“You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.” – Robert Louis Stevenson
My old dog Raffi is dying and that makes me very sad. He’s had a good long life, but for the past few years he’s been plagued by arthritis and an ever-growing number of inoperable tumors, so maybe it’s time for him to go, but, I don’t feel that way. He still likes eating and barking and sitting in the sun; he still takes a lot of joy from living, so every day he’s still with us seems like an extra blessing.
Raffi is a chocolate Lab mutt, rescued from the pound as a puppy. His purpose in life was to be a companion to my Rottweiller Pru (another rescue) who had apparently been raised with other dogs because she didn’t like being alone. Pru took to Raffi the moment we brought him home, showing her approval by quickly bouncing him, then rolling him over and giving him a good long bath with her tongue. From then on, they were best friends.
Wherever Pru went, Raffi followed, and wherever Raffi was, there you’d find Pru. Being raised by a rambunctious Rottweiller was no easy assignment and Raffi took more than one hard hit to the head during their daily play sessions. He never seemed to mind, though, and always came back for more.
Probably because of all the mild head injuries, Raffi has never been the sharpest tool in the shed, but he’s always taken a simple pleasure in life that seems to elude more complex dogs. Raffi likes barking and eating and sitting in the sun. He’ll lie on the porch for hours watching the birds and squirrels. And, he loves hanging out with his people and sleeping soundly in the middle of whatever’s going on, on his big dog bed.
We got Raffi when our kids were still in high school and he spent afternoons during his early years sitting alertly in a big arm chair next to one of them or their friends after school, smiling and looking around animatedly, as if he was listening to the conversation or helping them play the Nintendo game. Surprisingly, years later, when one of those kids – now adults – drops by, Raffi jumps into that same arm chair, like, “Aren’t you going to sit with me?” It’s the only time he does that; I think it’s because he recognizes them, even all these years later, and remembers what good old times they had.
The thing about a dog like Raffi is being around him is so easy. He’s a giver, not a taker, and all he’s done every day of his life is show up ready to contribute. He doesn’t ask for much in return. He doesn’t want to be the alpha-dog; he’ll let the other dogs get petted and fed before him every time. He’ll even sleep on the hard floor if another dog wants his bed.
“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” Raffi would say if he could talk. “I just want everybody to get along.”
Pru was older than Raffi and she died several years ago. Unwisely, an effort to calm my grief, I went right out and got two more pound puppies – both female, both black, both mutts – nothing special about either of them except they were at the right place at the right time. And, while Raffi has never taken to them the way he did Pru, he’s done a good job of being their old uncle – letting them nip at his ears when they were little and wrestle with him now that they’re grown.
One of the dogs is a Lab-Beagle mix, all bark and no brains; the other’s a little herding dog, nervous and high-strung. And, while they jostle for position in the house, tear things up and bark at everything that goes by, Raffi just keeps on keepin’ on, calm and steady, simple and now slow, never making any waves.
Lately Raffi’s taken to fits of happiness, where all of the sudden, out of the clear blue he’ll come up and start nudging and smiling and asking for love, wagging his tail and barking a bit – like he just wants to share how happy he is to still be alive. He’s like an Alzheimer’s patient – the rare and joyful kind who likes saying, “Hi!” and waving at everybody.
I don’t know how much longer Raffi will be with us, but I’m sure going to miss him when he goes. That saying about dogs is so true in Raffi’s case – if I were only half the person he has always thought I am, I would be a better person than I am today. God speed, old friend, God speed.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
No More ER
“Please take a moment to locate the nearest exit, keeping in mind it may be behind you…White lights lead to red lights, which indicate exits.” – Airline safety guidelines
For the first time in eight years I will not spend Monday in the emergency room. No, I’m not accident prone, it’s that I’ve been working in a busy ER, first as an EMT, then as a social worker since the fall of 2002 and a long Monday has always been my one of my shifts.
Becoming an EMT was something I’d always wanted to do, so when both kids went to college I became certified. It took nine months and was pretty grueling. I was old enough to be the mother of most of my classmates and while they gloried in learning about what to do in the most unimaginable and possibly horrible circumstances, I worried about how I would handle things, once the practice ended and the people not breathing or the blood on the scene was real.
It turned out I never quite got over those worries and the fear that someone would need my help and I would freeze and not be able to give it haunted my two years as an EMT. While adrenaline made the people I worked with come alive and work faster and more efficiently in all those “Codes” (heart attacks), “Code 3 Calls” (running lights and sirens) and MVC’s (road accidents), I prayed for a quiet day, each morning, on the way to work.
Having no sense of direction didn’t help. The joke in our family is, “if Mom says go right, go left,” and that’s generally a successful way to navigate. So, the stress of writing down how we got to a scene, so I could reverse it in my mind and find my way back to the hospital was intense – especially when the situation was serious and I knew my paramedic partner would be too busy saving lives in the back of the truck to scream directions at me.
I like to think I would’ve been a better EMT if the ambulances I worked on had GPS, the way they do now. Maybe with the directions taken care of I could’ve been less fearful on the scene?
Anyway, in spite of the best efforts of my kind and knowledgeable coworkers, I wasn’t a very good EMT, so when an ER social worker position came open, I jumped at the chance to wear civilian clothes again and know that no lives depended on me.
The emergency room is a strange place – always open, always bright, always the same temperature, often completely out of tune with what’s going on outside. There are no weekends or holidays. It is a world focused on 24/7 availability, 365 days a year – the doors are always open, no exceptions. Of course, ER workers take time off, but it comes with the responsibility of making sure your shift is covered, so that the big ER machine won’t even notice one of its cogs is gone.
The emergency room is a place of portals – odd portals that most people experience only rarely in their lives. People die there and are born there and lose total touch with reality there. To listen to some of the mental patients, you’d swear there were demons haunting those halls…
The emergency room is a place of intense emotion – people saying “goodbye,” people making difficult decisions about “further measures to be taken,” people hearing horrible news about illness, accidents and death. It is also a place of great hope, great light and amazing inspiration. While some people sink to their deepest depths within those walls, others rise to whatever challenge they’re facing with such courage, strength, grace and faith that it brings a tear to even the crustiest old ER worker’s eye.
It’s strange to go to a place where things that literally change people’s lives forever happen, and talk with your coworkers about what’s in your lunch, how your kid did at little league, or what was on Facebook last night…Challenging to remember that everyone in those ER rooms is having a really bad day. On a good shift, it’s easy to connect with that; on a bad shift all you want is for your replacement to arrive.
I don’t know how many people I’ve called to deliver bad news about an accident, illness or death. I don’t remember how many families I’ve been with while someone they love suffered or died. I can’t begin to count the number of sandwiches, warm blankets, cups of coffee, teddy bears, color books and stickers I’ve handed out. There’s been an awful lot of them - all memorable in their own way, yet forgettable, too, as sometimes that’s how you keep showing up at such an intense place day after day.
I’ll miss the ER, even though I’ll still be covering shifts when coworkers need time off. I’ll miss the stories and the intensity of the work. It’ll be a challenge to remain as humble and thankful as that place has kept me, but the white lights have lead to red lights and it’s time to see what comes next.
For the first time in eight years I will not spend Monday in the emergency room. No, I’m not accident prone, it’s that I’ve been working in a busy ER, first as an EMT, then as a social worker since the fall of 2002 and a long Monday has always been my one of my shifts.
Becoming an EMT was something I’d always wanted to do, so when both kids went to college I became certified. It took nine months and was pretty grueling. I was old enough to be the mother of most of my classmates and while they gloried in learning about what to do in the most unimaginable and possibly horrible circumstances, I worried about how I would handle things, once the practice ended and the people not breathing or the blood on the scene was real.
It turned out I never quite got over those worries and the fear that someone would need my help and I would freeze and not be able to give it haunted my two years as an EMT. While adrenaline made the people I worked with come alive and work faster and more efficiently in all those “Codes” (heart attacks), “Code 3 Calls” (running lights and sirens) and MVC’s (road accidents), I prayed for a quiet day, each morning, on the way to work.
Having no sense of direction didn’t help. The joke in our family is, “if Mom says go right, go left,” and that’s generally a successful way to navigate. So, the stress of writing down how we got to a scene, so I could reverse it in my mind and find my way back to the hospital was intense – especially when the situation was serious and I knew my paramedic partner would be too busy saving lives in the back of the truck to scream directions at me.
I like to think I would’ve been a better EMT if the ambulances I worked on had GPS, the way they do now. Maybe with the directions taken care of I could’ve been less fearful on the scene?
Anyway, in spite of the best efforts of my kind and knowledgeable coworkers, I wasn’t a very good EMT, so when an ER social worker position came open, I jumped at the chance to wear civilian clothes again and know that no lives depended on me.
The emergency room is a strange place – always open, always bright, always the same temperature, often completely out of tune with what’s going on outside. There are no weekends or holidays. It is a world focused on 24/7 availability, 365 days a year – the doors are always open, no exceptions. Of course, ER workers take time off, but it comes with the responsibility of making sure your shift is covered, so that the big ER machine won’t even notice one of its cogs is gone.
The emergency room is a place of portals – odd portals that most people experience only rarely in their lives. People die there and are born there and lose total touch with reality there. To listen to some of the mental patients, you’d swear there were demons haunting those halls…
The emergency room is a place of intense emotion – people saying “goodbye,” people making difficult decisions about “further measures to be taken,” people hearing horrible news about illness, accidents and death. It is also a place of great hope, great light and amazing inspiration. While some people sink to their deepest depths within those walls, others rise to whatever challenge they’re facing with such courage, strength, grace and faith that it brings a tear to even the crustiest old ER worker’s eye.
It’s strange to go to a place where things that literally change people’s lives forever happen, and talk with your coworkers about what’s in your lunch, how your kid did at little league, or what was on Facebook last night…Challenging to remember that everyone in those ER rooms is having a really bad day. On a good shift, it’s easy to connect with that; on a bad shift all you want is for your replacement to arrive.
I don’t know how many people I’ve called to deliver bad news about an accident, illness or death. I don’t remember how many families I’ve been with while someone they love suffered or died. I can’t begin to count the number of sandwiches, warm blankets, cups of coffee, teddy bears, color books and stickers I’ve handed out. There’s been an awful lot of them - all memorable in their own way, yet forgettable, too, as sometimes that’s how you keep showing up at such an intense place day after day.
I’ll miss the ER, even though I’ll still be covering shifts when coworkers need time off. I’ll miss the stories and the intensity of the work. It’ll be a challenge to remain as humble and thankful as that place has kept me, but the white lights have lead to red lights and it’s time to see what comes next.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
9-11
“Where were you when the world stopped turning that September day? Did you shout out in anger…Did you look up to heaven for some kind of answer…or did you just sit down and cry?” – Alan Jackson lyrics
The events on September 11, 2001 did not touch me personally, but to this day I can’t hear Alan Jackson’s song, “Where were you when the world stopped turning?” without a lump forming in my throat and a tear coming to my eye.
On that day in 2001, Mr. Clark and I were driving down the east coast towards home, having just dropped our daughter off at art school in Providence, Rhode Island. It was an emotional trip – our youngest child now in college, so many hopes and dreams at stake, all so very far away.
We got the news of the terrorist attacks in a spotty manner over a few hours time. The radio in the truck we were in didn’t work very well and we were on a stretch of road where reception wasn’t good. First we heard something about the Twin Towers being hit, later something about an attack. On down the road, we heard a scratchy report about a plane crashing into the Pentagon; then another plane went down in Pennsylvania…all domestic flights; no way to know how many were injured, missing or dead. What in the world was happening?
The next town we came to was Nags Head, North Carolina, so we stopped for lunch and to figure out what was going on. We went into the first restaurant we saw – a fish place. You could’ve heard a pin drop - all eyes tuned to TV behind the bar. We had no way to comprehend the things we were seeing…a kind of a shock set in. Good Lord! is this real?
We immediately called our daughter and to our great relief, she immediately picked up. She was in the campus book store buying art supplies. Far from television, radio news or reality, she had no idea what was going on. We debated going and getting her, bringing her back home – after all, who knew if there were more attacks planned?
She vehemently told us she would be fine and promised that if “something else weird” happened, she would follow a contingency plan we had yet to work out, to get to someplace safe where we could come pick her up…How crazy was all this?
That evening we came up with a plan that involved our daughter going to an old friend’s house within easy driving distance of Providence. It was inland, not close to any potential terrorist attack points. Our daughter’s roommate had a car and we made the girls promise they would keep the tank full, so that if they had to leave quickly, they could.
The next day we stopped at an Army surplus store and I put together an “Emergency Box” of things I thought a girl faraway, within reach of a potential terrorist attack, might need: a gas mask, some water purifier pills, some pepper spray, food rations, a first aid kit, a small fire extinguisher and one of those all temperature blankets. I also enclosed $100 bill with the strict instructions to leave it in the box in case of an emergency.
My daughter called when the box arrived. “You’re freaking me out, Mom,” she said. “Baby, the whole country’s freaked out,” was my reply.
I was in technical school that fall of 2001, training to be an EMT. (Working on an ambulance had always been my fantasy, so I made it my mid-life crisis/reality once both kids went off to college.) We talked a lot about 9/11 during and after class. We wondered if we could handle rushing into a building everyone else was rushing out of. We wondered if we would have the courage and stamina to work tirelessly hour after hour, day after day, month after month the way those heroes at Ground Zero did. We wondered if we had what it takes to simply show up at a wreck scene, stay calm and do what needs to be done. We wondered if we would graduate…
I did graduate and went on to work on an ambulance for the next few years. My daughter graduated, too. I remember feeling proud and relieved that the $100 bill was still in that unopened “Emergency Box,” as we packed her up to move her back home. And, I remember being sad as the aftermath of 9/11 unfolded – war; sickness for the Ground Zero rescue workers; pain and unending sadness for the families of those lost in the attacks.
Now, there’s a hoopla about a “mosque” (or is it a Muslim community center) proposed near Ground Zero. There’s a big debate; everyone has an opinion; emotion is running high. What is the “right” thing for those Muslim Americans to do?
President George Bush put it clearly and, in my opinion got it right, when he said, during a speech to Congress and the nation on September 20, 2001: “The enemy of America is not our many Muslim friends…Our enemy is a radical network of terrorists and every government that supports them…Americans are asking, ‘What is expected of us?’ I ask you to uphold the values of America and remember why so many have come here. We are in a fight for our principles, and our first responsibility is to live by them. No one should be singled out for unfair treatment or unkind words because of their ethnic background or religious faith.”
The events on September 11, 2001 did not touch me personally, but to this day I can’t hear Alan Jackson’s song, “Where were you when the world stopped turning?” without a lump forming in my throat and a tear coming to my eye.
On that day in 2001, Mr. Clark and I were driving down the east coast towards home, having just dropped our daughter off at art school in Providence, Rhode Island. It was an emotional trip – our youngest child now in college, so many hopes and dreams at stake, all so very far away.
We got the news of the terrorist attacks in a spotty manner over a few hours time. The radio in the truck we were in didn’t work very well and we were on a stretch of road where reception wasn’t good. First we heard something about the Twin Towers being hit, later something about an attack. On down the road, we heard a scratchy report about a plane crashing into the Pentagon; then another plane went down in Pennsylvania…all domestic flights; no way to know how many were injured, missing or dead. What in the world was happening?
The next town we came to was Nags Head, North Carolina, so we stopped for lunch and to figure out what was going on. We went into the first restaurant we saw – a fish place. You could’ve heard a pin drop - all eyes tuned to TV behind the bar. We had no way to comprehend the things we were seeing…a kind of a shock set in. Good Lord! is this real?
We immediately called our daughter and to our great relief, she immediately picked up. She was in the campus book store buying art supplies. Far from television, radio news or reality, she had no idea what was going on. We debated going and getting her, bringing her back home – after all, who knew if there were more attacks planned?
She vehemently told us she would be fine and promised that if “something else weird” happened, she would follow a contingency plan we had yet to work out, to get to someplace safe where we could come pick her up…How crazy was all this?
That evening we came up with a plan that involved our daughter going to an old friend’s house within easy driving distance of Providence. It was inland, not close to any potential terrorist attack points. Our daughter’s roommate had a car and we made the girls promise they would keep the tank full, so that if they had to leave quickly, they could.
The next day we stopped at an Army surplus store and I put together an “Emergency Box” of things I thought a girl faraway, within reach of a potential terrorist attack, might need: a gas mask, some water purifier pills, some pepper spray, food rations, a first aid kit, a small fire extinguisher and one of those all temperature blankets. I also enclosed $100 bill with the strict instructions to leave it in the box in case of an emergency.
My daughter called when the box arrived. “You’re freaking me out, Mom,” she said. “Baby, the whole country’s freaked out,” was my reply.
I was in technical school that fall of 2001, training to be an EMT. (Working on an ambulance had always been my fantasy, so I made it my mid-life crisis/reality once both kids went off to college.) We talked a lot about 9/11 during and after class. We wondered if we could handle rushing into a building everyone else was rushing out of. We wondered if we would have the courage and stamina to work tirelessly hour after hour, day after day, month after month the way those heroes at Ground Zero did. We wondered if we had what it takes to simply show up at a wreck scene, stay calm and do what needs to be done. We wondered if we would graduate…
I did graduate and went on to work on an ambulance for the next few years. My daughter graduated, too. I remember feeling proud and relieved that the $100 bill was still in that unopened “Emergency Box,” as we packed her up to move her back home. And, I remember being sad as the aftermath of 9/11 unfolded – war; sickness for the Ground Zero rescue workers; pain and unending sadness for the families of those lost in the attacks.
Now, there’s a hoopla about a “mosque” (or is it a Muslim community center) proposed near Ground Zero. There’s a big debate; everyone has an opinion; emotion is running high. What is the “right” thing for those Muslim Americans to do?
President George Bush put it clearly and, in my opinion got it right, when he said, during a speech to Congress and the nation on September 20, 2001: “The enemy of America is not our many Muslim friends…Our enemy is a radical network of terrorists and every government that supports them…Americans are asking, ‘What is expected of us?’ I ask you to uphold the values of America and remember why so many have come here. We are in a fight for our principles, and our first responsibility is to live by them. No one should be singled out for unfair treatment or unkind words because of their ethnic background or religious faith.”
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Crown Vic
“Not what we have, but what we enjoy, constitutes our abundance.” - Epicurus
Because it’s the only car we have that has air conditioning, I have been driving a 1993 Crown Victoria all summer and I will admit, that has challenged my sense of what really matters stuff-wise.
I came up in the hippie days of the mid-70’s, in Boulder, Colorado where the atmosphere was nothing if not laid-back, hip happenin’ and super chill. Needless to say, “things,” as in possessions, weren’t considered important in the big picture of who one was or where one was going.
I have pretty much kept to that philosophy during my adult life. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Clark and I like nice things - it’s just that we’ve never prioritized acquiring them. When the choice came up between a new sofa or a trip we always picked the trip, and, for the most part, have no regrets about that. Our kids grew up well-traveled and unfettered by concerns about what kind of shoes they should wear or what label was on their jeans.
There have been some embarrassing moments – moments when we rethink our modus operandi with regard to possessions. One example comes around when we get a new piece of furniture, and by new, I mean something only gently damaged from one of those “scratch and dent” furniture outlet stores. Proudly, we bring the new item home and put what it replaced out on the curb for someone else to pick up and use. Sadly, more often than not, our things sit on the curb for a long time, unclaimed until the city hauls them away as trash. Ouch! That chair never looked that shabby when it was in the house.
Car-wise, we have always been a fans of the 10-year-old “retired luxury car,” as Mr. Clark calls them – an old Volvo or Mercedes, top of the line in its day, fallen victim to a newer, even more luxurious model. One of the ways I “car shop” is to spot a pretty ride in traffic and say, “Look! In 10 years that could be mine!”
Because of Mr. Clark’s period of unemployment when the recession began, we have fallen behind on our 10-year rule. Our current fleet consists of a 1994 Volvo sedan, a 1995 Volvo wagon, and the Crown Vic. Both Volvos have door and window issues, as well as no A/C. And, the poor Crown Vic was badly burglarized one Thanksgiving holiday weekend, while our son-in-law was using it in Atlanta. In two back-to-back incidents, it lost its front seat, its back seat, all four door panels, a bumper and the dome light. We were able to patch her together again, but her seats don’t match, her dome light hangs down and her windows no longer work.
Poor Crown Vic! About all she has going for her is that cold A/C, which feels like heaven on a hot summer day. Never mind how shabby we look and we do look shabby - did I mention her paint is badly faded, as well?
“Why not get some things fixed?” you might ask. Well, after that prolonged period of unemployment, the last thing Mr. Clark and I feel like doing, now that those pay checks are coming in again, is spend money - better to rebuild the savings, after all, who knows what the future might bring?
By the end of last week, however, I had lost my ability to focus on abundance and was at the end of my shabby possessions/Crown Vic rope. I had more errands and driving to do than usual, as well as a couple of photography appointments in Atlanta. Because I was so embarrassed about my ride, I arrived at those client sites red-faced and sweaty, having hiked in from a remote parking spot - classy, really classy! I had started complaining loudly about the state of our fleet; then I volunteered at the monthly food distribution the Benevolence Ministries hosts at Holly Hill Mall.
It was a much needed eye-opener for me. The line was longer than usual and it was hot, really hot. Luckily there were plenty of volunteers and things went quickly. And, as I hauled food to people’s cars, my perspective gradually returned and I became thankful again. Here were folks living out of a car that wasn’t as nice as the one I was complaining about. Here were handicapped people, out-of-work people, elderly people, young people and kids – lots of kids – lined up in the heat waiting for the brief respite from need and worry that a box of free food can bring. So many sad eyes, so many people having such hard times…
As I cranked up the A/C in the old Crown Vic and headed for home, I said a prayer of thanks for the abundance in my life – an abundance that allows me to, at times, complain about having things like that good old car to fall back on.
Because it’s the only car we have that has air conditioning, I have been driving a 1993 Crown Victoria all summer and I will admit, that has challenged my sense of what really matters stuff-wise.
I came up in the hippie days of the mid-70’s, in Boulder, Colorado where the atmosphere was nothing if not laid-back, hip happenin’ and super chill. Needless to say, “things,” as in possessions, weren’t considered important in the big picture of who one was or where one was going.
I have pretty much kept to that philosophy during my adult life. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Clark and I like nice things - it’s just that we’ve never prioritized acquiring them. When the choice came up between a new sofa or a trip we always picked the trip, and, for the most part, have no regrets about that. Our kids grew up well-traveled and unfettered by concerns about what kind of shoes they should wear or what label was on their jeans.
There have been some embarrassing moments – moments when we rethink our modus operandi with regard to possessions. One example comes around when we get a new piece of furniture, and by new, I mean something only gently damaged from one of those “scratch and dent” furniture outlet stores. Proudly, we bring the new item home and put what it replaced out on the curb for someone else to pick up and use. Sadly, more often than not, our things sit on the curb for a long time, unclaimed until the city hauls them away as trash. Ouch! That chair never looked that shabby when it was in the house.
Car-wise, we have always been a fans of the 10-year-old “retired luxury car,” as Mr. Clark calls them – an old Volvo or Mercedes, top of the line in its day, fallen victim to a newer, even more luxurious model. One of the ways I “car shop” is to spot a pretty ride in traffic and say, “Look! In 10 years that could be mine!”
Because of Mr. Clark’s period of unemployment when the recession began, we have fallen behind on our 10-year rule. Our current fleet consists of a 1994 Volvo sedan, a 1995 Volvo wagon, and the Crown Vic. Both Volvos have door and window issues, as well as no A/C. And, the poor Crown Vic was badly burglarized one Thanksgiving holiday weekend, while our son-in-law was using it in Atlanta. In two back-to-back incidents, it lost its front seat, its back seat, all four door panels, a bumper and the dome light. We were able to patch her together again, but her seats don’t match, her dome light hangs down and her windows no longer work.
Poor Crown Vic! About all she has going for her is that cold A/C, which feels like heaven on a hot summer day. Never mind how shabby we look and we do look shabby - did I mention her paint is badly faded, as well?
“Why not get some things fixed?” you might ask. Well, after that prolonged period of unemployment, the last thing Mr. Clark and I feel like doing, now that those pay checks are coming in again, is spend money - better to rebuild the savings, after all, who knows what the future might bring?
By the end of last week, however, I had lost my ability to focus on abundance and was at the end of my shabby possessions/Crown Vic rope. I had more errands and driving to do than usual, as well as a couple of photography appointments in Atlanta. Because I was so embarrassed about my ride, I arrived at those client sites red-faced and sweaty, having hiked in from a remote parking spot - classy, really classy! I had started complaining loudly about the state of our fleet; then I volunteered at the monthly food distribution the Benevolence Ministries hosts at Holly Hill Mall.
It was a much needed eye-opener for me. The line was longer than usual and it was hot, really hot. Luckily there were plenty of volunteers and things went quickly. And, as I hauled food to people’s cars, my perspective gradually returned and I became thankful again. Here were folks living out of a car that wasn’t as nice as the one I was complaining about. Here were handicapped people, out-of-work people, elderly people, young people and kids – lots of kids – lined up in the heat waiting for the brief respite from need and worry that a box of free food can bring. So many sad eyes, so many people having such hard times…
As I cranked up the A/C in the old Crown Vic and headed for home, I said a prayer of thanks for the abundance in my life – an abundance that allows me to, at times, complain about having things like that good old car to fall back on.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
