People with handicaps teach me that being is more important than

Host: The evening light fell through the glass windows of a small rehabilitation center on the outskirts of the city. The air carried the faint scent of disinfectant mixed with the warmth of brewed tea. Outside, the sun was sinking into an orange horizon, while inside, a soft piano melody echoed through the hallways.
Jack sat by the window, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes tracing the movement of a young boy in a wheelchair who was laughing with a nurse.
Jeeny sat across from him, a paper cup of tea between her palms, her gaze gentle but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Henri Nouwen once said, ‘People with handicaps teach me that being is more important than doing, the heart is more important than the mind, and caring together is better than caring alone.’”

Jack: “That’s… poetic. But I can’t help thinking it’s a bit sentimental, don’t you think? The world doesn’t reward ‘being.’ It rewards doing. Results. Performance. The market doesn’t care how compassionate you are—it cares if you deliver.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the market doesn’t care, Jack. But people do. That boy out there—look at him. He’ll never ‘deliver’ in the way you mean. But look at his joy. His laughter. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Host: The boy’s laughter spilled into the room, light and spontaneous. Jack’s eyes flickered, as if trying not to see what Jeeny meant. He took a slow breath, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “Joy doesn’t build bridges or cure disease, Jeeny. Emotion doesn’t put food on the table. Humanity survives because people act, build, produce—not because they just ‘are.’”

Jeeny: “But what’s the point of surviving if we forget why we live? If we turn into machines that only measure output and efficiency? Those who can’t ‘do,’ as you put it, remind us of what makes life sacred. Their value isn’t in their productivity, Jack—it’s in their existence.”

Host: The room filled with a tense silence. Outside, a caregiver adjusted the blanket over the boy’s legs, whispering something that made him smile again. The light dimmed into a muted gold, like a curtain closing between day and night.

Jack: “I understand the sentiment, Jeeny. But life isn’t a poem. The truth is, compassion alone doesn’t feed anyone. If everyone just focused on ‘being,’ nothing would move forward.”

Jeeny: “You sound like the world that forgot to breathe. You know, Nouwen worked with people with disabilities in L’Arche communities for years. He said they taught him more about love and presence than any academic ever could. They didn’t need to prove themselves to be valuable.”

Jack: “And yet it was Nouwen—the educated theologian—who wrote that insight. Isn’t that ironic? The mind expressing how the heart is more important.”

Host: Jack’s smirk was brief but sharp, his grey eyes reflecting a touch of irony. Jeeny didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned forward, her voice soft but piercing.

Jeeny: “Not ironic, Jack—beautiful. Because it shows even the mind can learn humility. Sometimes wisdom is realizing its own limits.”

Host: The wind outside grew stronger, pressing against the windows. The trees rustled like quiet applause or dissent. Jack looked out again, his reflection merging with the boy’s silhouette.

Jack: “I once had a colleague—a software engineer. Brilliant guy. Got into an accident. Lost both legs. He couldn’t code the same way again. For months, he fell into depression. He said the world only respected him when he was useful. I tried to help him find remote projects, but he stopped replying. He died by suicide six months later.”

Jeeny: (whispering) “I’m sorry, Jack.”

Jack: “Don’t be. I just learned something then—that all the talk about ‘being’ doesn’t save people when reality crushes them. He needed a system that valued him, not just words.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe… he needed someone to simply sit with him, to listen, to remind him he wasn’t alone. That’s what Nouwen meant by ‘caring together.’ Systems are built by people, Jack. But hearts heal hearts.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes shimmered in the faint light, her fingers trembling slightly as she held her tea. Jack’s expression softened, the line between anger and grief beginning to blur.

Jack: “You think love fixes everything?”

Jeeny: “Not everything. But it changes how we see everything. When we care together, burdens become lighter. Even despair finds a place to breathe.”

Jack: “You talk like suffering has meaning.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it? The people Nouwen lived with—they couldn’t compete, couldn’t ‘achieve’ by society’s standards. Yet they taught others how to love without conditions. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s strength of a different kind.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tapped against his knee, his gaze drifting toward the hallway where an elderly woman struggled to move her walker. A nurse approached, steadying her. The woman looked up and smiled faintly, grateful. The gesture was small, but the warmth in it filled the room.

Jack: “You think I don’t see that, Jeeny? I do. I just… can’t afford to live that way. I’ve spent my life believing effort defines worth. If I stop doing, what am I?”

Jeeny: “You’re still you. The one who watches that woman and feels something stir. That’s being, Jack. It’s not about stopping—it’s about seeing. About realizing the person matters more than the product.”

Host: The silence returned, but now it was gentle, like a soft blanket of understanding. The sunlight faded completely, leaving only the faint glow of ceiling lamps and the slow rhythm of footsteps down the corridor.

Jeeny: “When I was in university, I volunteered at a hospice. There was a man—Thomas—who’d been a carpenter. His hands were strong once, but illness had taken everything. He couldn’t even lift a spoon. Yet when I sat by him, he said, ‘I feel more alive now than ever. Because for the first time, people aren’t coming to me for what I can build—they’re just here.’ That changed me.”

Jack: “So, what—you think weakness teaches us truth?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it strips away illusion. When all you have left is your being, you finally see who you are—and who others are.”

Jack: “That’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s also liberating.”

Host: Jack’s eyes dropped to his hands, as if noticing them for the first time. The lines of labor, the calluses, the silent testimony of years spent proving worth. He exhaled, a low sound like surrender.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve been hiding behind doing because I’m afraid of just being. Afraid of what I’d find if I stopped.”

Jeeny: “That’s what we all do, Jack. We build walls of busyness to escape the emptiness. But if we face it together, it stops being emptiness. It becomes space—space for care, for connection.”

Host: The music from the hallway shifted to a slower melody, each note like a heartbeat. The boy in the wheelchair waved toward them, his smile bright, unfiltered. Jeeny waved back; Jack hesitated, then lifted his hand slowly, uncertainly—but genuinely.

Jeeny: “You see, he doesn’t care what you’ve done, Jack. He just sees you.”

Jack: “That’s what scares me.”

Jeeny: “It shouldn’t. It means you’re seen—not for what you achieve, but for who you are.”

Host: The room seemed to breathe with them. The light softened, shadows lengthened. Somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut. The evening had fully arrived.

Jack: “Maybe Nouwen wasn’t being sentimental after all. Maybe he saw what the rest of us are too busy to notice.”

Jeeny: “He saw that the heart knows truths the mind keeps forgetting.”

Jack: “Being over doing. Heart over mind. Caring together. You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It is simple. Just not easy.”

Host: The two sat in silence, their teacups empty, their thoughts full. Outside, the last trace of sunlight vanished behind the hills, leaving the center in quiet peace. The boy’s laughter faded into memory, but its echo lingered—soft, eternal, like a reminder whispered through time.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what being truly means, Jack. Not achieving immortality through what we build—but through how deeply we touch others while we’re here.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the one kind of success I’ve never learned to measure.”

Host: A faint smile crossed his face—small, but real. Jeeny reached for her coat, and together they stood, facing the window. The night lights of the city shimmered like distant constellations, each one a fragile heartbeat of humanity.

And as they walked out into the quiet corridor, the Host’s voice lingered one last time:

“Perhaps Nouwen was right. In the end, it’s not what we do that defines us—but how we are with each other, in all our broken, radiant being.”