There is nothing mightier than the meek. - The Twilight Zone, The Night of the Meek
An Hour Where Goodness Won
I learned wonder in a small bedroom on Lincoln Street,
where the light from the television
was brighter than the streetlamp outside
and the world made sense for half an hour at a time.
I was a kid then,
safe behind a door that didn’t quite shut right,
watching black-and-white miracles unfold
while the house settled into evening.
The Twilight Zone arrived like a secret friend;
soft-spoken, strange, and wise,
telling stories that felt older than adults
and younger than fear.
Of all those journeys beyond the ordinary,
The Night of the Meek stayed with me the longest.
It didn’t scare me.
It steadied me.
It whispered that kindness was not weakness,
that broken people could still carry magic,
that the world might bend - just a little,
toward mercy.
Even now, when I think of Christmas
or of quiet goodness surviving loud times,
I’m back on Lincoln Street,
sitting on my bed,
believing - without knowing I was believing -
that gentleness could save the day.
The television fell silent.
The message did not.
It simply waited
for another night like this one.
The Night the Quiet Won
On a winter sidewalk
where neon hummed louder than prayers,
a man with pockets full of apologies
leaned against the cold
and tried not to disappear.
He had once believed in bells and promises,
in mornings that forgave you.
Now he wore the costume of joy
like borrowed shoes -
a little too tight,
a little too thin for the weather.
Above him, the city rushed past,
shoulders squared, eyes forward,
everyone late for something important,
everyone convinced
they were too grown
to need wonder anymore.
But the night was listening.
Snow softened the sharpest corners.
Store windows flickered like shy stars.
And somewhere between a sigh and a stumble,
the small things began to matter again;
a child’s empty mitten,
a laugh that cost nothing,
a wish spoken under breath
so it wouldn’t be embarrassed.
Magic, it turned out,
didn’t roar or sparkle for crowds.
It waited.
It stooped.
It fit itself into trembling hands.
The loud were passed over.
The proud felt nothing at all.
But the bent-backed,
the overlooked,
the ones who asked for little
and expected less -
they were answered.
Morning found the streets unchanged,
yet everything was different.
Hope had been redistributed.
Kindness left fingerprints.
And somewhere, a quiet man smiled,
knowing power had never belonged
to those who shouted for it.
So remember this,
no matter your age or your ache:
the world tilts, ever so slightly,
toward those who kneel to help,
who listen before speaking,
who believe even when belief feels foolish.
Because the smallest hearts
carry the heaviest miracles,
and on certain holy nights,
gentleness is the strongest force
there is.
A word to the wise to all the children of the twentieth century, whether their concern be pediatrics or geriatrics, whether they crawl on hands and knees and wear diapers or walk with a cane and comb their beards. There's a wondrous magic to Christmas and there's a special power reserved for little people. In short, there's nothing mightier than the meek. And a Merry Christmas to each and all. - The Twilight Zone, The Night of the Meek
GBS jr
2014
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