My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Being Helped
Each adult held one of his hands. Each was helping him walk down the stairs, but each was going in a different direction and one was not as tall as the other so his hands were being held, and pulled, from different heights. Neither adult thought the other very helpful, or not as helpful as she would have been alone -- but each held on, pulling from her level. It is not easy being helped. No matter that he might have done it poorly alone, it might have been better to try. But there had been no choice, and so he helped through his endurance -- and by so doing, helping both of his helpers far more than either were helping him.
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