1 . Our house was across the street from the entrance of a famous hospital in the city. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to ________ at the clinic. As I was fixing supper one summer evening, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a truly ________ man.

He’s ________ taller than my eight-year-old. But the shocking thing was his face-uneven from swelling, red and raw. Yet his voice was ________. He told me he’d been ________ for a room since noon. For a moment, I ________, but it didn’t take long to see that this older man had a big heart ________ into that tiny body. He told me he fished for a living to support his daughter, her five children, and her husband, who was ________ disabled from a back injury. He didn’t complain; ________, he was grateful that no pain ________ his disease.

We ________ him up in the children’s room. The next morning, he asked if he could come back and stay the next time he had a ________. I told him of course. On his next trip, he brought a big fish and the largest oysters I had ever seen as a gift.

In the years he came to stay ________ with us, there was never a time that he did not bring us fish or oysters or vegetables from his garden. Other times we received packages in the mail, always by special ________. I know our family will always be grateful to have known him; from him, we learned to accept the bad without complaint and the good with ________.

Dad got me to play football when I studied in high school. I did enjoy throwing the ball around with friends, but I never thought I had what it took to play on a team. “I'm not a football player,” It old my dad. “You'll never know what you are able to achieve unless you give it a try, Sam,” he told me. So, I did. It gave me a strong sense of belonging and some confidence. I still remember how proud he was when I won some awards and the hug be gave me after I received my congratulation letter. There was no such game where Dad wasn't on the sidelines, cheering me on.

Four years' pre-season football camps finally came down to my last game. I asked my dad to bring our video camera.

I waved at my parents before the opening kick-off, and then put on my face seriously. I grabbed at the clothes of the opposing team's running back (跑卫) and dragged him to the field. Aloud cheer came from the sidelines. There was my dad with the camera, cheering crazily. By the end of the game, I had stopped seven players and a sacking(擒杀)—my best performance ever. I ran into my dad's arms. I was sweaty and smelly, but be hugged me anyway. I couldn’t wait to watch the tape(录像带) to experience every moment again.

As soon as we got home, I took the tape out of the camera and played it on the TV screen. My dad, mum, sister and I sat down in the living room together in front of TV. I pressed the “Play” button, and the video started. The two teams, lined up before the game, then the running back taking the handoff(传球), running up to the line, me reaching out, and then...the sky and clouds! I could hear my dad screaming “Way to go, Sam!” as images of the sky shook up and down on the screen.

I love to play the piano and I greatly enjoy performing my songs, so when the annual winter recital (音乐演奏会) was canceled, I was disappointed. I had looked forward to it for a long time and had already prepared two of my best songs.

My mom had a wonderful idea, however, to turn this disappointing thing into something worthwhile. “You can perform your songs at Carriage House Senior Living,” my mom suggested brightly. “I’m sure the seniors there who do not have families to visit them that often, would really appreciate the music and you could play more than just two songs.”

I immediately thought this was a great idea. One of the things I did not like about the recitals was that I was limited to playing just a couple of songs. Playing the piano at Carriage House seemed like a win-win situation because not only could I play more songs, but I would also have the chance to cheer up the residents there with some lively tunes.

My mom called Carriage House and made arrangements for me to perform. In the coming including many old classics.

When the exciting day finally arrived, my family and I drove to Carriage House. Walking through the enormous double doors, we stepped into an entryway that overlooked the spacious grand dining room. Right at the entrance to the dining room stood the piano as if it were just waiting to make some music to liven the place up a bit. At nearly every table several gray-haired women or men were seated enjoying their dinner and the company that the crowded room provided. Despite the conversations going on at various tables, isolation hung like a dark cloud in the room.

Almost immediately, we were greeted by an old woman with a walker who introduced herself as Phyllis in charge of Carriage House. She welcomed me and led me to the stage.

As I sat down on the bench, I pressed a key on the piano and was surprised to hear no sound.

Nervousness melted away and I started to enjoy the performance with the old.

7 . I have got kinds of gifts in my big closet. I am a closet regifter(赠礼). Don’t judge me. Regifting is a longstanding southern tradition. I mean, don’t waste what you don’t want, right? Most of you probably have a shelf or a drawer at home that houses some things that are nice but just aren’t for you. So, rather than discard them, you should save them for a rainy day when you realize you need just the right thing for that person you totally forgot about.

My mom keeps a closet filled with goodies to give. And my grandmother? One year she gave my mom a really interesting sweater on Christmas Day. After dinner we pulled the videos and we watched everyone open the gifts from the year before. What did we see? My grand mother received the exactly same sweater that she had just given my mom! So see? There was no way I was going to be able to avoid the tradition.

You would think I would learn my lesson since I have had a regift or two backfire on me. Once, I sent my cousin a wedding present from my store, a clock that was given to me on my birthday by my crazy aunt Nadine. It was unique. I truly thought she would love it. Weeks later I received a thank-you note for my thoughtful gift:

Thank you so much for the wonderful clock. I was a little confused when I opened it up and there was a card inside that said, “Happy Birthday Erica. Love, Aunt Nadine”.

Awkward! But even after all that, my annoyance remains. I mean, I promise I’ll quit someday. But first, I just have to get rid of the useless gifts in my closet. Any takers?

8 . For years, I played around with writing. I wrote when I felt like it. Then one day, a friend asked me what my dream was. When I said it was to be a writer, he said these words that changed my life, “You don’t have to want to be a writer. You are a writer; you just need to write.” So I started calling myself a writer. Everywhere I went, I introduced myself as “Jeff Goins, Writer,” and even put it in email signatures and on my Facebook page. And you know what? I started acting like it. Eventually, I even began to believe it. It turns out that sometimes you do have to fake it before you make it.

The lesson here is simple: If you wait for someone to give you permission to start following your dream, you’ll be waiting for a long time. You have to begin before you think you’re ready.

After I decided to pursue my dream, I still had to find the time to do it. Working a full-time job and having a wife and other things to do, I didn’t have enough free time. I had to find time to write. For me, that meant getting up early. Like, 5:00 a.m. early. Every morning, I would wake up, get my coffee, and write for two hours. At first, this was difficult; I had to force myself out of bed and downstairs before the sun rose. But eventually, it became a habit. I did it without even thinking about it. And soon, what started as a discipline became a daily joy.

By doing this, I learned the excuse I had given myself — “I don’t have enough time” — wasn’t true. I did have enough time; it was just hiding in “inconvenient” places.

These days, most people I meet are talking about their dreams. However, they’re doing it all wrong. They think they need to take a huge leap out into the unknown when, in fact, the opposite is true. So if you have a dream, just take action. And don’t say you don’t have time for it.

A Turning-point Party

The cold snow was falling as Kelly struggled home from school in December. How much she hated the snow---and everything else about Pinetree, Wyoming, America. How much she missed Thailand! “I hate it here! I want to go home!” Kelly thought.

She reached for a small white envelope in her pocket. In it was an invitation to Jennifer’s party: Kelly didn’t want to go. She felt awkward at the thought of being at a party with a bunch of kids she barely knew. She closed her eyes and remembered this time of year people would hold a festival to thank the Mother of Water in Thailand, They used banana leaves to make a little boat with a candle lit in it, made a wish for the coming year and set the boat floating on the river.

Kelly sighed and pushed open the door to her parents’ restaurant. They were busy working. “Maybe I should go just this once for Mama and Papa. They are so worried that I’m not making any friends.” Kelly went over and tied an apron around her waist. As she was washing dishes, she told her mother that she had been invited to a party on Friday night. Mama smiled saying now she might be happy in their new home. Kelly nodded, thinking Pinetree could never be her home.

On Friday evening, Papa drove Kelly to the party. Jennifer met her at the door and led her into the dining room. Six kids from her classes were seated around the table, on which were sitting small brown cookie houses. They were selecting colorful candies and gluing them to their own houses, Wow, she loved making things. For this part of the party, she could be herself. She decided to decorate her cottage like one of the golden temples of Thailand. As she was making it, Jennifer wondered how she did it. The others joined staring at Kelly with admiration, Kelly felt a warm glow. Maybe I could fit in here-----a little, she thought.

After dinner, the party went on and the talk turned to the coming holidays.

Suddenly, Kelly came up with an idea.

10 . My brother Joe had a passion for driving cars. Fords in particular. He was especially fond of speed. It was enough to make my mother fear that he was crazy. But she had that fear about everyone, even herself.

When Joe was just a little boy, he would often say to me, “Sister, when I am old enough to get my license and drive my own car, I will fly so fast that angels will run scared.” With a big grin, he would imagine the scene. I could have told him it would never happen. No matter how old he got, he would never get a license, never drive a car. But I didn’t tell him that.

Joe was born blind. He couldn’t see his own face in a mirror. But he could dream like anyone. I didn’t want to be the one to dim Joe’s dreams. Life would do that for him, soon enough. Until then, didn’t he deserve his happiness?

Joe had trouble not just with his eyes, but with his legs. He was born premature suffered from disabilities and could not walk until he was 5. That’s when he got his first “car”, a red Radio Flyer tricycle that he called his “49 Ford”. He couldn’t pedal it, so he would push it everywhere, sometimes even falling over.

Growing up is a tug of war between disappointment and surprise, between dreams and reality. By the time Joe was 12, I think he knew he would never get a license. As with the other hard facts of life, he seemed to accept it without question or bitterness, as if it were nothing more than a card drawn at random.

One hot summer day when he was 16, Joe went tapping out the driveway with his stick, finding his way to my stepfather’s 49 Ford. He ran his hand along the car, felt the heat of the metal, opened the door and climbed in.

He looked good.

Under the seat, he discovered a six-pack of Budweiser (百威啤酒). And he drank all six cans. He felt inside the car, found the keys, shouted, “Hooweece!” and fired it up.

I have heard various versions of this story. They all boil down to this: the Ford’s engine roared. My mother fainted. My stepfather rushed outside.

And my brother, after a moment of pure joy, threw up all over the car. Fortunately, for everyone, the Ford didn’t move an inch. But to this day, Joe still swears that when he found those keys and fired that old engine up, he heard the angels starting to flee.