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A Mother Wrote to the World During World War II

Dear World,

My son starts school today. It’s going to be strange and new to him for a while. And I wish you would sort of treat him gently.

You see, up to now, he，s been king of his own room. He，s been boss of the back yard. I have always been around to repair his wounds，and to comfort his feelings.

But now-things are going to be different.

This morning, he is going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand and start on his great adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow. To live his life in the world he has to live in will require faith and love and courage.

So, World, I wish you would sort of take him by his young hand and teach him that things he will have to know. Teach him — but gently, if you can. Teach him that for every scoundrel there is a hero； that for every dishonest politician, there is a devoted leader； that for every enemy there is a friend. Teach him the wonders of books. Give him quiet time to think over the mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and flowers on the green hills. Teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat. Teach him to have faith in his own ideas, even if everyone else tells him they are wrong. Teach him to sell his strength and brains to the highest bidder, but never to put a price on his heart and soul. Teach him to close his ears to a howling crowd... and to stand and fight if he thinks he’s right. Teach him gently, World, but don’t spoil him, because only the test of fire makes fine steel.

This is a big order, World, but see what you can do. He is such a nice little fellow.

The Gift of Love

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient；love is kind；love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way；it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end； as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part； but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child； when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part；then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three；and the greatest of these is love.

Love at First Sight

They both thought that a sudden feeling had united them.

This certainty is beautiful, even more beautiful than uncertainty.

They thought they didn't know each other,

nothing had ever happened between them,

These streets, these stairs，this corridors, Where they could have met so long ago?

I would like to ask them, if they can remember-

perhaps in a revolving door face to face one day?

A “sorry” in the crowd?

“Wrong number” on the phone?

—but I know the answer.

No, they don’t remember.

How surprised they would be For such a long time already Fate has been playing with them.

Not quite yet ready to change into destiny,which brings them nearer and yet further, cutting their path and stifling a laugh, escaping ever further;

There were signs, indications, undecipherable, what does in matter.

Three years ago, perhaps or even last Tuesday,

this leaf flying from one shoulder to another?

Something lost and gathered.

Who knows, perhaps a ball already in the bushes, in childhood?

There were handles, door bells,where, on the trace of a hand,another hand was placed;suitcases next to one another in the left luggage.

And maybe one night the same dream forgotten on walking;

But every beginning is only a continuation,and the book of fate is always open in the middle.

On Resignation

Resignation is of two sorts, one rooted in despair, the other in unconquerable hope. The man who has suffered such fundamental defeat that he has given up hope of serious achievement may learn the resignation of despair, and if he does, he will abandon all serious activity.

He may, camouflage his despair by religious phrases, or by the doctrine that contemplation is the true end of man, but whatever disguise he may adopt to conceal his inward defeat, he will remain essentially useless and fundamentally unhappy.

The man whose resignation is based on unconquerable hope acts in quite a different way. Hope which is to be unconquerable must be large and impersonal. Whatever my personal activities, may be defeated by death, or by certain kinds of diseases; I may be overcome by my enemies;

I may find that I have embarked upon an unwise course which cannot lead to success. In a thousand ways the failure of purely personal hopes may be unavoidable, but if personal aims have been part of larger hopes for humanity, there is not the same utter defeat when failure comes.