Harper Lee, whose 1961 novel To Kill a Mockingbird on the racial troubles of the American deep south, has died at the age of 89.

    Until last year, Lee had been something of a one-book literary legend. To kill a Mockingbird sold more than 40 million copies around the world and earned her a Pulitzer prize, remaining a towering presence in American literature. Another novel, Go Set A Watchman, was controversially published in July 2015 as a “sequel” to Mockingbird, though it was later confirmed to be Mockingbird's first draft.

    But from the moment Mockingbird was published to almost instant success, the author consistently avoided public attention. Lee had lived for several years in a nursing home near the house in which she had grown up in Monroeville, Alabama—the setting for Maycomb of her famous book. Her neighbor for 40 years, Sue Sellers, said, “She was such a private person. All she wanted was privacy, but she didn't get much. There was always somebody following her around.”

    James Naughtie, BBC Books Editor, commented on the novels of Harper Lee: “I think she stands, particularly among American readers, as someone who shone a light into a very dark place. She was writing at a time when people were beginning to lift the lid on everything in the South which they'd chosen not to understand. That all changed in the 1960s. So I think her status for writing that book in its extraordinarily direct way will remain.

    “Do you have any idea how hard it is to be a kid?!” My 7-year-old once asked me. My initial reaction to her complaint (抱怨) was eye-rolling, along with thinking, “Being a kid is hard? Are you kidding me?” as I mentally counted all the hard things that her grown-up mama did.

    However, as I thought about it a bit more, I realized how silly my reaction had been. Yes, as we adults look back on our childhood, being a kid seems carefree and easy and full of fun. Coloring at school! Playing games! Riding bikes! How could that be hard? So I asked my daughter why being a kid was so hard.

    “Well, because you don't have your own phone, and you can't eat in the living room,” she said.

     I asked if anything else was hard about being a kid. “Someone else is the boss of you,” she replied.

    I thought some more. What else is hard about being a kid? Well, sometimes, we don't really take kids seriously.

    There are times when I've responded to my children's tears with “It's not bad,” or “You don't need to be upset about that.” Because I believe that a cancelled playdate or a lost toy is no big deal. But for my little ones, it is.

    We don't intentionally ignore these opportunities for connection, but sometimes, in busy moments of parenting, we respond unskillfully. We don't put ourselves in our children's shoes, and we miss an opportunity to practice compassion.

    Compassion means “to feel with” or “to suffer with” another person. It means seeing something the way they do, and experiencing it with them.

    Here's what I've learned about being a more compassionate parent, and I hope other parents can do the same thing.

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    Many years ago, when we first went to Canada, we were driving through Montana to Colorado with our two children. We thought we would find a motel（汽车旅馆）on the way and had not made a booking. As it was getting late, we started looking for a motel, only to find that all were booked.

    Finally, around 9 p.m., we stopped at a gas station to fill up on gas. My husband asked for a phone book and told the woman at the counter that we were trying to find a motel. He tried for 15 minutes. When he was unsuccessful, the woman, Linda, said she and her family lived nearby and would be happy if we spent the night at her home.

    My husband was stunned at her offer. She called her son to direct us, since she had to stay at the gas station till midnight.

    When we reached their home, her husband greeted us. He took out two sleeping bags for the children. He invited us to have coffee and chat while we waited for his wife. When she came back, we asked if we could slip away in the morning so as not to disturb them. They said we were now guests and we would have to have breakfast with them.

    We woke up to a table set for breakfast. They'd made a mountain of pancakes and bacon. We ate breakfast, and when we were leaving, my husband asked if he could offer some payment.

    They insisted we were their guests. We left moved by their spirit of hospitality(好客). We were amazed that they would take in a family of total strangers from a different country. We kept in touch for many years. Over the years, we lost touch, but have never forgotten their kindness.

    It's never easy to explain exactly when a specific language began, and in the case of English we can hardly regard it as a separate language before the Anglo-Saxons came to Britain. Germanic invaders (入侵者) came and settled in Britain from the north-western coastline of continental Europe in the fifth centuries. The invaders all spoke a language that was Germanic (related to Dutch, Frisian, German and the Scandinavian languages), but we'll probably never know how different their speech was from that of their continental neighbors.

    The reason that we know so little about the language in this period is because we do not have much in the way of written records from any of the Germanic languages until several centuries later. When Old English writings began to appear in the seventh and eighth centuries there was a good deal of regional variation (变化), but not more than that found in later periods.

    The Celts already lived in Britain when the Anglo-Saxons arrived, but there are few obvious signs of their language in English today. Some scholars have suggested that the Celtic tongue might have had some influence on the grammatical development of English, particularly in some parts of the country, but this is highly speculative (猜测). The number of borrowed words that have entered Old English from this language is very small. Those that survive in modern English include “comb” (a type of valley), alongside some place names.

    Sometimes just when we need the power of miracles to change our beliefs, they materialize in the places we'd least expect. They can come to us as a great change in our physical reality or as a simple coincidence in our lives. Sometimes they're big and can't be missed. Other times they're so subtle that if we aren't aware, we may miss them altogether. They can come from the lips of a stranger we suddenly and mysteriously meet at just the right instant. If we listen carefully, we'll always hear the right words, at the right time, to dazzle (目眩) us into a realization of something that we may have failed to notice only moments before.

    On a cold January afternoon in 1989, I was hiking up the trail that leads to the top of Egypt's Mt. Horeb. I'd spent the day at St. Catherine's Monastery and wanted to get to the peak by sunset to see the valley below. As I was winding up the narrow path, I'd occasionally see other hikers who were coming down from a day on the mountain. While they would generally pass with simply a nod or a greeting in another language, there was one man that day who did neither.

    I saw him coming from the last switchback on the trail that led to the backside of the mountain. As he got closer, I could see that he was dressed differently from the other hikers I'd seen. Rather than the high-tech fabrics and styles that had been the norm, this man was wearing traditional Egyptian clothing. He wore a tattered, rust-colored galabia and obviously old and thick-soled sandals that were covered in dust. What made his appearance so odd, though, was that the man didn't even appear to be Egyptian! He was a small-framed Asian man, had very little hair, and was wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses.

    As we neared one another, I was the first to speak, "Hello," I said, stopping on the trail for a moment to catch my breath. Not a sound came from the man as he walked closer. I thought that maybe he hadn't heard me or the wind had carried my voice away from him in another direction. Suddenly he stopped directly in front of me on the high side of the trail, looked up from the ground, and spoke a single sentence to me in English, "Sometimes you don't know what you have lost until you've lost it." As I took in what I had just heard, he simply stepped around me and continued his going down the trail.

    That moment in my life was a small miracle. The reason is less about what the man said and more about the timing and the context. The year was 1989, and the Cold War was drawing to a close. what the man on the trail couldn't have known is that it was during my Egyptian pilgrimage (朝圣), and specifically during my hike to the top of Moses's mountain, that I'd set the time aside to make decisions that would affect my career in the defense industry, my friends, my family, and, ultimately, my life.

    I had to ask myself what the chances were of an Asian man dressed in an Egyptian galabia coming down from the top of this historic mountain just when I was walking up, stopping before me, and offering his wisdom, seemingly from out of nowhere. My answer to my own question was easy: the odds were slim to none! In a meet that lasted less than two minutes on a mountain halfway around the world from my home, a total stranger had brought clarity and the hint of a warning, regarding the huge changes that I would make within a matter of days. In my way of thinking, that's a miracle.

    I suspect that we all experience small miracles in our lives every day. Sometimes we have the wisdom and the courage to recognize them for what they are In the moments when we don't, that's okay as well. It seems that our miracles have a way of coming back to us again and again. And each time they do, they become a little less subtle, until we can't possibly miss the message that they bring to our lives!

The key is that they're everywhere and occur every day for different reasons, in response to the different needs that we may have in the moment. Our job may be less about questioning the extraordinary things that happen in our daily lives and more about accepting the gifts they bring.