Finding Joy in the Death of a Friend
             Everyone has a best friend. Mine is the best. He never lies. He never thinks of himself. He always takes care of me. I wish I could have met him.
             My friend did not have the luxury of being born in a hospital. He took his first nap on a bed of hay, not cotton. But despite the brute welcoming to this world, I have been told that he did not shed one tear.
             I do not know much about his childhood. One story I heard was that his parents accidentally left him behind on a journey once when he was twelve. At first, it sounded like a remake of the Home Alone movie. But in my buddy's case, he spent his separated time in a temple mingling with some priests instead of setting traps for burglars. After anxious searching, his parents found him two days later and I believe that was the only time they were upset with him throughout his life.
             After a few more years passed, the inevitable time came for him to make a living. My pal decided to follow his father's profession and become a carpenter. He was the most respectable of workers and his passion for life showed vividly through his labor. But at the age of thirty, he decided to make a change. He put down the wood and began to teach. Although he was never formally trained, it was as if he was born to lead others. From the moment he began to share his thoughts, people listened. My friend did not teach an academic subject. He never spoke in a classroom. His teaching consisted of
             challenging the deeply rooted beliefs and actions of people. And he took this teaching to the road.
             Along his travels, my buddy never had problems making friends. But as his social network grew, his ego didn't. He was out to help others, not to win acclaim. One day when he was walking along the beach, he saw four guys fishing out in a boat. He noticed that all of their nets were empty. He told them to throw the nets again to the other...