Sometimes I wonder why.
Why do bad people win? Why do good people lose? How is it that 99.999 percent of the art and music throughout recorded history has been about love, religion, and natural beauty? But 99.999 percent of the movies on my streaming service suck?
Why does a blue sky represent happiness, but the color blue itself represents sadness? Why is it that music classes are not taught in many schools, but the Pythagorean Theorem still is.
Why do you have to be 21 to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon, but only 16 years old to drive 75 mph on the interstate?
Why do they put cotton balls in bottles of Bayer aspirin when the pills cannot be crushed with a cinderblock?
Why do we leave cars worth tens-of-thousands of dollars in the driveway, but store our worthless junk in the garage? Why do they sell hotdogs in packs of 10, but hotdog buns come in packs of eight?
Why is it that the people who drive too slow in the left lane always avoid eye contact with me when I pass them?
Why do good people suffer? Why do the people who act like idiots become internationally famous, but the heroes are always camera shy? Why are the only people who tell the truth children?
I wonder why my neighbor, Miss Patricia, the health freak, died of breast cancer when she was in her early 60s, but Miss Jean, my neighbor who chain-smoked unfiltered Camels, lived past 101.
Why is it that the U.S. Census Bureau found that one third of Americans were likely depressed? Why do only 14 percent of Americans say they’re happy?
How is it that one out of every five adults suffers from mental illness (twice the amount of those who suffer from diabetes), but you aren’t supposed to talk about mental illness?
Why do teachers earn 20 percent less than most employees at Old Navy? Why is a nurse’s salary less than, say, a relieving pitcher’s?
Why is it that, as you read this, 660,000 motorists are currently playing on their smartphones while driving. Why is it that the average American will spend 11 years of their life looking at their phone?
How is it that, in one study, 80 percent of college students could not recall the color of their mother’s eyes.
Why do babies die in incubators, but dictators die from old age?
How can a Roomba®, a high-tech robotic vacuum cleaner, digitally memorize the entire floorplan of your home, then program itself to avoid obstacles and furniture, but remain unable to spot a pile of dog poop, and turns your living room floor into a vision of hell.
I have often wondered why teenagers are always resurrecting the same outdated fashions their parents wore as kids. Bell bottoms are only one example. Horn rimmed glasses, I’m looking at you.
Why do friendships come and go? How is it that two people can be so close, and then one day not be?
How come people die? And how come you never see it coming when it happens?
How come Robert, who emailed me this morning, had to watch his mother suffer and die in her sickbed, even though she was only in her late 40s?
How come Lucy, the 9-year-old Labrador retriever, had to have pancreatitis?
How come Brayden didn’t get the promotion he’s been waiting for, but the new guy did?
How come Jessica’s husband walked out on her and her two children?
How come Cynthia, Daryl’s wife of 46 years, is sick?
Well, the truth is I don’t have answers. In fact, I don’t have anything.
What I do have, however, is an idea. It’s an idea that is often criticized and belittled by those in the modern age, and by those who don’t understand it. An idea so simple that you have to have the mind of a fourth-grader to grasp it. It’s an idea my mother taught me. An idea her mother taught her.
And the idea is this: Maybe we’re not supposed to be asking questions.
Maybe answers aren’t important. Maybe we’re not supposed to be wasting time looking for answers. Maybe we’re supposed to be looking for the people who need them worse than we do.