Of late, I’ve met a man from a war-torn country who now lives and works in the U.S. He has described to me scenes of great brutality inflicted by man upon man for reasons like this person looked like someone from that country versus this country. He often has a smile on his face.
I am noted for seeing even an empty glass as half-full, but this man’s ability to find the positive puts me to shame. Why is he so happy? Not because he has a job that pays exceptionally well. He doesn’t. Not because he’s made many new friends in this country. He hasn’t. I think it is because, even as the soil ran red with blood around him, he remained open to the possibilities. He saw the beauty amidst the horror, like the flowers blossoming near that same bloody field.
He remained hopeful. Or, as he once…
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