Football, to me, is more than just a game. I have probably learned more than valuable lessons from it than from school.

    When I joined the team freshman year, I didn't realize what I was getting into. Even though I had been playing since fourth grade and knew it was hard work, nothing would prepare me for the effort I would put into football that year. We worked all summer in the weight room and ran on the track to get in physical and mental shape before the season.

    See, football is more of a mental sport than anything else, so running on the track wasn't only about getting in shape. We would push our minds by running as hard as we could even if we felt like we were going to pass out. At the beginning, I was immature（幼稚的）and only thought of myself, sometimes even giving up when I was tired or hurting. Then after the third game I had a season-ending injury. Imagine working all summer and then only being able to play three games! I needed an operation on my arm and at least five months to recover.

    After freshman year I decided that I would always give my best effort. Playing football in the college has taught me so much more than just what my tasks are on a particular play or how to block. I have learned to think about others first, and realized how important working hard is. Being with all my friends, even sweating and bleeding with them, really made us unite as a group of hard-working young men, who will succeed in life.

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    It was an autumn morning shortly after my husband and I moved into our first house. Our children were upstairs unpacking，and I was looking out of the window at my father moving around mysteriously on the front lawn. “What are you doing out there?” I called to him.

    He looked up, smiling. “I'm making you a surprise.” I thought it could be just about anything. When we were kids, he always created something surprising for us. Today, however, Dad would say no more, and caught up in the busyness of our new life , I eventually forgot about his surprise.

    Until one gloomy day the next March when I glanced out of the window，I saw a dot of blue across the yard. I headed outside for a closer look. They were crocuses (番红花）throughout the front lawn — blue, yellow and my favorite pink，with little faces moving up and down in the cold wind. I remembered the things Dad secretly planted last autumn. He knew how the darkness and dullness of winter always got me down. What could have been more perfectly timely to my needs?

    My father's crocuses bloomed each spring for the next five seasons, always bringing the same assurance: Hard times are almost over. Hold on, keep going, and light is coming soon.

    Then a spring came with the usual blooms but the next spring there were none. I missed the crocuses, so I would ask Dad to come over and plant new bulbs (植物球茎). But I never did. He died suddenly one October day. My family were in deep sorrow, leaning on our faith.

    On a spring afternoon four years later, I was driving back when I felt depressed. It was Dad's birthday, and I found myself thinking about him. This was not unusual — my family often talked about him, remembering how he lived up to his faith. Suddenly I slowed as I turned into our driveway. I stopped and stared at the lawn. There on the muddy grass with small piles of melting snow, bravely waving in the wind, was one pink crocus.

    How could a flower bloom from a bulb more than 18 years ago, one that hadn't bloomed in over a decade? But there was the crocus. Tears filled my eyes as I realized its significance.

    Hold on, keep going, and light is coming soon. The pink crocus bloomed for only a day, but it built my faith for a lifetime.

    A new tool of communication called the “drift diary” is doing the rounds among young college graduates.

    The “drift diary”, like those ancient paper messages put into a bottle left to drift on the high seas to reach hundreds of miles away, connects lonely hearts.

    The “drift diary” was first started by a Beijing woman, who goes by the Net name Little S, in 2007. It has become the preferred tool of communication among youngsters afraid to reveal their innermost self to peers, but wanting to share their lives with others.

    The way it works is that the initiator（发起人）of the diary mentions it on popular  Internet forums such as Tianya and Douban. Those wanting to react or otherwise add to the diary then send their real names and addresses to the initiator via e-mails or text messages.

    The numbers in one group are usually restricted to between 30 and 50. The diary then passes on to another by express delivery or personal handover. The diary writers are mostly anonymous but if they wish to reveal their identity they can do so by posting their contact information at the end of their postings.

    The diary writers add not just words but also decorate the plain notebooks with cartoons, drawings or even dress it up with a ribbon or a new cover. Interesting experiences, travel journals, the simple joys of everyday living or sweet recollections of childhood, all find a place in these diaries. Most often, though, the writers set down their frustrations and predicaments.

    It usually takes one year for a diary to return to the initiator. The last recorder is the luckiest one, with access to all previous entries, while others can request photocopies of these from the diary's initiator.

The First Hello

    The man from the telephone department got off the bus, and made his way to the tea stall, wiping the sweat off his head, face, then slipping his handkerchief under his shirt to wipe his neck and back. It was a year ago that the phone line had been installed, six months later men from the public works department had come to put up the phone booth—a neat box-like structure, with a glass window, and wooden ledges, yellow in colour. And days after that, a painter had taken an entire day to colour in broad, black brushstrokes, the words: STD Booth, local and STD allowed.

    No one could tell that the last word had been misspelled. Besides, he had taken the entire day. After he had a cup of tea, he left, waving cheerfully. And now months later, someone else was here again.

    Everyone watched the man as he sat on the bench. No one said a word, and soon the sound of him slurping his tea filled the hot afternoon. A few leaves fell, heavy in the heat, and sometimes a car passed, on its way to the main city farther away.

    When the man had finished, he tried to pay but the tea shop owner who sat behind his steaming kettle and the washed upturned cups, waved him away.

    “You are our guest here.”

    So the man took his handkerchief out again and wiped his face.

    They crowded around him as he shut himself up in the phone booth. When the children pressed their nose against the glass, he shooed them away, as he took out a shiny black soon changed to an excited yell as they saw him dial a number, pressing a finger into the ringed dialer of the phone and letting it go all the way in a half-circle. A while later, they hear him say into the mouthpiece, “Hello.”

    “Hello,”the children around the booth took up the cry, the teashop owner broke into a smile and the men waiting for a bus smiled and said hello to each other. The sadhu(印度的僧人)who sat under the banyan tree nodded wisely. As the sound carried, more hellos were heard. The women winnowing grain giggled as they tried the word tentatively, the shepherds feeding their flocks called out to their sheep, laughing as they used the word.

    “It's a big occasion, ”said the headman, in an awed(敬畏的) voice.

    “It is.” agreed those around him. The telephone man emerged and handed over a small chit of paper to the headman. “This is the telephone number.”

    The headman looked at it respectfully as if it were a mantra(符咒). The others around him read out the numbers slowly, digit-by-digit.

    The telephone man was now too tired to notice the cheering around him. He knew he had to wait long before the bus to take him back arrived. As he sipped his second cup of tea, he remembered something else.

    “Oh, you can't start using the phone now. The minister will come next month and inaugurate it. ”

    No one said a word. No one was surprise. They had waited so long; a month more did not really matter.

    In 2010 I left the United States for the first time to fly over 9,000 miles to Uganda, a country in recovery from civil war. I was going there to help the local kids learn soccer.

    As I played soccer with some kids, the sun burned my skin. I took many breaks to drink from my water bottle before realizing I was the only one who did that. All the energetic children running around never stopped to get water. After looking around, I realized there was NOWHERE for them to get water, and there was no well or water pump in sight.

    I asked a man who was traveling with us why the kids didn't ever stop to drink water. He told me that they would have to walk all the way to the pump in the next village and they didn't want to miss out on playing soccer with a real ball. The kids seemed happy but it was not fair that to get a drink of water meant they would miss out on such a rare occurrence of playing with an actual soccer ball.

    When I got home, I spoke with other people about kids in Uganda. They told me to do something to help them. That sounded like a great idea, but how? I spoke with my friends about helping kids in Uganda. We decided that we could try to solve their most urgent problem—water. And we decided to organize soccer camps to collect money.

    It has been three years since our first camp and we have successfully run two more and funded two water filtration (净化) systems as well as 60 water pumps for farmers. We have been able to improve the health of thousands of Ugandans.

    Recently, as the British doctor Robert Winston took a train from London to Manchester, he found himself becoming steadily angry. A woman had picked up her phone and begun a loud conversation, which would last an unbelievable hour. Furious, Winston began to tweet about the woman. He took her picture and sent it to his more than 40,000 followers.

    When the train arrived at its destination, Winston rushed out. He'd had enough of the woman's rudeness. But the press were now waiting for her on the platform. And when they showed her Winston's messages, she used just one word to describe Winston's actions: rude.

    Winston's tale is something of a microcosm(缩影) of our age of increasing rudeness, fueled by social media. What can we do to fix this?

    Studies have shown that rudeness spreads quickly, almost like the common cold. Just witnessing rudeness makes it far more likely that we, in turn, will be rude later on. The only way to avoid it is to deal with it face to face. We must say, "Just stop." For Winston, that would have meant approaching the woman, telling her that her conversation was frustrating other passengers and politely asking her to speak more quietly or make the call at another time.

    The rage and injustice we feel at the rude behavior of a stranger can drive us to do odd things. In my own research, surveying 2,000 adults, I discovered that the acts of revenge people had taken ranged from the ridiculous to the disturbing. Winston did shine a spotlight on the woman's behavior — but from afar, in a way that shamed her.

    We must instead combat rudeness head on. When we see it occur in a store, we must step up and say something. If it happens to a colleague, we must point it out. We must defend strangers in the same way we'd defend our best friends. But we can do it with grace, by handling it without a trace of aggression and without being rude ourselves. Because once rude people can see their actions through the eyes of others, they are far more likely to end that strain themselves. As this tide of rudeness rises, civilization needs civility.