Human Angels

 

The smell of antiseptic in a sterile hospital room has a weight that can crush a man’s ribs. Christopher Reeve lay anchored to a bed by the sudden, brutal gravity of a broken neck, feeling the world shrink to the size of a ventilator tube. He was paralyzed.  

Then, the door swung open with a violent, joyful friction.

A man in a surgical scrub suit burst into the room, snapping latex gloves and barking in a high-pitched, manic Russian accent. He claimed to be a proctologist. Reeve, who had been contemplating the end of his own existence, felt a strange, forgotten vibration deep in his diaphragm. 

He laughed. For the first time since the accident that had severed his spine, the man who had played Superman realized that he still possessed a soul.

The figure behind the mask was Robin Williams.

This wasn't a performance for the cameras or a bit for a late-night talk show; it was a rescue mission fueled by a friendship that had been forged decades earlier in the dusty rehearsal halls of Juilliard. 

Back in 1973, they were the only two students selected for the Advanced Program, a pair of opposites who became each other's equilibrium. Reeve was the statuesque, classical powerhouse with a voice like polished mahogany. 

Williams was the frantic, kaleidoscopic genius who seemed to be leaking light from every pore.

They were a study in contrast. One was marble, the other mercury. Yet, they shared a secret language that transcended their differing temperaments. 

While the world saw a tragedy in Reeve’s paralysis, Williams saw his brother trapped in a tower and resolved to climb it every single day. Their bond became a testament to the idea that friendship is not just a social contract, but a survival strategy.

The narrative of their lives often feels like a scripted irony—the strongest man in the world rendered immobile, and the funniest man in the world fighting a private, silent darkness. 

But in the years following the accident, their connection deepened into something sacred and tangible. Williams didn't just offer jokes; he offered his presence as a bulwark against the despair that threatens to swallow a person when their body becomes a cage. 

He became a primary benefactor for the Christopher & Dana Reeve Foundation, using his celebrity as a megaphone to demand progress in spinal cord research.

He was the wind beneath the broken cape. When Reeve worried about the mounting medical bills and the logistical nightmare of his new reality, Williams stepped in with a quiet, fierce generosity that he never publicized. 

He made sure the family was cared for, not out of pity, but out of a profound sense of loyalty that dated back to their days sharing cheap meals in New York City. They had promised to look out for each other when they had nothing, and they kept that promise when they had everything to lose.

Their friendship suggests that the most powerful thing one human can do for another is to bear witness to their pain without flinching. Williams never looked at Reeve with the "sad eyes" of the public; he looked at him as the same formidable actor and friend he had always been. 

This recognition was a lifeline. It allowed Reeve to transition from a victim of circumstance to a champion for others, turning his chair into a throne of advocacy.

When Reeve passed away in 2004, a piece of Williams seemed to dim, a shadow falling over the manic energy that had defined him. The world lost a hero, but Robin lost his mirror. 

At the funeral, Williams was desperate, openly weeping as he stood as an unwavering witness to the love he had lost. The man who could summon laughter with a glance was seen quietly wrestling with a sorrow that no joke could cure—the profound, aching silence of his best friend's absence.

The tragedy of their ending—Williams’ own struggle and eventual passing years later—paints a moving  picture of two stars that burned brightly because they shared the same orbit. 

Love, in its purest form, can overcome even the hardest parts of life. Even when the body fails, the memory of a shared laugh can last through time.

We Are Human Angels

Authors

Awakening the Human Spirit

We are the authors of 'We Are Human Angels,' the book that has spread a new vision of the human experience and has been spontaneously translated into 14 languages by readers.

We hope our writing sparks something in you!

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John Steinback

 

His name was John Steinbeck. He believed something many people in power did not want to hear. Listening to poor and ignored people can be dangerous for those who benefit from silence.

In 1939, in Salinas, California, Steinbeck’s hometown, a crowd gathered downtown. They brought copies of a new novel, not to read it, but to burn it in public.

The book was The Grapes of Wrath, published on April 14, 1939. The author was Steinbeck, a local man who many felt had betrayed them.

They piled the books together and set them on fire. As the pages burned, they believed they were protecting their town. Instead, they showed exactly why the book mattered.

In the mid 1930s, California’s farm valleys were filled with desperate families called Okies. They had fled the Dust Bowl, hoping to find work in California. What they found was hunger, low pay, and abuse.

Families lived in dirty camps. They picked fruit for wages too small to live on. The children went hungry. Landowners used force to stop workers from organizing.

Many Americans did not know about this. Others did not care. Some believed the migrants deserved their suffering.

Steinbeck wanted to know the truth.

He did not study these people from far away. He lived with them. He wore worn clothes, stayed in their camps, worked beside them, and listened to their stories.

He saw children weakened by hunger. He saw families living in shocking conditions. He saw workers cheated out of pay and beaten when they spoke up.

He wrote down everything he saw.

The novel followed the Joad family, farmers pushed off their land in Oklahoma by drought and banks. They traveled to California looking for work and found a system built to use their misery.

The story was fiction, but it was based on real life. Steinbeck had seen it himself. The book was honest and painful. It angered people who wanted poverty to stay hidden.

When the book came out in 1939, the reaction was fast and harsh. Powerful farm groups in California called it lies. Landowners said it was propaganda. Politicians demanded it be banned.

In Kern County, officials removed it from libraries and schools that same year. In Salinas, people burned it in public. The book was banned and challenged in many places. Steinbeck received threats. His family was harassed. But something else happened at the same time.

The book sold more than 400,000 copies in its first year. It won the Pulitzer Prize in 1940. It forced Americans to see a reality many leaders wanted ignored.

Eleanor Roosevelt defended it. Groups that helped migrant workers shared it widely. The country could not look away.

And the FBI opened a file on Steinbeck.

For many years, the FBI collected information on Steinbeck. His writing kept appearing in fights about labor, poverty, and loyalty to America.

The released files are more than one hundred pages long. They never proved he was a member of the Communist Party. He was not. He was a writer who believed ordinary people mattered. He wrote what he saw, even when it made others uncomfortable.

That alone made him a target.

Steinbeck was born on February 27, 1902, in Salinas. His father worked as a county treasurer. His mother was a schoolteacher. The family lived a stable middle-class life.

He could have stayed comfortable and safe. Instead, he spent his twenties working hard jobs. He was a ranch hand, fruit picker, builder, and surveyor. He was learning how working people really lived.

His early success came with Tortilla Flat in 1935, about Mexican American life in Monterey. Then, In Dubious Battle in 1936, about striking farm workers. Then, Of Mice and Men in 1937, about traveling laborers.

Each book moved closer to people pushed aside by society. Each showed where Steinbeck’s loyalty was.

 Then came The Grapes of Wrath, and everything changed.

When his hometown turned against him and powerful groups attacked him, Steinbeck did not stop writing. He kept going.

After The Grapes of Wrath, he wrote Cannery Row in 1945 about working-class Monterey. He later wrote East of Eden, his most ambitious work, about good and evil in California’s history.

During World War II, he worked as a war reporter. He focused on soldiers, not generals, and on daily life, not grand plans. He continued to write about people who were ignored and mistreated. Slowly, the country began to understand him.

By the 1960s, The Grapes of Wrath was taught in schools, even in places where it had once been banned. The book, once called dangerous, was now called a classic.

In 1962, Steinbeck won the Nobel Prize in Literature. The committee praised his realistic writing and deep concern for human dignity. In simple terms, he told the truth about ordinary lives with care and skill.

Success did not erase the damage.

Steinbeck struggled with depression later in life. All three of his marriages ended. His relationships with his sons were difficult.

The anger and criticism never fully disappeared. In 1968, at age 66, Steinbeck died in New York City.

Today, Steinbeck’s books are read around the world.

The Grapes of Wrath is required reading in many schools. Of Mice and Men is one of the most taught novels in America. East of Eden is widely seen as a great American novel.

But his true legacy is larger than awards or sales. He wrote about people whom many others ignored. He showed that poverty is not a personal failure, but a result of broken systems. He insisted that suffering should be seen and questioned.

For that, his book was burned. He was attacked and watched. He was called a traitor in his own town.

He could have written safer stories. He chose not to. The book they burned now sits on library shelves everywhere.

That is what happens when someone writes the truth and refuses to look away.

{PS}

Edgar Allan Poe

 

He made nine dollars from the most famous poem in American history.

A dead drunk nobody invented modern detective fiction, horror literature, and science fiction. All while earning almost nothing.

Edgar Allan Poe was 40 years old when he died.

Broke. 

Alone. 

Found delirious on the streets of Baltimore.

Everyone said he was a failure.

“Just a drunk who wrote weird stories.”

“Never made any real money.”

“Died in a gutter like a nobody.”

They couldn’t have been more wrong.

Here’s what Poe built that no one saw coming:

He was orphaned before age 3. His foster father disowned him. 

He got kicked out of West Point. 

He watched his young wife die slowly of tuberculosis while he couldn’t afford to keep her warm.

Every door slammed in his face.

But Poe had something no one could take from him.

The ability to see darkness clearly. And turn it into words that burned into people’s minds.

When everyone else was writing polite poetry about flowers and nature, Poe wrote about murder. Madness. 

The terror hiding inside ordinary people.

Editors rejected him constantly.

“Too dark.”

“Too strange.”

“No one wants to read this.”

He didn’t listen.

He kept writing. 

Kept submitting. 

Kept getting rejected. 

Kept going anyway.

Then came “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.”

The first detective story ever written. 

The template that every crime novel, every mystery show, every procedural drama still follows today.

Before Poe, detective fiction didn’t exist.

He invented it.

Then came “The Raven.”

It made him famous overnight. 

People memorized it. 

Quoted it everywhere. 

It spread across the country.

And Poe made about nine dollars from it.

Nine dollars.

For a poem that’s been read by hundreds of millions of people.

He died poor. 

Alone. 

Unknown by most of the world.

But here’s what happened after.

Arthur Conan Doyle read Poe and created Sherlock Holmes. 

Said Poe’s detective was the model for everything that followed.

H.P. Lovecraft read Poe and built cosmic horror on his foundation.

Stephen King read Poe and called him the father of American horror.

Every detective show you watch. 

Every horror movie that makes you check the locks at night. 

Every psychological thriller that gets inside your head.

Poe built the blueprint.

Today his work is translated into every major language. 

Taught in every school. Referenced in every corner of popular culture.

All from a man who died thinking he was a failure.

He never saw any of it.

Never got rich. 

Never got recognition. 

Never got to see his influence spread across the entire world.

But he kept writing anyway.

Because he understood something most people don’t.

Your work doesn’t have to pay off in your lifetime to matter.

Your impact doesn’t have to be visible to you to be real.

Sometimes you plant seeds you’ll never see grow.

What story are you not telling because you think no one wants to hear it?

What work are you abandoning because it’s not paying off fast enough?

What creative risk are you avoiding because the world says it’s too dark, too weird, too different?

Poe watched his wife die. 

Lost every job he ever had. 

Got paid almost nothing for his best work. 

Died alone in the street.

And still became one of the most influential writers in human history.

Because he never stopped doing the work.

He never let rejection silence him.

He never let poverty stop him.

He never let anyone else’s opinion define what he created.

Your circumstances don’t determine your legacy.

Your consistency does.

Your commitment does.

Your willingness to keep going when everyone says quit.

That’s what separates people who change the world from people who just complain about it.

Poe had every excuse to give up.

He used none of them.

Stop waiting for permission. 

Stop waiting for payment. 

Stop waiting for recognition.

Do the work.

Tell your story.

Let the world catch up later.

Think Big.

{PS}

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The Brighter Side

 

👍  An Inspiring Story

A famous writer was in his study room. He picked up his pen and started writing :

**Last year, I had a surgery and my gall bladder was removed. I had to stay stuck to the bed due to this surgery for a long time. 

**The same year I reached the age of 60 years and had to give up my favourite job. I had spent 30 years of my life in this publishing company. 

**The same year I experienced the sorrow of the death of my father.

**And in the same year my son failed in his medical exam because he had a car accident. He had to stay in bed at hospital with the cast on for several days. The destruction of car was another loss. 

At the end he wrote: Oh God! It was such bad year !! 

When the writer's wife entered the room, she found her husband looking sad & lost in his thoughts. From behind his back she read what was written on the paper. She left the room silently and came back with another paper and placed it on side of her husband's writing.

When the writer saw this paper, he found his name written on it with following lines :

**Last year I finally got rid of my gall bladder due to which I had spent years in pain....

**I turned 60 with sound health and got retired from my job. Now I can utilize my time to write something better with more focus and peace.....

**The same year my father, at the age of 95, without depending on anyone or without any critical condition met his Creator.....

 **The same year, God blessed my son with a new life. My car was destroyed but my son stayed alive without getting any disability......

At the end she wrote: 

This year was an immense blessing of God and it passed well !!!

 The writer was indeed happy and amazed at such beautiful and encouraging interpretation of the happenings in his life in that year !!!

Moral : In daily lives we must see that its not happiness that makes us grateful but gratefulness that makes us happy. ❤

【PS】

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Humor versus Lawak

 

𝗕𝗲𝗱𝗮 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗼𝗿 𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗶 𝗟𝗮𝘄𝗮𝗸

Lawak, yang kerap kita saksikan di televisi Indonesia tempo dulu (sekarang saya jarang menonton siaran lawak TV), adalah mengolok-olok, mencela, dan menertawai orang lain. Ada pihak yang dirundung secara sengaja untuk menciptakan lelucon. Ada pihak lain yang dikorbankan, dijadikan kobokan, objek penderita. Tentu orang tidak lupa pada Pak Bèndot yang selalu menjadi korban lawakan Srimulat.

𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗼𝗿 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂 𝗯𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗮𝗸 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗮𝗸𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗮𝗻 𝗹𝗮𝘄𝗮𝗸. Humor justru mencela, mengolok-olok, dan menertawai diri sendiri, keluarga sendiri, kelompok sendiri, suku sendiri, bahkan bangsa sendiri. Humor mengalihrupa (𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘮) tragedi hidup dirinya menjadi lelucon. Mark Twain mengatakan bahwa sumber humor adalah penderitaan, kebodohan, dan kesengsaraan diri sendiri. 𝗣𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘄𝗮𝗸 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘆𝗲𝗺𝗯𝘂𝗻𝘆𝗶𝗸𝗮𝗻 𝗰𝗮𝗰𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗮𝗻 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗸-𝗼𝗹𝗼𝗸 𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗹𝗮𝗶𝗻, 𝘁𝗲𝘁𝗮𝗽𝗶 𝗷𝗲𝗻𝗮𝗸𝗮𝘄𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝗲𝗷𝗮𝘁𝗶 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂 𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗼𝗻𝗸𝗮𝗻 𝗰𝗮𝗰𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝘆𝗮 𝗸𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗱𝗮 𝗱𝘂𝗻𝗶𝗮. Presiden Gus Dur ketika didesak mundur oleh lawan politiknya dengan enteng beliau menjawab: “𝘔𝘢𝘫𝘶 𝘴𝘢𝘫𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘢 𝘪𝘯𝘪 𝘴𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘩, 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘪 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘶𝘩 𝘮𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳.”

Keterusterangan dan kejujuran memang menakutkan. Jenakawan sejati senantiasa mampu menemukan humor dalam momen yang serius, termasuk tragedi dalam hidupnya, dialihrupakan menjadi lelucon. Saya terus belajar bagaimana menghumor, menertawai diri sendiri. Tidak ada yang dibanggakan nilai sekolah saya. Di perguruan tinggi IPK saya megap-megap. Kerap rekan kerja saya bertanya mengenai sekolah saya.

“𝘒𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘢𝘩 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘢, 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘯?“ tanya rekan saya.

“𝘌𝘯𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘩 𝘵𝘢𝘩𝘶𝘯.“ jawab saya.

“𝘒𝘰𝘲 𝘭𝘢𝘮𝘢?”

“𝘏𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘯𝘺𝘢 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘢 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘩.”

Ia tertawa 𝘯𝘨𝘢𝘬𝘢𝘬 dan berhenti bertanya. Apa yang terjadi jika saya menjawab dengan alasan lain? Saya meyakini ia akan mengejar terus dengan pertanyaan tidak penting dan saya akan menguras energi melakukan pembelaan.

Saya dapat menunjukkan lagi bahwa humor bersumber dari penderitaan hidup. Ketika anda melakukan reuni mengapa anda bisa tertawa-tiwi tanpa henti saat bertemu sobat-sobat lama? Tentu saja anda menertawai penderitaan masa lalu entah itu kekonyolan saat sekolah, entah itu diusir guru dari kelas, entah itu ditolak oleh bakal calon pacar, entah itu jual celana jins demi bisa menonton 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘉𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, dan lain sejenisnya. Penderitaan bahkan tragedi saat sekolah anda alihrupakan menjadi lelucon yang menghibur diri anda dan orang lain. Dari  sini anda sebenarnya berbakat menjadi jenakawan sejati.

𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘂𝗻𝗷𝘂𝗸𝗸𝗮𝗻 𝗸𝗲𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗮𝘀𝗮𝗻. Bangsa ini kurang waras karena lebih gemar melawak, yaitu sibuk mencari dan menunjuk cacat-cacat orang lain. Mereka lupa melihat cacat diri sendiri. Selama orang tidak bisa berhumor, selama itu pula orang tidak waras. 

Juga jangan berharap humor ada di surga karena sumber humor adalah penderitaan atau cacat diri sendiri. Konon surga itu isinya senang-senang, bahagia, jingkrak-jingkrak, tidak ada penderitaan, tidak ada cacat. Itulah sebabnya tidak ada humor di surga.

“𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘤. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯.” Mark Twain

MDS 

Dari akun fesbuk Efron Bayern