An 80-year-old man was sitting on the sofa in his house along with his 45-year -old highly educated son. Suddenly a crow (乌鸦) perched (栖息) on their window.

The father asked his son, “what is this?” The son replied, “It is a crow.”

After a few minutes, the father asked his son for the second time, “What is this?” The son said, “Father , I have just now told you, it is a crow!”

After a little while, the old father again asked his son for the third time, “What is this?”

At this time some expression of irritation (恼怒) was felt in the son’s tone when he said to his father with a rebuff (生硬回绝) . “It’s a crow , a crow.” A little while later, the father again asked his son the fourth time, “ What is this?”

This time, the son shouted at his father, “ Why do you keep asking me the same question again and again, although I have told you so many times ‘IT IS A CROW’. Are you not able to understand this?’

A little while later the father went to his room and came back with an old tattered (发皱的) diary, which he had maintained since his son was born. On opening a page, he asked his son to read that page. When the son read it, the following words were written in the diary:

“Today my little son aged three was sitting with me on the sofa, when a crow was sitting on the window. My son asked me 23 times what it was, and I replied to him all 23 times that it was a crow. I hugged him lovingly each time he asked me the same question. I did not at all feel annoyed but I rather felt love for my innocent son.

After reading the diary,

Feeling ashamed , the son got down on his knees before his father.

When I drove my sister Connie from Michigan to Arizona to start her junior year of college, I didn’t realize it’d be the last time that I’d see her alive. Four months later, when she was traveling back to the Midwest for winter break with four of her college friends, the driver of her car fell asleep. The car went off the road and rolled over several times. My sister, unfortunately, was thrown out from the car and died within minutes.

As a nineteen-year-old away at college myself, I was already dealing with my own confusion and uncertainty about where my life was headed. I’d thought I wanted to become an engineer, but the related courses I’d taken left me wholly uninspired. Now, with the struggle from my sister’s sudden death, I knew leaving my family to return to school hours from home would only heighten my confusion. Yet, when my parents expressed their belief that Connie would’ve wanted me to return to college, I knew they were right.

During the first term following her death, I felt like I was sailing through a personal fog in a rudderless(无舵的) boat. I was aimlessly drifting, fearful of what lay beyond the horizon. My grief(悲伤) consumed me as I continually questioned how the college courses I was taking would affect my life. And, more importantly, I missed my sister. Born just ten months apart, she’d always been there for me.

When I began my junior year, I still hadn’t declared my major, but I signed up for one particular class for personal reasons: Death Education and Suicide Prevention. One day, the professor had a guest speaker come to our class. At some point during the presentation, the speaker said, “Joy shared is joy increased. Grief shared is grief decreased.” The speaker explained the saying by breaking it into parts, saying, “Joy shared is joy increased. If you don’t believe it, go into a closet and tell yourself a joke. It isn’t funny unless you share it with others. Or you can try to share your sadness with your beloved one, even in the journals.” I was locked in “Joy shared is joy increased. Grief shared is grief decreased.”

I silently repeated this message to myself over and over again, trying to absorb these words into my being.

After that day in class, I began keeping journals about my sister.

I heard her sing when I opened the door. And I saw my crippled(跛腿的) grandmother was dancing. I was absolutely shocked. Her legs were crippled as long as I could remember. She once was the pet of the dancing world. And then she had her accident and it was all over. I read that in an old newspaper. She turned around and saw me. Grandmother sighed and turned towards the kitchen. I followed her and saw she was walking fine. So, out of curiosity, I asked her “what’s going on?”

Oh Dear, let me share a little story of mine. “When your grandfather went to war, I was so afraid of losing him, the only way I could stay sane was to dance. And I became very good. Critics praised me, the public loved me, but all I could feel was the ache in my heart, not knowing whether the love of my life would ever return. Then I went home and reread his letters until I fell asleep. He always ended his letters with‘You are my joy. I love you with my life’ and after that he wrote his name. And then one day a letter came. There were only three sentences: ‘I have lost my leg. I give you back your freedom. It is best you forget about me.’”

“I made my decision there and then. I bought myself a cane and start pretending to be crippled. I told a reporter I had a car accident, and couldn’t dance again. Then I went to see your grandfather.” I told him “you’re not the only one who lost a leg; I am not going to let you feel sorry for yourself. There is a whole life waiting for us out there! I don’t intend to be sorry for myself, so youd better snap out of it too.” Grandmother giggled and continued. “I limped toward him and showed him two engagement rings. ‘Now show me you are still a man,’ I said, ‘I won’t ask again.’ He bent to take his cane from the ground and struggled out of that wheelchair. And so he managed it on his own and walked to me and never sat in a wheelchair again in his life.”

I looked at the drawing on the kitchen wall, sketched by my grandfather. “You are my Joy. I love you with my life.” I murmured quietly.

Grandmother looked me in the eyes and asked me to make a promise.

A few years went by. Six months after grandmother’s funeral .