I was always a reader.

As a kid, I walked to the library several times a week and checked out so many books and returned them so quickly that the librarian once snapped,“Don’t take home so many books if you’re not going to read them all!”

“But I did read them all,” I said.

But I had stopped reading gradually. I joined book clubs that I never attended. I requested a library book everyone was reading, only to return it a week late, unread, with fines.

Then I met David. When I asked him about his last book, his face lit up and his fingers danced.

David read much more than I did, about a book or two a week. He preferred history and nonfiction, while I loved fiction writers.

On our seventh date, David and I visited the library.

“I have a game,” he said, pulling two pens and Post-its out of his bag. “Let’s find books we’ve read and leave reviews in them for the next person.”

“We wandered in the library for an hour. In the end, we sat on the floor among the poetry, and I read him some. He listened, then asked,“What is it you like about that one?”

That summer, as we picnicked outside, I said, “If I tell you something, will you not judge me?” David paused and raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve only read one book this year,” I said.

“But it’s June,” he said.

“I know.”

“Well, read a book!”

The next time I visited a bookstore, his charge to “read a book” echoed in my head. I picked up a book solely for its poetic title.

I had a hard time getting into it. The narrator was an old man. Whenever I was tempted to give up on it, I thought of David. I pushed through the first two chapters and discovered a new narrator in the third. I loved the alternating points of view. I carried the book to work. I read at lunch and on my walk home.

“How’s your day?” David texted.

“Good. A little tired,” I replied. “I stayed up late and finished my book.”

I tried to make it sound casual, but I was proud of myself. It was not a competition, but I felt him pushing me to be more of the person I used to be and more of who I wanted to be.

I asked David once what he liked about me.

He paused, then said. “I see the world as a more wonder-filled place with you.”

By the end of that year, David suggested we visit the library again. He asked if I remembered the game we played on our first visit.

“I remember,” I said.

He pulled a book from the shelf, dropped to one knee, and opened it. Inside, his   Post-it read: “Karla, it has always been you. Will you marry me?”

His proposal had rested between the pages of The Rebel Princess for over a year.

“Yes,” I said.

An 80-year-old man was sitting on the sofa in his house along with his 45-year-old highly educated son. Suddenly a crow (乌鸦) perched on the tree near their window. The father asked his son, “What is this?” The son replied, “It is a crow.” After a few minutes, the father asked his son the second time, “What is this?” The son said, “Father, I have just now told you ‘It’s a crow’.” After a little while, the old father again asked his son the third time, “What is this?” “It’s a crow, a crow, a crow.” said the son loudly. A little after, the father again asked his son the fourth time, “What is this?” This time the son shouted at his father, “Why do you keep asking me the same question again and again? ‘IT IS A CROW’. Are you not able to understand this? ”

A little later the father went to his room and came back with an old diary, which he had kept since his son was born. On opening a page, he asked his son to read that page. When the son read it, the following words were written in the diary:

“Today my little son aged three was sitting with me on the sofa, when a crow was there on the window. My son asked me 23 times what it was, and I replied to him all 23 times that it was a crow. I hugged him lovingly each time he asked me the same question again and again for 23 times. I did not at all feel annoyed; I rather felt affection for my innocent child.”

Recently I and other Red Cross volunteers met a group of victims from Hurricane Katrina. We were there, as mental health professionals, to offer “psychological first aid” and I was struck by the simple healing power of presence. As we walked in the gate to the shelter, we were greeted with a burst of gratitude from the first person we met. I felt appreciated, but also guilty, because I hadn’t really done anything yet.

I first realized the power of presence many years ago when a friend’s mother passed away unexpectedly. I received a call saying she had just passed away. I wanted to rush down there immediately, but didn’t want to intrude(打扰) on this very personal period of sadness. I was torn about what to do. Another friend with me then said, “Just go. Just be there.” I did, and I will never regret it.

Since then, I have not hesitated to be in the presence of others. Once I sat at the bedside of a young man suffering from the pain of his AIDS-ralated dying. He was not awake, and obviously unaware of others’ presence. However, the atmosphere was by no means solemn. His family, playing guitars and singing, allowed him to be present with them as though he were still fully alive.

In my life, I am repeatedly struck by the healing power of presence. In it, none of us are truly alone. It not only is something we give to others but also changes me for the better.