When I was a seven-year-old girl, I used to go door-to-door with my mother to ask the residents for donations to the American Lung Association. Some would give a few coins; others, on rare occasions, a whole dollar; but most would silently shake their heads. No matter what the amount was, my mother always thanked the givers, wrote their names and addresses on her large envelope, and placed the money inside. And then we returned to our apartment, and my mother counted the money. The yield didn't match the effort: I don't think she collected more than $10. Still, she sent the collection to the organization. Even as a child, I knew my mother's actions were great, which aroused my pride in her. Asking poor people to give to an organization which aimed to help others wasn't what you did. Other charities gave to these folks; you didn't ask them to give. To them , her efforts likely seemed foolish. But to me, her efforts had an influence on me as I grew up. Although my charitable giving is modest, I faithfully and regularly donate to the organization which is aimed at fighting AIDS; to stop hunger, and homelessness; to support public broadcasting, the arts, and public education; and to heal families. And I volunteer my time to teach little girls and fix our badly broken public schools. I do these things because I believe I've been given much, so much is required of me. I never asked my mother why she collected those donations, and, besides, the lung cancer that killed her twenty-one years ago prevents me from asking now. But had I asked, my mother's response would have been simple:"Because I can."That's what she would have said. But from that look in her eyes and her daily efforts to make life a bit brighter, I know she also acted on hope that tomorrow would be better and that her actions somehow would make a difference. How did the author feel about his mother's actions?
Satisfied Foolish Proud Embarrassed