The Story of the Man’s Heart

Never have I given it serious thought until my literature professor told us that for our final exam we are to explain to him why the human race must struggle. I sat there, exam book to my right with the question glaring at me. It mocked me, telling me I better understand why without this appendage of life, life would die. I stared into the distance, trying to culminate the entire course and my entire existence into a stream of thought that I could manage, so I can flip through each lesson and say ah-ha that is the answer. At that time, I had my struggles carried in the front pocket of my heart so I could not explain to him why such a burden is necessary for all of mankind to feel. I did not know what to say, nor did I want to lie. So I did what I could and left the exam book with not an intelligent answer but like a parrot I spit out a story that was told to me.

The story was of a young man who was showing off his heart boasting that his heart was the most beautiful in the valley. A crowd gathered around him and admired his heart in all its perfection, not a single scratch was on it. An old man saw this spectacle and challenged the man, saying to him that it was he, not the young man, who had the most beautiful heart. Curious as to what could be more perfect then his heart the young man asked the old man to show his. The old man in compliance revealed his heart. It was a painful sight to behold. His heart had pieces missing, pieces stuffed in places it didn’t quiet fit, and tears streaming down; it was far from perfect. The young man was aghast, how could the old man say it was his that was beautiful? To this questioning look the man told him, it is a heart that has been through pain, a heart that was not afraid to give pieces of itself without the assurance that he would receive the same courtesy back that is beautiful. Not a heart that has shielded itself from life so much so that he was never graced with the strokes of pain. Touched by the sheer beauty of the old man’s statement, the young man ripped a piece of his heart and extended his offering to the old man. The old man took his offering, placed it in his heart and then took a piece from his old scarred heart and placed it in the wound in the young man's heart.

The world is complicated and life is complicated. This year has taught me that. So while I cannot with full confidence tell my teacher that life means we must struggle and we must be hurt because of a certain reason, I have come to understand a speckle of the reason. I can tell him that struggle is essential for mankind because nothing digs a deeper trench in the wrinkle of time than struggle; the kind of struggle that forces you to see it in all its ugliness and find a chance of beauty within it. Because without this we’d simply let our feet graze the path and would never be able to breath animation into the phrase, life is a beautiful struggle. Life has carved ugly scars into my heart, has ripped chunks out of it. It is because of this I feel I am not just another dust in time but rather one who has contended with it with full force and have come away with a deeper understanding of what this whole affair is for.