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He's
the guy next door - a man with the memory of a little boy. He has
never gotten over the excitement of engines and sirens and
danger. He's a guy like you and me with warts and worries and
unfulfilled dreams. Yet he stands taller than most of us. He's a
fireman.
He
puts it all on the line when the bell rings. A fireman is at once
the most fortunate and the least fortunate of men. He is a man who
saves lives because he has seen too much death. He's a gentle
man because he has the awesome power of violence
out of control. He's responsive to a child's laughter because
his arms have held too many small bodies that will never laugh
again.
He's
a man who appreciates the simple pleasures of life - hot coffee held
in numb, unbending fingers - a warm bed for bone and muscle
compelled beyond felling - the camaraderie of brave men - the divine
peace and selfless service of a job well done in the name of all
men. He doesn't wear buttons or wave flag or shout obscenities. When
he marches, it is to honour a fallen comrade. He doesn't preach the
brotherhood of man.
He
lives it.
Author
unknown
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