Today was a day just like any other.
And by "just like any other," what I mean is "significantly more than I wanted to handle." I woke up before the sun (which is saying something as we get into the summer months), got my little brother up, fed, dressed and out the door, spent the day serving various people in various ways (and also being challenged to fix some mistakes I had made), receiving a text alerting me that I would be playing the mom card for the evening, so I set out to make dinner.
Halfway through the chili prep, I realized we were out of tomatoes, so my trusty little wallet and I headed across the street to our friendly neighborhood grocery store.
Now, remember, it's Mother's Day, and like any holiday in Northern Virginia, that means drama. Families are ou in storms "to celebrate," aka fight with each other because the day hasn't turned out to be everything they'd hoped for and more. I saw frustrated and angry moms dragging goofy boys across the parking lot, stressed out waitresses trying to seat the mass of people as quickly as they could, drivers honking at pedestrians who had the audacity to walk rather than sprint across the street. I ran to the Safeway, collected my things and got out as quickly as possible, eager to be home and as far away as possible from all the stressed out people in the shopping center.
As I walked home, someone new caught my eye.
There is a man with special needs who, since my childhood, has wandered the sidewalk around the stores, zig-zagging back and forth in an attempt to look like he has a place to go, but I've always wondered if he does. As the years have passed and I've grown older and infinitely busier, I've seen him less and less, to the point where I had completely forgotten he existed.
But of course he still does.
I watched him for a few moments, this man who probably had no idea what panics and stresses were eating the people in the cars around him as he calmly walked in circles around the Pizza Hut, and I was torn.
On the one hand, I was so ashamed of myself for forgetting. I have the luxury of going home to a house with electricity, running water and food. I have a body that (for the most part) does what I tell it to do, a family who, for all their flaws, loves and supports me, and enough opportunities to make any young adult jealous. But over the last few days, I've forgotten those who don't. I haven't been looking for the men and women who need help, much less offering any if I see them. I have put aside the thoughts of the kids I spent every day with last May, as I went to care points in Swaziland feeding children their one meal a day. I'm content to shower under a hot stream of water and pretend like the buckets I used last year don't exist.
I've grown complacent.
The other thought that struck me was that, even in the midst of this man's defects, he seemed to be content. As I run around, trying to do everything for everyone and coming up short more often than not, I was so jealous by his calm composure, and one again so sickened by the American dreams of excess that I have to fight daily.
My prayer is that I remember him when I'm tempted to yell at my parents for making me babysit. I want to remember the children from Swaziland when I'm complaining about not knowing what to do. I want to remember the things I've seen, because there's too much at stake for me to waste my days on myself.
These are my Mother's Day thoughts, straight from he parking lot.
And by "just like any other," what I mean is "significantly more than I wanted to handle." I woke up before the sun (which is saying something as we get into the summer months), got my little brother up, fed, dressed and out the door, spent the day serving various people in various ways (and also being challenged to fix some mistakes I had made), receiving a text alerting me that I would be playing the mom card for the evening, so I set out to make dinner.
Halfway through the chili prep, I realized we were out of tomatoes, so my trusty little wallet and I headed across the street to our friendly neighborhood grocery store.
Now, remember, it's Mother's Day, and like any holiday in Northern Virginia, that means drama. Families are ou in storms "to celebrate," aka fight with each other because the day hasn't turned out to be everything they'd hoped for and more. I saw frustrated and angry moms dragging goofy boys across the parking lot, stressed out waitresses trying to seat the mass of people as quickly as they could, drivers honking at pedestrians who had the audacity to walk rather than sprint across the street. I ran to the Safeway, collected my things and got out as quickly as possible, eager to be home and as far away as possible from all the stressed out people in the shopping center.
As I walked home, someone new caught my eye.
There is a man with special needs who, since my childhood, has wandered the sidewalk around the stores, zig-zagging back and forth in an attempt to look like he has a place to go, but I've always wondered if he does. As the years have passed and I've grown older and infinitely busier, I've seen him less and less, to the point where I had completely forgotten he existed.
But of course he still does.
I watched him for a few moments, this man who probably had no idea what panics and stresses were eating the people in the cars around him as he calmly walked in circles around the Pizza Hut, and I was torn.
On the one hand, I was so ashamed of myself for forgetting. I have the luxury of going home to a house with electricity, running water and food. I have a body that (for the most part) does what I tell it to do, a family who, for all their flaws, loves and supports me, and enough opportunities to make any young adult jealous. But over the last few days, I've forgotten those who don't. I haven't been looking for the men and women who need help, much less offering any if I see them. I have put aside the thoughts of the kids I spent every day with last May, as I went to care points in Swaziland feeding children their one meal a day. I'm content to shower under a hot stream of water and pretend like the buckets I used last year don't exist.
I've grown complacent.
The other thought that struck me was that, even in the midst of this man's defects, he seemed to be content. As I run around, trying to do everything for everyone and coming up short more often than not, I was so jealous by his calm composure, and one again so sickened by the American dreams of excess that I have to fight daily.
My prayer is that I remember him when I'm tempted to yell at my parents for making me babysit. I want to remember the children from Swaziland when I'm complaining about not knowing what to do. I want to remember the things I've seen, because there's too much at stake for me to waste my days on myself.
These are my Mother's Day thoughts, straight from he parking lot.
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