So, at some point, the game of odds just doesn’t matter anymore.
The game that says, hey! Ten out of thirteen, man, that’s great odds!
The game that says hey! Be happy with the majority! Be happy that the majority outweighs the minority!
But this is not a game. This is not a bargaining chip. This is not a race, in which the second, and third, and fourth winner win a prize, a ribbon to rival the first’s. This is real life.
This is real life.
Where nobody cares that one small victory might add up to several large ones in the broad scheme of things. Where it doesn’t matter that someone got a job when they are twenty-something because most people get jobs at 18-something…or 16-something…
Where no one gives a shit that it cost many a late-night conversation just to get a loved one to the place where they could even see their way clear to apply for a job stocking shelves, or less, because the depression and the overwhelming anxiety precluded it up to that point.
This is real life, where every life counts, and every soul that you think is dispensable winds up belonging to someone that you love.
So think twice before you think that the odds are in somebody’s favor.
We aren’t thinking in terms of odds. We are thinking in terms of souls. Every single soul that means something infinite to us, the mothers and fathers of those statistics. We can never be happier than our saddest child, in the grand scheme of things, in the great ultimatum that is dished out to everyone, no matter how arbitrary.
All my children matter to me. All of them. Not one of them matters more than the others. That is the truth. No matter how odd it seems. It is the final word.
No matter how many children you have, the least of them will hold the highest place in your heart. That’s just the way of it. The most troubled lingers in the psyche as the most in need of compassion and care. So how can we do any less? We lavish the love where it is most longed-for. And hope for the best.