When my girls rides their bikes, they get suited up pretty well: pants, long-sleeve shirts, and helmet. They are prepared for what might befall them as they cruise and wind around our cul-de-sac. I think about how the adults of my youth would sometimes holler, "Get into the back of the truck!" and how we kids would be thrilled at the prospect of a hot summer's wind blowing through our young hair. Is it sad that my kids may never hear that call to adventure? I wonder. Perhaps so.
In Man's Search for Meaning by Victor Frankl, there is a scene that has stuck with me since I first came across it. Frankl describes the horrid conditions of Auschwitz -- how the sky was gray, the tattered uniforms were gray, the snow was gray -- but off in the distance in a house on the side of a hill, someone turned on a light. This one light broke through the grayness of his existence, and defying all that he was up against, gave him hope.
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