I read a story today. It was a very familiar one, and, yet, the freshness with re-reading was remarkable, all the same! It has been many years and many times many. But it’s fresh again tonight. It’s a story about Tim, Don, Bob and Eb. Mostly Eb.
More below.
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Eb was Bob’s employer, Tim was Bob’s crippled son, quite tiny. Something of a miracle happened, and Eb was able to SEE and appreciate Bob and Tim's true circumstance, also because Don’s election was not pending, so he did not HAVE to believe in Tim and Bob's unworthiness, he saw and understood that Bob wasn’t a lazy jerk, that the perspective that held that was an unnecessary one, no longer needed. He didn't have to believe that, by being born, Tim had realized all that mattered in life. He saw how the child was loved and cherished by his family. He saw the great joy the family experienced with the gift that Tim was, handicap and all. He saw the brilliance of Tim's own joy, the genuineness of his bright smiles, the love he radiated back to all those around him. Eb understood, on a level he never had before, how a child's life mattered. And he knew that Bob's prioritization of his son over his work was not a character weakness, was not a flaw, or an inadequacy, not something that compromised his functioning as an employee, but, rather, something that complimented it, something that gave it soul, something that, in itself, guaranteed supreme motivation and focus, deep richness as an employee asset.
But in order to see it, he had to completely step outside his usual experience. He had to step outside his usual prejudices and assumptions, he has to step outside 'agenda.' Only with clearer eyes could he begin to see a larger, infinitely more loving, more wondrous, more worthwhile world.
It's a magical story. One that millions of others, with less contrived opportunity, completely forget, reject and and repudiate every election season, as they vote for candidates worse than Eb was, yes, even in his narrowest, most self-absorbed, most selfish times. And then they return to their own Bobs and Tims and Carols as if they hadn't stabbed them in the back many times over with those misguided votes. As if they hadn't denied them thrice over on the crucifix of lost opportunity and justice betrayed. As if they had not compromised the futures of all of the offspring Carol and Bob and Tim would ever have, and generations beyond.
Dear Conservatives,
Let Charles Dickens be the one to take you outside of your normal, tyrannical experience. Lay down those old lenses that don’t serve you well. Lay down your terrible fear and selfishness, this viciousness toward others. You can’t approach your best self on such a path, though you could possibly obtain the illusion of wealth and power, unsatisfying. Leave that path behind once and for all. Life is short. You can't afford it. Neither can the rest of the world.
Love,
Ben
Oh, and this late addition. Tonight I would also like to go more directly into one portion of the text of that remarkable classic.
In the scene below, the Cratchit family is awaiting Bob’s return home during an exceptionally hard time. His wife is having great trouble with her … eyes, and doesn’t want her husband to notice when he gets there.
I wouldn’t show weak eyes to your father when he comes home, for the world. It must be near his time.”
“Past it rather,” Peter answered, shutting up his book. “But I think he has walked a little slower than he used, these few last evenings, mother.”
They were very quiet again. At last she said, and in a steady, cheerful voice, that only faltered once:
“I have known him walk with—I have known him walk with Tiny Tim upon his shoulder, very fast indeed.”
“And so have I,” cried Peter. “Often.”
“And so have I,” exclaimed another. So had all.
“And so have I,” exclaimed another. So had all.
“But he was very light to carry,” she resumed, intent upon her work, “and his father loved him so, that it was no trouble: no trouble. And there is your father at the door!”
The slow-moving papa presented courage and happiness he did not feel, upon entering, for their sakes. He saw they were busy making something for the gravesite, anticipating a Sunday placement of same.
Bob was very cheerful with them, and spoke pleasantly to all the family. He looked at the work upon the table, and praised the industry and speed of Mrs. Cratchit and the girls. They would be done long before Sunday, he said.
“Sunday! You went to-day, then, Robert?” said his wife.
“Yes, my dear,” returned Bob. “I wish you could have gone. It would have done you good to see how green a place it is. But you’ll see it often. I promised him that I would walk there on a Sunday. My little, little child!” cried Bob. “My little child!”
He broke down all at once.
It tore at my heart, how immediately and intensely he was overcome with grief for his lost child! How the words were ripped from him in his unfathomable anguish! It’s ‘fiction’ and tears poured down my face!
There is no way to adequately measure the love a parent has for her or his child. This is the love I am talking about. The love into which Scrooge was given so powerful a glimpse. It changed him completely, it changed him forever.
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Highlighted by EDebbs:
Is this comment by limpidglass, on a direction Democrats need to take for 2018.
Highlighted by PitaRocks:
Is this comment by Jon Sitzman on public education, homeschooling and rural factors in the election, with a particularly worthwhile (if long-reading) link.
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