At about the same time， a young man in uniform—somewherein Europe—was learning the same lesson. His name was TedBengermino， of 5716 Newholme Road， Baltimore， Maryland—andhe had worried himself into a first-class case of combat fatigue.
“In April， 1945，” writes Ted Bengermino， “I had worried until Ihad developed what doctors call a ‘spasmodic transverse colon’—acondition that produced intense pain. If the war hadn’t endedwhen it did， I am sure I would have had a complete physicalbreakdown.
“I was utterly exhausted. I was a Graves Registration，Noncommissioned Officer for the 94th Infantry Division. Mywork was to help set up and maintain records of all men killedin action， missing in action， and hospitalised. I also had to helpdisinter the bodies of both Allied and enemy soldiers who hadbeen killed and hastily buried in shallow graves during the pitchof battle. I had to gather up the personal effects of these menand see that they were sent back to parents or closest relativeswho would prize these personal effects so much. I was constantly worried for fear we might be making embarrassing and seriousmistakes. I was worried about whether or not I would comethrough all this. I was worried about whether I would live to holdmy only child in my arms—a son of sixteen months， whom I hadnever seen. I was so worried and exhausted that I lost thirtyfourpounds. I was so frantic that I was almost out of my mind. Ilooked at my hands. They were hardly more than skin and bones.
I was terrified at the thought of going home a physical wreck. Ibroke down and sobbed like a child. I was so shaken that tearswelled up every time I was alone. There was one period soon afterthe Battle of the Bulge started that I wept so often that I almostgave up hope of ever being a normal human being again.
“I ended up in an Army dispensary. An Army doctor gave mesome advice which has completely changed my life. After givingme a thorough physical examination， he informed me that mytroubles were mental. ‘Ted’， he said， ‘I want you to think of yourlife as an hourglass. You know there are thousands of grains ofsand in the top of the hourglass； and they all pass slowly andevenly through the narrow neck in the middle. Nothing you or Icould do would make more than one grain of sand pass throughthis narrow neck without impairing the hourglass. You and Iand everyone else are like this hourglass. When we start in themorning， there are hundreds of tasks which we feel that we mustaccomplish that day， but if we do not take them one at a time andlet them pass through the day slowly and evenly， as do the grainsof sand passing through the narrow neck of the hourglass， thenwe are bound to break our own physical or mental structure.’
“I have practised that philosophy ever since that memorableday that an Army doctor gave it to me. ‘One grain of sand ata time. ... One task at a time.’That advice saved me physicallyand mentally during the war； and it has also helped me in my present position in business. I am a Stock Control Clerk for theCommercial Credit Company in Baltimore. I found the sameproblems arising in business that had arisen during the war： ascore of things had to be done at once—and there was little timeto do them. We were low in stocks. We had new forms to handle，new stock arrangements， changes of address， opening andclosing offices， and so on. Instead of getting taut and nervous， Iremembered what the doctor had told me. ‘One grain of sand at atime. One task at a time.’ By repeating those words to myself overand over， I accomplished my tasks in a more efficient manner andI did my work without the confused and jumbled feeling that hadalmost wrecked me on the battlefield.”
One of the most appalling comments on our present way oflife is that half of all the beds in our hospitals are reserved forpatients with nervous and mental troubles， patients who havecollapsed under the crushing burden of accumulated yesterdaysand fearful tomorrows. Yet a vast majority of those people wouldbe walking the streets today， leading happy， useful lives， if theyhad only heeded the words of Jesus： “Have no anxiety about themorrow”； or the words of Sir William Osier： “Live in day-tightcompartments.”
You and I are standing this very second at the meeting-placeof two eternities： the vast past that has endured for ever， and thefuture that is plunging on to the last syllable of recorded time.
We can’t possibly live in either of those eternities—no， not evenfor one split second. But， by trying to do so， we can wreck bothour bodies and our minds. So let’s be content to live the only timewe can possibly live： from now until bedtime. “Anyone can carryhis burden， however hard， until nightfall，” wrote Robert LouisStevenson.
“Anyone can do his work， however hard， for one day. Anyonecan live sweetly， patiently， lovingly， purely， till the sun goes down.
And this is all that life really means.”
Yes， that is all that life requires of us； but Mrs. E. K. Shields，815， Court Street， Saginaw， Michigan， was driven to despair—even to the brink of suicide—before she learned to live just tillbedtime.
“In 1937， I lost my husband，” Mrs. Shields said as she told meher story. “I was very depressed—and almost penniless. I wrotemy former employer， Mr. Leon Roach， of the Roach-FowlerCompany of Kansas City， and got my old job back. I had formerlymade my living selling books to rural and town school boards. Ihad sold my car two years previously when my husband becameill； but I managed to scrape together enough money to put a downpayment on a used car and started out to sell books again.
“I had thought that getting back on the road would helprelieve my depression； but driving alone and eating alone wasalmost more than I could take. Some of the territory was notvery productive， and I found it hard to make those car payments，small as they were.
