ANYWAY

People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered
LOVE THEM ANYWAY
If you do good, people will accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives,
DO GOOD ANYWAY
If you are successful, you win false and true enemies,
SUCCEED ANYWAY
The good you do will be forgotten tomorrow,
DO GOOD ANYWAY
Honesty and frankness make you vulnerable,
BE HONEST AND FRANK ANYWAY
What you spent years building may by destroyed overnight
BUILD ANYWAY
People really need help but may attack you if you help them,
HELP PEOPLE ANYWAY
Give the world the best you have and you'll get kicked in the teeth,
GIVE THE WORLD THE BEST YOU'VE GOT ANYWAY

-From a sign on the wall of Shishu Bhaven,
the children's home in Calcutta for the Sisters of Charity

                                 THE MEMORY OF A RACE

"Quit, give up, you're beaten," they shout at me and plead,

         "There's just too much against you now, this time you can't succeed."

And as I start to hang my head in front of failures faced,

         My downward fall is broken by the memory of a race.

And hope refills my weakened will as I recall that scene,

         For just the thought of that short race rejuvenates my being.

A children's race, young boys, young men, how I remember well.

         Excitement sure, but also fear, it wasn't hard to tell.

They all lined up, so full of hope, each thought to win the race,

         Or tie for first or if not that, at least take second place.

And fathers watched from off the side, each cheering for his son,

         And each boy hoped to show his dad that he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they went, young hearts and hopes afire,

         To win and be the hero, that was each boy's desire.

And one boy in particular, whose dad was in the crowd,

         Was running near the lead, and thought, "My dad will be so proud."

But as they speeded down the field, across a shallow dip,

         The little boy who thought to win, lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself, his hands flew out to brace,

         And 'mid the laughter of the crowd, he fell flat upon his face.

So down he fell, and with him hope-  he couldn't win it now.

         Embarrassed, sad, he only wished to disappear somehow.

But as he fell, his dad stood up and showed his anxious face,

         Which to the boy so clearly said, "Get up and win the race."

He quickly rose, no damage done, behind a bit that's all,

         And ran with all his mind and might, to make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself, to catch up and win,

         His mind went faster than his legs, he slipped and fell again.

He wished then, he'd quit before, with only one disgrace,

         "I'm hopeless as a runner now, I shouldn't try to race."

But in the laughing crowd, he searched and found his father's face,

         That steady look which said again, "Get up and win the race."

So up he jumped, to try again, ten yards behind the last,

         "If I'm to gain those yards," he thought, "I've got to move real fast."

Exerting everything he had, he gained eight or ten,

         But trying hard to catch the lead, he slipped and fell again.

Defeated he lay there silently, a tear dropped from his eye,

         "There's no sense running anymore, three strikes, I'm out, why try?"

The will to rise had disappeared, all hope had fled away,

         So far behind, so error prone, a loser all the way.

"I've lost, so what's the use," he thought, "I'll live with my disgrace,"

         but then he thought about his dad whom soon he'd have to face.

"Get up," an echo sounded low, "Get up and take your place.

         You were not meant for failure here.  Get up and win the race.

With borrowed will, get up, you haven't lost at all,

         For winning is no more than this:  to rise each time you fall."

So up he rose, to run once more, and with a new commit,

         He resolved that win or lose, at least he wouldn't quit.

So far behind the others now, the most he'd ever been,

         Still he gave it all he had and ran as if to win.

Three times he'd fallen, stumbling, three times he rose again,

         Too far behind to hope to win but sill, he ran to the end.

They cheered the winning runner as he crossed the line, first place

         Head high, proud and happy, no falling, no disgrace.

But when the fallen youngster crossed the line in last place,

         The crowd gave him the greater cheer for finishing the race.

And even though he came in last, with head bowed low, un-proud,

         You would have thought he'd won the race, to listen to the crowd.

And to his dad he sadly said, "I didn't do so well,"

         "To me, you won," his father said, "You rose each time you fell."

And now when things seem dark and hard and difficult to face,

         The memory of that young boy helps me in my race.

For all of life is like that race with ups and downs and all,

         And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.

"Quit, give up, you're beaten," they still shout in my face

         but then another voice within me says, "Get up and win the race."

                                                               By D.H. Growberg