Often, when he came to visit, my grandfather would bring me a present. These were never the sorts of things that other people brought, such as dolls, books or toys. My dolls and toys have been gone for more than half a century, but many of my grandfather’s gifts are still with me.

Once he brought me a little plastic cup. I looked inside, expecting to see something special. But there was only some loose soil in it, which made me disappointed. He smiled at me affectionately. Turning around, he picked up a little teapot from my dolls’ tea set and took me to the kitchen where he filled the little cup with water. Back in the living room, he put it on the windowsill(窗台) and handed me the teapot. “If you promise to put some water in the cup every day, something may happen.” he told me.

At that time, I was only five years old. This whole thing made no sense to me at all. I looked at him doubtfully and asked, “Do I have to water it every day? What will happen?” He nodded to me with encouragement, “Yes, every day, dear.”

And so I promised. At first, curious to see what would happen, I did not mind doing this. But as the days went by and nothing changed, it got harder and harder to remember to put water in the cup. After a week, I asked my grandfather if it was time to stop yet. Shaking his head no, he said, “Every day.” The second week was even harder, and I became regretful of my promise to put water in the cup. When my grandfather came again, I tried to give it back to him, but he refused to take it, saying simply the same words, “Every day.” By the third week, I began to forget to put water in the cup during the day. Often, I would remember only after I had been put to bed and would have to get out of bed and water it in the dark. But I did not miss a single day.

One morning, something amazing happened.

This was perhaps my first lesson in the power of perseverance.

My struggles started in seventh grade when I began passing out. I had many medical check-ups and finally found one that helped. My average blood pressure was about 80/60 on a good day. To this day, I continue to battle this problem.

Then, two years ago, I was diagnosed (诊断) with fibromyalgia, a muscle disease that is not really helped by medication. It’s like having a pulled muscle when the disease attacks. It can last as long as three months. I was bedridden for a month. Cold weather, rain, or physical or emotional stress can cause the pain,

It’s hard enough to be a healthy teenager and go through the typical changes with friends, family, school, etc. Add to that missing two to three months of school a year, and it can make things very difficult. The hardest part was on the outside I looked normal like everyone else; however, on the inside, I was in horrible pain. Some classmates had passed their comments on me thinking that since my physical appearance was fine, I must be OK. The judgment hurt me more than anyone will ever know.

I battled with depression (抑郁) as well, because I felt like an outsider. I longed to be normal and healthy. I even developed an eating disorder. In the beginning, I had lost a lot of weight. For the first time, I felt like I was attractive because I was skinny. I was receiving more attention than ever. I would still feel depressed, though, because of all that was going on in my life. I would eat a lot hoping the stress would go away. But then I would throw up the food so I would still look good. Luckily, I overcame these problems with the help of my family and a wonderful job.

My mother stuck by me and encouraged me in all my time of need.

I found a purpose knowing I had something to give to these elderly people.

When my husband Randy died in late fall, deciding what to do with his garden was way down on the list of necessary tasks. During the first few months, I cried with our daughters, planned a memorial, cried with my family, celebrated a quiet Thanksgiving, and panicked over not having bought Christmas presents.

As the calendar turned to a new year, the often rainy days and long nights deepened my sorrow. I found myself exhausted at the end of February, both physically and mentally.

Then the daffodils bloomed (开花) in the garden.

Years before, Randy had planted dozens of these lemon-yellow flowers. To him, they served as a reminder of hope, a promise that light and warmth would soon replace cold and dark. Looking at those dauffodils, I thought about how Randy had considered our garden a living work of art, carefully choosing plants so we’d see new blooms every month.

Then I noticed all the weeds that had taken root and spread everywhere. The neglect (疏于打理) showed, for Randy’s illness had lasted a couple of years, a time when he didn’t have energy for yard work the way he had before.

Faced with the neglected garden, I felt overwhelmed in the beginning. My daughters suggested I hire a service to clean everything up. I didn’t respond.

Every time I sat in the garden alone, the memories of the lively garden came flooding, like the numerous scenes in an unforgettable film. Many days Randy came home from work, changed into old clothes, and headed out the door to mow or prune (修剪). Orange dragonflies followed him around the yard as he worked. Honeybees buzzed among the flowers, birds sang beautiful songs, and gentle breezes carried the sweet smell of dirt. No matter how cold or wet it was, the fresh air and physical activity made him energized and refreshed. For Randy, the work was quiet and comforting, which was a relief, as well as a pleasure.

The days grew warmer and lighter, and I started the work myself.

Weeks later, my daughters returned to visit me.