高三英语培优·名著阅读之心灵鸡汤精选 Away in a Manger（答案在最后）
澳洲探亲班级：____________学号：____________姓名：____________
心灵鸡汤精选Away in a Manger
【文章梗概】圣诞前的一次全家出行，五岁的儿子问父亲：“怎么从未见父亲哭过？”这一问题引出了父亲对于男人惯有的坚忍克己的反思。他并不希望自己的下一代压抑他们的情绪，便告诉孩子：“眼泪是好事，是上帝治愈悲伤的方式。”平安夜，父亲在儿子美妙的歌声里泪流满面。仪式之后，儿子看到父亲湿润的眼睛并告诉他：“有时生活太美妙，我们不得不流泪！”
Christmas gift suggestions:
To your enemy, forgiveness.
To an opponent, tolerance.
To a friend, your heart.
To a customer, rvice.
To all, charity.
To every child, a good example.
To yourlf, respect.
黑豆豆浆的做法大全
~Oren Arnold
One afternoon about a week before Christmas, my family of four piled into our minivan to run an errand, and this question came from a small voice in the back at: “Dad,” began my five-year-old son, Patrick, “how come I’ve never en you cry?”
Just like that. No preamble. No warning. Surprid, I mumbled something about crying w
hen he wasn’t around, but I knew that Patrick had put his young finger on the largest obstacle to my own peace and contentment— the dragon-filled moat parating me from the fullest human expression of joy, sadness and anger. Simply put, I could not cry.
I am scarcely the only man for whom this is true. We men have been conditioned to believe that 生活就是这样stoicism is the embodiment of strength. We have traveled through life with stiff upper lips, cretly dying within.
For most of my adult life, I have battled depression. Doctors have said much of my problem is physiological, and they have treated it with medication. But I know that my illness is also attributable to years of swallowing rage, sadness and even joy.
Strange as it ems, in this world where macho is everything, drunkenness and depression are safer ways than tears for many men to deal with feelings. I could only hope the same debilitating handicap would not be pasd to the next generation.
So the following day when Patrick and I were in the van after playing at a park, I thanked
him for his curiosity. Tears are a good thing, I told him, for boys and girls alike. Crying is God’s way of healing people when they’re sad. “I’m glad you can cry whenever you’re sad,” I said. “Sometimes daddies have a harder time showing how they feel. Someday I hope I do better.”
Patrick nodded. In truth, I held out little hope. But in the days before Christmas, I prayed that somehow I could connect with the dusty core of my own emotions.
“I was wondering if Patrick would sing a ver of ‘Away in a Manger’during the rvice on Christmas Eve,” the church youth director asked in a message left on our answering machine.
My wife Catherine and I struggled to contain our excitement. Our son’s first solo.
Catherine delicately broached the possibility, reminding Patrick how beautifully he sang, telling him how much fun it would be. Patrick himlf emed less convinced and frowned. “You know, Mom,” he said, “sometimes when I have to do something important, I get kind of scared.”
Grown-ups feel that way, too, he was assured, but the decision was left to him. His deliberations停职留薪 took only a few minutes.
“Okay,” Patrick said. “I’ll do it.” From the time he was an infant, Patrick has enjoyed an unusual passion for music. By age four he could pound out veral bars of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” on the piano.
For the next week Patrick practiced his stanza veral times with his mother. A rehearsal at the church went well. Still, I could only envision mylf at age five, singing into a microphone before hundreds of people. When Christmas Eve arrived, my expectations were limited.
空话连篇
Catherine, our daughter Melanie and I sat with the 化学计量congregation in darkness as a 康乃馨是什么颜色spotlight found my son, standing alone at the microphone. He was dresd in white, with a pair of angel wings.
Slowly, confidently, Patrick hit every note. As his voice washed over the people, he emed a true angel, a true bestower of Christmas miracles.
There was eternity in Patrick’s voice that night, a beauty rich enough to penetrate any rerve. At the sound of my son, heavy tears welled at the corners of my eyes.
His song was soon over, and the congregation applauded. Catherine brushed away tears. Melanie sobbed next to me.
After the rvice I moved to congratulate Patrick, but he had more urgent priorities. “Mom,” he said as his costume was stripped away, “I have to go to the bathroom.”
As Patrick disappeared, the pastor wished me a merry Christmas, but emotion choked off my reply. Outside the sanctuary I received congratulations from fellow church members.
I found my son as he emerged from the bathroom. “Patrick, I need to talk to you about something,” I said, smiling. I took him by the hand and led him into a room where we could be alone. I knelt to his height and admired his young face, the large blue eyes, the dusting of freckles on his no and cheeks, the dimple on one side.
