would have to give up my business. I worried so much that I changed from a regular guy
into an old grouch. I became so sour and cross that-well, I didn't know it then; but I now
realise that I came very near to losing my happy home. Then one day a young, disabled
veteran who works for me said: 'Johnny, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You take
on as if you were the only person in the world with troubles. Suppose you do have to
shut up shop for a while-so what? You can start up again when things get normal.
You've got a lot to be thankful for. Yet you are always growling. Boy, how I wish I were
in your shoes I Look at me. I've got only one arm, and half of my face is shot away, and
yet I am not complaining. If you don't stop your growling and grumbling, you will lose not
only your business, but also your health, your home, and your friends!'
"Those remarks stopped me dead in my tracks. They made me realise how well off I
was. I resolved then and there that I would change and be my old self again-and I did."
A friend of mine, Lucile Blake, had to tremble on the edge of tragedy before she learned
to be happy about what she had instead of worrying over what she lacked.
I met Lucile years ago, when we were both studying short-story writing in the Columbia
University School of Journalism. Nine years ago, she got the shock of her life. She was
living then in Tucson, Arizonia. She had-well, here is the story as she told it to me:
"I had been living in a whirl: studying the organ at the University of Arizona, conducting a
speech clinic in town, and teaching a class in musical appreciation at the Desert Willow
Ranch, where I was staying. I was going in for parties, dances, horseback rides under
the stars. One morning I collapsed. My heart! 'You will have to lie in bed for a year of
complete rest,' the doctor said. He didn't encourage me to believe I would ever be
strong again.
"In bed for a year! To be an invalid-perhaps to die! I was terror-stricken! Why did all this
have to happen to me? What had I done to deserve it? I wept and wailed. I was bitter
and rebellious. But I did go to bed as the doctor advised. A neighbour of mine, Mr.
Rudolf, an artist, said to me: 'You think now that spending a year in bed will be a
tragedy. But it won't be. You will have time to think and get acquainted with yourself.
You will make more spiritual growth in these next few months than you have made
during all your previous life.' I became calmer, and tried to develop a new sense of
values.
I read books of inspiration. One day I heard a radio commentator say: 'You can express
only what is in your own consciousness.' I had heard words like these many times
before, but now they reached down inside me and took root. I resolved to think only the
thoughts I wanted to live by: thoughts of joy, happiness, health. I forced myself each
morning, as soon as I awoke, to go over all the things I had to be grateful for. No pain. A
lovely young daughter. My eyesight. My hearing. Lovely music on the radio. Time to
read. Good food. Good friends. I was so cheerful and had so many visitors that the
doctor put up a sign saying that only one visitor at a time would be allowed in my cabin-
and only at certain hours.
"Nine years have passed since then, and I now lead a full, active life. I am deeply
grateful now for that year I spent in bed. It was the most valuable and the happiest year I
spent in Arizona. The habit I formed then of counting my blessings each morning still
remains with me. It is one of my most precious possessions. I am ashamed to realise
that I never really learned to live until I feared I was going to die."