First-Class Fighting Trim

C.S. Lewis

"Prudence means practical common sense, taking the trouble to think out what you

are doing and what is likely to come of it. Nowadays most people hardly think of

Prudence as one of the ‘virtues’. In fact, because Christ said we could only get into

His world by being like children, many Christians have the idea that, provided you

are ‘good’, it does not matter being a fool. But that is a misunderstanding. In the

first place, most children show plenty of ‘prudence’ about doing the things they are

really interested in, and think them out quite sensibly. In the second place, as St.

Paul points out, Christ never meant that we were to remain children in intelligence:

on the contrary. He told us to be not only ‘as harmless as doves’, but also ‘as wise

as serpents’. He wants a child’s heart, but a grown-up’s head. He wants us to be

simple, single-minded, affectionate, and teachable, as good children are; but He also

wants every bit of intelligence we have to be alert at its job, and in first-class fighting

trim. The fact that you are giving money to a charity does not mean that you need

not try to find out whether that charity is a fraud or not. The fact that what you are

thinking about is God Himself (for example, when you are praying) does not mean

that you can be content with the same babyish ideas which you had when you were

a five-year-old. It is, of course, quite true that God will not love you any the less, or

have less use for you, if you happen to have been born with a very second-rate brain.

He has room for people with very little sense, but He wants every one to use what

sense they have."

Deep and Unmet Needs

Spencer W. Kimball

"Jesus saw sin as wrong but also was able to see sin as springing from deep and unmet needs on the part of the sinner. This permitted him to condemn the sin without condemning the individual. We can show forth our love for others even when we are called upon to correct them. We need to be able to look deeply enough into the lives of others to see the basic causes for their failures and shortcomings."

- Spencer W. Kimball

Ships, Like Men, Respond to Challenge

James A. Michener

"A ship, like a human being, moves best when it is slightly athwart the wind, when it has to keep its sails tight and attend its course. Ships, like men, do poorly when the wind is directly behind, pushing them sloppily on their way so that no care is required in steering or in the management of sails; the wind seems favorable, for it blows in the direction one is heading, but actually it is destructive because it induces a relaxation in tension and skill. What is needed is a wind slightly opposed to the ship, for then tension can be maintained, and juices can flow and ideas can germinate, for ships, like men, respond to challenge”

- James A. Michener

Turn Their Lives Over to God

President Ezra Taft Benson

"Men and women who turn their lives over to God will discover that He can make a lot more out of their lives than they can. He will deepen their joys, expand their vision, quicken their minds, strengthen their muscles, lift their spirits, multiply their blessings, increase their opportunities, comfort their souls, raise up friends, and pour out peace. Whoever will lose his life in the service of God will find eternal life." 

- President Ezra Taft Benson

Quiet Down, Cobwebs

Song for a Fifth Child

Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby, loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.)

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby. Babies don't keep.
- by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton

He Is Building a Palace

C.S. Lewis

"Imagine yourself as a living house. God comes in to rebuild that house. At first, perhaps, you can understand what He is doing. He is getting the drains right and stopping the leaks in the roof and so on; you knew that those jobs needed doing and so you are not surprised. But presently He starts knocking the house about in a way that hurts abominably and does not seem to make any sense. What on earth is He up to? The explanation is that He is building quite a different house from the one you thought of - throwing out a new wing here, putting on an extra floor there, running up towers, making courtyards. You thought you were being made into a decent little cottage: but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself." 

- C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

The Distance Narrows

Spencer W. Kimball

“I find that when I get casual in my relationships with divinity and when it seems that no divine ear is listening and no divine voice is speaking, that I am far, far away. If I immerse myself in the scriptures the distance narrows and the spirituality returns. I find myself loving more intensely those whom I must love with all my heart and mind and strength, and loving them more, I find it easier to abide their counsel.”

Abraham Lincoln's Favorite Poem

Mortality

By William Knox

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave

He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around, and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved;

The mother that infant's affection who proved;

The husband, that mother and infant who blest,--

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure, -- her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised,

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,

The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,

The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,

The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,

The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven,

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes -- like the flower or the weed

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes -- even those we behold,

To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen;

We drink the same stream, we view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;

To the life we are clinging, they also would cling; --

But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.

They loved -- but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned -- but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved -- but no wail from their slumber will come;

They joyed -- but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died -- ay, they died; -- we things that are now,

That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

And make in their dwellings a transient abode;

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;

And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,

Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye -- 'tis the draught of a breath--

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,

From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud:--

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Related Link

Poetry Written by Abraham Lincoln