What do we live to do, the way a horse lives to run?

Husband John and pregnant wife Martha have just undergone tests to see if their unborn baby has Down Syndrome. They do not know the outcome of the test yet. We join them in a midst of a heated debate about how to handle the possible outcome...

"Look, honey, nothing's worng with our baby," he said. "Our baby is fine. And yes, I agree with you that birth defects are a tragedy any way you look at it, but abortion is a way to deal with the problem, you know? To limit it. That's all I was saying."

I wiped my eyes with a paper napkin and peered at my husband's weary, frustrated face.  "And you'd still want me to abort this baby if it wasn't normal," I said, "Wouldn't you?"

John pulled in a deep breathe and let it out slowly. He looked terribly tired. "Look." he said. "I know I can't always see things from your perspective, and I'm sorry about that. But the way I see it, if a baby is going to be deformed or something, abortion is a way to keep everyone from suffering - especially that baby. It's like shooting a horse that's broken its let." John's father had been born to a clan of sheepherders, and he was always quick with barnyard analogies.

"A lame honse dies slowly, you know?" said John. "It dies in terrible pain. And it can't run anymore, so it can't enjoy life even if it doesn't die. Horses live to run; that's what they do. If a baby is born not being able to do what other people do, I think it's better not to prolong its suffering."

I nodded. The torrent of emotion seemed to be passing. I felt as though a hurricane had swept through me, leaving me hollow and exhausted. I swallowed a mouthful of orange juice and closed my eyes.

"And what is it," I said softly, more to myself than to John, "What is it that people do? What do we live to do, the way a horse lives to run?"

I didn't expect an answer, and John didn't give me one. He just moved his chair closer to mine and put an arm around my shoulders. "You're awfully tired, aren't you?" I nodded trying to hold back another wave of tears.

"Let's get you home," he said, stroking my hair. "You look so pale - how much blood did the vampire nurses take, anyway?" I managed to smile. "Just enough for their midnight buffet." John smiled....

...I just rested my face against John's chest and closed my eyes again. John brought his other arm around and folded me to his chest. He was still wearing his bulky down parka. It was like a pillow against my cheek. I could feel his heart beating beneath the coat. For a moment, I let the anxiety in my chest relax, let myself forget everything I had to do that day, let myself feel utterly safe. And then I understood that John was answering my question, even though he didn't know he was. This is it, I thought. This is the part of us that makes our brief, imporbable little lives worth living: the ability to reach through our own isolation and find strength, and comfort, and warmth for and in each other. This is what human beings do. This is what we live for, the way horses live to run.

Taken from the book Expecting Adam by Martha Beck, pages 134-136

This is the part of us that makes our brief, improbable little lives worth living: the ability to reach through our own isolation and find strength, and comfort, and warmth for and in each other. This is what human beings do. This is what we live for, the way horses live to run.