A story is told
of Abraham Lincoln. One day the President summoned to the White House a surgeon
in the Army of the Cumberland from the state of Ohio. The major assumed that
he was to be commended for some exceptional work. During the conversation Mr.
Lincoln asked the major about his widowed mother. “She is doing fine”, he responded.
“How do you know?”, asked Lincoln. “You haven’t written her. But she has written
me. She thinks that you are dead and she is asking that a special effort be
made to return your body.” At that the Commander and Chief placed a pen in the
young doctor’s hand and ordered him to write a letter letting his mother know
that he was alive and well.
Oh, the blessings
that we take for granted. Oh, the wretchedness of ingratitude.
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