I said you had to do it. You said you didn’t want to. We talked about it, and we agreed that maybe I could help.
I said you were wrong. You insisted you were right. We held each other’s hand, and right and wrong disappeared.
I began crying. You began crying, too. We embraced, and between us grew a flower of peace.
How I love this mystery called We! Where does it come from, out of thin air? I thought about this mystery, and I realized something: We must be love’s favorite child, because until I reach out for you, We is not even there. It arrives on the wings of tenderness: it speaks through our silent understanding. When I laugh at myself, it smiles. When I forgive you, it dances in jubilation.

So We is not a choice anymore, not if you and I want to grow with one another. We unites us, increases our strength; it picks up our burden when you and I are ready to let it fall.

The truth is that you and I would have given up long ago, but We won’t let us. It is too wise. “Look into your hearts,” it says. “What do you see? Not you and I, but only We.”