Once upon a time, in the midst of a fine summer, Tom and his younger brother Jack went on an amazing trip to a picturesque beach with their family.

Excitement filled the air as Tom and Jack eagerly packed their buckets and shovels (铲子), ready to explore the sandy wonders that awaited them. The moment they arrived at the beach, they wasted no time and rushed directly towards the shoreline.

With the wind brushing gently over their cheeks, Tom and Jack dug their hands into the soft grains of sand, laughing happily as they felt grains of sand passing through their fingers. Their laughter was echoing along the coast.

Then the two little brothers decided to build a splendid sand castle that would leave everyone in awe. With the sound of seabirds singing in the background, they began their grand project. Side by side, they cupped their hands, dug into the soft beach, and started building their dream castle. With great care and precision, they sculpted and shaped the sand with their fingers, crafting each tower and wall. The boys were lost in their work, feeling the warmth of the sand beneath their fingers. They seemed to hear whispering tales of the distant, mysterious ocean.

Time seemed to stand still as the boys poured their hearts into every detail of their sandy creation. With each passing moment, the sand castle grew in both size and beauty and it began to take shape. Together, they patiently decorated their dream castle with seashells and twigs, imagining a world of soldiers, princesses, and magical creatures.

Seeing the castle stand proudly before them, the two little brothers breathed out a sigh of relief. Their eyes shone with excitement. They were like architects who were appreciating their masterpiece that expressed their extraordinary imagination.

However, just before they knew it, the seawater began to rise.

Jack nodded his head in agreement and they determined to rebuild it.

A philosophy professor stood before his class and had some items in front of him. When class began, wordlessly he picked up a large empty glass jar and proceeded to fill it with rocks right to the top, rocks about two inches in diameter.

He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open spaces between the rocks. The students laughed.

He asked his students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor then picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar.

Of course, the sand filled up all the remaining spaces.

“Now,” said the professor, “I want you to recognise that this is your life.”

“The rocks are the most important things—your family, your partner, your health, your children—anything that is so important to you that if it were lost, you would be nearly destroyed. The pebbles are the other things in life that matter, but on a smaller scale. The pebbles represent things like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else—the small stuff.

“If you put the sand or the pebbles into the jar first, there is no room for the rocks. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your energy and time on the small stuff, or material things, you will never have room for the things that are truly most important. Pay attention to the things that are critical in your life. Play with your children. Take your partner out dancing. Talk with your parents. There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, give a dinner party and fix the waste disposal. Take care of the rocks first—the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just pebbles and sand. They will take care of themselves.”

Later, students were asked to voice their own understandings.

A creative student compared the empty jar to time,

Mrs. Murphy had been working as a cafeteria (自助餐厅) employee at Cypress Valley School for four years and there was no job in the whole world that she loved more than that. In fact, Mrs. Murphy liked to stay with these cute children. The woman’s face lit up every time she served lunch to the little children and saw their smiles.

One day after serving the kids food, Mrs. Murphy was talking to her co-worker when she noticed something strange. She saw a little girl at the far end of the cafeteria who finished only half of her lunch and filled the rest in a lunch box. “Is she not feeling well? Why didn’t she eat?” Mrs. Murphy was puzzled as the girl stood up and walked away.

The next day, when the girl came to the cafeteria, the same thing happened. She divided the food into two equal parts, placed one half in her lunch box, and ate only the other half. Mrs. Murphy became concerned when this continued for several days, so she decided to follow her one day.

She saw that the young girl went in the opposite direction of the school after class, which led to a deserted neighborhood. “Why would she go there after school?” The elderly woman wondered as she followed the girl, taking care not to be noticed.

After a couple of minutes, she noticed the girl was walking into an alley (胡同) where a small boy sat on the ground. The girl smiled and approached the boy. “Claire! I’m here!” The boy looked up at the girl and smiled warmly. “I’ve got some food for you, David!” She said, sitting on her knees and opening her backpack. The boy enjoyed the other half of meal. The fine scene was too wonderful to be ruined. And Mrs. Murphy firmly believed that she had to do something to help them.

Just then, Mrs. Murphy approached them.                  

Hearing this, Mrs. Murphy’s heart was full of sympathy (同情) for the two children.   

Smile for the Camera

He had beautiful features, half-Arab and half-African: large almond-shaped brown eyes and a delicate nose. His hair was black, cut short. For a refugee (难民), he was in good shape physically, though dirty and barefoot.

He stood in front of my camera and stared. “You will find my parents,” he ordered. “I can’t promise,” I replied and focused the camera on his face, “Smile.” “Then I can’t smile.” I snapped a photo of the boy and wrote down his vital information: Maiga Fotana, age 10; his parents’ names; his village. “Bye,” I said when I finished and he walked away silently.

Until sundown，I shot pictures of hundreds of children. We would post their pictures wherever we could in the war-affected country, hoping someone would recognize a little face and come to the camp to claim the child.

The next morning, Maiga was first in line. “Did you find my parents?” he asked. “No,” I said, “I just took your picture yesterday. I haven’t even developed it yet.”

“My parents will be looking for me, so I need to take another picture,” he said. I loaded my camera. “One photo is enough,” I said, “We’ll make copies and post them all over. Besides, I don’t have enough film (胶卷). I can’t take two photos of everyone!” He drew close to me. I could see flecks of green in his eyes. “We won’t tell others,” he whispered. He winked. I shook my head. “Bye,” he said.

The next day, he came and tilted his head, “I want to help you,” he said, “I can write names.” He took his place next to me. Maiga had beautiful hand-writing, square and even. He spoke to each child with authority as he wrote down their information. As each child left, Maiga said, “Bye.”

One day, hundreds of people came to our camp. They held photos in their hands with hope in their wide dark eyes. They strained their necks to see through the crowds. They called out names.

All the aid workers gathered to watch as adults and children ran to each other, crying and embracing. I saw family after family brought together, and I felt delighted and moved as well.

Then I noticed Maiga standing at the edge of the group, watching.

Two weeks later, an aid worker came with a man who looked just like Maiga.