We may wish we were our brothers' keepers, that we had a means of controlling their choices, and of keeping them from destructive choices, but the sometimes sad truth is that we have no choice, no control. If we did, and could make our brothers be good and better people, we would have done so long ago. If we had the capacity to take over their distress we would have, but that is not and never was ours to do. We can offer and we might share. We can listen and we can make some things available, but we cannot be them or alter their more essential selves. Their choices are available to them.
Material assistance is all we sometimes have and while we can offer that it is not anything that will make whole the souls of our brothers. Know that when we offer, they are free to decline and that what we offer entitles us to receive nothing in return. The reward, if we needed one, was in the offering.
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.
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