Living the Radiant Life: A Personal Narrative

by George Wharton James

Years ago I had learned this lesson of refusal to pity myself, and I then wrote:

"I want to radiate a spirit that refuses to pity itself for any of its woes, its afflictions, its misfortunes, its sorrows. There is no weakness so weak as the weakness of self-pity; there is nothing so spiritually debilitating as to brood over one's own sorrows. It is a kind of melancholy selfishness; it neither helps one's self nor others; it is depressing to all concerned. I happened to read to-day in a popular novel a sentence that most truthfully expresses what I believe upon this subject: 'The most absolutely selfish thing in the world is to give way to depression, to think of one's troubles at all, except of how to overcome them. I spend many delightful hours thinking of the pleasant and beautiful things of life. I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones.'

"It is just as easy to form a habit of dwelling upon the sweet and good and beautiful and happy things of life as upon the bitter and evil and ugly and unhappy things. Brooding enlarges whatever it exercises itself upon, whether it be good or evil, joy or woe. So brood on the good things, cast out the others, and so live that you radiate this joy and determination not to recognize the evil and unpleasant things.

"Self-pity takes the backbone out of one. It robs one of his manhood, his courage, his daring to go on and face all the difficulties before him. It is self-pity that makes the suicide. He looks at his woes, his difficulties, until he cannot bear them, and so goes and takes the big plunge into the dark.

"Brother, sister, quit your self-pitying. There is another side to the darkness. Look up, not down. Remember that, in the words of Robert Browning, 'God's in His heaven, all's right with the world.' So I have long resolved to radiate cheerfulness as much when I am down, as when I am up—when misfortune glowers upon me, as when fortune smiles. It is so easy to interpret our material good as a proof of God's favor, and our material ill as a sign that He is displeased with us. Those who went to Jesus and asked, when the tower of Siloam fell and killed eighteen: 'Were they not sinners above all others because this thing happened to them?' are not without their myriads of counterparts in the world to-day. When a man strikes a new gusher in an oil region, or a good flow of water in a desert country, or his grainfield gives him seventy bushels to the acre, it is easy enough to believe that Providence is smiling upon him, and, therefore, his faith is strong and unquenchable. I have enough of that kind of faith. I can radiate that without an effort or thought. But I desire above all things to radiate a like sure and definite faith when my neighbor strikes a gusher and I do not; when my enemy finds a fine flow of water and my crops are being parched—I want as strong a sense of contentment when Fortune smiles upon the other fellow, as when it smiles upon me."

This leads to another practical radiance. It is that of absolute certainty that things do not happen. There is no such thing as a "happenstance" in the world.

"Nothing happens," is a word often on my inner lips. There is no evil, no wrong, no misfortune to the man who consciously lives with power ever surrounding him. In our short-sightedness, we dream, we think of evil, or ill, or wrong, or misfortune, but if our faith's eyes were always open, we should see nothing but good—and that all circumstances are good in their ultimate results upon us.

Some years ago I met a lady who possessed this spirit of radiant cheerfulness, and yet she was in a sanitarium and had undergone several severe surgical operations.

In conversation with her, I learned that some years before she had found herself afflicted with a tumor in her breast. The surgeon said that nothing but the knife would remove it. This seemed almost like a sentence to death, and my friend and her husband, children, and friends were deeply saddened by the necessity. They all went through a period of deep gloom, of darkness, of despondency. Then there came to her the idea that it was contrary to Nature that she and her loved ones should waste their time, energy, and strength in such repining and sorrow. She remembered the words, "Be careful for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication make your requests known unto God," and then there came to her the joy of the promise that followed: "And the peace of God which passeth all understanding shall keep your hearts and minds" in what is sure to be the spirit of peace and love.

So she began to look upon the duty of cheerfulness. She soon saw that it was the only path for her to walk in. The operation was performed. It was serious, and for three years she and her loved ones had to struggle hard to be cheerful and optimistic. But the results more than repaid for the efforts expended, for, when at the end of the three years, the tumor again appeared, even more serious in character, and she had to go to the hospital again, she found that, after the first few dark hours, a great peace stole over her whole being, and as a result of her cheerful radiancy, her husband and children were "adorably cheerful and loving." She has since said: