My recent bout with coronavirus blues reminded me of stressful week I had a few months ago before the pandemic induced lockdown. I had to deal with a complicated tax issue. We got an unexpected $1000 medical bill when a “should have been free” screening was rejected by our insurance. Our credit card number was stolen by someone having a lot of fun in Florida at our expense. We learned of some serious problems with our rental house. Then the wall air conditioning unit in our apartment suddenly gushed water – again.
I’m normally pretty zen about these kinds of problems. Everyone has issues to deal with, and none of those struggles were unique to us. But having them crammed together in one week drove me over my limit, leaving me cursing and frustrated with a dark cloud over my head.
The next day I served lunch at a homeless shelter. I didn’t want to go, but it’s something I’ve committed to working into my routine. As I walked to the shelter, a man ahead of me on the sidewalk suddenly turned and jumped toward me, yelling something I couldn’t understand. At first I felt startled and defensive, but as I walked away, I wondered what kind of struggles he must be facing to act that way.
A few minutes later, I said hello to a disheveled woman who looked lost and forlorn. She said in a quiet voice that she knows I probably don’t care but she’d had a really rough night and was hoping to buy a drink at the 7-11 next door. I normally donate to charitable organizations where it can have the most impact, but I gave her some money, unable to imagine what it’s like to be a woman living alone on the streets.
At the homeless shelter, I spent three hours serving food to hundreds of people who had nowhere else to turn. White, black, brown, seniors, children, women, men. Poverty is no respecter of race, age, or gender.
On my walk home, a young man standing on the sidewalk reached out to fist bump me and asked where I went to college. He said he’d studied at Harvard, Oxford, Brown, and Le Cordon Bleu. During our conversation, he explained that he lived at the house we were standing in front of which was, as best as I could make out, a home for mentally challenged adults.
As I stood on our balcony that evening, I realized how much my negative feelings had changed. None of my problems had gone away, but as I compared them to those of the people I’d encountered that day, they seemed so small. I whispered a prayer for those I’d met and thanked God for my wonderful life.
So when the inevitable struggles come your way, take some time to acknowledge your understandable pain and frustration. But when you’re tempted to linger there, open your eyes and heart to the suffering of others. If you do, you’ll find some peace, and take another step towards Becoming Yourself.
