My childhood and adolescence¹ were a joyous² outpouring of energy, a ceaseless quest for expression, skill, and experience. School was only a background to the supreme³ delight of lessons in music, dance, and dramatics, and the thrill of sojourns⁴（逗留,旅居） in the country, theaters, concerts.

 

And books, big Braille books that came with me on streetcars, to the table, and to bed. Then one night at a high school dance, a remark, not intended for my ears, stabbed my youthful bliss⁵: "That girl, what a pity she is blind." Blind! That ugly word that implied everything dark, blank, rigid⁶, and helpless. Quickly I turned and called out, Please don’t feel sorry for me, I’m having lots of fun. But the fun was not to last.

 

With the advent⁷ of college, I was brought to grips with the problem of earning a living. Part-time teaching of piano and harmony and, upon graduation, occasional concerts and lectures, proved only partial sources of livelihood⁸. In terms of time and effort involved, the financial remuneration（酬劳,赔偿） was disheartening. This induced within me searing self-doubt and dark moods of despondency. Adding to my dismal⁹ sense of inadequacy¹⁰ was the repeated experience of seeing my sisters and friends go off to exciting dates. How grateful I was for my piano, where—through Chopin, Brahms, and Beethoven -- I could mingle¹¹ my longing¹² and seething¹³ energy with theirs. And where I could dissolve my frustration¹⁴ in the beauty and grandeur¹⁵（壮丽,庄严） of their conceptions.

 

Then one day, I met a girl, a wonderful girl, an army nurse, whose faith and stability were to change my whole life. As our acquaintance ripened¹⁶ into friendship, she discerned, behind a shell of gaiety, my recurring¹⁷ plateaus of depression. She said, "Stop knocking on closed doors. Keep up your beautiful music. I know your opportunity will come. You’re trying too hard. Why don’t you relax, and have you ever tried praying?"

 

The idea was strange to me. It sounded too simple. Somehow, I had always operated on the premise¹⁸ that, if you wanted something in this world, you had to go out and get it for yourself. Yet, sincerity¹⁹ and hard work had yielded only meager²⁰ returns, and I was willing to try anything. Experimentally, self-consciously, I cultivated the daily practice of prayer. I said: God, show me the purpose for which You sent me to this world. Help me to be of use to myself and to humanity.

 

In the years to follow, the answers began to arrive, clear and satisfying beyond my most optimistic anticipation²¹. One of the answers was Enchanted²² Hills, where my nurse friend and I have the privilege of seeing blind children come alive in God’s out-of-doors. Others are the never-ending sources of pleasure and comfort I have found in friendship, in great music, and, most important of all, in my growing belief that as I attune²³ my life to divine revelation, I draw closer to God and, through Him, to immortality²⁴.

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