As I’ve mentioned, my beloved father recently died.

In the weeks that have followed, I’ve been reflecting on a kind of double vision that I experienced when I visited him in the hospital during his last days.

With one kind of vision, I saw my father the way strangers saw him. To anyone who worked in the hospital, or to other visitors, he was a patient like all the other patients, an anonymous 87-year-old man in a hospital gown.

But with another kind of vision, I saw my father as utterly distinct, deeply himself, in a bad way of course, but so recognizably his unique and beloved self that he looked completely different from all the other patients.

It reminded me of the way I always feel when I look at school class photos of my children from when they were young. In a way, the children lined up in rows look all alike, and except for their clothes, these photos look exactly like my own class photos, taken decades ago, when I was that age. And yet, at the same time—those are individuals! Some faces I recognize, some are precious to me.

What I realize is this: It is my love that makes a face stand out from the crowd.

If you’d like to hear another Little Happier story, where I talk about this observation in a different context, listen here.

I often remind myself, there is no anonymous member of a crowd. 

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