If 20th century moms have taught us anything about life, it's that "nothing in life is fair." We're taught from a young age not to ask "why," and that "why" isn't even a word, but the 25th letter of the alphabet. And it's crooked.

But as you grow, the question only grows stronger. In a world crawling with evil, terrorism, murder and illness, it's nearly impossible not to wonder why G‑d lets evil things happen to good people.

Why, indeed?

G‑d, it appears, has no intention of letting us in on His little secretIf you have ever wondered "why," you are indubitably not the first, and certainly not the last. This question has tortured man since the beginning of time. But just like your mother shushed you when you were a child, G‑d is hushing you now.

Moses was the first to ask G‑d this question and He, too, was met with deafening silence. Many have tried to provide answers since, none satisfying. None sound like the answer. G‑d, it appears, has no intention of letting us in on His little secret.

Do you ever dare wonder why? Why is G‑d so insistent on keeping it on the down-low? What does He have to hide?

As I typed the above, my head began to swarm. My thoughts were seizing like an abnormal cycle of a washing machine. Everything was moving, spinning in a dizzy circle. Then it quickly spiraled away and all I saw was black.

I hadn't sipped magic from a frosted glass nor consumed a mushroom of any sort, so I could only assume that what occurred next were the effects of a bona fide epiphany.

When I opened my eyes I wasn't on my bed anymore. Dazed, I looked around. There were nurses in scrubs, scurrying purposefully with clipboards in their hands, doctors in long white coats. Hair-raising silence filled the halls, with the exception of some faint mechanical murmurs. And the smell. There was an unmistakable odor. I could place it anywhere; it was the smell of the Intensive Care Unit.

I was trapped in a hospital.

Slowly, I got up, coaxing one foot in front of the other. An ethereal feeling washing over me as I walked down the eerie corridor, passing rows of numbered doors. Room 195. Room 197. 199. I was nearing Room 201 when I heard it. The sound of that moment altered my life – at least my perspective on life – indelibly.

His pain was so real, so sharp and imminentIt was the cry of a man. Shrill, piercing, poignant. I could feel goose bumps spread over my body at the sound of a grown man sobbing like a child. His pain was so real, so sharp and imminent; it threatened to spill over into the salt water building in my tear ducts. I tried to run, but the feeling chased me. I grew hot and cold and began to tremble. My knees gave from beneath me as I sunk to the floor, clutching my chest. My heart raced like a clock in fast-forward.

The next thing I remember was a nurse peeling me off the floor. She had creepy little clown heads all over her scrubs, which struck me as strange, since I was roughly certain that most of the patients on this floor couldn't appreciate the sight of clowns.

Nonetheless, I murmured a polite "thank you" and asked her to direct me to an elevator. Slowly, I made my way to the lit exit sign. I passed Room 304. 306. 308. Room 310 was coming into view when I heard it again! The very same bloodcurdling cry I had heard just moments before. It was the same incredible agony, waiting just beyond the curtain. But this time it was a woman. And this time something truly curious happened.

I didn't feel bad for her. No aches or throbs inside. Not a goose bump to spare. I felt nothing even akin to empathy.

My behavior may appear peculiar, temperamental or even cruel. But it was none of those things. In fact, had you been in my place you probably would have felt the same.

Allow me to explain.

The first cry I heard was from a 39-year-old, terminally ill man. He had a wife and four children at home. He had a successful career; he had passions, aspirations and dreams. He had his entire life ahead of him, but, instead of living it, he was lying motionless in a hospital bed, in pain. Real, gut-wrenching pain.

But when I landed the second time, I was visiting the maternity ward. The screams came from a woman giving birth to her first child. She was suffering, yes. Perhaps in pain as acute as the cancer patient in 201. But this time there was a reason. A good reason! A healthy, six pound baby boy!

If we saw the goodness in war, sickness, poverty, and hunger, we would disregard themConsider what would happen if we knew the reason for pain. If we understood why terrorists walk into restaurants and blow themselves up. Why earthquakes destroy entire countries, why good people die young, or why children are diagnosed with terminal diseases.

Essentially, we would lose our ability to commiserate with the victims. If we saw the goodness in war, sickness, poverty, and hunger, if we knew their purpose, we would disregard them, because we would know they were good. We would walk by horrors, like I walked by Room 310, unmoved, insensitive to the blood and tears. We would smile in the face of death. Laugh at funerals. Dance through tragedy. Ultimately, we would lose touch with what makes us human.

The ability to feel for another. The capacity to share pain.