the starry sky on the himalayas
CLICK ON THE PIC BRO
my face right now
You are a
and a while,
do not drown
I have called you by name, you are mine. Isaiah 43, always.
It was early in the morning, but he knew exactly what was happening in his chest and woke my mother to ask her to call an ambulance. Our telephone was in the living room, but before she could leave their bedroom to use it, he asked for something else. My father asked that the ambulance not use its siren.
Weeks later, when the fear of death had receded like some strange tide, my mother asked him about the siren. My father said simply that he worried it would have woken and frightened his three sleeping daughters. It is true that we were all light sleepers and that our farm was usually blanketed by the polite silence that comes from having no close neighbors, but what impossible kindness there was in my father’s request.
I have called it an act of kindness, which I think it was. It was considerate in a way I cannot begin to understand; generous in a way no one would expect, much less demand. Years later I still do not comprehend how in what very well might have been the final moments of his life, my father thought to ask for quiet so that his daughters might continue sleeping.
Kindness is like holding an ice cube in your hands. It stings, but then the cold dissolves; what at first you could barely hold becomes something you cannot let go. My father’s request for a quiet ambulance came from a man so familiar with kindness that the sting was completely gone: the ice was no longer cold, but one with the flesh. —
Absolutely exquisite essay by Casey E. Cep, who recounts what her father’s heart attack taught her about kindness – a virtue that Kerouac captured beautifully and Einstein articulated so memorably.
Henry James, it turns out, was right.
Do your soul a favor and read Cep’s full essay.
Abortions are as much the result of a culture inhospitable to life as they are to the weak sources of support that arise out of that culture and the decisions of individual mothers. — Elizabeth Stoker, Why I’m a pro-life liberal (via theweekmagazine)