There are some things not worth saying to other men; that’s why God gave us the ability to make fists.

A gang of men savaged a man, a friend whom my brother struggled to defend. How odd that I just happened to be, on that violent night, in the same city. I chased the leader into an alley and beat him until I bled all over his face. He looked up at me from the floor horrifically. All I could see was a red face and white eyes. A week prior my arm was cut open. That blood on his face was mine. Unbeknownst to me the injury healed improperly and as I strangled and punched him the wound blew open showering his face with ichor. He took off sprinting in defeat while I struggled to tourniquet my arm. We drove to the hospital with great speed. It’s a fascinating thing when an enemy can become a friend, and decency can come out of tragedy, and God can make animals into human beings. 30 years after I beat a man for attacking my brother they ended up in the same room, gathering for a store book signing. Many of the people recounted in that tome were now aged looking, dead or very ill. Time was not kind to all. My brother’s best friend whom he defended against great odds no longer spoke to him; how odd to lose a man like a brother. Odder still to see your attacker, decades later, in the same room. Each recognized each, each brought their young child, and with a simple handshake each made peace. He was a widower. His wife passed from cancer; time softened him. How odd that a man like a brother, whom you would defend with your life, would stop talking to you. How odd that an enemy’s handshake could start a friendship. Throughout the event their children played together as if there was never any bad blood and violence between these grown men. A new generation that hadn’t known hatred. When my brother told me this story, my eyes wept. Every day is a day that can change your life, and change who you were from the past. Bring more love into this world.

Today, be authentic, and give others the gift of the real you. Read Lord of the Flies by William Golding

From the book We Make Ghosts