Francis Gay Amy
The answer to the problem – as ever – was a little love and care
Cherish fond memories, Because along life’s way, You will doubtless treasure them, Be glad of them some day; Laughter, tears and jollity, The good times of yesteryear, Brought to mind to be replayed,
Forever to hold dear.
wants to learn to find different answers.
Her dad has a constant stream of stories about helping people.
They seem like difficult, but often beautiful, encounters.
After hearing of him helping a drunk woman off the floor of a fast-food restaurant, she jokingly asked: “Why do these things always happen when you are nearby?” David does drama productions for children.
He is also learning sign language. Recently, he got to combine the two when a group of deaf children took to the stage to perform a show – in sign!
The audience were enchanted and applauded at the end, but the theatre was dark and many people’s hands just couldn’t be seen. The children stood for a while, then turned to file off-stage.
But David stopped them and explained to the audience the sign equivalent of applause was waving hands in the air. When the children saw the second round of “applause” their faces just lit up.
If we want to let others know how we are feeling, we need to talk in their language, and the first thing we might learn in any language is appreciation.
He grew serious and explained: “These things happen all too often and there are usually plenty of people around.
“They see the problem, but don’t see a solution. So they walk on by.” “Do you see answers?” Amy asked. “I see people in need of a little human contact and, maybe, a little love.”
As she told me this, I couldn’t help wondering if that wasn’t the answer to almost all of our problems. People go to cemeteries for different reasons.
Some go to visit departed loved ones and place fresh flowers, some go for peace and contemplation, while others might be researching family trees.
I got talking to a lady who was there with her eight-yearold daughter.
They had no family there, but instead seemed to be reading random headstones. The mum had taken her young ballet dancer on a quest – to see if they could find anyone who had ever died from not getting that pirouette right.
“It was all getting too serious,” mum told me. “Lightening up a little won’t make her a prima ballerina, but it will make both our lives happier.”
As with so many other things we take too seriously, no one, it seemed, had died from bad ballet. The young dad on the train moved a newspaper.
His daughter, who looked about four, picked it up and pretended to read it. Smiling, he asked her what was so interesting. “Ohhhh,” she replied, feigning cool, “nothing.”
She put the paper down and he picked it up. On the front cover was a photo of the Mexico earthquake.
He explained what had happened.
“This man on the stretcher,” he added, “is being taken to hospital. This woman is a paramedic, this man is a policeman, these are soldiers, and these look like volunteers.
“And they are all here to help.
“Every time something bad happens, good people turn up to help. And that’s not nothing.”
I nodded in silent agreement. That’s a lot.