“Acceptance of what has happened is the first step to overcomingthe consequence of any misfortune.”
Elizabeth Connley， of 2840 NE 49th Avenue， Portland，Oregon， had to find that out the hard way. Here is a letter that shewrote me recently：
“On the very day that America was celebrating the victory ofour armed forces in North Africa，” the letter says， “I received atelegram from the War Department： my nephew—the person Iloved most—was missing in action. A short time later， anothertelegram arrived saying he was dead.
“I was prostrate with grief. Up to that time， I had felt thatlife had been very good to me. I had a job I loved. I had helpedto raise this nephew. He represented to me all that was fine andgood in young manhood. I had felt that all the bread I had castupon the waters was coming back to me as cake！… Then camethis telegram. My whole world collapsed. I felt there was nothingleft to live for. I neglected my work; neglected my friends. I leteverything go. I was bitter and resentful. Why did my lovingnephew have to be taken? Why did this good boy—with life allbefore him—why did he have to be killed? I couldn’t accept it. Mygrief was so overwhelming that I decided to give up my work， andgo away and hide myself in my tears and bitterness.
“I was clearing out my desk， getting ready to quit， when I cameacross a letter that I had forgotten—a letter from this nephew whohad been killed， a letter he had written to me when my motherhad died a few years ago. ‘Of course， we will miss her，’ the letter said， ‘and especially you. But I know you’ll carry on. Your ownpersonal philosophy will make you do that. I shall never forgetthe beautiful truths you taught me. Wherever I am， or how farapart we may be， I shall always remember that you taught me tosmile， and to take whatever comes， like a man.’
“I read and reread that letter. It seemed as if he were therebeside me， speaking to me. He seemed to be saying to me：‘Whydon’t you do what you taught me to do? Carry on， no matter whathappens. Hide your private sorrows under a smile and carry on.’
“So， I went back to my work. I stopped being bitter andrebellious. I kept saying to myself： ‘It is done. I can’t change it.
But I can and will carry on as he wished me to do.’ I threw allmy mind and strength into my work. I wrote letters to soldiers—
to other people’s boys. I joined an adult-education class atnight—seeking out new interests and making new friends. I canhardly believe the change that has come over me. I have ceasedmourning over the past that is for ever gone. I am living each daynow with joy just as my nephew would have wanted me to do.
I have made peace with life. I have accepted my fate. I am nowliving a fuller and more complete life than I had ever known.”
Elizabeth Connleylearned what all of us will have to learnsooner or later： namely， that we must accept and co-operate withthe inevitable. That is not an easy lesson to learn. Even kingson their thrones have to keep reminding themselves of it. Thelate George V had these framed words hanging on the wall ofhis library in Buckingham Palace： “Teach me neither to cry forthe moon nor over spilt milk.” The same thought is expressed bySchopenhauer in this way： “A good supply of resignation is of thefirst importance in providing for the journey of life.”
Obviously， circumstances alone do not make us happy orunhappy. It is the way we react to circumstances that determines our feelings. Jesus said that the kingdom of heaven is within you.
That is where the kingdom of hell is， too.
We can all endure disaster and tragedy and triumph overthem—if we have to. We may not think we can， but we havesurprisingly strong inner resources that will see us through if wewill only make use of them. We are stronger than we think.
The late Booth Tarkington always said： “I could take anythingthat life could force upon me except one thing： blindness. I couldnever endure that.”
Then one day， when he was along in his sixties， Tarkingtonglanced down at the carpet on the floor. The colours were blurred.
He couldn’t see the pattern. He went to a specialist. He learnedthe tragic truth： he was losing his sight. One eye was nearly blind;the other would follow. That which he feared most had comeupon him.
And how did Tarkington react to this “worst of all disasters”？
Did he feel： “This is it！ This is the end of my life”？ No， to hisamazement， he felt quite gay. He even called upon his humour.
Floating “specks” annoyed him; they would swim across his eyesand cut off his vision. Yet when the largest of these specks wouldswim across his sight， he would say： “Hello！ There’s Grandfatheragain！ Wonder where he’s going on this fine morning！”
How could fate ever conquer a spirit like that? The answer isit couldn’t. When total blindness closed in， Tarkington said： “Ifound I could take the loss of my eyesight， just as a man can takeanything else. If I lost all five of my senses， I know I could live oninside my mind. For it is in the mind we see， and in the mind welive， whether we know it or not.”
In the hope of restoring his eyesight， Tarkington had to gothrough more than twelve operations within one year. Withlocal anaesthetic！ Did he rail against this? He knew it had to be done. He knew he couldn’t escape it， so the only way to lessen hissuffering was to take it with grace. He refused a private room atthe hospital and went into a ward， where he could be with otherpeople who had troubles， too. He tried to cheer them up. Andwhen he had to submit to repeated operations—fully consciousof what was being done to his eyes—he tried to remember howfortunate he was. “How wonderful！” he said. “How wonderful，that science now has the skill to operate on anything so delicateas the human eye！”
The average man would have been a nervous wreck if hehad had to endure more than twelve operations and blindness.