The day I was born, I was eight years late, and I have been catching up ever since. My parents always told me that I finally came into their lives because they let go of making it happen. Whether it was their belief that I came from God, or some sort of spiritual encounter when I nearly died having my tonsils out five years later, or the safe haven church provided in a world of peers who treated me as if I was totally weird … something planted a deep, unshakeable faith in the very depths of my being. I see very, very clearly that life is every bit as absurd as the post-World War II existentialists said it is. And yet there is profound wonder and deep joy as near at hand as the birth of a child, the marriage of friends, the life-gift of a soldier, the wisdom of an elder. Then, too, there is the unfathomable taste of good dark chocolate, the wafting scent of lilacs or a salty ocean breeze, the utterly surprising sound of Susan Boyle dreaming a dream, the light touch of my little dog’s whiskers waking me from a nap. Every “Yes” says “No” to the dark, to absurdity, to negation. Even to accept a HIT is to make a tiny connection with someone else’s need and my own randomly creative, inner strength. The peace makers and healers are my heroes. No one would fault them if they stopped in their tracks, went home, rested. But no. Nelson Mandela, Desmund Tutu, Elie Wiesel, Jimmy Carter – these elders of our world – I love them dearly. The physician in Camus’ The Plague is my model – one who simply would not stop when need was great and hope nearly drained of any hope at all. In their resounding voices and actions I am drawn again to the gifts of life, of goodness and of souls alive with warmth and comfort.