After a Calamitous Spill, an Epiphany as to Why Readers Crave This Column

We've frequently used the "royal we" in the sentences that usually introduce this column, often sharing snippets of "our" life that relate to the writing below. In the singular, "we" are Ashley Halsey, and our duties include editing Random Acts. "We" had a bad bike accident recently, and today we graduate from the italic type to write about the aftermath.

At sunrise this morning I lay awake, wiggling the fingers of my unbroken hand with the glee of an infant testing the joy of movement for the first time.

I had watched those fingers wiggle as the operating room approached two weeks ago, wondering if they ever would wiggle again.

"You understand there are serious risks associated with this surgery?"

Yes, I did.

When you lie immobilized, first by a brace screwed into your skull and later by morphine, there is nothing much to do. Unless a face is peering down, as though you are trapped at the bottom of a fish tank, there is nothing to do but think.

Thought begins with the basics: It is good to be alive.

In the aftermath of the operating room, I awakened to another revelation that now reoccurs daily, one that has helped me better understand the joy you find here.

The Random Acts of Kindness column grew from a single, unsolicited submission from Barbara Reck more than a year ago. Her piece about a moment of human decency -- helping an elderly man understand the value of a Starbucks gift card -- drew two or three similar touching reports from readers. Then there were a dozen, and after that it snowballed.

Soon the evidence became overwhelming that it is impossible to lose a wallet or purse around here without some kind person returning it. If your tire goes flat, someone will surely be along to offer help, and that certainty grows with the depth of your need: if you are old or infirm or you are rushing to fetch a child fallen sick. If you fall, strangers will rush to your side.

There is a good chance you will marvel because your angel is of a different skin color, or speaks with a different accent, or is a homeless person who wants nothing in return except sincere eye contact.

I figured that after a while we would exhaust every variation on human kindness, then mothball the column. The wellspring of human decency has proved me wrong.