To my dearest friend.
“I am having to learn how to resurrect a faltering faith that there has been purpose to my life...a faith that I am going on to something even better. I like to think it will be like taking off a heavy winter coat when I shed my body, or like simply walking through a door into another room.”
(Brooks’ words from a post to the list NDE)
After going over our intense correspondence, which was short (only 6 months), but very meaningful to us both, I realized there was, in it, a lot of looking after me on her part! She really had not spoken much about her life, she seemed much more interested in MY life and my everyday problems. It is true I always tried to make the mails as light as possible and I told her about everything which went on in my life and sent her all kind of photographs, in an attempt to distract her a bit. Of course, we also had some intimate conversations, where we comforted each other of our worries, but that’s not what I would like to reproduce here now. So, not wanting to miss this opportunity to take part in her birthday party, I will leave here my favourite poem, thinking of her.
I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.
I love you, not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me.
I love you for the part of me that you bring out.
I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish and frivolous and weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful radiant belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.
I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and weakling in me, and for laying firm hold on the possibilities of the good in me.
I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me, and for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.
I love you because you are helping me to make of the timber of my life not a tavern, but a temple, and out of the words of my every day not a reproach, but a song.
I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me happy.
You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign.
You have done it first by being yourself.
After all, perhaps that is what being a friend means.
By Roy Croft.
(Brooks’ words from a post to the list NDE)
After going over our intense correspondence, which was short (only 6 months), but very meaningful to us both, I realized there was, in it, a lot of looking after me on her part! She really had not spoken much about her life, she seemed much more interested in MY life and my everyday problems. It is true I always tried to make the mails as light as possible and I told her about everything which went on in my life and sent her all kind of photographs, in an attempt to distract her a bit. Of course, we also had some intimate conversations, where we comforted each other of our worries, but that’s not what I would like to reproduce here now. So, not wanting to miss this opportunity to take part in her birthday party, I will leave here my favourite poem, thinking of her.
I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you.
I love you, not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me.
I love you for the part of me that you bring out.
I love you for putting your hand into my heaped-up heart and passing over all the foolish and frivolous and weak things that you can't help dimly seeing there, and for drawing out into the light all the beautiful radiant belongings that no one else had looked quite far enough to find.
I love you for ignoring the possibilities of the fool and weakling in me, and for laying firm hold on the possibilities of the good in me.
I love you for closing your ears to the discords in me, and for adding to the music in me by worshipful listening.
I love you because you are helping me to make of the timber of my life not a tavern, but a temple, and out of the words of my every day not a reproach, but a song.
I love you because you have done more than any creed could have done to make me happy.
You have done it without a touch, without a word, without a sign.
You have done it first by being yourself.
After all, perhaps that is what being a friend means.
By Roy Croft.
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