Each spring brings a new blossom of wildflowers in the ditches along the highway I travel daily to work. There is one particular blue flower that has always caught my eyes. Ive noticed that it blooms only in the morning hours, the afternoon sun is too warm for it. Every day for approximately two weeks, I see those beautiful flowers. This spring, I started a wildflower garden in our yard. I can look out of the kitchen window while doing the dishes and see the flowers. Ive often thought that those lovely blue flowers from the ditches would look great in that bed alongside other wildflowers. Everyday I drove past the flowers thinking, “Ill stop on my way home and dig them.”
“Gee, I dont want to get my good clothes dirty...” Whatever the reason, I never stopped to dig them. My husband even gave me a folding shovel one year for my trunk to be used for that expressed purpose. One day on my way home from work, I was saddened to see that the highway department had mowed the ditches and the pretty blue flowers were gone. I thought to myself, “Way to go, you waited too long. You should have done it when you first saw them blooming this spring.” A week ago we were shocked and saddened to learn that my oldest sister-in-law has a terminal brain tumor. She is 20 years older than my husband and unfortunately, because of age and distance, we haven’t been as close as we all would have liked. I couldn’t help but see the connection between the pretty blue flowers and the relationship between my husbands sister and us. I do believe that God has given us some time left to plant some wonderful memories that will bloom every year for us. And yes, if I see the blue flowers again, you can bet Ill stop and transplant them to my wildflower garden.
There are lives that have bread in abundance and yet are starved; with barns and warehouses filled, with shelves and larders laden they are empty and hungry. No man need envy them; their feverish, restless whirl in the dust of publicity is but the search for a satisfaction never to be found in things. They are called rich in a world where no others are more truly, pitiably poor; having all, they are yet lacking in all because they have neglected the things within. The abundance of bread is the cause of many a mans deeper hunger. Having known nothing of the discipline that develops lifes hidden sources of satisfaction, nothing of the struggle in which deep calls unto deep and the true life finds itself, he spends his days seeking to satisfy his soul with furniture, with houses and lands, with yachts and merchandise, seeking to feed his heart on things, a process of less promise and reason than feeding a snapping turtle on thoughts. It takes many of us altogether too long to learn that you cannot find satisfaction so long as you leave the soul out of your reckoning. If the heart be empty the life cannot be filled. The flow must cease at the faucet if the fountains go dry. The prime, the elemental necessities of our being are for the life rather than the body, its house. But, alas, how often out of the marble edifice issues the poor emaciated inmate, how out of the life having many things comes that which amounts to nothing. The essential things are not often those which most readily strike our blunt senses. We see the shell first. To the undeveloped mind the material is all there is. But looking deeper into life there comes an awakening to the fact and the significance of the spiritual, the feeling that the reason, the emotions, the joys and pains that have nothing to do with things, the ties that knit one to the infinite, all of which constitute the permanent elements of life.
I was up before the sunrise one October morning, and away through the wild and the woodland. The rising of the sun was noble in the cold and warmth of it; peeping down the spread of light, he raised his shoulder heavily over the edge of gray mountain and wavering length of upland. Beneath his gaze the dew-fogs dipped and crept to the hollow places, then stole away in line and column, holding skirts and clinging subtly at the sheltering corners where rock hung over grass-land, while the brave lines of the hills came forth, one beyond other gliding. The woods arose, like drapery of awakened mountains, stately with a depth of awe, and memory of the tempests. Autumns mellow hand was upon them, as they owned already, touched with gold and red and olive, and their joy towards the sun was less to a bridegroom than a father. Yet before the floating impress of the woods could clear itself, suddenly the gladsome light leaped over hill and valley, casting amber, blue, and purple, and a tint of rich red rose, according to the scene they lit on, and the curtain flung around; yet all alike dispelling fear and the cloven hoof of darkness, all on the wings of hope advancing, and proclaiming, God is here! Then life and joy sprang reassured from every crouching hollow; every flower and bud and bird had a fluttering sense of them, and all the flashing of Gods gaze merged into soft beneficence. So, perhaps, shall break upon us that eternal morning, when crag and chasm shall be no more, neither hill and valley, nor great ocean; when glory shall not scare happiness, neither happiness envy glory; but all things shall arise, and shine in the light of the Fathers countenance, because itself is risen.
Im 16. The other night while I was busy thinking about important social issues, like what to do over the weekend, I overheard my parents talking about my future. My dad was upset—not the usual stuff that he and Mom worry about, like which college Im going to, how far away it is from home and how much its going to cost. Instead, he was upset about the world his generation is turning over to mine. He sounded like this: There will be a pandemic that kills millions, a devastating energy crisis, a horrible worldwide depression and a nuclear explosion set off in anger. As I lay on the living room couch, starting to worry about the future my father was describing, I found myself looking at some old family photos. There was a picture of my grandfather in his uniform. He was a member of the war class. Next to his picture were photos of my great-grandparents. Seeing those pictures made me feel a lot better. I believe tomorrow will be better, not worse. Those pictures helped me understand why. I considered some of the awful things my grandparents and great-grandparents had seen in their lifetimes: two world wars, killer flu, a nuclear bomb. But they saw other things, too, better things: the end of two world wars, the polio vaccine, passage of the civil rights laws. I believe that my generation will see better things, too —that we will witness the time when AIDS is cured and cancer is defeated; when the Middle East will find peace, and the Cubs win the World Series—probably only once. I will see things as inconceivable to me today as a moon shot was to my grandfather when he was 16, or the Internet to my father when he was 16. Ever since I was a little kid, whenever Ive had a lousy day, my dad would put his arm around me and promise me that tomorrow will be a better day. I challenged my father once, How do you know that? He said, I just do. I believed him. As I listened to my Dad talking that night, so worried about what the future holds for me and my generation, I wanted to put my arm around him, and tell him what he always told me: Dont worry Dad, tomorrow will be a better day.本文来源：http://www.diffuseuk.com/meiwendaquan/22167.html