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Stealing? Well, yes—I guess we WERE stealing, if you want to get all 2)technical about it. But in our 13-year-old brains we were just using the raspberries as God intended them to be used.
The matter of ownership never occurred to us. We just knew that the Jordans had the best raspberries in the neighborhood, and that their bushes were always heavy with fruit. And suddenly that summer Friday night, a handful of freshly picked raspberries sounded good. Maybe TWO handfuls.
So we snuck into the Jordans’ backyard—which, come to think of it, should have been our first clue that we were doing something wrong: we “snuck.” Anytime sneaking is involved, it means you don’t want to get caught, which usually means you shouldn’t be doing it. But we snuck into their backyard and positioned ourselves carefully around the bushes and started harvesting their sweet, juicy berries.
Now, I’ve got to tell you, there isn’t anything that tastes better than vine-ripened raspberries, fresh off the bush. I probably shouldn’t admit it, but they seem to taste even better if there is a little3)subterfuge involved. And we were savoring every bite of 4)ill-gotten berry when all of a sudden the Jordans’ backyard lights 5)flicked on, and Mr. Jordan came 6)charging outside.
“What you boys doing out here?” he shouted as my friends scrambled off in all directions, uneaten raspberries flying 7)every which way.
He made a 8)valiant attempt to grab one or two as they dashed past him, but they were too quick for the older gentleman to catch, and within seconds the boys disappeared into the dark of the summer evening.
All except one. Uh, that would be me.
Speed was never my strength. I was tall. I was strong. But I wasn’t very fast. Fast was for the little quick guys. I was all about size and power, neither of which 9)comes into play when you’re trapped in a backyard, your lips red with juice from a neighbor’s precious raspberries.
So I stood there, 10)deer-in-the-headlights style, and quickly considered my options. I could run, but I knew perfectly well that even as old as Mr. Jordan was, he could probably 11)outrun me. I could lie, but I couldn’t come up with a believable story that would explain why I was in their backyard wearing a T-shirt 12)stained with fresh raspberry juice. Or I could just stand there and accept whatever punishment would surely 13)come my way from the Jordans and my parents.
To be honest, I didn’t like that last option, but I didn’t really have a choice. I took the 14)tongue-lashing that Mr. Jordan gave me as he 15)marched me down the block to my house, where my mother took over and 16)escalated the 17)harangue to new levels of 18)righteous scolding. My friends said they could hear every 19)colorful word she uttered from the darkness of our backyard, where they had gathered to celebrate their escape —and to observe my capture.
They teased me about it for days afterwards, while all I could do was complain about how unfair it was that I had to pay the full price for doing the exact same thing all of them had done without any noticeable consequences.
After about a week of this, I complained to my father about the inequity of the situation (and in case any of the boys are reading this: no, I didn’t 20)rat you out. I think the 21)statute of limitations on raspberry rustling had already 22)elapsed).
“I don’t think it’s unfair at all,” Dad said. “You took raspberries without asking, and you got exactly the punishment you deserved.”
“But what about the other guys?” I asked. “They didn’t get punished at all!”
“That’s not my concern, nor should it be yours,” Dad said. “You can’t control what happens to other people. You can only deal with what happens to you. You made a bad choice that night, and you were punished for it. To me, that is completely fair.”
Back then I thought Dad just didn’t 23)get it. But through the years I have come to realize that, as usual, he knew what he was talking about.
We didn’t come to earth with a guarantee that life would treat us fairly. And it doesn’t. That’s why we can’t 24)get bogged down comparing the various 25)vicissitudes of our lives with the lives of others. Like Dad said, that isn’t our concern.
The only thing we can actually deal with is what happens to us. How we choose to respond to what happens to us is truly the standard by which the quality of our lives will be measured. Whether or not we think it happens fairly.
偷？呃，是的——如果你要用法律术语来形容的话，那我想当时我们是在偷东西了。但是我们这些13岁小孩的脑子里想的是，我们只是在按上帝本来的旨意享用这些树莓罢了。
我们压根儿就没想过所有权的问题。我们只知道乔丹一家种有附近最好的树莓，他们家的树莓灌木丛总是硕果累累。在那个夏天的一个星期五晚上，我们突然觉得去摘上一大把新鲜树莓的主意不错。或者是两大把。
于是，我们潜入乔丹家的后院——现在回想起来，这应该就是我们做了错事的第一条罪证：我们“潜入”。任何时候，如果用到“潜入”，就意味着你不想被逮住，这通常也意味着你不应该这么做。但是，我们还是潜入了他们家的后院，并在灌木丛四周谨慎地找好藏身之处，开始享用他们家那甜美而多汁的树莓。
现在，我得告诉你，没有任何味道能比从灌木上新摘下来那自然熟的树莓的味道更好的了。我不得不承认，如果是用了“诡计”才得手的话，味道甚至会更好。当我们正在尽情享用偷来的树莓时，乔丹家后院的灯突然间亮了，只见乔丹先生径直冲了出来。
“你们这些男孩在这里干吗？”他大喊道。我的朋友们随即四处乱窜，地上到处散落着吃剩的树莓。
男孩们从他身旁跑过时，他拼命想抓住一两个，但他们跑得太快了，老先生实在追不上。几秒钟的功夫，男孩们就消失在仲夏的夜色中了。
全部都跑了，除了一个。嗯，那就是我。
速度从来不是我的优势。我长得高大强壮，但是跑不快。跑得快的是那些行动敏捷的小家伙。我有的是体型和力量，但是当你被困在后院里，嘴上沾满邻居家珍贵树莓的鲜红果汁时，这两样东西是派不上用场的。
于是我站在那里，不知所措，脑海里很快地想了想我当前的选择：我可以逃跑，但是我清楚地知道，就算是像乔丹先生这样的老人也有可能跑得比我快。我可以说谎，但是我想不出一个能让人信服的故事来解释我为什么会出现在他们家后院，而且身上的T恤还沾满了新鲜的树莓汁。又或者我可以干脆就站在那里，同意接受来自乔丹一家以及我父母的任何惩罚。
老实说，我不喜欢最后一个选择，但我真的别无选择。乔丹先生揪着我走回我家，一路上都是他的斥责声。到家之后，我妈妈便接手，义正严词的责骂接而升级。据我的朋友们说，他们可以听得清我妈说出的每个“精彩”词句，因为当时他们全都躲在我家黑乎乎的后院，一边庆祝他们成功逃脱，一边观看我被逮住的惨况。
接下来的几天他们都拿这件事来取笑我，我能做的就是抱怨命运的不公：为什么大家做了同样一件事情，我要付出全部代价，而他们却丝毫无损。
大概过了一个星期，我向父亲抱怨这件不公平的事（如果有男生读到我的文章：没有，我没有打你们的小报告。我想，对偷树莓行为提出诉讼的时效应该已经过了）。
“我一点儿也不觉得有什么不公平”，爸爸说，“你没有征得他人同意就擅自摘树莓，你受到的是应有的惩罚。”
“那其他男孩呢？”我问道，“他们完全没受到惩罚！”
“那不是我要考虑的，也不是你要考虑的事情，”爸爸说，“你不能控制发生在其他人身上的事情。你只能应对发生在你自己身上的事情。那天晚上你做了一个错误的抉择，并且为此受到了惩罚。在我看来，这是十分公平的。”
当时，我认为爸爸并不理解我的意思。但这些年来，我已经认识到，一如既往，他很清楚自己当时在说些什么。
我们来到这个世界，并没有人向我们保证生活会是公平的。事实也正如此。所以我们不能将自己的各种人生遭遇与别人的生活相比较而萎靡不振。就像我爸爸所说的，那不是我们要考虑的事情。
我们唯一能应对的是发生在我们身上的事情。如何去选择、应对发生在自己身上的事情是衡量我们生活质量的真正标准，无论我们认为事情的发生公平与否。
The matter of ownership never occurred to us. We just knew that the Jordans had the best raspberries in the neighborhood, and that their bushes were always heavy with fruit. And suddenly that summer Friday night, a handful of freshly picked raspberries sounded good. Maybe TWO handfuls.
So we snuck into the Jordans’ backyard—which, come to think of it, should have been our first clue that we were doing something wrong: we “snuck.” Anytime sneaking is involved, it means you don’t want to get caught, which usually means you shouldn’t be doing it. But we snuck into their backyard and positioned ourselves carefully around the bushes and started harvesting their sweet, juicy berries.
Now, I’ve got to tell you, there isn’t anything that tastes better than vine-ripened raspberries, fresh off the bush. I probably shouldn’t admit it, but they seem to taste even better if there is a little3)subterfuge involved. And we were savoring every bite of 4)ill-gotten berry when all of a sudden the Jordans’ backyard lights 5)flicked on, and Mr. Jordan came 6)charging outside.
“What you boys doing out here?” he shouted as my friends scrambled off in all directions, uneaten raspberries flying 7)every which way.
He made a 8)valiant attempt to grab one or two as they dashed past him, but they were too quick for the older gentleman to catch, and within seconds the boys disappeared into the dark of the summer evening.
All except one. Uh, that would be me.
Speed was never my strength. I was tall. I was strong. But I wasn’t very fast. Fast was for the little quick guys. I was all about size and power, neither of which 9)comes into play when you’re trapped in a backyard, your lips red with juice from a neighbor’s precious raspberries.
So I stood there, 10)deer-in-the-headlights style, and quickly considered my options. I could run, but I knew perfectly well that even as old as Mr. Jordan was, he could probably 11)outrun me. I could lie, but I couldn’t come up with a believable story that would explain why I was in their backyard wearing a T-shirt 12)stained with fresh raspberry juice. Or I could just stand there and accept whatever punishment would surely 13)come my way from the Jordans and my parents.
To be honest, I didn’t like that last option, but I didn’t really have a choice. I took the 14)tongue-lashing that Mr. Jordan gave me as he 15)marched me down the block to my house, where my mother took over and 16)escalated the 17)harangue to new levels of 18)righteous scolding. My friends said they could hear every 19)colorful word she uttered from the darkness of our backyard, where they had gathered to celebrate their escape —and to observe my capture.
They teased me about it for days afterwards, while all I could do was complain about how unfair it was that I had to pay the full price for doing the exact same thing all of them had done without any noticeable consequences.
After about a week of this, I complained to my father about the inequity of the situation (and in case any of the boys are reading this: no, I didn’t 20)rat you out. I think the 21)statute of limitations on raspberry rustling had already 22)elapsed).
“I don’t think it’s unfair at all,” Dad said. “You took raspberries without asking, and you got exactly the punishment you deserved.”
“But what about the other guys?” I asked. “They didn’t get punished at all!”
“That’s not my concern, nor should it be yours,” Dad said. “You can’t control what happens to other people. You can only deal with what happens to you. You made a bad choice that night, and you were punished for it. To me, that is completely fair.”
Back then I thought Dad just didn’t 23)get it. But through the years I have come to realize that, as usual, he knew what he was talking about.
We didn’t come to earth with a guarantee that life would treat us fairly. And it doesn’t. That’s why we can’t 24)get bogged down comparing the various 25)vicissitudes of our lives with the lives of others. Like Dad said, that isn’t our concern.
The only thing we can actually deal with is what happens to us. How we choose to respond to what happens to us is truly the standard by which the quality of our lives will be measured. Whether or not we think it happens fairly.
偷？呃，是的——如果你要用法律术语来形容的话，那我想当时我们是在偷东西了。但是我们这些13岁小孩的脑子里想的是，我们只是在按上帝本来的旨意享用这些树莓罢了。
我们压根儿就没想过所有权的问题。我们只知道乔丹一家种有附近最好的树莓，他们家的树莓灌木丛总是硕果累累。在那个夏天的一个星期五晚上，我们突然觉得去摘上一大把新鲜树莓的主意不错。或者是两大把。
于是，我们潜入乔丹家的后院——现在回想起来，这应该就是我们做了错事的第一条罪证：我们“潜入”。任何时候，如果用到“潜入”，就意味着你不想被逮住，这通常也意味着你不应该这么做。但是，我们还是潜入了他们家的后院，并在灌木丛四周谨慎地找好藏身之处，开始享用他们家那甜美而多汁的树莓。
现在，我得告诉你，没有任何味道能比从灌木上新摘下来那自然熟的树莓的味道更好的了。我不得不承认，如果是用了“诡计”才得手的话，味道甚至会更好。当我们正在尽情享用偷来的树莓时，乔丹家后院的灯突然间亮了，只见乔丹先生径直冲了出来。
“你们这些男孩在这里干吗？”他大喊道。我的朋友们随即四处乱窜，地上到处散落着吃剩的树莓。
男孩们从他身旁跑过时，他拼命想抓住一两个，但他们跑得太快了，老先生实在追不上。几秒钟的功夫，男孩们就消失在仲夏的夜色中了。
全部都跑了，除了一个。嗯，那就是我。
速度从来不是我的优势。我长得高大强壮，但是跑不快。跑得快的是那些行动敏捷的小家伙。我有的是体型和力量，但是当你被困在后院里，嘴上沾满邻居家珍贵树莓的鲜红果汁时，这两样东西是派不上用场的。
于是我站在那里，不知所措，脑海里很快地想了想我当前的选择：我可以逃跑，但是我清楚地知道，就算是像乔丹先生这样的老人也有可能跑得比我快。我可以说谎，但是我想不出一个能让人信服的故事来解释我为什么会出现在他们家后院，而且身上的T恤还沾满了新鲜的树莓汁。又或者我可以干脆就站在那里，同意接受来自乔丹一家以及我父母的任何惩罚。
老实说，我不喜欢最后一个选择，但我真的别无选择。乔丹先生揪着我走回我家，一路上都是他的斥责声。到家之后，我妈妈便接手，义正严词的责骂接而升级。据我的朋友们说，他们可以听得清我妈说出的每个“精彩”词句，因为当时他们全都躲在我家黑乎乎的后院，一边庆祝他们成功逃脱，一边观看我被逮住的惨况。
接下来的几天他们都拿这件事来取笑我，我能做的就是抱怨命运的不公：为什么大家做了同样一件事情，我要付出全部代价，而他们却丝毫无损。
大概过了一个星期，我向父亲抱怨这件不公平的事（如果有男生读到我的文章：没有，我没有打你们的小报告。我想，对偷树莓行为提出诉讼的时效应该已经过了）。
“我一点儿也不觉得有什么不公平”，爸爸说，“你没有征得他人同意就擅自摘树莓，你受到的是应有的惩罚。”
“那其他男孩呢？”我问道，“他们完全没受到惩罚！”
“那不是我要考虑的，也不是你要考虑的事情，”爸爸说，“你不能控制发生在其他人身上的事情。你只能应对发生在你自己身上的事情。那天晚上你做了一个错误的抉择，并且为此受到了惩罚。在我看来，这是十分公平的。”
当时，我认为爸爸并不理解我的意思。但这些年来，我已经认识到，一如既往，他很清楚自己当时在说些什么。
我们来到这个世界，并没有人向我们保证生活会是公平的。事实也正如此。所以我们不能将自己的各种人生遭遇与别人的生活相比较而萎靡不振。就像我爸爸所说的，那不是我们要考虑的事情。
我们唯一能应对的是发生在我们身上的事情。如何去选择、应对发生在自己身上的事情是衡量我们生活质量的真正标准，无论我们认为事情的发生公平与否。