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On this question again of success and failure, and of closing the books upon the past, and then having immediately to turn around and repeat our performance: Life is very much like that— always—every week, every day, every hour—almost. We do continually have to repeat our performance.
There is this sobering thought which the New Year suggests: In a sense, “success is never final". The moment we close the books on one year we open them on another and compare our performance with the past.
On this day, and even at this hour, there comes into our consciousness a sense of countless scenes and settings that we should like to look in upon, across this beloved land, and beyond, in many other blessed places, across the wide world: the sending of sincere messages; the giving and the getting of gifts; the going and the coming from places of worship; the warm exchange of greetings of families and friends; the turning homeward; the being at home (or the wishing that we were); the sweet, whispered conspiracies; the bursting in of children; the light in their eyes; the laughter on their lips; the arms around Grandma and Grandpa; the appreciation to parents; the tempting odors from the kitchen with their promise of a wonderful kind of overeating (approved or tolerated "just this once") ; the mellowing of feelings; the melting of hearts; the wonderful sense of doing something for someone!
Recently a wise physician was speaking of the very favorable chances of recovery from certain diseases and from certain kinds of surgery.
We should like to look once more at the uses of daylight and darkness, with something more to say concerning the darkness of discouragement. As to the distortions of darkness—many things are imagined. Troubles are magnified, and symptoms also, and worries become weightier in the hours of the night.
On this question again of the Lord God's having divided the light of the day from the darkness of the night: There are proverbs and pronouncements from many centuries back concerning the use of the daylight hours that God has given.
"In the beginning…” it is written “the earth was without form and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called Night."1
On this question again of the point at which a person's character is safely set A man may, in his youth, from his parents, receive strict teaching and training and be schooled in solid standards and basic qualities of character. But as he grows older and takes his own independent place, he may, under some circumstances, foolishly and unfortunately forget for the moment the teachings of his youth and break away a bit from the things that have made him the man he is.
Somewhere we have heard the story of the old southern hunter who sent his faithful dog on an errand—an errand on which the dog encountered a forest fire and lost his life.
Often children are heard to say impatiently to parents: "Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself I" And adults often say the same thing, in substance, to their families and friends.
In response to an accusing question as to what he is doing, it is a quite common occurrence to hear a youngster reply defensively: "I'm not doing anything" and this suggests again an interesting subject: that innocence isn't always merely a matter of not doing anything.
Sometimes when the unwanted events of our lives occur, we find ourselves praying and pleading to make some things as if they hadn't happened. And we find ourselves blaming ourselves for what we did or didn't do and wishing for the privilege of going back and making a second decision.
The time-honored custom of swearing in the witness has come to be a very commonplace occurrence—to "solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth . . . " This solemn oath has served many a weighty and important purpose.
In the pressures and impatience and thoughtlessness of life, our relationships with others are often likely to be less considerate than they should be— and all of us it seems, are almost sure to have our feelings hurt from time to time—and often, unthinkingly, are likely to hurt the feelings of others also.
With school under way once more, and also for opportunities for work, many young people find themselves away from home—some for the first time.
An ancient philosopher offered this interesting observation: "If we could be twice young and twice old, we could correct all our mistakes."1
There is in most of us at times a tendency not to do anything that is difficult to do, not to perform any unpleasant service or engage in any inconvenient activity.
As we look back upon the plight of Hamlet with all his problems, one of the things for which he was most to be pitied was his inability to make up his mind. But Hamlet wasn't the only one who has hung between "to be or not to be."
Summer has all but slipped away.
Last week we spoke of the beginning of things—of men who have had the courage to move into uninhabited places, and to make good beginnings.
As concerning the moving of men into uninhabited places, this brief and meaningful sentence comes from the journal of an eminent American: "The beginning of things always causes emotions to arise."1
On this question again of wondering always when we are going to "get there": When our children are young and very dependent upon us, sometimes perhaps we think what we would do if we were more free from responsibility. And then the time comes when we are more free from that kind of responsibility, and in looking back we find that it was one of the sweetest, most enjoyable parts of life.
A frequent question from those who are going somewhere is this: "When are we going to get there?" It is a question typical of children headed for picnic places. It is a question typical of adults moving through the years of life. "When are we going to get there?"
We should like to begin today with a sentence with which we could well conclude—a sentence taken from the New Testament—"Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty"1—and then to add to it a question and an answer from Seneca: "Thou inquirest what liberty is? [It is] to be a slave to nothing…”2
No doubt all of us are troubled at times by the unanswered questions of life. No doubt all of us are given to wondering at times about many things.
Have you ever heard a father say of someone: "He was good to my son"? If you have, you have no doubt sensed something that goes far deeper than any ordinary gratitude.
Among the interesting things of life are the meanings we allow words to take unto themselves. There are many words whose sounds are sweet because of what they connote—words such as warmth and love, home and friends, peace and quiet, comfort and kindness—and so many more that have come to mean so much.
Today we should like to suggest a bit of after-commencement counsel: For students leaving school—for millions of them—summer is a season, generally speaking, of less supervision.
In some ways, time heals and softens the sharpness of many sorrows, but the sharpness of separation from our loved ones can become acute at any time, as any moment may bring its own reminders of them—especially as the years increase, especially as the long years come and go for those who live in loneliness.
There is another side to this subject of someone to trust, someone to be safe with, and that is this: The person who is foolish enough to suppose that he can outsmart other men, that be can outsmart a law, or a lock, or an audit, or a safety system is simply outsmarting himself. It is true that a person might conceal something for a while.