Spoken Word Messages - Page 63

 “The course of life is ... run but in one way, and only once,"1 This was said of youth as it moves into old age, but it has its application in other ways also. 

As the years come and go, increasingly there is concern and consideration for old age.  Youth and age endlessly have both come in for comment.  In a sense, the comparisons and appraisals are somewhat pointless, because we have so little choice between the two.  Either we die young, or we grow old. 

We have all, seen youngsters, and others also, listen reluctantly to last minute instructions.  "I know, I know," impatiently they reply, maybe having half heard.  They are confident they don't need directions or counsel of any kind.  But by listening they could likely save themselves much loss of time or the making of many mistakes. 

This moving music from "The Messiah," is, in its own way, a witness of the mission and message of Jesus the Christ, the Prince of Peace—who’s coming was foretold for centuries of time and has been the subject of sacred writ for all the centuries since. 

Correction is an essential part of the teaching process.  Suppose that in the schoolroom not even the teacher cared enough to correct, or that in the home, not even parents cared enough to correct—how would anyone ever learn or make progress or ever know right from wrong? But, as was added, correction should include these […]

We would turn for a moment or two today to what could seem to be a paradoxical subject: The kindness of correction.  We are thinking of some lines of a letter from a girl whose parents had corrected her for some wayward ways: "You know, right then I decided my parents really did love me," she said.  "They loved me enough to care what I did or what became of me, and to try to keep me from getting into trouble."

It takes many kinds of courage to live through life—the courage to face facts, to solve problems; the courage to accept assignments, to stay with what we have started, the courage to follow through; the courage to preserve principles, and sometimes to fight for them.  And there are times, paradoxically, that call for another kind of courage even the courage to run away. 

Within a framework of principles, it is the variability among men, the differences as well as the likenesses, that permit happiness to be possible—for if all wanted to do the same things at the same time in the same way, if all chose the same kind of people as partners, not only would life be monotonous, but it would also present some impossible problems. 

Surely the one thing most sought for in this life is happiness—no matter what we call it, no matter whether we are seeking it in right or wrong ways.  Often unhappiness comes from overemphasizing the negative side of situations. 

To an audience of young people, a wise counselor recently proposed a question concerning those with whom they keep company—a question which all of us could well ask concerning ourselves and all our associates: "Are we good for each other?"1

With the passing summers and seasons, there come times of leave-taking.  Many leave home, many young people particularly, for school, for work, for other opportunities.  And leaving home-ties is always in some ways a trying time—even leaving for pleasant prospects. 

In many ways we take great pains to protect our property and to safeguard ourselves.  We pass many laws, and we make many locks. 

Among the distinguishing differences between people—one which classifies and separates men in significant measure—is the willingness, the ability, the character, the demonstrated desire to accept an assignment, to take responsibility, to follow through. 

The power of decisions is sometimes seized from us by too long a delay.  And while we should never be stampeded, never too swiftly persuaded in a matter of major choice, neither should we wait so long that we let life waste away. 

What follows is not a comment of the kind this hour generally suggests.  But that which pertains to people, to their health and happiness, to the full and effective living of life, is a proper subject for any hour.  And with all there is of injury to people and to property, and human impairment, and heartbreaking loss of life, safety is a proper and important and pressing subject for any hour. 

If we were to title what follows in one phrase, we could perhaps call it "Slamming doors."

Last week we talked of the principle of repentance, with the principle of forgiving—and of forgetting what has been forgiven.  Now, what of the possibilities—what of the real results—of repentance? 

In moving through life, we all tend to pick up some prejudices, some resentments, perhaps some sense of injury at times, some feelings that we have been offended.  And sometimes we hug these hurts, real or imagined, close to our hearts.  And when we feel that others have given offense, it isn't always easy to forgive, and it may be even harder to forget—and perhaps still harder to concede that we ourselves may also have given others some feelings of offense. 

One of the sobering considerations of life would be an appraisal of the things we have for which we didn't personally pay a price.  We may sometimes seem fearful that we are imposed upon, that we may do too much, and that, so far as work is concerned, we shouldn't exceed ourselves—and sometimes shortsightedly we may forget how abundantly we have been benefited by the work of others. 

We go through some interesting cycles in this life we live.  Our children arrive helpless in infancy, completely dependent upon us. 

In commenting on the partnership of his parents, an eminent and grateful son once said: "Never in all my boyhood did they fail to stand together on any question which affected the children.  We never could play one off against the other or find anywhere a rift between them."1

May we turn a moment or two to freedom—that freedom which relatively so few in all this world have bad, yet which is so essential to the full and effective living of life; that freedom for which so many have paid a price, yet which so many have forgotten the price paid and the principles by which it would be preserved. 

All of us make many choices every day—choices as to what we do with every hour and every opportunity.  And we are constantly faced with contrasts: We turn down or yield to temptations. 

A grateful daughter had this to say concerning her once famous father: "He transmitted to me a sound heredity on his own side, and he gave me a good mother."1

Duty isn't a word that is always quite comfortable or convenient.  But the free and easy making of marriages, and the free and easy undoing of them by divorce, suggest, for the sake of all concerned—for children, country, community, for family and friends—for ourselves and for our eternal future (and for self-respect as well as for a quiet conscience)—that we should say some things concerning the simple doing of duty. 

We are not living a static life, as suggested by this sentence from an unknown source: "If you were graduated yesterday, and have learned nothing today, you will be uneducated tomorrow."1

Some thoughtful words of Addison today suggest a subject: "The grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for."1 In other words we need work (which, of course, includes purpose), loved ones, and assurances for the future. 

One sure test of friendship is to seek the welfare of him whose company we keep.  Since this is so, a reasonable question to ask of everyone is this: "What do you intend?" 

A much-blessed mother and father were once asked how they had so well reared their children.  They lived with modest means, seemingly with no unusual advantages—except love, and character, and common sense, and common convictions. 

Blessedly, in the lives of most of us, there are saving and safeguarding influences moving in the background, molding and mellowing and maturing us— influences of which we are often unaware.  And one such influence is the patient, prayerful, presence of the mothers of men.