Stories of Kindness from Around the World

Paul was dying of cancer.  It became clear to him that it was time for him to prepare for death.

About a week before Paul died, I was visiting him one morning.  I found him sitting up, propped against a mound of pillows.  I sat on the edge of his bed.  His bedroom had a beautiful porch with French doors that were always open to the summer sun and gentle breezes.  Paul sat, silent, in the rays of the morning light.

"I feel ready to go," he said finally.  There was quiet on his face.  "But sometimes," he reflected, "I just wish I had more time."  Paul's voice carried so much sadness mingled with acceptance, melancholy softened with a gentle peace.  In a moment like this, it is bittersweet.  Some of our dreams have come true, some have not.  There is a readiness to die, accompanied by an equally passionate wish to live.  In the light of his few remaining mornings, Paul was reviewing the wishes of a lifetime.  I was grateful to be near him.

"I've done so much work to prepare for this moment," he said.  "I came to Santa Fe to deepen my life and to learn more about spiritual practice.  I've learned yoga, practiced meditation with some wonderful teachers, and I have been loved by many beautiful people.  I'm not unhappy with my life.  I know I'm clear and whole inside, and when I feel that, I'm not afraid.  I know it is time."

Again it was quiet.  His words mingled with the morning light and the cool air.  "But I also wish I could stay here," he added slowly.  A tentative wish, offered against the growing impossibility of its coming true.  "I wish I had ten more years, free of this illness.  With those ten years, I could really live as I always wanted."  We sat for some time in the wake of that wish.  It vibrated in the air, this wish for life; it enveloped two men who would someday die.  We each felt the truth of it from our particular vantage point that morning.

"What would you do if we could give you those ten years?  What would your life look like?" I finally asked.

Paul spoke easily and certainly.  "I would be kind."

"I would live my life with kindness," he said.  "I would be kind to children.  I would teach them to be kind, too.  This is all I ever really wanted to do, just to be kind, to be loving."  He was quiet for a moment.  "A few months ago, when I was feeling quite strong, I thought I would treat myself, so I walked into a bakery and ordered two of my favorite cookies.  I told the girl behind the counter that they were my favorite, and she said she loved them, too, but that they were very expensive.  When I left, I thought about it for a minute, went back and bought another cookie, and gave it to her.  'This one is for you,' I said.  She was so surprised by my kindness.  'You are such a kind man,' she said.  I felt absolutely wonderful.  Such a small thing, such an easy thing to do.  This is how I would live my life, if only I had more time."

In the face of his death, Paul saw his life.  His death clarified his heart's desire: to be a kind person.  Everything else fell away, and he simply saw what was precious and valuable.  To be kind -- this was the most sacred thing, the most perfect and accurate offering he could make.

[From 'How, Then, Shall We Live', by Wayne Muller.]