I know that hanging in the back of his closet, in a plastic bag, is a robe of white, complete with hood and various accessories. He hasn't worn it for several decades, but is loathe to discard it.

     When I asked why he still keeps it, he replied curtly, "A reminder."

     One morning last year he awoke to find his wife cold and lifeless next to him.  "Heart attack.  They said she didn't suffer," he told me. 

     He called me a few days after she passed.  He knew I would understand as my husband had died a few months earlier. 

    Today, he absentmindedly rubs his hands together to massage the joints swollen and disfigured with arthritis. At 70, he is confident he is not only older, but ever so much wiser.

    He ignores the mug of now tepid coffee as he sits and waits for his son in the hospital cafeteria.  His grandson is in a room upstairs, waiting for a bone marrow transfusion.  Without it, his grandson will suffer greatly before he leaves this world.

   I watch as his son enters, scans the room and then walks towards his father.  I know why, despite his fatigue and anxiety, his steps are without hesitation or trepidation.

   Within seconds of sitting down, he reaches over and clasps his father's arm.  "Dad, the donor is a match."

   "I know."

   Surprised, his son asks, "How do you know?  I only found out minutes ago myself."

   Before answering, he glances over at me and I nod.  Turning his gaze back on his son, he told him, "The donor's family asked that I be notified first and the identity of the donor be revealed."

   Stunned, his son queries, "But why?  Do you know them?  Do I?"

   A visible tremor passes through his tired and aching bones before he responds,  "Decades  ago I almost joined in causing a man's death.  A young man who had never harmed me or mine or most likely anyone else.  But fate, or whatever you  want to call it, intervened.  His grandson is the donor.  A young man who would never have been born if his grandfather had died that day."

  "My God!" his son exclaimed.  "Dad, what happened?"

  Shaking his head, he closes his eyes as if seeming to recall, but in truth  only trying to block the images that come fast and furious.  After all this time, the focus of his mind's lens is still sharp and clear about that night.

  "Dad?  Please tell me.  I've never known you to want to harm anyone. I don't understand."

   After a gulp of now cold coffee and drawing a deep, raspy breath, his father admits, "I was young and ignorant.  Not the ignorance of youth, but instead the callousness, disregard and sloth of a youth who chose to beat others down only because he was hopelessly trying to build himself up.  Sure, I went to church on Sundays. But, Saturday nights were spent on hateful and unjustifiable actions, followed by reveling in the heat and fire of crosses burning."

  He pauses as his son gasps and turns pale.  Those blue eyes, so like his own, are now wide with shock.

  I was able to hear this as I had purposely sat at the table next to them.  For a moment, I again felt the scorch of the flames and heard the hideous screams of senseless hate joining the piercing cries of fear.

  As he resumes telling the story, I almost regret urging him to tell the truth.

  "One night, the wind picked up and embers from the fire were blown onto a house.  A house where there were only women and children inside, too scared to run out.  Then, in the glow of the flames, I saw a young boy, only a few years younger than me, run into the house to save them.

   "Suddenly I realized how sick and wrong it all was. I quickly discarded the shroud I was wearing and leapt forward to help.  All of the others responsible had run away. It took a couple of trips until I thought all were safe when I heard a yell and looked up. There that young boy was, holding a small child out the window and screaming for me to please catch her as he threw her to me.

  "Fortunately I caught her. She was frightened and coughing, but without burns or signs of physical harm. She started whiimpering and her older sister quickly took her from me. 

   "It was then I looked back up and the boy was gone, nowhere in sight.  The fire was fierce now and billowing smoke was whipping around in the breeze. I ran back inside. I almost tripped over his body right in the entryway.  He had been overcome with heat and smoke. I pulled him out and since I didn't know CPR then, I just started to pound him on the back. He hacked for awhile and opened his eyes as the sound of sirens announced help was on the way. He pulled me close as he hoarsely whispered, 'Run. Get away. I won't tell'.

  "I grabbed what I'd left on the ground and ran.  The next day I left town." 

  As if there were still smoky residue lodged in his throat, his father coughs and reaches for the glass of water.

  Tears now streaming down my face, I turn away.  After a few moments, I hear him say....

  "Son, I want you to meet the donor's grandmother.  The young girl who I caught that night married the young boy who most likely saved her life by tossing her out the window that night."

  "Where is she? Is she here?"

  I hear the scrape of chairs and sounds of footsteps as they approach. Then I feel the gentle hand touching my shoulder. I stand and turn to greet them. As his son reaches out his hand, I grasp it and within the heartfelt clasp, I see how striking the beauty can be of light and dark when they become intertwined. 

  Moments later, his son asks, "But isn't it rare for a non-family member of a different ethnicity to be a match?"

  His father grins. "Son, my life's journey has shown me sometimes we just say thank you. I've also come to believe that in the manner intended, we're all one huge dysfunctional family."

  We will come away with our own opinions about the core message of this story.  Fate?  Miracle? Or the result of choosing the path traversed?

  But this I know - Such are the truths about the power of forgiveness; the wisdom of interspection and that from the ashes of acrimony we can choose to create something even more powerful that will deliver a better destination.