David McElroy

If our culture didn’t believe so much in tales of redemption, what would Hollywood have left to make movies about?

You’ve seen that movie. You’ve read the book. They boy mistreats the girl. He doesn’t appreciate her. He takes her for granted. He has some serious weakness — an addiction to booze or pills or work or sex or ego — which causes him to risk everything he has.

Then something happens. It might be a dramatic speech. It might be the pain of losing the girl or his family. In some variations, it’s a religious experience. But the dramatic thing happens. He’s at his lowest. He realizes he’s been a terrible person and hurt people. In the climactic scene — frequently in front of many others as witnesses — he confesses what a wretch he’s been. He promises to change. She takes him back.

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Loneliness is the most deadly disease a human soul can suffer.

It wounds a heart. It numbs a mind. It breaks a soul. Worst of all, it’s invisible to the others in the crowd.

Nobody spots the lonely man or woman going about his or her business — working, talking, laughing, caring for others, pretending all is well. The lonely soul wears a mask — and nobody sees what lies underneath until something inside breaks.

Around 1960, there were 3 billion souls on this planet. Less than 60 years later, there are around 7.5 billion of us. Those of us in the West — and particularly in the U.S. — are wealthy enough to be around as many or as few others as we want.

We’re more connected than ever. At least theoretically. A couple of centuries ago, a man might never know more than a few hundred people. He would marry from among a limited number of women. He would have few opportunities to make a living. He had no hope of making something better of himself.

With the Internet and modern transportation, I can get to know the right woman — wherever she is — and marry her. (Theoretically, at least.) I am surrounded by people with money and resources and ideas. I can travel to whatever opportunity I want. I have every hope and expectation of making something better of myself.

So why do so many of us feel most alone in crowds? Why do so many of us walk silently around in a bubble — in a lonely fog — reaching out from wounded hearts and whispering, “Are you the one who will know me? Will you be the one who will love me and never leave?”

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I had come to the restaurant to write. The place was mostly empty in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. I should have gotten a lot of writing done, but Robert had other ideas.

Robert is a talker. His dad works in the kitchen of the restaurant and had been called in to finish someone else’s shift, so Robert tagged along to wait for him. He quickly struck up a conversation with me.

Robert is in the third grade and he wanted to tell me all about his life. He’s a golfer, he said, but people frequently ask him whether he’s a quarterback on a football team. He and his family have five cats and the one called Boo Bear is is favorite. (Boo Bear sleeps with him.) He’s going to be a firefighter or maybe “something easy” like a landscaper.

There was nothing extraordinary about Robert’s story, but everything about this sweet kid sparkled with life and wit and happiness. That such a thing is so ordinary is extraordinary in itself.

I’m not exactly sure whether children gravitate to me or whether I gravitate to them, but I constantly seem to end up interacting with them. In another restaurant this week, I had another “ordinary extraordinary” encounter.

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