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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.
On this question again of being safe with someone: After all other considerations are taken into account and given their proper appraisal, we had just as well, first and always, face this fact: that the only things we can count on ultimately are honesty, integrity, and high qualities of character.
There is something hallowed in turning homeward. Homeward turns the child tired from school or play. Homeward turns the man or woman weary from work, weary from the problems and the hard competitive pace. Homeward turn the tired to the long shadows of the sunset. "All things turn home at eventide."1
We have talked of sharing and of keeping confidences. Today for a moment, we should like to talk of someone to trust—someone to be safe with.
Last week we talked of sharing confidences. Today, for a moment, we should like to talk of keeping confidences.
Sometimes some people seem to pride themselves on being self-contained, on withholding their thoughts and experiences from others. Up to a point, this may be evidence of a strong and admirable self-reliance. But the most enjoyed things in life are enjoyed as they are shared.
Not long ago I watched a loving family before an open grave, as the casket of a beloved silver-haired father was lowered to its resting place. There was calm. There was peace, and no evidence of irreconcilable sorrow.
Of the seventh day preceding Easter, John the Beloved and others record how the multitude acknowledged the Master for what He was: the King of Israel, Messiah, and Savior. Less than one week later, with false accusation and the mockeries of men, he was on the cross—and there was death and darkness and despair.
No doubt most of us tell ourselves at times what we would do differently if we were running the world, or the universe. We see things and people that should be improved, and wrongs that should be righted.
Not long ago we talked somewhat of truth, and concluded that, dangerous though it may be at times, it is not nearly so dangerous as ignorance is. Of course, ignorance, like all the other words we use, has various definitions and degrees.
It is a wonderful, comforting, reassuring feeling when parents, mentally, can call the roll, and find all the family in—safe and secure. When families are young in years, it is comparatively easy to feel assured that they are somewhat safe, or at least to be assured that they are all in.
A sentence recently read from an unknown author offers these words of wise and comforting counsel: "Do not distress yourself with dark imaginings: Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness....”1
Not too infrequently it would be well to turn our attention to Pilate's timeless question, "What is Truth?" –for on the answer hangs all we are or ever hope to be.
It has been many centuries since the Psalmist asked this ever-recurring question: "What is man, that thou art mindful of him?"' Both before and since then men have asked it of themselves and others over and over again. Why is the answer important?
Perhaps most of us have had the experience of trying too closely to follow another car; and soon we learn how hazardous and difficult it is, how tense and trying, to drive at another person's pace.
There comes to mind a phrase remembered from a childhood game of forfeits: "Heavy, heavy hangs over thy poor head." If we were to emphasize the negative side of the passing scenes, all of us could live fearful, trembling lives.
Sometimes, some event in our lives brings sharply into focus the swift traveling of time. It may be a birthday or some other anniversary which ties some happening of the past to the present and emphasizes the time between the two.
Perhaps this comment could be called "the dotted line"—since signing on the dotted line has come to be a symbol of entering into obligations—a symbol sometimes of getting into things that are not easy to get out of. Many have discovered that it is much easier to get into things than it is to get out of them.
It hasn't been long since, frequently and freely, we were wishing one another happiness for another New Year. Already an impressive part of that year has passed, and it isn't too soon to consider whether or not we have come any closer to finding the happiness we so much wished for one another. Happiness is the most pursued thing in all the world.
Faith, work, patience: To these three elements from a formula for the New Year should be added also another—repentance. Repentance doesn't appear to be very popular.
This, already, is the second day of another three hundred sixty-five. The New Year will not last long. And despite its festivities, it is somewhat sobering—sobering for many reasons, and in part because of some uncertainties. But sometimes we overemphasize uncertainty.
Christmas has come and gone again, and its closeness leads us to the question: Could we somehow keep the spirit that made yesterday so different a day—for different it was, and well we know it. Could we somehow avoid repeating the cycle the poet suggested:
May we turn a moment or two to these words of Him whose birth Christmas commemorates. "Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: For I was an hungred, and ye gave, me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in: Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me. Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? For when saw we thee sick, or in prison, and came unto thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."2
May we look further for a moment at a conclusion already arrived at: that every man has more faith within himself than he sometimes supposes—not only faith in tangible and touchable factors and forces, but faith also in the unseen, untouchable intangibles, and in the eternal future.
Despite the misuse men have made of many things, the past century or so has been one of profound unfoldment of truth. The mind of man has been permitted by the Almighty to penetrate what to us have heretofore been unknown realms.
We hear much concerning the subject of faith: that it will move mountains, that it is the "evidence of things not seen,"1 that with it all things are possible. And altogether all we learn of it leads us to know that faith is indeed a great and desirable gift.