REALLY CHANGE MUCH

Dear Spike:

Never underestimate how much a simple gesture on your part might brighten someone else's day.

Two quick case studies from work this week...

1) On Sunday I was assigned to cover the homecoming of Apa Sherpa, who just returned from his record-breaking 18th summit of Mt. Everest. This man is a living legend, a true hero who has guided scores of people safely up and back down the world's tallest mountain, but he was humble and kind and gracious. And when it came time to say goodbye, he took my hand, deftly shifted his body forward, and pulled me in to give me a hug.

A hug. From Apa Sherpa.

I'm quite certain I'll never summit Everest. But somehow, now, I feel like a part of me has.

2) This afternoon you and I had lunch with a young Iraqi man who lost both of his legs in a roadside bomb attack in Baghdad. Although he had been working as an interpreter for U.S. soldiers when the attack occurred, it took more than two years for his visa to be approved to come to the United States for treatment. He finally got here two months ago — only to learn that the U.S. government wouldn't pay for a motorized wheelchair or prothetic limbs. He was understandably depressed and worried about his future. But throughout the interview, I noticed that he was rather smitten with you. He rubbed your head and touched your cheek. He laughed as you threw your food all over my lap. And at the end of the interview, you leaned in and gave him a kiss on his cheek.

A kiss. From a little girl.

That'll hardly change his circumstances, but you should have seen the look in his eyes.

The truth is, sometimes the little things in life — like simple gestures of kindness — don't really change much.

But maybe a simple gesture somehow alters someone's day.

And maybe that day somehow alter's their week.

And that week, their year.

And that year, their life.

And that life, the lives of others.

And those others, the world.

A warm hug. A small kiss. A kind smile. A simple thanks.

And a world — forever changed.

Love,
dad