Mom would be proud to know that my husband John and I recently published our first children‘s book. Although we originally set out to write an entertaining story about a boy with school troubles， I soon discovered that John was the victim of a school bully. He had buried the hurt and humiliation deep inside， but as we stepped further into the writing process， the impact of his experience was evident.
My mother’s lessons taught me to listen closely to the soft whispers of life. This perspective helped me to realize that a message emerged from our collaboration， beyond the pages of our book. This knowledge changed the direction of our lives.
Our children‘s book became the basis for an anti-bullying program. The program， filled with stories， songs and practical advice， teaches children about the consequences of bullying and helps to provide a safe and healthy learning environment.
Today， as John and I speak at schools and community events， I pray that our pieces of time sprinkled with pivotal moments serve to help the children. Because now， I understand.
母爱在疼痛中传递，我用生命来感悟
参考翻译（佚名）
生活就是由散落的时光碎片组成，零零星星点缀着各种各样的关键时刻。有时候这些关键时刻会有立竿见影的功效。其他时候却又慢慢延续，逐步彰显其重要性。但你若仔细聆听生活的轻言细语，它们将带你进入意想不到的美丽旅程，其中尽是理解和恪尽职守。八年前这种时刻光顾了我。
那是个特殊的日子，我和妈妈一起重新布置她的房间。我们把家具重新摆设、清洗并擦亮，更换了窗帘和被褥。接下来重新摆放了花花草草，撒上香花瓣并配了蜡烛。安顿完毕，我们后退一步，颇为自豪地欣赏着自己的功劳。这时妈妈认为我们需要增加点儿氛围，于是她点燃了蜡烛。
显然她的手上还留有清洗液。因为当她打燃打火机时，火光突然蹿入空气中，她的手上立刻就起了大大的水疱。身体也开始颤抖。
泪水滑落双颊，她望着我耳语道：“孩子们。”这是她首先想到要说的词，而不是哭喊、尖叫，也不是诅咒--“孩子们”。我也惊慌失措了。我想她是被吓傻了。我赶紧将她带到浴室处理伤处。可那些水疱太大了，她的手指已经无法动弹了。我意识到我得带她去医院；而且我非常担心她的精神状况。她的反应如此奇怪。“妈妈，您说孩子们，指的什么呀？”我问道。
她抬起头望着我，满眼含泪，她的眼神是我所见过的最让人怜爱最深情的眼神，“那些被烧伤的孩子多可怜啊。”她继续说道，“我在奥普拉的访谈节目里看到过。我都觉得很疼了，对一个孩子来说得有多疼啊！真是同情他们……他们得承受多少痛苦啊。”
这就是她的回答。我的妈妈烧伤程度为二至三级，双手肿大，布满了水疱，还不停地颤抖着，可她的泪却是为那些孩子流的，那些她在奥普拉节目中看到的孩子。可我却远没她那么单纯，那时，我只关心她的伤势，顾不得其他人。
四年前，也是10月份，我永远地失去了妈妈，她死于癌症。按照她的本性，生病期间她从未抱怨过，一次也没有。即使是痛苦的时候，她还是教会了我很多宝贵的道理。妈妈临终前作了最后一次检查，我们在病房等她的检查结果时她就给我上了一课。医生终于来了，风一样地进来，宣布完噩耗后就匆匆离开了。
一时之间，我既震惊，又伤心、恼怒。我转头对妈妈说：“我讨厌他。”她用美丽的蓝眼睛望着我说：“这样不好，他是在履行他的职责。你有没有想过，要告诉病人这样的坏消息他得多难过啊？”
噢，妈妈，您真伟大！没有妈妈的日子，世事变迁，瞬息万变。酸甜苦辣咸五味俱全，该经历的都经历过了，妈妈那些宽容的教诲时时指引着我，触动我的生活。
我和丈夫约翰最近出版了我们的第一本儿童书，妈妈要是知道了一定会为之骄傲的。我们最初是想把这本书写成一个娱乐故事，讲述一个小男孩在学校里遭遇的麻烦。不久我发现约翰小时候深受校园欺凌之害。他一直把伤痛和耻辱深深埋在心间。但随着我们故事的深入，他受过欺负的影响就越来越明显了。
母亲教诲我要仔细聆听生活的轻声细语。这种觉悟使我在合作中，读取到书之外的讯息。我们的生活因此而改变了。
我们的儿童书成了反对校园欺凌运动的基础。这项运动，通过各种故事、歌曲和实用建议告诉孩子们欺凌弱小的后果，有利于创造安全健康的学习环境。
如今，每当轮到我和约翰在学校和社区集会上作演讲时，我都 会祈祷我们经历的那些关键时刻能帮助孩子们。因为现在，我真的 懂了。
My Father， My Son， Myself 父亲，儿子，我AnonymousMy father still looks remarkably like I remember him when I was growing up- hair full， body trim， face tanned， eyes sharp. What’s different is his gentleness and patience. I had remembered neither as a boy， and I wondered which of us had changed.
My son Matthew and I had flown to Arizona for a visit， and his 67- year-old grandfather was tuning up his guitar to play for the boy.“You know‘Oh， Give Me a Home， Where the Buffalo Roam’？”my father asked.
All the while， four-year-old Matthew was bouncing on the couch， furtively strumming the guitar he wasn‘t supposed to touch and talking incessantly.
My father and I were once at great odds. We went through all the classic resentful and rebellious teen stuff； shouting matches， my weird friends， clothes and beliefs. I still vividly recall the revelation that finallycame to me one day that I was not my father， and that I could stop trying to prove I wasn’t.
When I was a boy， my father wasn‘t around much. He worked seven days a week as a milkman. But even at work he was the task- master in absentia. Infractions were added up， and at night he dispensed punishment， though rarely beyond a threatening voice or a scolding finger.
I believed that manhood required that I stand up to him， even if it meant fists. One day some friends and I buried our high school’s parking-lot barriers under the woodpile for the annual home-coming bonfire.
We hated the things because they kept us from leaving school in our cars until after the buses had left. I thought the prank was pretty funny， and I mentioned it to my father. He didn‘t think it was funny， and he ordered me to go with him to dig the barriers out.
Can you imagine anything more humiliating at age 16？ I refused， and we stood toe to toe. Dad was in a rage， and I thought for an instant that the test had come.
But then he shook his head and calmly walked away. The next day my friends told me that they had seen him at the bonfire celebration. He’d climbed into the woodpile in front of hundreds of kids， pulled out the barriers and left. He never mentioned it to me. He still hasn‘t.
Despite our father-son struggles， I never doubted my father’s love， which was our lifeline through some pretty rough times. There are plenty of warm memories- he and I on the couch watching TV together， walking a gravel road， as dusk， riding home in a car， singing“Red River Valley”.
He had this way of smiling at me， this way of tossing a backhandedcompliment， letting me know he was proud of me and my achievements. He was a rugged teaser， and it was during his teasing that I always sensed his great， unspoken love. When I was older， I would understand that this is how many men show affection without acknowledging vulnerability. And I imitated his way of saying“I love you”by telling him his nose was too big or his ties too ugly.
But I can‘t recall a time my father hugged or hissed me or said he loved me. I remember snuggling next to him on Sunday mornings. I remember the strong， warm feeling of dozing off in his arms. But men， even little men， did not kiss or hug； they shook hands.
There were times much later when I would be going back to college， times when I wanted so badly to hug him. But the muscles wouldn’t move with the emotion. I hugged my mother. I shook hands with my father.
“It‘s not what a man says， but what he does that counts.”He would say. Words and emotions were suspect. He went to work every day， he protected me， he taught me right from wrong， he made me tough in mind and spirit. It was our bond. It was our barrier.
