The human soul is a marvelous thing. Although outside of the abilities of science to pinpoint, its existence is hard to deny. We’ve seen too many times the terrors of its tormented dark side—Sept. 11, Columbine, Newtown. Such reckless disregard for humanity goes beyond any anger capable of being produced by the mind and can only be regurgitated out of a hateful, hurtful soul. Yet we’ve also seen the compassion capable of being produced by a light and loving soul.
Why else would first responders run into the World Trade Center towers? Why else would someone risk their own life to save another? When faced with those situations, everything in the rational mind says no. Something else must say yes.
I bring this up because of a story I just read by Rob Walsh, a 1991 graduate who makes a living as an English teacher in Stratford, Conn., teaching young adults how to write. He also practices what he preaches as a columnist for two local newspapers—one is the Stratford Sun, the other is the Fairfield Star. All he’s missing is the moon, but that’s another story.
This story is about how he spent his Saturday morning two weeks ago when the East Coast got buried by several feet of snow. It’s a story filled with a string of either remarkable coincidences or minor miracles, I’m not sure which. It’s also a story that, well, warms the soul. In the end, decisions were made and a life was saved. I won’t bore you with my rendition of what happened. I’ll simply let him tell it by providing a link to his column.