不可贪恋人的房屋

帽子、位子、票子、房子、车子

这五“子”是当年每个留学生所竭力追求的。即使现在可能还是：
多数人已有了“博士”帽子，但还有许多其它的帽子,什么会长、主任、主席等等，即使是学术上，也还有Doctor of Science在PhD之上；
“位子”也是可以越来越高的；工程师、高工、主管、讲师、教授等等；
大多数人不会嫌“票子”多的，而且常常是觉得不够；
“房子”更是应该越来越大，至少是一项投资，等到老了退休了，再买了换回到小的房子和一笔养老金去；
“车子”更应该是越来越好，中国人对车子的重视随处可见：年初一月份中国就进口了16000两3.0以上的越野车。“车子”给你面子，你总不能向每一个陌生人散你那印有你显赫标志的名片吧？也不能带街上的人去看你的豪宅吧？最好的显摆就是开上你的豪华越野车**招摇。
其实大多数时候，我们追求是因为攀比！别人已经怎样怎样了、邻居已经怎样怎样了、同学已经怎样怎样了，特别受不了的是看到“我那中学同学当年比我差多了，现在竟然位子比我高了，或者车子比我靓了....”


但是十戒最后一戒：不可贪恋人的房屋；也不可贪恋人的妻子、仆婢、牛驴，并他一切所有的。（出埃及记20：17）
20_OT02ex.htm贪恋不仅是羡慕别人的财物，或者心里想“巴不得我也拥有”，贪恋也包括对别人有而自己无的，生出嫉妒仇恨之心。
保罗教导他亲爱的儿子提摩太“只要有衣有食，就当知足”
耶稣说：“不要为自己积攒财宝在地上，地上有虫子咬，能锈坏，也有贼挖窟窿来偷”；
“只要积攒财宝在天上，天上没有虫子咬，不能锈坏，也没有贼挖窟窿来偷”（马太6：19-20）

愿我常常知足感恩

中国人的面子

我在雅虎中文网上写了篇 世界最昂贵的 2008 中国奥运金牌

2008年的中国奥运金牌的含金量的确有诗意世界之最：5200亿人民币/51枚金牌。每面金牌=...

转贴

从“八国联军”、“东亚病夫”、“狗与中国人不得进入”，到“鸟巢”、“水立方”、“央视大楼”、“新机场”及许多面的奥运金牌，中国是以“雪耻”的精神卯足了劲干，我们遇到一个外国女义工，她说当了7次的奥运义工，没看过任何一个国家像中国这样拚命办奥运的，

连北京人自己都调侃：“有这么多钱的国家，没有这么多人，有这么多人的国家，没有这么多钱，有这么多钱又有这么多人的国家， 没有这么听话的人！”不过办一次奥运可把他们累坏了，于是又有一个笑话：“国际奥会主席罗格鉴于北京奥运办的太成功了，在闭幕式上宣布下届奥运仍由北京主 办。”话一说完，在场的领导同志都昏倒了，再一转头，所有的志工及公安都昏倒了，医护人员怎么不来急救呢？医护人员也昏倒了！

The Canary （金丝雀--曼斯菲尔德）

The Canary

by Katherine Mansfield

... You see that big nail to the right of the front door? I can scarcely look at it even now and yet I could not bear to take it out. I should like to think it was there always even after my time. I sometimes hear the next people saying, 'There must have been a cage hanging from there.' And it comforts me. I feel he is not quite forgotten.

... You cannot imagine how wonderfully he sang. It was not like the singing of other canaries. And that isn't just my fancy. Often, from the window I used to see people stop at the gate to listen, or they would lean over the fence by the mock-orange for quite a long time --- carried away. I suppose it sounds absurd to you --- it wouldn't if you had heard him --- but it really seemed to me he sang whole songs, with a beginning and an end to them.

For instance, when I'd finished the house in the afternoon, and changed by blouse and brought my sewing on the verandah here, he used to hop, hop, hop from one perch to the other, tap against the bars as if to attract my attention, sip a little water, just as a professional singer might, and then break into a song so exquisite that I had to put my needle down to listen to him. I can't describe it; I wish I could. But it was always the same, every afternoon, and I felt that I understood every note of it.

... I loved him. How I loved him! Perhaps it does not a matter so very much what it is one loves in this world. But love something one must! Of course there was always my little house and the garden, but for some reason they were never enough. Flowers respond wonderfully, but they don't sympathise. Then I loved the evening star. Does that sound ridiculous? I used to go into the backyard, after sunset, and wait for it until it shone above the dark gum tree. I used to whisper, 'There you are, my darling.' And just in that first moment it seemed to be shining for me alone. It seemed to understand this ... something which is like longing, and yet it is not longing. Or regret --- it is more like regret. And yet regret for what? I have much to be thankful for!

... But after he came into my life I forgot the evening star; I did not need it any more. But it was strange. When the Chinaman who came to the door with birds to sell held him up in his tiny cage, and instead of fluttering, fluttering, like the poor little goldfinches, he gave a faint, small chirp, I found myself saying, just as I had said to the star over the gum tree, 'There your are, my darling.' From that moment he was mine!

... It surprises even me now to remember how he and I shared each other's lives. The moment I came down in the morning and took the cloth off his cage he greeted me with a drowsy little note. I knew it meant 'Missus! Missus!' Then I hung him on the nail outside while I got my three young men their breakfasts, and I never brought him in, to do his cage, until we had the house to ourselves again. Then, when the washing-up was done, it was quite a little entertainment. I spread a newspaper over a corner of the table and when I put the cage on it he used to beat with his wings, despairingly, as if he didn't know what was coming. 'You're a regular little actor,' I used to scold him. I scraped the tray, dusted it with fresh sand, filled his seed and water tins, tucked a piece of chickweed and half a chili between the bars. And I am perfectly certain he understood and appreciated every item of this little performance. You see by nature he was exquisitely neat. There was never a speck on his perch. And you'd only to see him enjoy his bath to realise he had a real small passion for cleanliness. His bath was put in last. And moment it was in he positively leapt into it. First he fluttered one wing, then the other, then he ducked his head and dabbled his breast feathers. Drops of water were scattered all over the kitchen, but still he would not get out. I used to say to him, 'Now that's quite enough. You're only showing off.' And at last out he hopped and standing on one leg he began to peck himself dry. Finally he gave a shake, a flick, a twitter and he lifted his throat --- Oh, I can hardly bear to recall it. I was always cleaning the knives by then. And it almost seemed to me the knives sang too, as I rubbed them bright on the board.

... Company, you see, that was what he was. Perfect company. If you have lived alone you will realise how precious that is. Of course there were my three young men who came in to supper every evening, and sometimes they stayed in the dining-room afterwards reading the paper. But I could not expect them to be interested in the little things that made my day. Why should they be? I was nothing to them. In fact, I overheard them one evening talking about me on the stairs as 'the Scarecrow'. No matter. It doesn't matter. Not in the least. I quite understand. They are young. Why should I mind? But I remember feeling so especially thankful that I was not quite alone that evening. I told him, after they had gone. I said 'Do you know what they call Missus?' And he put his head on one side and looked at me with his little bright eye until I could not help laughing. It seemed to amuse him.

... Have you kept birds? If you haven't, all this must sound, perhaps, exaggerated. People have the idea that birds are heartless, cold little creatures, not like dogs or cats. My washerwoman used to say every Monday when she wondered why I didn't keep 'a nice fox terrier', 'There's no comfort, Miss, in a canary.' Untrue! Dreadfully untrue! I remember one night. I had had a very awful dream --- dreams can be terribly cruel --- even after I had woken up I could not get over it. So I put on my dressing-gown and came down to the kitchen for a glass of water. It was a winter night and raining hard. I suppose I was half asleep still, but through the kitchen window that hadn't a blind, it seemed to me the dark was staring in, spying. And suddenly I felt it was unbearable that I had no one to whom I could say 'I've had such a dreadful dream,' or --- 'Hide me from the dark.' I even covered my face for a minute. And then there came a little 'Sweet! Sweet!' His cage was on the table, and the cloth had slipped so that a chink of light shone through. 'Sweet! Sweet!' said the darling little fellow again, softly, as much as to say, 'I'm here, Missus. I'm here!' That was so beautifully comforting that I nearly cried.

... And now he's gone. I shall never have another bird, another pet of any kind. How could I? When I found him, lying on his back, with his eye dim and his claws wrung, when I realised that never again should I hear my darling sing, something seemed to die in me. My breast felt hollow, as if it was his cage. I shall get over it. Of course. I must. One can get over anything in time. And people always say I have a cheerful disposition. They are quite right. I thank God I have.

... All the same, without being morbid, or giving way to --- to memories and so on, I must confess that there does seem to me something sad in life. It is hard to say what it is. I don't mean the sorrow that we all know, like illness and poverty and death. No, it is something different. It is there, deep down, deep down, part of one, like one's breathing. However hard I work and tire myself I have only to stop to know it is there, waiting. I often wonder if everybody feels the same. One can never know. But isn't it extraordinary that under his sweet, joyful little singing it was just this --- sadness? --- Ah, what is it? --- that I heard.