阅读1下心灵鸡汤
非常真挚感人的好文章，既可以学习英语，更滋润人的心灵。

In Sickness and in Health

By Dorothy C. Randle

 
    When Herman and I took our wedding vows over fifteen years ago, we were committed to our relationship. We became best friends, sharing everything, holding hands, laughing at our mistakes and failures, as well as our triumphs and successes. We liked to go on mini-vacations and often would get away for rest and relaxation. Our honeymoon never ended.
  Yet little did we know how much our love for each other would be tested through those five little words we proclaimed in our vows, "In sickness and in health."
  It was January 1990. Her man had just come from a routine visit to his doctor - a trip he had taken for over two decades since his kidney transplant in 1967.
  Herman was only seventeen years old when his father unselfishly gave his son the gift of life: one of his kidneys. At the time, Herman was well known on the Centennial High School campus in Compton, California, where he excelled in sports. Baseball was his life, but the transplant ended his dreams of professional success. Even during those trying times, Herman kept his smile.
  But on that day in 1990, Herman - whose broad smile and heartfelt laughter always bred celebration - showed terror, hurt and despair, mirroring the feelings in my heart. Without warning, the transplanted kidney had stopped functioning.
  Herman began dialysis treatments two months later. A machine substituted for his kidney by purifying his blood three days a week, three to four hours at a time. His smooth muscular arms soon knotted with bulges from the constant needle pricks. His exhausted veins collapsed.
  No more unplanned vacations; the dialysis treatments came first. Often passionate lovemaking became cuddling each other to sleep. We found solace in our love and made laughter the key to our survival.
  And we prayed for another kidney.
  Eleven years later, an unexpected phone call from UCLA Medical Center answered those prayers: "We have a donor."
  Together, we rejoiced and offered more prayers, this time in thanksgiving. But, would it be a match? We waited to hear . . one hour, two hours, then three. The phone rang again, this time with disappointing news.
  Oh, well, we consoled ourselves, we've waited this long. Surely we can keep waiting.
  One week to the day later, we received another call. It was a perfect match! We anxiously rushed down to UCLA. As we drove, we reflected on all the years of dialysis and how we had prayed for this miracle, and then we cried - happy tears and tears of sorrow. For the other side of our joy was the reality that someone had lost their life to give Herman this opportunity to live.
  It was a nineteen-year-old man who had died of head trauma. He had only been eight years old when Herman's kidney failed. For eleven years we prayed for a perfect match. For that same eleven years this young man had grown up, graduated from elementary, junior high and high school. He was probably in college. It never occurred to us that someone so young would give life to a fifty-one-year-old man. We never thought that the answer to our prayers would be the devastation of someone else's. How unselfish of his family. Now, instead of praying for a kidney, we pray for this young man's family.
  Throughout the process, I remained at Herman's side. I learned every medication and followed the prescribed routine for his recovery. Everything else in my life faded. His care was my primary concern.
  While he was in the hospital, one nurse remarked on my commitment to my husband. "You have no idea how many people separate and divorce because of the strain on the relationship when dealing with dialysis and transplants," she told me.
  Leave my husband during a time of sickness? Never. I was committed to our vows. More importantly, I could never leave the love of my life!
  It's been a year since the surgery, and Herman is doing well. His body is still recovering, but he is the same happy and joyful person he was when we met. And now we both truly understand that life is precious. We travel again, and we still hold hands and take long walks. We laugh a lot, even when Herman's recovering body is not up to making love. Our marriage has been sustained by our commitment to love and to cherish each other in sickness and in health.

AD:含铅汽油气体检测仪、探测器、报警器

It's Baseball Season

By Denise Turner

The team members' attention spans stretch barely the length of a cartoon. Their eyes are invisible beneath oversized batting helmets. They wear T-shirts with messages like "Critter Ridders Pest Control: 30 Years of Service in Roaches."
All across the country, it's T-ball season.
I became a T-ball mom when my seven-year-old son signed up to be a Giant (an obvious misnomer for a team where no one can bench press a Nerf ball). I should have been prepared. We limped through flag football last fall.
I still remember that day when the youngest kid on the football field kept interrupting the game squealing, "Coach, are we winning yet?"
It's a significant question.
In T-ball, no one even keeps score. That's good. It makes me think of Megan, a little girl I met before I moved to Idaho. Megan could neither hit nor throw a ball, but she wanted to play T-ball. I saw a few of her games.
Megan's parents and coaches practiced with her, encouraged her and never once considered calling her a klutz. But when the last game of the season rolled around, Megan still hadn't connected with the ball.
When she finally did, she hit an easy pop fly and her team lost. But the people in the bleachers stood up and cheered for Megan. Because, by that time, everyone knew she was a winner.
I moved away before Megan grew up, but I'm sure she grew up successful. Not because she had any more talent than the boy whose dad yelled at him whenever he didn't get a hit. In fact, she probably had much less. But Megan had something else. She had people around her who cared, not about her batting average, but about her.
Not long ago, I sat listening to a speaker who insisted that we are living in the midst of a generation of kids who see themselves as potential failures.
Among the causative factors, she said, parental influence is the greatest. I'm determined to be the right kind of T-ball mom. My husband may do a better job with practice sessions, but I'm pretty good at screaming, "Way to go, slugger!" Even when (and all of this has happened this season) . .
The second baseman is turning cartwheels when he's supposed to be fielding the ball.
A child is lying flat on the ground refusing to budge after he's been thrown out - and the other kids are trampling over him.
A batter is rounding the bases because the right fielder doesn't want to give up the ball.
The coach is yelling, "Take your base, Son," but the kid is standing there pointing toward center field. His mother yells from the stands, "That means he has to go to the bathroom."
In spite of it all, these children are making their first stabs at growing up. They're taking their first steps toward life in the major leagues. They may be chewing bubble gum instead of tobacco and they may not have learned how to scratch themselves yet, but they take their base hits seriously.
I'm glad they haven't yet "arrived." I'd hate to give up being a T-ball mom, because I think I really like the game.
After all, anything that ends with Reese's Pieces and Kool-Aid Kool Bursts can't be all bad.

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“电话英语学习法”以Brumfit & Johnson(1979)教授的“沟通型语言学习法”(Communicative Language Teaching)为基础，通过实际沟通活动、增强学习效果为目的。它重视有趣的语言历练过程，并给学员提供轻松活跃的学习环境。为了与所有学员容易沟通，外教会主持多姿多彩的学习活动，让学员在轻松快乐中提升英语听说能力。

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