Growing up my father and grandfather stood as contrasting figures, each shaped by their unique experiences of the aftermath of World War II, yet bound by a common thread of generosity. Despite the reality of scarcity of their time, their hearts remained open, their spirits resilient.
My father, with a stoic resolve forged in the crucible of military duty, found solace in discipline and duty. Yet, it was my grandfather who painted the canvas of my childhood with warmth, kindness, and softness.
I recall one of the rare stories my father would tell me—a poignant exchange at the train station, suffused with a quiet but profound love. My grandfather was used to take him to the train station each Sundays, and as the train whistle its entering at the station, my grandfather was fumbling in his pockets searching for some pennies of affection, until his dry lips betrayed the weight of his disappointment as his pockets were empty.
My father, recognizing the depth of his father’s sacrifice, bridged the gap with an offering of few pennies of his own.
In this exchange, amidst the clatter of departing trains and the echoes of a war-torn era, a timeless lesson unfolded for me:
When someone is trying to help you, when they need help, that is Love.
In a world ensnared by the songs of excess and abundance, it’s easy to get distracted and dismiss the love of people that have little to spare. Yet, therein lies the essence of true love—the willingness to extend a hand, even when our own burdens weigh heavy upon us.
As I reflect on this tale passed down through my father, I am reminded that love is not measured by the depth of our pockets but by the breadth of our compassion.In moments of adversity, when life’s storms threaten to engulf us, it is our capacity to give to others what we actually don’t have for ourselves, that brights our light forward.
