Spoken Word Messages - Page 70

Remembrance is a mark of a thoughtful, grateful man—but sometimes it is acute and cutting, as suggested in this sentence from Shakespeare: "How sharp the point of this remembrance is!"1 Remembrance has a sharp point for many of us specially the remembrance of those who have given their lives that we might better live; especially the remembrance of those we have loved and lost.  "How sharp the point of this remembrance is!" 

The coming of another commencement calls to mind the passing of another year so swiftly and so soon—and suggests once more to all of us that we ought to start early to do what we ought to be doing. 

One of the indispensable elements of a sincerely successful life is the ability, the power, the capacity, and the willingness to see things through—to carry things beyond conversation to conclusion.  And one of the disappointing qualities of character is the failure to see things through. 

For the blessed privilege of having had such a mother as would add grace and kindliness to a company even of angels—for such a hallowed privilege, our hearts are humbled this day.  And as we turn our thoughts to memories and to mothers—to you who have them with you yet, may we say from us who have had them taken from us be to them, this day—and always, what you would wish you had been to them if they were no longer here.  Let there be no loneliness among mothers this day, or on any other, for any thoughtlessness of ours. 

There are times and moments in life when people seem to have arrived at what they want—when the plans and purposes they have pursued seem to have been successful.  But this we learn, sooner or later: that life is not a single scene.  It is a series of scenes. 

Perhaps it has always been so; certainly, during our day it seems increasing to have been so: that custom and connotation have changed the meaning of words, and that men have found new ways for uttering old ideas. 

    In The Prisoner of Chillon, Lord Byron said in the awesome words of a classic couplet:                                                 Oh, God! it is a fearful thing                                                 To see the human soul take wing.

Frequently we see people come to places of prominence or achieve pre-eminence in some particular profession.  But what we frequently, fail to see is the groundwork, the long growth, the prolonged preparation that goes into the making of a man—the discipline, the study, the work, and the waiting to achieve solid success. 

We often see the familiar picture of parents and teachers pleading with young people to improve themselves, to learn their lessons, to make the most of their lives.  And because of this sincere anxiety on the part of parents, young people may sometimes assume that they are doing teachers or parents a favor by learning their lessons, by improving their lives.  In one sense this is true. 

Since we are assured that Spring has constantly recurred for so many centuries, we should not, perhaps, be awed or overly impressed by its coming once again—but Spring never ceases to be an unbelievable miracle and an unforgettable memory.  If the Creator were not still creating (or if the law of chance were ever to take over), we should not know if there should ever be another Spring. 

In the ultimate sense no man and no set of circumstances can keep another man from what he has earned.  As Emerson observed: "Persons and events may stand for a time between [us] and justice, but it is only a. postponement. [We] must pay at least [our] own debt"1 — and, it should be added, we shall certainly at last, or sooner, receive our merited reward. 

There is a spirit that blights and shrivels the human soul whenever it remains unchallenged and unchecked.  For want of better words, perhaps it could be called: "the spirit of getting by"—of doing as little as possible, of giving as little as possible, of working as little as possible. 

“There is no duty,” wrote Robert Louis Stevenson, “we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.”  We think of happiness as being deeply desirable but seldom perhaps think of it as a duty.  But duty it is, for without it life falls short of its full power and purpose. 

Sometimes there are sounds which at first we are only vaguely aware of, intrusive, insistent sounds that are all around us, but which don't quite break through to our full consciousness, which are somehow partly shut out from our senses: the throbbing of a motor, the roar of traffic, the worrisome sound of the wind, the hiss of escaping steam, the pervasive sound of an air-conditioning system, the droning of a fan. 

On the surface it might seem that we today have few of the problems of Valley Forge, and that they had few, if any, of ours.  But the principles and the problems that pertain to people basically are quite constant.  And if Washington were here, we can only conclude that he would not retreat from any principle which he turned to in facing the troubles of his own time. 

There sometimes seems to be a disposition to assume that the lessons which another generation has learned somehow don't apply to the present.  And seemingly on this assumption, young people are often impatient with the counsel and cautioning’s of parents.  But this they should know that it can be more foolish to spurn a rich legacy of experience than to spurn a rich legacy of goods or of gold. 

We sometimes hear something said about "sitting this one out."  It is all right to sit out some things, but it is tragic to sit out life and let it pass as if we were not a part of the picture.  Sometimes too much of what we do—or think we do—is in the nature of simply sitting and seeing someone else do something. 

Scarcely does it seem possible, but a twelfth part of the year has already past.  More suddenly and sooner than we suppose it will be spring.  More suddenly and sooner than we suppose, it will be summer.  And soon again the summer will have passed, and soon again we shall be looking at the closing of the calendar, and, soon again we, shall be asking ourselves: Where has it gone, and what have we done with it? 

In thumbing through some commonplace words, we find the word fringe—and we find it thus  in part defined, as “an ornamental border…” or “something resembling a fringe; . . . as the outer fringe of a crowd.” 

We read these days of speeds that move men beyond the so-called "sonic barrier," and of the forces and feelings encountered when super-powered planes physically fight their way through the "sound wall" almost as if they were moving through a solid substance. 

Sometimes we think of the past as a thing quite apart from the present.  To say that something happened a century or so ago may seem like dimly long ago.  But if we have lived through half a century, or a quarter, or even a sixth of a century, we know how quickly it has come and gone. 

We sometimes shy away from words—especially words that have acquired unpleasant connotations; for example, we may speak quite comfortably of good resolutions, but perhaps not quite so comfortably of repentance as it may concern ourselves.  But often there is little distinction between the two. 

This is the time of year when thoughts of unfinished business become acute, and when we are comfortable or uncomfortable according to the degree to which we have done the things, we know we should have done, the things which a year ago we resolved in good faith to do. 

There is a question concerning Christmas that keeps recurring: What is it that makes it so different a day?  Except for some very real and far-reaching considerations it wouldn't be so different a day—and if it weren't, we should be going through some meaningless motions.  Christmas has its own special spirit, quite apart from all other commemorative occasions.  It is different, and there are reasons why it is and should be so. 

On this question again of "the light which lighteth every man that cometh into the world" (John 1:9): Men seem to have an urgent sense of searching for something.  Indeed, it may be safely said that most men are searching for something, they are not now, aware of having seen. 

It is recorded in the first book of the Bible that God said: "Let there be light" (Genesis 1:3)—and from there on through scripture, the great theme, the blessed theme of light is over and over emphasized: "The Lord is my light" (Psalms 27:1);  "Let us walk in the light of the Lord" (Isaiah 2.5);  "Then shall thy light break forth" (Isaiah 58:8); "Arise, shine, for thy light is come" (Isaiah 60:1); "Ye are the light of the world"'(Matthew 5:14);  "a burning and a shining light" (John 5:35); "Let your light so shine before men" (Matthew 5:16); "Walk as children of light" (Ephesians 5.8); “Christ shall give thee light” (Ephesians 5:14);  "a light that shineth in a dark place" (11 Peter 1:19). 

Some years ago Gustaf Stromberg, eminent Swedish-American scientist, had some significant things to say in one of his scholarly works concerning the memories of men: "A study of the nature of memory shows immediately that it must be carried by an immaterial structure. The matter in our brain is continuously changing . . . And thus, we have a 'new' brain after a relatively short time . . . and the necessity of an immaterial living structure in the brain, independent of that of atoms, becomes immediately evident.  This structure . . . appears to be indestructible." . . . “We therefore conclude that there are good reasons for the following important assertion: The memory of an individual is written in indelible script in space and time.”1 

One doesn't have to live very long before he becomes aware of the pleasure of doing things for appreciative people and the disappointment of doing things for people who seem to lack a sincere sense of appreciation or who somehow fail to show it. 

There is no one we know of who is free from problems.  Most of us at times have difficult situations to solve.  But there are some who succumb to adverse circumstances more easily than others (sometimes on the assumption that nothing can be done).  And there are some who refuse to give up easily—and often by their own efforts (and with help that comes from outside themselves) somehow manage to bring things about.

Sometimes it would be well if we could step aside and see ourselves as if we had never seen us before—and see not only ourselves, but see also the things around us, free from the tired impressions we have of places and people.