime without her.

她是我的灵魂伴侣，我从来没有想过，我会走过没有她陪伴的生命旅程。

The Moment Of Deliberate Choice

抉择时刻

The shock and extreme heart break brought me to my knees. The pain was so great and my world just looked desolate. I had no real home, no money, no job, and no friends that cared. Not one person had even sent me a sympathy card for my loss.

我被打击和极度的心痛击挎了。强烈的痛苦使世界在我眼中变得如此凄凉。我没有真正意义上的家，没有钱，没有工作，也没有关心我的朋友。没有一个人因我失去亲人而寄给我慰问卡。

I made an attempt of my own life and I ended up in hospital.

我尝试着活下去，结果住进了医院。

I remember lying in the hospital bed, looking up at the ceiling and seeing my sister’s beautiful face. She stayed with me all night long.

我记得，躺在病床上，看着天花板，看到姐姐美丽的面庞。她整夜守候着我。

I realised during that night that I had a choice. I could choose to end my life or I could choose to live it.

那天晚上，我意识到我可以选择。要么结束生命，要么活下去。

I looked in my sister’s eyes and I made a decision not to go with her just yet. That I would stay and complete my journey here.

望着姐姐的眼睛，我决定不跟她走。我要留下来，走完我的生命旅程。

I also made the decision that, I wouldn’t just live any life. I would live the life that I absolutely LOVE and nothing less.

同时，我还决定，不只为生活而生活，我要完全以自己想要的方式生活。

In that moment, the clarity that descended around me was like a light shining in a dark room for the first time. As if the earth’s plates had shifted under my feet and everything suddenly looked real for the first time.

在那一刻，这一想法第一次清晰得如同一盏在黑暗闪烁的明灯。好像脚下的地球版块变换了，每一样东西在我眼前都真实得前所未有。

美文赏析:打开心门拥抱生活【2】

We often close ourselves off when traumatic events happen in our lives; instead of letting the world soften us, we let it drive us deeper into ourselves. We try to deflect the hurt and pain by pretending it doesn’t exist, but although we can try this all we want, in the end, we can’t hide from ourselves. We need to learn to open our hearts to the potentials of life and let the world soften us.

生活发生不幸时，我们常常会关上心门;世界不仅没能慰藉我们，反倒使我们更加消沉。我们假装一切仿佛都不曾发生，以此试图忘却伤痛，可就算隐藏得再好，最终也还是骗不了自己。既然如此，何不尝试打开心门，拥抱生活中的各种可能，让世界感化我们呢?

Whenever we start to let our fears and seriousness get the best of us, we should take a step back and re-evaluate our behavior. The items listed below are six ways you can open your heart more fully and completely.

当恐惧与焦虑来袭时，我们应该退后一步，重新反思自己的言行。下面六个方法有助于你更完满透彻地敞开心扉。

1. Breathe into pain

直面痛苦

Whenever a painful situation arises in your life, try to embrace it instead of running away or trying to mask the hurt. When the sadness strikes, take a deep breath and lean into it. When we run away from sadness that’s unfolding in our lives, it gets stronger and more real. We take an emotion that’s fleeting and make it a solid event, instead of something that passes through us.

当生活中出现痛苦的事情时，别再逃跑或隐藏痛苦，试着拥抱它吧;当悲伤来袭时，试着深呼吸，然后直面它。如果我们一味逃避生活中的悲伤，悲伤只会变得更强烈更真实——悲伤原本只是稍纵即逝的'情绪，我们却固执地耿耿于怀。

By utilizing our breath we soften our experiences. If we dam them up, our lives will stagnate, but when we keep them flowing, we allow more newness and greater experiences to blossom.

深呼吸能减缓我们的感受。屏住呼吸，生活停滞;呼出呼吸，更多新奇与经历又将拉开序幕。

2. Embrace the uncomfortable

拥抱不安

We all know what that twinge of anxiety feels like. We know how fear feels in our bodies: the tension in our necks, the tightness in our stomachs, etc. We can practice leaning into these feelings of discomfort and let them show us where we need to go.

我们都经历过焦灼的煎熬感，也都感受过恐惧造成的生理反应：脖子僵硬、胃酸翻腾。其实，我们有能力面对这些痛苦的感受，从中领悟到出路。

The initial impulse is to run away — to try and suppress these feelings by not acknowledging them. When we do this, we close ourselves off to the parts of our lives that we need to experience most. The next time you have this feeling of being truly uncomfortable, do yourself a favor and lean into the feeling. Act in spite of the fear.

我们的第一反应总是逃避——以为否认不安情绪的存在就能万事大吉，可这也恰好妨碍了我们经历最需要的生活体验。下次感到不安时，不管有多害怕，也请试着勇敢面对吧。

3. Ask your heart what it wants

倾听内心

We’re often confused at the next step to take, making pros and cons lists until our eyes bleed and our brains are sore. Instead of always taking this approach, what if we engaged a new part of ourselves that isn’t usually involved in the decision making process?

我们常对未来犹疑不定，反复考虑利弊直到身心俱疲。与其一味顾虑重重，不如从局外人的角度看待决策之事。

I know we’ve all felt decisions or actions that we had to take simply due to our “gut” impulses: when asked, we can’t explain the reasons behind doing so — just a deep knowing that it had to get done. This instinct is the part of ourselves we’re approaching for answers.

其实很多决定或行动都是我们一念之间的结果：要是追问原因的话，恐怕我们自己也道不清说不明，只是感到直觉如此罢了。而这种直觉恰好是我们探索结果的潜在自我。

To start this process, take few deep breaths then ask, “Heart, what decision should I make here? What action feels the most right?”

开始前先做几次深呼吸，问自己：“内心认为该做什么样的决定呢?觉得采取哪个方案最恰当?”

See what comes up, then engage and evaluate the outcome.

看看自己的内心反应如何，然后全力以赴、静待结果吧。

经典美文精选【3】

很喜欢一句诗：

最是人间留不住，朱颜辞镜花辞树。

冷静，却又犀利无比。

是啊，光阴是刀，

所以这世间没有一段不被宰割的人生。

自古以来，人间万事，

要经历多少风云变幻，桑田沧海?

许多曾经纯美的事物，最终都落满了尘埃。

任凭我们如何擦拭，也不可能回到最初的色彩。

人生走到最后，都要回归朴素和简单，

过程所经历的繁芜，

只是为平淡的结局写下深沉的一笔。

都说一寸光阴一寸金，

仿佛要将所有的时光，

丝丝缕缕都用得恰到好处，

才不算是虚度。

然而，当你静下心来，

看一枚叶子无声地飘落，

看一只蜜蜂栖息在花蕊上，

看一炷檀香渐渐地焚烧;

或是喝一盏清茶，和某个不知名的路人，

若有若无地闲话家常，光阴倏然而过，

这时候，你却会觉得，

时光是用来浪费的，并且一点都不可惜。

因为我们品尝到生活真实的味道，

这些微不足道的细节，才是人生的感动。

而江湖所酿造的风云和气象，

却像一座宽大的囚牢，

困住了我们清醒朴素的思想，

束缚着压抑着生命的本性。

这是一个丰盈饱满的时代，

太多的诱惑横在眼前，

让醉者会更醉，醒者会更醒。

一个富足的人，其实拥有了世间许多的华丽，

他却常常感到空虚落寞。

一个贫瘠的人，

所得到的只是一些微薄的片断，

他却有种满足的快乐。

一物一风流，一人一性情，

每个人落在红尘，都有一份自我的追求，

从不同的起点，到不同的终点，

历程不同，所悟出的道理也是不同。

只是想像的空间越来越狭窄，

飞翔的距离越来越短，

就连做梦，都需要勇气。

所谓得闲便是主人，

也许我们更应该将远志封存起来，

用闲逸的山水蓄养，于杯盏中自在把玩。

看一场烟雨，从开始下到结束;

看一只蝴蝶，从蚕蛹到破茧;

看一树的蓓蕾，从绽放到落英缤纷。

不为诗意，不为风雅，不为禅定，

只为将日子，

过成一杯白开水的平淡、一碗清粥的简单。

也许只有这样，

生活才会少一些失去，多一些如意。

日子如水清淡，来来往往的人，

不过是为了各自的归宿，做着无奈的奔忙。

也许一生真的不长，

但是亦可不必仓促地要把生活的滋味尝遍。

不如在缤纷的红尘里，

只将简洁的心灵，栖息在一束菩提的时光里。

把颜色还给岁月，留一份从容给自己。

篇7：美文阅读

精选美文阅读

小狐猴之死

马达加斯加岛上，一只小狐猴出生了。它好奇地打量着眼前的世界，母亲告诉它从明天开始它就要跟着母亲一起来学习生存。

但 但第一天，它就遇到了麻烦。它被脚下植物上的毒刺扎伤了脚，钻心的疼痛让它吱吱大叫。它问母亲，为什么我们要生活在这种长满毒刺的植物周围?这多么容易受伤!母亲说，没关系孩子，等你习惯就好了,世世代代我们都是这样生活下来的。晚上，舔着自己伤口的小狐猴在思考一个问题，为什么我们世世代代都要生长在这种恶劣的环境下?

几个月后，长大的小狐猴开始和母亲吃一样的食物，那是生长在毒刺中间的小小的嫩叶，很苦涩，这让小狐猴很苦恼。

偶然的一个机会，它遇到了一只在四处旅行的鸟，鸟给它带来了许多的信息。比如其他地方的猴子都是生活在没有毒刺的树上，而且吃的都是甜美的果子。“果子？”小狐猴疑惑地说。鸟笑了笑展开翅膀飞走，回来的时候嘴上叼着一枚红红的果子。小狐猴尝了一下，果然是美味。

小狐猴决定离开这里去寻找自己想要的生活。母亲和猴群的长老们劝它不要离开，告诉小狐猴别抱怨，谁都是在慢慢地适应生活，以后才可能高枕无忧。小狐猴听不进去，它摇摇头坚定地离开了家。

在岛的另一边小狐猴果然发现了鸟叼的那种果子，生长在一棵没有毒刺的树上。它欣喜地爬上去，但当它快要摘下那果子的时候，身体却被一条不知隐藏在哪里的蛇紧紧地缠住了，然后看到的是一张血盆大口。小狐猴最后想的是，以前自己生活的地方因为有那些毒刺，从来没有什么天敌可以进入……

圆谎

临近冬的时候，铁蛋的母亲去世了，死于劳累。十岁的铁蛋从此成了没妈的孩子，都说没妈的孩子苦，铁蛋的父亲是深有体会，一个大男人又当爹又当妈还要上班，那里照顾得过来铁蛋。他思前想后决定再婚，对象是托媒人找的，一个离异没有孩子的女人。

相处时，女人表现的很勤快，照顾铁蛋也很尽心，铁蛋的父亲相当满意，很快这个女人成了铁蛋的后妈。

女人嫁进来不久渐渐的露了本性，整日唠叨铁蛋的父亲嫌他赚的少。铁蛋的父亲受不了她的唠叨，背井离乡出外打工，只留下铁蛋和继母俩人在家，半年才能回家一次。

铁蛋的父亲一走，女人就变了脸，经常对铁蛋横挑鼻子竖挑眼，非打即骂。铁蛋受了孽待也不敢顶撞继母，更不敢反抗，否则他会没有饭吃。有时候被继母打疼了或被继母推出房门，铁蛋总是偷偷跑到隔壁邻居家。幸亏隔壁有位好心的阿姨，常常给他吃的，给他的伤处擦药，让铁蛋感觉出了丝的温度。

一日，继母买了几个苹果的，放在桌子上就出门去了。铁蛋回来后，偷偷的吃了一个。继母回来发现后顿时火了，劈头盖脑地对着铁蛋就打。

铁蛋被打的抱头鼠窜，继母见追不上铁蛋，顺手抄起木棍向孩子打去。铁蛋吓得撒腿就跑，跑到隔壁阿姨家里躲了起来。

继母追到隔壁家，半天没敲开门，她气呼呼的回家了。

没想到一进家门就看见铁蛋的'父亲坐在屋里。她立马换上一副笑脸说：“老公，你回来了了？”

父亲点点头，瞅了瞅她身后问：“铁蛋，应该放学了吧？怎么还没回来？”

继母心想坏了，这小兔崽子不知道跑那去了。她急忙说：“别提了，都怨我。哎！我怕我这当继母的对孩子管教太严了，会落人口舌，没敢管她，可是没想到，哎！他竟然和一帮小混混整日鬼混，也不上学，这会也不知道跑那去了。”

父亲听完狠狠的捶了一下床说道：“这孩子怎么变成这么坏了，真是欠揍，等他回来，你看我怎么教训他……”

这时铁蛋正好从邻居家里回来，他见父亲回来刚想往屋里进，告继母的状，可一听继母和父亲的对话，他站在门口犹豫了起来。

想了片刻，他挺着胸走了进去。他像是没看见父亲一样，扑通跪在跪在继母身前说：“妈，你原谅我吧！我再也不敢出去和人鬼混了，再也不惹你生气了，呜呜……”

这一哭到把继母给哭愣了，父亲上来就要揍铁蛋，继母不得不挡在他身前说：“行了，他知道错了，你就饶了他吧！”

父亲这才放下高举的巴掌，这次**也算平息了。

继母明知道自己不对在先，关键时候铁蛋没揭穿她的谎言，还帮她圆了慌，让她心里感到有几分愧疚和感动。从那以后，继母再没有孽待过铁蛋。

一把属于自己的钥匙

一个男孩在求学路上屡遭失败和打击。在确认他不适合在校读书后，他母亲很伤心。她将孩子领回家，准备靠自己的力量把孩子培养成才。可是这孩子无论如何都记不住那些需要记忆的知识。在妈妈眼中，这男孩是一个不长进的孩子，怎么教他，他都学不会。

母亲彻底失望了，因为他高考了几次都失败了，他没能走进大学校门。

男孩知道他在母亲的眼里是一个失败者。母亲悲伤无奈地说：“朽木不可雕也，你原本是块朽木，怎么雕都不会成器。”男孩很难过，他决定远走他乡去寻找自己的事业。

许多年以后，当年的男孩突然回来了，他已长成了一个成熟的男人。

有一天，他希望母亲同他去参加一个名厨大赛，在名厨大赛上，这个男人表现出多种厨师技艺，他做出的每一道菜都是色香味俱佳，最终，在专家的评选结果中，他取得了名厨大赛的冠军。

在一片热烈的掌声中，他走上领奖台，激动地说：“我想把名厨大赛的冠军杯献给我的母亲，因为我读书时没有获得她期望中的成功。她曾极度失望地认为我是朽木，现在我要告诉她，妈妈，我不是朽木，大学里没有我的位置，我总是拿不到考入大学的钥匙，但在生活中总会有一个位置是属于我的，而且是成功的位置，妈妈，总会有一把钥匙是属于我的，总会有一扇门是为我打开的。”

台下那位陪儿子一起来观看名厨大赛的母亲，万万没有想到，最终成为名厨冠军的获胜者居然是自己认为不成器的儿子。她流下了激动的泪水，深情地对儿了说：“孩子，你不再是朽木，你是妈妈的骄傲！”

许多人都在生活中苦苦寻觅着自己的位置，遇到打击和失败都是正常的，但是不能灰心，条条大路通罗马，成功的答案不只一个。失之东隅，收之桑榆。天生我才必有用，只要你努力进取，总有一扇门是为你打开的，总有一把钥匙属于你自己！

在苦闷中学会愉快

谁不曾为平庸而心烦气燥？然而，人生除死无大事，凡事心存希望，一切就终有转机！

她是个安静的女孩儿，最大的理想就是有一个属于自己的大房子。可以在里面呼呼大睡，而不用担心妈妈揪着耳朵叫自己上学。她总幻想自己的人生能平平稳稳，过着衣食无忧，平淡快乐的生活。

然而，现实总是很轻易地将每个人美丽温暖的梦击碎。上了大学之后，不仅希望过上的生活没有实现，而且她还陷入了抑郁的情绪里。冗长的课程、迷茫的未来，枯燥的社交活动，都让她感到压抑。内向的她渐渐明白了要想实现自己的理想，就必须在生活中努力奋斗，出人头地。于是，她开始拼命地学习功课，把大部分的时间都放在了学业上。她努力参加各种校园内外的活动，很用心地想融入别人的圈子里。

可渐渐地，她发现自己无论怎样努力，功课永远都不是最好的，与此同时，内向的自己也在社交中显得木讷，不善表达。她失望地发现原来自己真的不是特别出色，平凡的自己似乎毫无成功的资本。平庸的生活带来了无穷的苦闷，没有关注、没有鲜花、没有掌声，找不到自己存在的价值。有很长一段时间，她心甘情愿地随波逐流，她觉得自己这样的人很难和成功沾上边儿了，渐渐死了心。

既然没办法在人群中崭露头角，她反倒不在那么焦躁了。那段时间里，默默无闻地她体验过了焦虑、压抑、苦闷的种种情绪，也学会了和这些负面情绪和平共处。每个平凡的生命，都要经历这种苦闷的压力，想到这些，她反而变得淡然许多。既然现实无法改变，她便尝试着改变心情，努力在苦闷中学会快乐，在平庸中发现惊喜。渐渐地，她发现其实身边有很多好玩有趣的人和事情。尤其是很多人的搞怪表情和乐观的心态，深深触动了她的心灵。她开始尝试着将这些人的表情和有趣的生活状态糅合到一起，创作出自己娱乐的卡通图片。

让她没想到的是，这些卡通图片竟然引起了身边人的注意，并且大受欢迎。同学朋友们纷纷转载她的图片，在极短的时间里，她设计的那只可爱搞怪，表情丰富的小兔子迅速蹿红网络，成了网虫们最喜欢的表情人物，下载量连创记录。

这个创造了“兔斯基”系列图片的小女孩儿叫王卯卯，今年刚刚21岁，只是北京一所高校动画系沉默寡言的小姑娘。这个平凡女孩儿的成功，让人不得不深思：每个人生命中都有一段不认可，不被重视，找不到未来发展方向的生活。每个人都体会着平凡带来的苦闷和压抑，面对这种心灵的煎熬，我们应该如何面对？是沉沦消极，还是淡然接受？用王卯卯的话说：“那种苦闷压抑的生活让我喘不过气来，如果我不是在苦闷中学会让自己愉快起来，我早被自己的压抑压垮了，根本就谈不上成功了！”

世界上最可怕的就是努力结不出硕果，付出得不到回报。当失败成为常态，雄心沦为无奈，整日的奔波奋斗却换来毫无起色的未来，这样的生活，又有几人坚持得下来？平庸的人生，就是因为在反复地失败中，放弃了自己。

世界可以无奈，你却不能对生活撒娇耍赖。只有破罐才会破摔。天地无情，不会因为你的弱小而加以青睐。要想让世界知道你的存在，就必须在苦闷中学会愉快。每个人都是磁场，放弃招来堕落，坚持吸引希望。谁不曾为未来迷茫？谁不曾为平凡焦虑？谁不曾为平庸而心烦气燥？然而，人生除死无大事，凡事心存希望，一切就终有转机！

在苦闷中学会愉快，不仅宣泄了现实压抑下的苦闷，而且还能让你在平和的心态中开拓未来。凡有蓝天处，必有阳光；凡有成功处，就必有笑对苦闷人生的智慧！

绝处逢生

第二次世界大战时，有艘船被炮弹击中沉没了，船上只有一个幸存者，他借助一块浮木漂到了孤岛上，独自一人在那里艰苦地生活。

他天天站在岛上摇举白旗，希望有过路的船只能过来救他，可是一直都没有结果。为了生活，他用树木和枝条搭建了一个简陋的茅屋，靠采摘来的野果和捕捞的海鱼为生，就这样过了一段时间。

有一天，他千辛万苦搭盖的茅屋不知怎么回事突然起火了。火势凶猛，而且一发不可收拾，他想方设法置办的家什和家当都烧光了。看着熊熊大火，他埋怨上帝：“我惟一的栖身之处和仅有的一点生活用品都化为灰烬了，上帝啊，你为何逼迫我走上绝路呢？”

正当他沉浸于伤心和绝望的时候，忽然有人驾船来救他。他疑惑不解地看着来人，问道：“你们怎么知道岛上有人呢？”救他的人回答道：“我们起先也不知道，但是看见岛上火光冲天，觉得很奇怪，船长派我们来看看，没想到真的有人。”

他把起初对上帝的埋怨变为大大的感激，上帝借这把火救了他。

事情都是一分为二的，好事可以变成坏事，坏事也可以变成好事。正如古人所说：“塞翁失马，焉知非福？”

过了保鲜期

春天里，我在家门前的空地上开辟了一垄地，撒了些青菜菜籽，空闲时想起它，便浇浇水。过了个把月，我发现小青菜长得非常缓慢，问种了多年菜的邻居，他说，主要是因为你以前没有辛勤施肥、浇水，现在再施肥、浇水也难以改变多少，长不大了。菜过了气候了。

朋友家的孩子，上初中了，长得高大，也极聪明，可成绩欠佳。生活和学习习惯也不好，每天看电视、上网，既无理想，也对学习了无兴趣。对父母的同事、朋友，他一不如意就大吼大叫，让人心里很不舒服。他的母亲很瘦小，有一天她发着烧自己搬桌子，喊他来帮忙。他躺在沙发上看电视，像没听到一样，母亲只好把桌子顺着地板一点点地拖，对儿子没有丝毫的责备之意。孩子的父母说，小时候，父母只觉得他可爱、好玩，现在大了，有时行为看着不妥，想管时却发现不知从哪着手了，孩子的性格也基本定性，想改变是极其困难了。

花也好，树也罢，如果错过了时候，错过了季节，再施肥、浇水关注它，也往往是难以挽回了。植物尚且如此，何况有思想、有行为能力的人呢？教育也有保鲜期。过了保鲜期，那些问题孩子，就如长不大的蔬菜、养不旺的花一样，教育起来困难重重。孩子的教育耽误不得，千万不能滞后啊！

篇8：美文阅读

美文阅读集锦

美文阅读：矶鹞带来欢乐

Sandpipers to Bring Us Joy

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.

“Hello,” she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child. “I’m building,” she said.

“I see that. What is it?” I asked, not really caring.

“Oh, I don’t know, I just like the feel of sand.”

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by. “That’s a joy,” the child said.

“It’s a what?” I asked.

“It’s a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird went gliding down the beach.

“Good-bye joy,” I muttered to myself, “hello pain,” and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

“What’s your name?” She wouldn’t give up.

“Robert,” I answered. “I’m Robert Peterson.”

“Mine’s Wendy... I’m six.”

“Hi, Windy.” She giggled. “You’re funny,” she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her musical giggle followed me.

“Come again, Mr. P,” she called. “We’ll have another happy day.”

The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother.

The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of the dishwater. “I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself, gathering up my coat.

The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed. I had forgotten the child and was startled when she appeared.

“Hello, Mr. P,” she said. “Do you want to play?”

“What did you have in mind?” I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

“I don’t know, you say.”

“How about charades?” I asked sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Then let’s just walk.” Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. “Where do you live?” I asked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward a row of summer cottages. Strange, I thought, in winter.

“Where do you go to school?”

“I don’t go to school. Mommy says we’re on vacation.” She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

英语阅读：AnEmptyBox

Once upon a time, a man punished his 5-year-old daughter for using up the family's only roll of expensive gold wrapping paper. Money was tight, and he became even more upset when on Christmas Eve, he saw that the child had pasted the gold paper so as to decorate a shoebox to put under the Christmas tree.

Nevertheless, the next morning the little girl, filled with excitement, brought the gift box to her father and said, “This is for you, Daddy!”

As he opened the box, the father was embarrassed by his earlier overreaction.

But when he opened it, he found it was empty and again his anger flared. “Don't you know, young lady, ” he said harshly, “when you give someone a present there's supposed to be something inside the package!”

The little girl looked up at him with tears rolling from her eyes and said: “Daddy, it's not empty. I blew kisses into it until it was all full.”

The father was crushed. He fell on his knees and put his arms around his precious little girl. He begged her to forgive him for his unnecessary anger.

An accident took the life of the child only a short time later. It is told that the father kept that little gold box by his bed for all the years of his life. Whenever he was discouraged or faced difficult problems he would open the box, take out an imaginary kiss, and remember the love of this beautiful child who had put it there.

In a very real sense, each of us as human beings have been given an invisible golden box filled with unconditional love and kisses from our children, family, friends and God.

There is no more precious possession anyone could hold.

英语阅读：HappinessEquateswithFun?

I live in Hollywood. You may think people in such a glamorous, fun-filled place are happier than others. If so, you have some mistaken ideas about the nature of happiness.

Many intelligent people still equate happiness with fun. The truth is that fun and happiness have little or nothing in common. Fun is what we experience during an act. Happiness is what we experience after an act. It is a deeper, more abiding emotion.

Going to an amusement park or ball game, watching a movie or television, are fun activities that help us relax, temporarily forget our problems and maybe even laugh. But they do not bring happiness, because their positive effects end when the fun ends.

I have often thought that if Hollywood stars have a role to play, it is to teach us that happiness has nothing to do with fun. These rich, beautiful inpiduals have constant access to glamorous parties, fancy cars, expensive homes, everything that spells “happiness”.

But in memoir after memoir, celebrities reveal the unhappiness hidden beneath all their fun: depression, alcoholism, drug addiction, broken marriages, troubled children, profound loneliness.

The way people cling to the belief that a fun-filled, pain-free life equates happiness actually diminishes their chances of ever attaining real happiness. If fun and pleasure are equated with happiness, then pain must be equated with unhappiness. But, in fact, the opposite is true: More times than not, things that lead to happiness involve some pain.

As a result, many people avoid the very endeavors that are the source of true happiness. They fear the pain inevitably brought by such things as marriage, raising children, professional achievement, religious commitment, civic or charitable work, and self-improvement.

英语阅读：TodayisaGift

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room‘s only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end.

They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation. And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance. As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn‘t hear the band - he could see it in his mind‘s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words.

Days and weeks passed. One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. Slowly and painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall.

The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, “Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you.”

英语阅读：IsPackingImportanttoYou?

A young man was getting ready to graduate from college. For many months he had admired a beautiful sports car in a dealer's showroom, and knowing his father could well afford it, he told him that was all he wanted.

As Graduation Day approached, the young man awaited signs that his father had purchased the car. Finally, on the morning of his graduation, his father called him into his private study. His father told him how proud he was to have such a fine son, and told him how much he loved him. He handed his son a beautiful wrapped gift box. Curious, but somewhat disappointed, the young man opened the box and found a lovely, leather-bound Bible, with the young man's name embossed in gold.

Angrily, he raised his voice to his father and said, “With all your money you give me a Bible?” He then stormed out of the house, leaving the Bible.

Many years passed and the young man was very successful in business. He had a beautiful home and a wonderful family, but realizing his father was very old, he thought perhaps he should go to see him. He had not seen him since that graduation day. Before he could make the arrangements, he received a telegram telling him his father had passed away, and willed all of his possessions to his son. He needed to come home immediately and take care of things.

When he arrived at his father's house, sudden sadness and regret filled his heart. He began to search through his father's important papers and saw the still new Bible, just as he had left it years ago.

With tears, he opened the Bible and began to turn the pages. As he was reading, a car key dropped from the back of the Bible. It had a tag with the dealer's name, the same dealer who had the sports car he had desired. On the tag was the date of his graduation, and the words… “PAID IN FULL”.

How many times do we miss blessings because they are not packaged as we expected? I trust you enjoyed this. Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; but remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for. Sometimes we don't realize the good fortune we have or we could have because we expect “the packaging” to be different. What may appear as bad fortune may in fact be the door that is just waiting to be opened.

英语阅读：TheBabyEagle

Once upon a time there was a baby eagle living in a nest perched on a cliff overlooking a beautiful valley with waterfalls and streams, trees and lots of little animals, scurrying about enjoying their lives.

The baby eagle liked the nest. It was the only world he had ever known. It was warm and comfortable, had a great view, and even better, he had all the food and love and attention that a great mother eagle could provide. Many times each day the mother would swoop down from the sky and land in the nest and feed the baby eagle delicious morsels of food. She was like a god to him, he had no idea where she came from or how she worked her magic.

The baby eagle was hungry all the time, but the mother eagle would always come just in time with the food and love and attention he craved. The baby eagle grew strong. His vision grew very sharp. He felt good all the time.

Until one day, the mother stopped coming to the nest.

The baby eagle was hungry. “I'm sure to die,” said the baby eagle, all the time.

“Very soon, death is coming,” he cried, with tears streaming down his face. Over and over. But there was no one there to hear him.

Then one day the mother eagle appeared at the top of the mountain cliff, with a big bowl of delicious food and she looked down at her baby. The baby looked up at the mother and cried “Why did you abandon me? I'm going to die any minute. How could you do this to me?”

The mother said, “Here is some very tasty and nourishing food, all you have to do is come get it.”

“Come get it!” said the baby, with much anger. “How?”

The mother flew away.

The baby cried and cried and cried.

A few days later, “I'm going to end it all,” he said. “I give up. It is time for me to die.”

He didn't know his mother was nearby. She swooped down to the nest with his last meal.

“Eat this, it's your last meal,” she said.

The baby cried, but he ate and whined and whined about what a bad mother she was.

“You're a terrible mother,” he said. Then she pushed him out of the nest.

He fell.

Head first.

Picked up speed.

Faster and faster.

He screamed. “I'm dying I'm dying,” he cried. He picked up more speed.

He looked up at his mother. “How could you do this to me?”

He looked down.

The ground rushed closer, faster and faster. He could visualize his own death so clearly, coming so soon, and cried and whined and complained. “This isn't fair!” he screamed.

Something strange happens.

The air caught behind his arms and they snapped away from his body, with a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced. He looked down and saw the sky. He wasn't moving towards the ground anymore, his eyes were pointed up at the sun.

“Huh?” he said. “What is going on here!”

“You're flying,” his mother said.

“This is fun!” laughed the baby eagle, as he soared and ped and swooped.

“Yes it is!” said the mother.

篇9：美文阅读:心灵鸡汤

45 Years and 6,000 Miles Apart

It was a difficult time in Japan. It was a time near the end of the American occupation of Japan that followed World War II. My mother, the oldest of three siblings, gave up a rare opportunity to go to college so that she could work two jobs and support her family after her father fell ill and couldn't work. Her mother had already died when she was only twelve years old. She was not only the sole source of income but also a sister and mother to two little girls. Amidst all of this hardship she fell in love with an American soldier. With a mind filled with hope and determination she left war-torn Japan for the bounty of America with the dreams of being better able to provide for her family and in particular, a better life for her two little sisters.

Life in America didn't turn out so well for my mother. The man she married turned out to be a severe alcoholic. Her survival and determination to provide for her own children rivals any challenge she could have faced in her homeland. With constant pressure, her dreams moved from hope to long days of labor. Years went by and she never wrote home. More years passed and she became afraid to write. She wouldn't be able to bear the news of anything ill becoming of the two little sisters she left behind. She couldn't bear to tell them that anything less than good had become of her life.

I had always wondered about the relatives that I must have in Japan and as my mother never spoke of them, it created an empty space in my life. I assumed it was painful for her to bring up the past so I respectfully thought it was better not to ask. It took a long time, but finally I had the chance to go to Japan for a three-month project. Would I be willing to open the Pandora's box sealed by my mother silence? I told my story to a charming Japanese family that had befriended me. They sensed my need to know about the relatives that were missing from my life. My new friends took on the quest of finding my lost relatives for me as it would be too difficult for me as a foreigner to do it alone.

My time in Japan was passing quickly without news, but the hope of meeting at least one of my relatives never faded away. Two days before I was to depart Japan, Yokiyo phoned me and exclaimed, “I've found them!” Of course I was thrilled but had to ask, “Were they happy about it?” My mother had feared that maybe they had buried their emotions for her and didn't need a wound reopened. Yokiyo explained to me how the first aunt she spoke to immediately broke into tears, unable to speak with the joy of knowing her lost sister was still alive. My aunts were on the bus from Tokyo the very next day to meet me. They hugged me and were moved by the few characteristics I bore of my mother. They told me a day hadn't passed that they didn't think of her. They had a strong need for closure and I promised to bring their sister to them.

My sixty-eight-year old mother, after having out survived her husband, became a reclusive little old lady. We both knew the trip would be difficult for her but she told me she swore to her sisters over the phone that she would swim to Japan if she had to. I told my mother that I would take her in the spring, giving us six months to prepare and save up for the trip of a lifetime. Her heart started to fill with childhood memories and she began to tell stories about her past. Both of her sisters started to call her every weekend to make sure the plans were on schedule. My mother was excited but nervous as she emphasized it had been forty-five years without any contact with her sisters so in reality, these women were total strangers to her.

On the plane ride to Tokyo, mom confessed it was exactly forty-five years to the month that she last saw Japan. As the sea of lights came into view her face was pressed against the window. She remembered a sea of lights fading away forty-five years ago, thinking that would be her very last view of her homeland. I silently watched her fight back the tears.

In Narita airport, my mother eyed her sisters in the crowd and snuck up on them in a jovial way. The sisters wanted to laugh at her prank but broke into tears at finally being united with their long lost sister. Too emotional to speak, the three of them mostly looked to each other on the train ride to Tokyo. At Aiko's house, over a cup of green tea the women begin to talk.

Our week in Tokyo passed quickly. The two women ushered us around like two mother hens, taking us sight seeing and feeding us every delicacy they could think of. It didn't take long until the three sisters acted like sisters again, teasing each other, laughing, and talking late every night. The atmosphere filled up with a priceless joy that fed everyone's heart. You couldn't tell that they had spent the last 45 years apart. I took lots of photographs of the three sisters sitting in the park, singing childhood songs, cooking together.

I witnessed how their love for each other erased the 45 years they had lost. Every moment together was precious for them, as we all knew this could be the last time these sisters would be together. What was important was they were sisters again, sisters forever. They had proved that time or distance could not damage their sisterly bond.

A New Strength

“What's wrong, Mommy?” One by one, three small figures straggled into my bedroom, navigating through the darkness to my side of the bed. The ringing of the phone and my crying had pulled them from their sleep in the few minutes before sunrise.

“Mommy's very sad right now,” their daddy answered for me. “Mommy's sad because your Grandpa Bastien died early this morning.”

All three climbed onto the bed and started stroking me, each trying to comfort a pain I thought they were too young to understand. Three sets of innocent eyes stared helplessly up at me, watching unfamiliar waves of grief ebb and flow.

They did not know their grandpa the way I had hoped they would. A gap of seven hundred miles saw to that. Their memories of Grandpa Bastien came from visits at Thanksgiving, long-distance phone calls and pictures displayed in photo albums. They did not know the big, strong man I loved so much. And for once, I was glad their little hearts were spared knowing him so they would not feel the depth of losing him.

None of them had ever seen or heard me cry so openly. Through tears I reassured them I would be all right but there was no way to explain the grief. There was no way to tell a four-, six- and eight-year-old how their Mommy's life had changed. In an instant I had gone from having a father to having memories. At that moment, thirty-four years of memories and pictures seemed small and insignificant.

It would have been selfish to give words to my tears, explain to them that I would never again hear his voice, send him Father's Day cards or hold his hand. No, I knew it would be wrong to make them understand this grief, so I held back the words and released only the tears. They continued their vigil, sitting quietly, patting me tenderly with little hands.

As the first hint of morning light filtered through the blinds in the bedroom, they began to talk softly amongst themselves. One by one they hugged me and kissed me. One by one they scooted off the bed and left the room. Off to play or watch cartoons, I presumed, and I was glad grief had not touched their innocence.

I felt helpless, though, watching them walk away. With one phone call, I had crossed this ominous bridge between my father's life and his death, and I didn't know how to return. I didn't know how I would learn to laugh or play or be the mother they needed me to be in the midst of this grief.

After lying in bed for what seemed like an eternity, I dried my eyes and decided I'd try to explain my sadness to them in a way they could understand. While still formulating the words, they walked back into the room, each with knowing eyes.

“Here, Mommy,” they whispered in unison. “We made this for you.”

I took the little package from eager hands and carefully peeled away a layer of leftover Christmas wrapping paper. Inside I found a note written by my eight-year-old: “To Mommy: We love you. Love, Shae, Andrew and Annie.”

“Thank you,” I told them. “This is beautiful.”

“No, Mommy, turn it over,” one of them instructed me. I turned over the note and on the other side discovered a paper frame, decorated with crayon lines and hearts, and inside the frame was a photograph of my dad, smiling his contented smile, hands folded across an ample belly. It was one of the last good pictures I had taken before he died, before sickness had taken the sparkle from his eye.

My well-planned speech fell away, and I knew no explanation was needed. They understood my tears, and their handmade gift had given me new strength. As I looked at the picture, echoes of childhood memories flooded back, filling the emptiness. Yes, grief had touched my children, but they had their own special way of dealing with it. In their innocence, they taught me that the things I had thought insufficient, the memories and pictures, would be the very things to keep my dad alive.

A Change of Heart

It was the tail end of the depression, and things were tough. Mum had a hard time raising us kids on her own in our small community of New Westminster, BC. My Dad had drowned in Pitt Lake, five years earlier - I still remember it like it was yesterday. Because Dad had no pension, or benefits, there was not much money so we went on relief, now called social assistance. We relied on the Salvation Army to keep us clothed, and although our clothes were second hand, we thought they were beautiful.

Looking back, I realize what Mum went through sending us kids to school. Every morning she would tuck a new piece of cardboard in our shoes, because our soles were worn out. When we got home, Mum would have “French Toast” ready for us. This was bread deep-fried in lard. Constant moving was typical for my family in these times. Rent was twenty-five dollars a month, but Mum couldn't pay it, and we knew we would be evicted right after Christmas on the first of January. These were hard and sad years, but we never complained.

Christmas was approaching, and we were entitled to a twenty-five dollar Christmas fund for social services. The Inspector came to our house, and searched it from top to bottom to be sure we didn't have any food hidden away. When he didn't find any, he issued the cheque for Mum. It was four days before Christmas, and Mum said that instead of buying food, she would use the money to pay back rent, assuring us all of a roof over our heads for a little while longer. She told us then there would be nothing for Christmas.

Unknown to Mum, I had been selling Christmas trees, shoveling snow, and doing odd jobs to earn enough money to buy a new pair of boots. Boots that weren't patched, boots with no cardboard in the soles. I knew exactly which boots I wanted. They were ten-inch Top Genuine Pierre Paris and they had a price of twenty-three dollars.

Well, the big day came on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was very excited, as I hurried up the road to catch the bus. It was only half a mile walk, but on the way I noticed a house with Christmas lights and decorations. It was then I realized that at our house, we had no lights, no decorations, nor any money for Christmas goodies.

I knew then that we would have no turkey or ham for Christmas, and I felt sad. But I knew for certain that we would have French toast.

As I continued walking I began to feel bewildered. I was eleven years old, and I was feeling a strange sense of guilt. Here I was going to buy a new pair of boots while Mum was home in tears. She would be trying to explain to us why there were no presents. As I arrived at the bus stop, the driver opened his big manual hinged door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, until eventually the driver asked, “Son, are you getting on this bus or not?” I finally blurted out, “No thanks Sir, I've changed my mind.”

The bus drove off without me, and I stood alone in a daze, but feeling as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My mind was made up and I realized what I had to do.

Across the street from the bus stop was a big grocery store called the Piggly Wiggley. Into the store I went, brimming with happiness and excitement. I realized that the twenty-five dollars I had worked so hard for went a long way for groceries. I bought a turkey, ham, oranges and all the Christmas treats. I spent every dime of my hard-earned money. The owner of the grocery store said, “Son, you can't pack all those groceries and carry them home yourself.” So I asked two boys with carriers on their bicycles to run them the half-mile down to our house. As I walked behind the delivery boys, I whispered for them to quietly unload the groceries on the porch and pile them against the door. Once they had done this, with great excitement and tears in my eyes, I knocked on the door. I could hardly wait to see my mother's face! When Mum opened the door, some of the groceries fell inside onto the floor, and she just stood there dumbfounded. Holding back the tears, I hollered, “Merry Christmas Mother!! There really is a Santa Claus!”

I had a lot of explaining to do as we unpacked all the food and put it away. That day I got enough hugs and kisses from Mum to last two lifetimes. To see my Mother's prayers answered more than made up for the boots I never got. It was a Merry Christmas for us after all!

A Childhood Passion Strikes A Cord

I waited until my mother had driven away. Then, after opening the front door, peeking down the road and seeing her white Ford Falcon disappear, I lined up my eight-iron shot. Standing smack in the middle of the living room, with a plastic golf ball sitting on the carpet, I took dead aim through the small opening that skirted the chandelier and led through the back door to my target, a square of screen at the back of the porch.

At 13, I had been hitting balls inside for well over a year. Eight-iron shots were my favorite - even plastic practice balls zipped off the clubface at an ideal trajectory. I loved the unique contour of that particular club, its braveness as it stood distinguished from the rest of the set. It had none of the angular assertiveness of the seven-iron (which reminded me of a proud slice of pie), or even the bulbous, bloated roundness of the wedges. No, the eight-iron, viewed at address, appeared to be exactly what it was: a jewel-like machine of measurement.

Over the past year, a small worn spot had begun to appear on the carpet, and while the blemish didn't please my mom, perhaps some thought that one day I would make millions on tour and buy her a dream house had made her overlook it.

My next swing, however, would prove a swipe no one could ignore. The backswing seemed ordinary enough, a decent little turn. And the transition was good too. Other kids had dogs; my swing was my faithful servant. The club dropped into the slot just as it was supposed to, and with a well-timed release I squared the blade forged out of steel.

Next to my living room practice tee sat the family piano. Now, a plastic practice golf ball yields a soft, light sensation when struck reminiscent of patting a balloon. On that fateful swing, I felt that little whiff, all right, which was followed by a most unexpected THUD. I had caught the side of the piano solidly with my eight-iron, which had gone on to bury itself deep within the instrument's chamber, leaving only the silver shaft exposed. With my grip horrifically frozen in place, the image must have resembled a tableau in a French farce.

I didn't like to think of myself as a delinquent child. I was a good student, a good athlete. I ate my vegetables, didn't smoke and felt compassion for kids less fortunate than myself. But knowing that I had done something wrong, the criminal instinct took over.

Off I went on my bicycle to the candy store, then the art supply shop across the street. I saw my mom's car parked in the supermarket lot, and recalled her saying she was going to stop by her friend Phylis's house after shopping. So I figured I had an hour and a half to carry out my plan.

Back home there wasn't time to lose. I chewed a wad of gum and stuck it in the vertical “divot” slashed in the piano. Then, with the ecstatic freedom of Van Gogh, I painted the pink gum brown, hoping to match the hue of the instrument.

The end of this unfortunate escapade came swiftly. Mom walked in, groceries in hand, spotted the oozing gum dripping cheap watercolor paint on the side of the family treasure and threw a fit. My dad, who on the golf course crooned over every great golf shot I hit like a tenor warbling “Sonny Boy” with a pint of Guinness in his hand, suddenly rejected the idea that golf encompassed spiritual values. My backside made the abrasion on the piano seem like the surface of a mountain lake at dawn. The scar in the piano never healed, but mine did, and I grew up to be a golfer. I even played to scratch for many years while teaching school in Memphis.

My passion for golf, though, goes beyond the mere enjoyment of the game. It penetrates to the root of the word passion itself, with its base in the idea of suffering. From the recognition of the pain of others, we develop compassion. Every time I play golf, I see my own frustration mirrored in the exasperation of my partners, and I remember what I learned when I was a kid swinging in the living room - that the world is not a stage by a golf course

A Cup of Coffee

I heated up a cup of coffee today in the microwave. I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry as I stood there holding the steaming cup for the second time this morning. My son woke up crying, and it took nearly an hour of singing, consoling and rocking to get him back to sleep. In the meantime, my coffee got cold. So, I heated it up in the microwave.

I grew up vowing never to be like my mother. She is a wonderful, strong woman, and anyone would be proud to be like her. But I wasn't going to be. No one in town seemed to know her name. To the teachers and students at the various schools her children attended, she was simply known as ____'s mom (fill in the blank with any one of her five children's names). At the grocery stores and around the auto parts stores and hardware places, they affectionately called her “Mrs. Dale” after my father's first name; and the folks at the bank, utility companies and other such important places addressed her with Dad's last name, as Mrs. Keffer. Mom answered to all of these with a smile and kind words.

I, on the other hand, was never as gracious about it. Often, I would tell the bagger at the grocery store, “Her name is Joyce, by the way,” as he handed her the bag and told her to have a nice day using one of the aforementioned names. Mom would always smile and say, “You have a good day, too,” as she shot me the mind-your-manners-I-taught-you-better-than-that look. When we would then get to the car, I would bicker at her for not standing up for herself. “You are your own person,” I would retort. “You're not just an extension of Dad.”

“I could be called a lot worse,” she would always reply. “Besides, everyone knows your dad.”

Everyone in this small town did know my dad. He was a friendly, hard-working man who liked to flirt with the checkout girls and give car advice to anyone who needed it. He could charm his way out of a speeding ticket and talk his way into a better deal with ease. He would not think twice about fixing a broken part on one of the neighbor kid's bikes. Or leaving in the middle of a cold winter night to change a frightened teen's flat tire.

But everyone knew my mom, too. While Dad was a great man in the community, Mom was equally special. She had her own way of talking herself into a good deal, and she loved to give friendly advice to people she met. When she would wake up on cold, snowy mornings to a house full of college kids who had been stranded in town, she would weave her way through the sleeping bodies and fix enough pancakes for all. If anyone was in need, my mom was right in the thick of the fight to help. She would collect items for a family who lost all in a house fire, canned goods for the church pantry, and clothes for a teen mother's baby when no one else would help.

As a teen, I never understood my mom. How could someone with so much to offer the world be content to stay home and be known as an adjunct to her husband or as someone's mother? Why wasn't she proud of who she was? Once upon a time, she wanted to be a nurse and join the Peace Corps. How could anyone give up her dreams for washing out dirty diapers and packing my father's bologna sandwiches?

All I knew was that this was not going to happen to me. I had big dreams of making a difference in the world - but with a bang, not a whimper. People would know me. I planned on working my way up through the ranks of the YMCA with a busy writing career on the side. My husband, if there was one, would be right behind me and, as for children, they would be cute and at their nanny's side. I would not be like my mother - I would be me. And people would know me as someone important.

Now here I was heating up my cup of coffee in the microwave for the second time. Just as I had watched her do a million times after setting it down to pack a lunch, feed the cats, tie a shoe, retrieve a towel from the dryer, find a paper that needed returning to school, answer the phone and a million other possible interruptions. I dreamed of downing a good cafe latte for breakfast before another busy day at the office, and here I was drinking instant mocha from a “Happy Birthday” mug with colored balloons all over it.

I understand now. I understood eight months ago as I held my son for the first time. I understood when his tiny little hand wrapped around my finger and his big blue eyes looked into mine as he drifted off to sleep. I understood when the love I have for my husband tripled as I first saw the little body cuddled in his big, strong arms and saw the tears streak down his face. I understood it all instantly.

I look forward to the day that I will be known as Andrew's mom to the people in town and the children at school. Every day, as my husband returns home from work and his face lights up as his son holds out his hands, I am proud to be Mrs. Frank Huff. Just like my mom is proud to be called Mrs. Dale Keffer. Just like my mom. Those are four words that I thought I would never say proudly.

By the way, if you see her, her name is Joyce.

And now I need to heat up my coffee again.

A Friend's Secret

There's a moment in the Disney classic Cinderella when the ragamuffin heroine lays claim to her wayward glass slipper and Prince Charming adoringly sweeps her into his arms and waltzes her away. It's a scene that draws longing sighs from every woman who watches it. Why? Romance! That's what it's all about.

I've often wondered how that intangible sense of true love and romantic devotion makes the leap from celluloid to reality. I know it can happen. I've been around couples married for decades who still glow while sitting side by side, hands lovingly intertwined. Yet, as the child of divorced parents, and a divorcée myself, I also know that the course of true love never runs smooth. In fact, “Rocky Road” might better entitle the majority of marriages I've encountered.

However recently, a friend of mine told me a little secret - a tale of love that brought tears to my eyes and, I must admit, a little envy to my heart.

Her story wasn't about the latest piece of jewelry that her husband gave her, or flowers he sent as my friend's husband passed away two years ago, just short of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Now, at the age of seventy, she is alone, but thanks to her loving spouse, not always lonely.

For tucked away in drawers and cabinets throughout my friend's home are love notes scripted by her husband. Terms of endearment that he planted as romantic surprises during the course of their marriage. Over the years, she saved his sweet inscriptions, often leaving them in their original hiding places, his loving sentiments tenderly playing anew with each rediscovery.

Now that he is gone, my friend's life is a daily challenge of loving memories and sad yearning for this romantic man with whom she shared almost half a century of life. Yet in her indomitable way, she is continuing on with determination and enthusiasm. She is healthy and strong and lives each day with an interest in the world around her. She is surrounded by family and friends who support her and a community where she is acknowledged and respected.

Most of all, however, my friend endures with the inner sense that she is loved, truly and totally. Any time she thinks otherwise, all she has to do is open a kitchen drawer, or look in her bedroom nightstand, to find a reminder.

Although somehow I have a feeling that even without looking...she already knows.

A Friendly Face

It was the beginning of November. I was larger - “larger than life!” - my husband, Jeff told me. I had a belly the size of three basketballs. I was expecting our first child and I was scared to death. It was just my husband and me; no family no close friends to share in our excitement, our terror. We were stationed in Japan and had lived there for two years when I became pregnant.

When I noticed the first pangs of labor, my husband and I raced through the crowded streets of Japan. Okay, raced isn't quite the right word. It was more like “turtled” through the streets of Japan. Our hospital was at Yokota Air Force Base, which was only thirty miles away, but usually took us two hours to get to. I was too scared to notice the woman he nearly hit, the dog he almost ran over and the shopping cart he swerved around, and too tired to care. I did notice that he managed to hit every red light and a few train crossings.

Finally we got through the gates of the base and to the hospital. My contractions had subsided so the hospital told us to return home and rest. It was a false alarm. As we left, I noticed a rather tall woman, very much with child, being admitted to the delivery ward. We smiled in passing and I headed out the doors.

I cried a lot on the way home. I was so scared and dreaded another drive to the hospital. But what really upset me was that I was going to have a baby, and I had no one else to share it with. I was lucky to have my husband there. His squadron had deployed on a four-month cruise two weeks earlier. The commander allowed Jeff to stay behind until our child was born, then he had to meet up with the ship. That upset me too, that my husband would miss the first four months of his first child's life; that I would be a single mom and have to deal with not only my own recovery, but also learn how to care for an infant.

“If only I had my mom! Or your mom! Or some close friends!” I sobbed to my husband. He felt terrible, but there was little he could do.

That night, the pains started again and grew in frequency. I kicked my husband awake and told him it was time to go. This time it was three in the morning. There was little traffic and we made it to the hospital in record time.

Sixteen hours and a difficult delivery later, I gave birth to a boy we named Eric. We were shocked, because the Japanese doctor who gave me an ultrasound a few months before said he was sure it was a girl. At least, we thought he said girl. While everything we bought was feminine, frilly and pink, we were thrilled that our Emma was really an Eric.

I was wheeled into my room, which I had to share with another new mother, and Eric was whisked away to the nursery. There was a curtain separating me from the other mother but I could hear voices and the quiet gurgles of a newborn. I lay staring at Jeff.

“Can you believe we have a little boy?” he asked all smiles. I smiled and nodded. Then the tears came to my eyes.

“What's the matter?” Jeff sat down beside me.

“I'm supposed to be happy. Our parents should be here to meet their first grandchild. Our brothers and sisters and best friends should be here.” I felt my chin quiver.

“They'll see him soon,” Jeff said. He bent over and kissed my forehead. “Should I call home?” he asked.

“Sure,” I let out a big yawn. I couldn't move. My body ached. I felt like a Mack truck had hit me. And worse, the nurse would be in soon to get me up and to the bathroom. “They'll be surprised to know we had a boy.”

Jeff picked up the phone. “What's your parents' number?”

I gave him the number and he called home to tell everyone we had a baby boy. After he hung up I heard a voice from behind the curtain.

“Excuse me,” said someone quietly.

My husband drew back the curtain and we looked at the tall woman I had seen earlier at the hospital.

“I heard you calling home and recognized the area code,” she started. “Are you from Massachusetts?”

“My wife is,” said Jeff pointing at me.

“Where in Mass?” asked the woman.

“Oh, it's a real small town between Boston and Cape Cod,” I said.

“You probably don't know it.”

“What's the name?”

“Norwell,” I said.

The woman's eyes lit up and her jaw dropped.

“I'm from Norwell, too!”

I looked at her, my eyebrows scrunched tight. I didn't recognize her.

“What's your name?”

She told me and I immediately gave her mine. We stared at each other in disbelief.

“You're Kelly from South Street?” I asked. I sat up in my bed and straightened my hair.

“Yep. Can you believe this?” She was holding a small bundle and rocking her arms back and forth.

“This is amazing,” I said. Jeff and Kelly's husband shook hands. I had known Kelly since elementary school. We went through high school together until she moved away some time around our senior year. We didn't hang out together but had the same homeroom and many classes together. Now, ten years later we were having babies together on the other side of the world. She had grown quite tall since I knew her and her hair was different. But when she told me her name I immediately recognized her. Our babies were due on the same day, but both decided to come late. Kelly had given birth to a beautiful baby girl named Samantha.

The remainder of our time in the hospital was spent going through yearbooks, which our husbands dug up for us. We gave interviews to the base newspapers. No one could believe that two high school friends would be reunited in the delivery ward of a military hospital, half way around the world.

My prayers were answered, too. At the moment Kelly spoke up, I was completely exhausted and filled with such sadness, longing for a familiar face from home.

While my husband was shipped off two weeks later, Kelly and I kept in contact. Every Christmas I receive a card from her and Samantha, letting me know how they are doing.

A Fair Trade

“Keep away from children.” That's what my matchbook cover says. Gladly. I'm seventy-four years old and heavily into the osteoporosis-and-angioplasty scene. But how can I keep away from children? We have a ten-year-old adopted granddaughter.

Nobody likes to be one of life's clichés. But we are. Startling statistics these days tell how many grandparents adopt grandchildren. My husband and I are two of them.

Our car has no bumper sticker that says, “I'm spending my children's inheritance.” We are. But not on travel.

So this grandmother's life revolves around Girl Scouts and choir, dance and piano lessons. She's a much-ignored advocate for good manners. A much-resisted fashion consultant.

Well, you get the picture.

If ever there was a Don't Ask, Don't Tell situation, this is it. You get questions, or looks.

At the clinic, at the school office, wherever. “You're her...mother?” Well, yes, legally speaking. You keep explaining, like someone in a Zen riddle. “I'm her mother. I'm also her grandmother.”

The kid gets questions, too, from other kids. “Why do you live with your grandparents?” “What's wrong with your parents?” My advice to her: “Tell them it's none of their business.” But she came up with a better one: “My parents couldn't take care of me.”

That's true.

Every adoptive grandparent and grandchild has some kind of soap-opera scenario. And it's nobody's business.

Culture shock bombards adoptive grandparents. There are two kinds. Math and sex.

Math first. Let's say you did bring up five children. Your oldest is now fifty-three. Your youngest is now thirty-four. That means you've been out of the loop for a while.

So you find that elementary-school math is a big culture shock.

You never mastered the so-called New Math thirty years ago. Now you find yourself clueless when confronted by a fifth-grade math book.

Go ask your granddad. Never mind. He's clueless, too.

Sex at the modern ten-year old level is an even bigger culture shock. The words! The jokes! The casual, offhand reports of startling playground shenanigans.

Everything has speeded up. Now ten-year-olds act like teenagers. The giggling gender awareness. The raucous music. The constant sass. If this is fifth grade, what lies in wait in middle school?

And there are little ironies in the fire.

Take sewing. I can't sew. But now I have to sew Scout badges on vests, initials on dancewear, tails on costumes, buttons on many things. A real seamstress could do this in minutes. It takes me hours.

It doesn't help that I have arthritic hands.

So here I am with a ten-year-old who's bigger than I am and wears bigger shoes that are getting even bigger. And more expensive.

Here's the part of the soap opera I'll tell: We were her foster grandparents for several years before we adopted her. Adoption took some doing. And yes, our advanced age was questioned by social workers, lawyers, the works.

But in the end, after some hassle, the kid was ours.

She's pretty. She dances and sings. She makes friends. She gets good grades. Well, if you don't count spelling. They have something now called “creative spelling,” and you'd better believe it's creative.

So we're statistics - grandparents who have adopted a grandchild. And when you're in your mid-seventies, and your child is ten, you may rightly wonder about another kind of statistic: What are the chances you'll be around for her high-school graduation, her college diploma, her wedding day, her first child?

Luckily, the kid's beloved aunt and other relatives are standing by, ready to take over when the time comes.

Sometimes statistics end up cutting it pretty close. But the kid's with her own family. You wouldn't take that for anything.

A Forever Kind of Love

One of our favorite patients had been in and out of our small, rural hospital several times, and all of us on med-surg had grown quite attached to her and her husband. In spite of terminal cancer and resulting pain, she never failed to give us a smile or a hug. Whenever her husband came to visit, she glowed. He was a nice man, very polite and as friendly as his wife. I had grown quite attached to them and was always glad to care for her.

I admired their expression of love. Daily, he brought her fresh flowers and a smile, then sat by her bed as they held hands and talked quietly. When the pain was too much and she cried or became confused, he hugged her gently in his arms and whispered until she rested. He spent every available moment at her bedside, giving her small sips of water and stroking her brow. Every night, before he left for home, he closed the door so they could spend time alone together. When he was gone, we'd find her sleeping peacefully with a smile on her lips.

On this night, however, things were different. As soon as I entered report, the day nurses informed us she had steadily taken a turn for the worse and wouldn't make it through the night. Although I was sad, I knew that this was for the best. At least my friend wouldn't be in pain any longer.

I left report and checked on her first. When I entered the room, she aroused and smiled weakly, but her breathing was labored and I could tell it wouldn't be long. Her husband sat beside her, smiling, too, and said, “My Love is finally going to get her reward.”

Tears came to my eyes, so I asked if they needed anything and left quickly. I offered care and comfort throughout the evening, and at about midnight she passed away with her husband still holding her hand. I consoled him and with tears running down his cheeks he said, “May I please be alone with her for awhile?” I hugged him and closed the door behind me.

I stood outside the room, blotting my tears and missing my friend and her smile. And I could feel the pain of her husband in my own heart. Suddenly from the room came the most beautiful male voice I have ever heard singing. It was almost haunting the way it floated through the halls. All of the other nurses stepped out into the hallways to listen as he sang “Beautiful Brown Eyes” at the top of his lungs.

When the tune faded, the door opened and he called to me. He looked me in the eyes then hugged me saying, “I sang that song to her every night from the first day we met. Normally I close the door and keep my voice down so as not to disturb the other patients. But I had to make sure she heard me tonight as she was on her way to heaven. She had to know that she will always be my forever love. Please apologize to anyone I bothered. I just don't know how I will make it without her, but I will continue to sing to her every night. Do you think she will hear me?”

I nodded my head “yes,” unable to stop my tears. He hugged me again, kissed my cheek, and thanked me for being their nurse and friend. He thanked the other nurses, then turned and walked down the hall, his back hunched, whistling the song softly as he went.

As I watched him leave I prayed that I, too, would someday know that kind of forever love.

A Friday Night in May

“Mr. Walker is coming to my jazz recital,” announced Laura, my seven-year-old daughter, as I applied mascara to her blonde eyelashes.

Trying not to jab her eyeball, I asked, “What makes you think so?” Mr. Walker, her first-grade teacher, could do no wrong. He'd turned her into a reader, a thinker and an organized student. He was the one who encouraged my tomboy daughter to try dance. He'd told her she shouldn't settle for stereotypes. We settled on jazz – a dance experience that wasn't quite pink ballet slippers but more like rousing funk. She was leery, but decided to give it a try. Now, on the night of her big recital, it appeared she had her heart set on Mr. Walker attending. It's not that I doubted his dedication, it's just that I wouldn't attend a dance recital unless I'd given birth to one of the dancers. I'm not saying they are excruciating, I'm merely suggesting Mr. Walker probably had something more important to do on a Friday night.

I felt compelled to prepare my daughter for the real world. I couldn't let her go around thinking her happiness depended on the remote possibility he would attend.

“Did he say he'd come?” I inquired gently.

“No, but I asked him to,” she said, flinching as I removed pink sponge curlers. I launched into a rambling lecture about how not everyone has the time or inclination to witness her stage debut.

“Mom,” she sighed. “You don't understand. He wants to come. He's my teacher,” she concluded, as if that was his sole reason for existence.

I figured she'd get over it. After all, you can't prepare your child for all of life's disappointments. And she did have grandparents in from Baltimore, cousins in from Nashville, and an aunt and an uncle attending. It will have to be enough, I thought, miserable because of the complete assurance she had shining from her blue eyes.

I got her safely backstage, lipstick applied, hair stiffly sprayed and cowgirl hat securely fastened. Cowgirls, istsy-bitsy-spiders and Arabian dancers crowded around, saying hello, touching each other's cemented curls. “I can't believe it's Laura,” said her dance instructor, staring at the sight of Umbro shorts replaced with a fringed cowgirl skirt.

“Save a seat for Mr. Walker,” she whispered, as I brushed some final blush onto her cheeks. I thought about telling her not to get her hopes up, to try to appreciate the accumulated frequent-flyer miles represented by members of her own family. But I didn't. Maybe, I thought, she'll forget about it.

The curtains were about to go up. Our extended family was gathered, when I happened to glance to the back of the theater. There, perusing a program, was Mr. Walker. I hurried to the back and half-dragged him down the aisle to the saved seat in the middle of our family. “You came,” I whispered as the curtains rose. Smiling, he gave me the thumbs-up signal. When the little cowgirls came strutting on stage, he clapped and cheered, declaring them talented and wonderful.

“How did Mr. Walker like the dance?” was her first question as I retrieved her from the backstage crowd.

“How did you know he'd come?” I asked, still amazed.

“I just knew,” she replied, a smile lighting her face like a candle in a dark room.

I know Laura will have a lot of dedicated teachers in he lifetime. She will have creative English teachers, brilliant college professors and inspired dance instructors. But I'm not sure she'll ever have another like Mr. Walker.

A teacher who obviously had something important to do on a Friday night in May.

A Friend on the Line

Even before I finished dialing, I somehow knew I'd made a mistake. The phone rang once, twice - then someone picked it up.

“You got the wrong number!” a husky male voice snapped before the line went dead. Mystified, I dialed again.

“I said you got the wrong number!” came the voice. Once more the phone clicked in my ear.

How could he possibly know I had a wrong number? At that time, I worked for the New York City Police Department. A cop is trained to be curious - and concerned. So I dialed a third time.

“Hey, c'mon,” the man said. “Is this you again?”

“Yeah, it's me,” I answered. “I was wondering how you knew I had the wrong number before I even said anything.”

“You figure it out!” The phone slammed down.

I sat there awhile, the receiver hanging loosely in my fingers. I called the man back.

“Did you figure it out yet?” he asked.

“The only thing I can think of is...nobody ever calls you.”

“You got it!” The phone went dead for the fourth time. Chuckling, I dialed the man back.

“What do you want now?” he asked.

“I thought I'd call...just to say hello.”

“Hello? Why?”

“Well, if nobody ever calls you, I thought maybe I should.”

“Okay. Hello. Who is this?”

At last I had gotten through. Now he was curious. I told him who I was and asked who he was.

“My name's Adolf Meth. I'm 88 years old, and I haven't had this many wrong numbers in one day in 20 years!” We both laughed.

We talked for 10 minutes. Adolf had no family, no friends. Everyone he had been close to had died. Then we discovered we had something in common: he'd worked for the New York City Police Department for nearly 40 years. Telling me about his days there as an elevator operator, he seemed interesting, even friendly. I asked if I could call him again.

“Why would you wanta do that?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, maybe we could be phone friends. You know, like pen pals.”

He hesitated. “I wouldn't mind...having a friend again.” His voice sounded a little tentative.

I called Adolf the following afternoon and several days after that. Easy to talk with, he related his memories of World Wars I and II, the Hindenburg disaster and other historic events. He was fascinating. I gave him my home and office numbers so he could call me. He did - almost every day.

I was not just being kind to a lonely old man. Talking with Adolf was important to me, because I, too, had a big gap in my life. Raised in orphanages and foster homes, I never had a father. Gradually, Adolf took on a kind of fatherly importance to me. I talked about my job and college courses, which I attended at night.

Adolf warmed to the role of counselor. While discussing a disagreement I'd had with a supervisor, I told my new friend, “I think I ought to have it out with him.”

“What's the rush?” Adolf cautioned. “Let things cool down. When you get as old as I am, you find out that time takes care of a lot. If things get worse, then you can talk to him.”

There was a long silence. “You know,” he said softly, “I'm talking to you just the way I'd talk to a boy of my own. I always wanted a family - and children. You're too young to know how that feels.”

No, I wasn't. I'd always wanted a family - and a father. But I didn't say anything, afraid I wouldn't be able to hold back the hurt I'd felt for so long.

One evening Adolf mentioned his 89th birthday was coming up. After buying a piece of fiberboard, I designed a 2' x 5' greeting card with a cake and 89 candles on it. I asked all the cops in my office and even the police commissioner to sign it. I gathered nearly a hundred signatures. Adolf would get a kick out of this, I knew.

We'd been talking on the phone for four months now, and I thought this would be a good time to meet face to face. So I decided to deliver the card by hand.

I didn't tell Adolf I was coming; I just drove to his address one morning and parked the car up the street from his apartment house.

A postman was sorting mail in the hallway when I entered the building. He nodded as I checked the mailboxes for Adolf's name. There it was. Apartment 1H, some 20 feet from where I stood.

My heart pounded with excitement. Would we have the same chemistry in person that we had on the phone? I felt the first stab of doubt. Maybe he would reject me the way my father rejected me when he went out of my life. I tapped on Adolf's door. When there was no answer, I knocked harder.

The postman looked up from his sorting. “No one's there,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little foolish. “If he answers his door the way he answers his phone, this may take all day.”

“You a relative or something?”

“No. Just a friend.”

“I'm really sorry,” he said quietly, “but Mr. Meth died day before yesterday.”

Died? Adolf? For a moment, I couldn't answer. I stood there in shock and disbelief. Then, pulling myself together, I thanked the postman and stepped into the late-morning sun. I walked toward the car, misty-eyed.

Then, rounding a corner, I saw a church, and a line from the Old Testament leaped to mind: A friend loveth at all times. And especially in death, I realized. This brought a moment of recognition. Often it takes some sudden and sad turn of events to awaken us to the beauty of a special presence in our lives. Now, for the first time, I sensed how very close Adolf and I had become. It had been easy, and I knew this would make it even easier the next time, with my next close friend.

Slowly, I felt a warmth surging through me. I heard Adolf's growly voice shouting, “Wrong number!” Then I heard him asking why I wanted to call again.

“Because you mattered, Adolf,” I said aloud to no one. “Because I was your friend.”

I placed the unopened birthday card on the back seat of my car and got behind the wheel. Before starting the engine, I looked over my shoulder. “Adolf,” I whispered, “I didn't get the wrong number at all. I got you.”

A Garden for Four

In San Francisco, where the houses rub shoulders and squat only steps from the street, we don't have gardens. We have backyards. And if you find a place to live with a backyard that has not been cemented over or gone to the dogs, you consider yourself lucky, indeed.

Four years ago, I found a new apartment. It had a backyard with a small concrete center patio, as so many of them do. A leaning fence corralled three sides of the yard. Between the patio and the fence, deep beds held a mishmash of bottlebrush and pine. The trees stood in weed patches and everything was tangled in climbing clematis that was busy strangling sweet-smelling jasmine.

This apartment happened to sit less than a block from my parents' big, but yardless, condo. They had just retired and were busy with bridge tournaments, guitar lessons and international travel. Dad was still a Hercules of a man, silly, creative and kind. Mom was The Planner. When they enthusiastically offered their gardening services, I was thrilled. I had no idea what would happen next.

It started innocently enough. For Christmas, they gave me one of those plastic green scooter seats - “to save your back,” Mom said. For my birthday in February, Dad and my brother spent two entire weekends removing the top three inches of “bad dirt” and replacing it with Dad's “good dirt,” a secret concoction of who-knows-what mixed with beer dregs. Mom and Dad got a set of keys to my place, “just in case” they felt like puttering in the garden while I was at work.

As spring warmed to summer, I began to feel as if leprechauns had moved in; each evening, I'd come home from work to find all sorts of garden mischief. A fragrant, fifty-pound bag of chicken manure materialized in the work shed. His and her watering cans stood at either side of the yard, to save steps and arguments about who last left what can where. And our gardening tool collection grew so fast that I suspected the shovels had married and started a family of little spades, hoes and picks.

Had I slept through moonlight work sessions? Window boxes changed their dresses nearly as often as I did. And each time the fog rolled in, rows of bumblebee wind whirligigs clattered in beds of purple petunias and pink impatiens.

I would wake up early on Sunday mornings, pull back the drapes and spit coffee at the sight of my parents' dungareed fannies pointing skyward, beginning another full day of planting and pulling. Mom developed a mania for combinations of orange and purple. She planted salvia, marigolds, poppies, golden aster and lavender. The bolts of color blanketing the yard made my eyes hurt. I took to reading my paper wearing sunglasses.

Dad, meanwhile, proclaimed himself paramedic to all sick and injured plantings - mainly because he stepped on them himself in his size-thirteen work boots. His gardening prescription? “Give it another week.”

But my parents' gardening mania was short lived. Less than a year later, and just six weeks before I was to be married, Dad was in a hospice, dying of brain cancer. A ferocious biological weed had sent its tendrils deep into his memory, robbing him of speech and sight. Yet he insisted that whatever happened to him, we mustn't postpone the wedding. I promised him solemnly that we would honor his wish, and we did.

I had learned a lot watching my parents enjoy themselves, shaping that city garden in their precious last summer. Working, planning, bickering, experimenting and learning side by side, they built memories for all of us. I realized how much Mom treasured those months when she gave my husband and me a splendid patio set with a gigantic umbrella. “So you can enjoy your garden like your dad and I did,” she said with a smile.

Recently, my husband - out of the blue - decided to plant a gigantic candy-colored bougainvillea. Nurseryman and neighbors galore warned him that bougainvillea roots are extremely sensitive and that they often get shocky, keeling over dead the minute they are put in the ground. Sure enough, two weekends later, it looked like a tumbleweed, no more than a collection of brittle twigs.

“Should we ripe it out?” he asked me.

I remembered Dad's favorite gardening cure.

“Give it another week,” I said.

Dad and I were right. I think that cheerful bougainvillea will be cresting our fence by this summer.

A Full and Complete Stop

A little while ago, I was on a flight back home from a business trip.

After the aircraft landed and was taxiing toward the gate, the head steward got on the PA system and began the oft-repeated speech about destinations, gate locations and the service people waiting to help you.

Then, as the plane approached the gate, some passengers looked restless, and it appeared as if they were about to stand up.

Seeing this, the steward announced, “We have invested a lot of money to ensure that your flight has been safe and comfortable. We are also looking for ways to save money, and this aircraft is participating in a new experiment. To reduce costs, we are asking for volunteers to help clean the cabin upon our arrival. Those wishing to volunteer for cabin clean-up, please stand up before we come to a full and complete stop.”

Not a single passenger left his or her seat until we were at the gate, and the seat belt sign was turned off.

A Grandpa's Love

I stared from the deck of my hotel room, intrigued. An older gentleman was assisting a young girl as she struggled to walk down the beach. He must be her grandfather, I thought. Somehow, I was drawn to the drama of the twosome, and winced as she fell. The graying man helped her to her feet, and she continued painstakingly plodding through the sand.

That evening, as I ate in the hotel restaurant, and watched as the same young girl proceeded to get up from the table and reach for her walker. She grasped it firmly with both hands, and leaning heavily, she made her way out of the restaurant, smiling as she went.

As I sipped my coffee in the lobby the next morning, I noticed a sign tacked to the announcement board. “Special Olympics Relays.” Ah, I thought, that must be what the walking lessons are all about.

Over the next three days, I watched as the grandfather patiently worked with his student. “You can do it, Sweetheart. Let's get up and try again.” And at this encouragement, she would struggle again to her feet.

On the morning of the Olympics, as I visited with friends in the lobby, a beautiful bouquet of roses was delivered to the front desk. The girl soon appeared for her delivery, her face brightening at the sight. She smiled as she read the card.

As she walked away, the card slipped from her fingers and she continued down the hallway. I stepped quickly to retrieve it, glancing at the handwritten words as I hurried after her, “To my sweet Elizabeth – you have been the greatest encouragement to my heart these last few days. I love and am proud of you. Win or lose, you will always be my little miracle from God. Love, Grandpa.” She had disappeared around the corner, so I put the card in my pocket to give to her later.

Now attached to the little girl and her grandpa, I felt compelled to watch her Olympic event – a quarter-mile. She definitely was a fighter. I cheered as she crossed the finish line – second place. She smiled as she stood on the awards platform, and a tear slipped down her cheek as the medal was placed around her neck. She told the crowd, “I especially want to thank my grandpa for believing in me when I had no one else.”

I found her later and returned her card. I said, “Congratulations!” As we talked, she revealed that she and her parents were hit by a drunk driver three years prior. She was the only survivor. Her grandfather shook my hand and said, “By the grace of God alone, this little girl is alive and able to accomplish what she did today.”

Elizabeth smiled and hugged her grandpa. “Everyone gave up hope that I would ever walk again. My grandpa was the only one who didn't.”

A High School Love Not Forgotten

When they saw him walking across our high school campus, most students couldn't help but notice Bruce. Tall and lanky, he was a thinner replica of James Dean, his hair flipped back above his forehead, and his eyebrows always cocked upward when he was in deep conversation. He was tender, thoughtful and profound. He would never hurt anyone.

I was scared of him.

I was just breaking up with my not-so-smart boyfriend, the one you stayed with and went back to 30 times out of bad habit, when Bruce headed me off at a campus pass one morning to walk with me. He helped me carry my books and made me laugh a dozen times with giddiness. I liked him. I really liked him.

He scared me because he was brilliant. But in the end, I realized I was more scared of myself than of him.

We started to walk together more at school. I would peer up at him from my stuffed locker, my heart beating rapidly, wondering if he would ever kiss me. We'd been seeing each other for several weeks and he still hadn't tried to kiss me.

Instead, he'd hold my hand, put his arm around me and send me off with one of my books to class. When I opened it, a handwritten note in his highly stylized writing would be there, speaking of love and passion in a deeper sense than I could understand at 17.

He would send me books, cards, notes, and would sit with me at my house for hours listening to music. He especially liked me to listen to the song, “You Brought Some Joy Inside My Tears,” by Stevie Wonder.

At work one day I received a card from him that said, “I miss you when I'm sad. I miss you when I'm lonely. But most of all, I miss you when I'm happy.”

I remember walking down the street of our small village, cars honking, the warm lights from stores beckoning strollers to come in from the cold, and all I could think about was, “Bruce misses me most when he's happy. What a strange thing.”

I felt deeply uncomfortable to have such a romantic spirit by my side, a boy - really a man at 17 - who thought his words out wisely, listened to every side of an argument, read poetry deep into the night and weighed his decisions carefully. I sensed a deep sadness in him but couldn't understand it. Looking back, I now think the sadness stemmed from being a person who really didn't fit into the high school plan.

Our relationship was so different from the one I'd had with my prior boyfriend. Our lives had been mostly movies and popcorn and gossip. We broke up routinely and dated other people. At times, it seemed like the whole campus was focused on the drama of our breakups, which were always intense and grand entertainment for our friends to discuss. A good soap opera.

I talked to Bruce about these things and with each story, he'd respond by putting his arm around me and telling me he'd wait while I sorted things out. And then he would read to me. He gave me the book “The Little Prince,” with the words underlined, “It's only in thy mind's eye that one can see rightly.”

In response - the only way I knew how - I wrote passionate letters of love and poetry to him with an intensity I never knew before. But still I kept my walls up, keeping him at bay because I was always afraid that he'd discover I was fake, not nearly as intelligent or as deep a thinker as I found him to be.

I wanted the old habits of popcorn, movies and gossip back. It was so much easier. I remember well the day when Bruce and I stood outside in the cold and I told him I was going back to my old boyfriend. “He needs me more,” I said in my girlish voice. “Old habits die hard.”

Bruce looked at me with sadness, more for me than for himself. He knew, and I knew then, I was making a mistake.

Years went by. Bruce went off to college first, then I did. Every time I came home for Christmas, I looked him up and went over for a visit with him and his family. I always loved his family - the warm greetings they gave me when they ushered me into their house, always happy to see me. I knew just by the way his family behaved that Bruce had forgiven me for my mistake.

One Christmas, Bruce said to me: “You were always a good writer. You were so good.”

“Yes,” his mother nodded in agreement. “You wrote beautifully. I hope you'll never give up your writing.”

“But how do you know about my writing?” I asked his mom.

“Oh, Bruce shared all the letters you wrote him with me,” she said. “He and I could never get over how beautifully you wrote.”

Then I saw his father's head nod, too. I sank back in my chair and blushed deeply. What exactly had I written in those letters?

I never knew Bruce had admired my writing as much as I had his intelligence.

Over the years, we lost touch. The last I heard from his father, Bruce had gone off to San Francisco and was thinking about becoming a chef. I went through dozens of bad relationships until I finally married a wonderful man - also very smart. I was more mature by then and could handle my husband's intelligence - especially when he'd remind me I had my own.

There's not one other boyfriend I ever think about with any interest, except for Bruce. Most of all, I hope he is happy. He deserves it. In many ways, I think he helped shape me, helped me learn how to accept the side of myself I refused to see amid movies, popcorn and gossip. He taught me how to see my spirit and my writer inside

A Hug from a Teenage Boy

As northern Canadians we share many memories of cold winters. At Christmas time, I often reflect upon one particular evening of a prairie winter in the early sixties. Though the frost was cruel, the reminiscence is warm.

We were students at college in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, most of us living away from home for the first time. Hanging a few strips of tinsel in our rooms didn't relieve the feeling of homesickness that had overtaken our dorm. What could we do to bring on the Christmas spirit, stave off our longing for home and maybe brighten someone else's life? One of my friends suggested going caroling. That was it! Every student at our small college was rousted out for the occasion. No auditions. No voice lessons. No excuses. Warmth of spirit was the only requirement. And our enthusiasm served as an electric soul-warmer for those who seemed lacking in spirit.

We divided into groups so our music would resound over most of our college town. The group I joined had nothing resembling four-part harmony, but we could collectively make a joyful noise. Bounding boisterously and carrying a tune in our hearts, we made our first call. “Deck the Halls,” we tra-la-la-ed.

Soon we discovered that caroling brings a variety of responses. When you carol for people you know, you can be sure of open doors and open hearts; when you carol for strangers, you can't be sure of what kind of reception you will get. Some folks remained in the safety and coziness of their homes, watching and listening passively through living room windows. Others cautiously propped the door open enough to hear us, but not enough to let in the cold - or their unknown guests. Some flung wide their doors and sang along; others watched in silent reverie.

One of the stops on our journey was a three-story apartment building. With no intercoms or security cameras to deter us in those days, we walked right in. Starting our performance in the basement, we sang mostly to closed doors. After a couple of songs we headed for the main floor. Two doors swung open. One doorway framed a young couple, obviously expecting a child. In another doorway, two preschoolers clung to their parent's legs. Surprise? Wonder? Curiosity? Their faces seemed to ask, Who are these strange, bundled-up people? And why are they doing this?

We sang “Away in a Manger” for the young ones. We continued with “Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem” for our seemingly appreciative gathering. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, we burst into “It Came upon the Midnight Clear,” a song that suited the night.

One door on the top floor creaked open. A stately gentleman, grey-haired and thin, held onto his doorknob. He became our audience of one. As we murmured about what to sing next, the elderly fellow asked, “Would you come into our apartment and sing for my wife? She's bedridden. I know she'd love to hear you. My wife used to be an opera singer,” he added proudly, “and she's always loved music.”

All eight of us stepped timidly into the couple's tiny, crowded bachelor suite. Books, records, china, antique furniture and mementoes whispered stories to us. I reminded myself not to stare for fear of invading their privacy. This was their home, their sanctuary and a hallowed place where the old-timer watched over his fragile partner. Her silver bed-mussed head made only a small dint in her pillow.

Without a word, he adjusted his wife's headrest so she could see and hear us better. Then he gave a nod. Our voices rose and warbled through “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Had our voices been given extra grace and beauty for this occasion? Perhaps they had - we sang rather well for such a motley, impromptu crew.

A smile flickered on the lady's gaunt, wrinkled, yet beautiful, face. Her eyes sparkled softly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her husband requested “Joy to the World” and “Silent Night,” two of her favourites.