The middle of May is one of my favorite times of the year here in the mountains of my home. The trees are all full of light green leaves that glow almost golden in the sunshine. The temperatures are not too hot yet. The air is cool and smells fresh. Mommy and Daddy birds are building nests and raising babies. Butterflies, bumble bees and even hummingbirds are flying about from flower to flower. And the sweet sounds of birdsongs are mixed with the laughter of children playing outside.

There is one sad part about it, however. There comes a point where I have to mow(修剪)my yard and cut down my buttercups. I always mow around the little, yellow flowers the first few times I cut my grass, but at some point they get a foot high and I have to mow them too. I always apologize to them when I mow them down, but I am encouraged in seeing that each Spring there are even more of them. It started with just a few buttercups in my yard here and there, but now the entire front part of it is filled with them. Each year their seeds scatter and they multiply more and more, making the next spring more beautiful than the last. It is not just in my yard, either. I see them in the meadows, the cow fields and along the sides of the roads. Each year millions of buttercups bless my eyes and warm my soul with their simple beauty.

Our lives are a lot like these flowers as well. I often encourage people to freely add their love and joy to the world, but the truth is it isn’t just addition. It is multiplication. Each smile you share brings out the smiles of others. Each kind thing you do brings out kindness in others. Each loving choice you make helps others to choose love too. Our lives are like buttercups scattering seeds of love and beauty and making this world a better place.

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He examined my face. “Hmmm,” he said quietly. “Are you a model?” Is he kidding? No way would anyone ever confuse me with a fashion model. I was ugly. After all, I had the scar (疤).

The accident happened in fourth grade, when a neighbor boy threw a sharp stone through the side of my face. After a three-hour operation, a huge bandage (细带) covered half of my face for several months.

“You’ll always be pretty to me,’’ Dad sighed, “even if you aren’t to the rest of the world.” Right. Thanks. As if I couldn’t hear the unkind words of the other kids at school. As if I couldn’t see how different I looked from the pretty girls the teachers often paid attention to. As if I didn’t look at myself in the bathroom mirror from time to time. In a culture that values beauty, an ugly girl is not accepted.

“Of course, I’m not a model,” I replied. The doctor crossed his arms over his chest and looked at me. “Since you’re not a model, what brought you here today?” The room swam before me, as my eyes were filled with tears.

The doctor sat down beside me. His voice was low and soft. “Let me tell you what I see. I see a beautiful woman. Not a perfect woman, but a beautiful woman. Even Elizabeth Taylor has a tiny scar on her forehead,” he said in a low voice. Then he paused a while. “When a person falls in love, if their mate has an imperfection, that imperfection becomes special.” As tears were rolling down my face, He said, “You are a very attractive woman with a very small imperfection. Whether you know it or not, it makes you special.”

I left his office, not with the scar removed from ray face, but with a tear removed from my heart.