Reply #99: Thanks SB

[orwell]

Here's another one.

In seventh grade there was a small, smart aleck, funny kid named Joe. I never paid much attention to him. Hell, I could hardly see him as he was probably a foot shorter than me.

One day one of the "tough cool kids" stole Joe's expensive monogrammed fountain pen. Joe came from a well-off family and the gift was from his father. Well the tough guy proceeded to run around the school yard waving Joe's pen above his head and taunting him with it. Joe being so short was jumping up to try and get it, which was never going to happen.

I remember how unfair I thought it was. Forgetting my previous ass-kicking, I ran across the schoolyard and got up in this guy's face. At that point, I was taller than him and presented a far more formidable opponent than Joe. I told him that what he was doing was wrong and that if he didn't give back the pen, I would present the matter of the theft to the nuns for their approval.

Seeing that the "fun part" was drawing to a close he reluctantly gave me the pen. Instead of immediately giving it to Joe, I waited until he had gone away, slinging threats in my direction, before I gave the pen to Joe. I allowed him to save face, not because of any nobility, but probably because I remembered getting my ass kicked a year or so earlier.

Joe and I became friends and actually started one of the first rock bands that St. Cecelia's ever saw. We went on to St. Ignatius together where we both worked on the school newspaper. He was the editor, I the designated class clown.

Forward the story about 20 years. I was at a very low point in my life. I had been in and out of drug use and depression (thanks to Ollie North and his "Contraband") and was seriously considering ending it all. As I sat in my bedroom, contemplating the easiest way to end it (pills, endless Reagan speeches on a tape loop) I cried out for the first time in my life for help.

I remember sitting on the bed, by this point an agnostic to the core, and crying out: "If there is a God, I need some kind of sign. I can't take this fucking madness anymore. I need to know that my pathetic life has meaning!"

A minute or so later the phone rings. On the phone was a man's voice I didn't recognize.

"Hello (my name)"

"Yes"

"I don't know if you remember me. My name is Joe _____. I got your number from _______ (a mutual acquaintance, one of the only people I was still in touch with from HS). I just wanted to thank you for being who you are."

"What do you mean," tears now beginning to well in my eyes.

"Remember when you stood up for me in grammar school."

"Yeah"

"Well I was going through a really rough time back then. I was short. Everyone thought I was a smart ass. I'll always remember that you became my friend when I needed it most. I want you to know that the world is a much better place with people like you in it."

Well now I was really crying. I remember stammering something like: "I wish I could tell you how important this phone call is to me."

He asked me what was wrong and I made up some excuse, embarrassed to admit that I was borderline suicidal. I composed myself. We made some small talk and agreed to stay in touch, which we have almost 15 years later.

When the call was over, I remembered my plea and realized how quickly it was answered. As I sat there stunned and shaking, I watched my evolved cynical worldview change into something far more humbled. From that point on I accepted the wonder that is life, realizing that in my arrogance, I had forgotten a most important lesson.

In the greater scheme there exists tremendous beauty and wonder in the awesome power of love and compassion.

Make it so...