It was September 1966, and I was twenty years old, facing my first class of kids as a new teacher. Like most new, young teachers, I was full of enthusiasm and determined to make a difference. My class was made up of thirty-eight angels and one street kid named Mike, a 10-year-old kid who never knew his parents and lived with an indifferent grandmother. His clothing was in constant need of repair. Compared to the other kids around him, he was at a distinct disadvantage. Being so young, I knew very little about parenting. However, I did recognize a child in need, and decided to reach out and see if I could make a difference. And so it was that early in September, my special “foster father” relationship with Mike began.

Each day as I arrived at school around 7:30 A.M., Mike would already be in the parking lot waiting for me. Because he was usually hungry, I’d take him out for breakfast. I showed him how to sew, and together we began mending his ripped and torn clothes. Each noon hour as I shared my lunch with him, I taught him a host of new skills－for a while we worked on the proper method of using a microscope. On another day we constructed a pinhole camera, then we classified rocks and minerals. One Monday, I taught Mike to play chess. By Friday of that same week, he was giving me a really good game. Mike would then “help” me teach these skills to the rest of the class. We all had a lot of fun, and a kind of unspoken trust began to build up between us.

Then early in October, at a class meeting, the kids were asked to talk about their dreams. Most of them wanted to be doctors, musicians, teachers or some such things while an awkward scene occurred when it was Mike’s turn to speak out his ultimate desire in life. Standing before the whole class, he stammered (结巴) that he had no idea, with his face turning red. At that moment, the bell rang.

My mom was a kind woman. She had an unusual view on helping others that I didn’t really understand until one cold, winter day when we picked up my brothers at school.

“Who is that child?” Mom pointed at a skinny, angry-looking girl across the street. “She doesn’t even have a coat. It’s freezing!” “That’s Becky Ingler. She always looks mad like that,” I replied. Becky didn’t have a father, and everybody laughed at her. “I’ll visit her tomorrow,” Mom said.

The next day, we went to the Inglers’ house. A tired-looking woman appeared, and Mom smiled, “Hello, Mrs. Ingler. I’m just visiting some of our neighbors.” Once inside, I noticed there was a rusty coal stove and a big messy bed. Mom looked at each of the children carefully.

As we left, Mom told Mrs. Ingler she would visit them again soon.

Mom’s old sewing machine (缝纫机) worked for two days and nights to turn some shabby clothes into stylish winter coats. She said to me, “I need your help to send these coats to the Inglers this afternoon.”

“Wow!” I said. “They’re lucky to get these.”

“No,” said Mom as she faced me. “We’re the lucky ones to be able to help them. We must make sure these coats are given freely, without the Inglers paying a price for them.” I didn’t understand what Mom meant. Mom explained, “I don’t want these coats to cost them their pride or dignity (尊严). We can’t show we are somehow better than they are.”

I asked Mom what we should do if they refused the coats. Mom smiled and said, “I have a plan in mind.”

I’ll admit it. I can be a complainer. After all, there’s so much in this life to complain about: the dirty clothes that don’t make it into the basket, that annoying neighbor’s loud music, my husband’s shoes spread out at the front door, rainy days, traffic...

Complaining is a habit I cultivated since childhood, a skill I developed through the years. My parents didn’t seem to mind—they were great complainers, too—though I do recall some eye-rolling and long-drawn sighs from friends and schoolmates when I would voice my negative opinions. In fact, I can distinctly recall the exact moment when I first realized my complaining habit reached its expert level.

One day, as I reminded ray husband once again to remove his bills from the dining-room table, put his shoes away, and lower that bothersome radio, he put up his hand.“Stop! You’re your complaining. It’s driving me crazy.”

I looked at him blank-eyed.

He took a deep breath. “You never hear me complaining, do you?”

“Well,” I answered, “you’re complaining about my complaining, so actually, yes, I am hearing you complain right now.”

His eyes widened. A drop of sweat formed his upper lip. Then he grabbed his car keys and ran out of the door.

Perhaps I’d gone too far, I thought. Maybe I really did complain too much. But, what to do about it? After all, it had been a lifetime habit. And habits are hard to break.

I took a break and sat down to think about solution. When I felt annoyed, I could lock myself in the bathroom and scream. No. The neighbors would probably hear me. Phone a friend? She probably wouldn’t be a friend for very long. Then it hit me.

I’d been in the habit of keeping a journal for most of my life. It provided a sort of timeline for me，and I liked to review past entries occasionally to review the path I had been on at that point. Journaling kept me honest with myself, and I liked it for that reason. Perhaps, I though, a complaint journal might be the answer I was seeking.

That day, I decided to give it a try.

Besides the improved relationship with my husband, I saw other effects soon.            .