coming together

We had a corporate visit this week, and oddly, after four months of tearing my hair out and feeling like I was trapped in an exercise of futility, I walked into a workspace that felt like progress had been made. Sales numbers were up. It was clean and organized. There was finally a plan to fix some of the broken down junk that had plagued us. The first words my boss's boss said to me were "Everything looks really, really good" in a way that made me feel like he hadn't gotten to say that in a very long time. I finally felt like maybe we've made an impact.

Progress. Finally. I went home and breathed a sigh of relief.

--
Next, a memory.

Once, years ago, there was a letter to the editor in my local newspaper from a couple who had visited my hometown from Nebraska. They wrote of their car breaking down in the dead of night on Christmas Eve, and being helped by some anonymous stranger who just happened to cross their path. The stranger lifted the hood, spent about twenty minutes in there, and then told them to try to start the car again. It revved up again as if it were new. The stranger refused any payment, wished them a merry Christmas, and disappeared into the darkness.

A display of admirable human kindness. I think of this every once in a while when I contemplate the human condition... when the world crumbles into war, and selfishness seems to be the overlying sentiment. It reminds me that good exists, and it's closer to home than you might think.

--

My sister appears to have fallen into the role of town crier within my family. She's often the one who dispenses the news to the rest of her siblings of goings-on when something major happens. I'll never forget the phone call I received one August Sunday morning, when I went into work to get some stuff done. It was a pleasant surprise to hear from her.

(cheerfully) "Hey Sayre, what's going on?"

"Grandma's dead."

Text doesn't do it justice. There was something so incredibly direct and level about it that it was immediately disarming. We talked about it for a moment, and I promptly prepared my travel arrangements. She has this innate ability to break bad news in a gentle way without futzing around with flowery, treacle-filled sentimentality.

So with the arrival of an email from my sister with simply my brother's name in the subject, I knew something had happened. He had been taken to the hospital with symptoms of pneumonia... and from there, every three hours, it was alternating good news, bad news. It's pneumonia, and maybe a pulmonary embolism. No, it's not an embolism. There's a bacterial infection in his bloodstream. He's in better spirits and appears to be responding to the medication. No, wait, he's been moved to cardiac ICU. And then, suddenly, he was released from the hospital. The antibiotics moved incredibly quickly and he recovered, literally, overnight.

The stream of news was absolutely exhausting, and then add a layer of self-mortality to that. It was a little over a year ago that I entered a hospital emergency room with a 104 degree fever and respiratory attacks every fifteen minutes. I felt like I was dying... and I came to find out that I was, and would have if I hadn't sought treatment at the moment I did. I was diagnosed with pneumonia and a pulmonary embolism. I tried to downplay the seriousness to my family -- they all had lives and important things to attend to. It was four days before my fever broke, and another two after that before they felt the danger of the clot detaching and causing a stroke had passed. Now, here's my big brother, in a similar boat... and I know the seriousness of it firsthand, but also know recovery is attainable. I tried to assuage my family's fears best I could through emails and phone calls, while also quietly making arrangements for work and travel, just in case.

It wasn't necessary, thankfully.

--

As the last of six kids, and one who came along a bit after the rest, most of my siblings were already breaching adulthood and defining their directions in life, and as such I often felt left out at family gatherings. Often, it was Jerry who made the effort to make sure I was included, and would often bring me along for the ride of his own life. I witnessed him stop and help countless people along the way.

Time passed, and we grew into very different people -- I'd wager a guess that amongst the family, Jerry and I are the most disparate of the family. He was never particularly comfortable with the gay thing -- it took him ten years to get a hug from his little brother without flinching. I've never told him about my diagnosis, because ultimately, I don't think it's that important for him to know. There's very little common ground between us, but that doesn't lessen my admiration for him.

Jerry is the kind of person so many of us strive to be, and he doesn't even realize it. Every once a tall tale would be spun, designed to cast a light of amazing glory upon himself that would be met with massive levels of incredulity. Instead, it's the things he does not talk about that inspires his family.

That anonymous stranger who saved the couple from Nebraska was Jerry. There were enough details in the letter that those who knew him knew it was him. And the kicker -- Jerry denied it. And still does. His life is lesson in humility, and how to be, truly, a good person. I get the feeling he doesn't envision himself to be a terribly important person, hence tall tales... but the most extraordinary things seem second nature and insignificant to him. He doesn't realize how incredible he really is.

Perhaps the key to true greatness is a complete obliviousness to it.