Where Can I Turn for Peace?

"The only way to take sorrow out of death is to take love out of life."  --Russell M. Nelson

Due to recent headlines of lives taken violently and too soon, I hesitate to write anything on the matter at all.  I've watched the last few days as my friends have bickered on social media over recent events and the proper courses of action as a result.  (Because having a Facebook or Twitter account makes one an expert on such matters.)  I've made the conscious effort myself not to post anything condemning or politicized--because I don't feel this is a time to stand on soap-boxes and point fingers.  This is a time to mourn with those who mourn--and comfort those who stand in need of comfort.

And that's what I hope this post can be to someone--somewhere.  A source of comfort.

This morning, I woke up to another tear-jerking headline of a two-year old who met their tragic mortal end at a Disney World resort.  Did anyone else hug the kids in their lives a little harder today?  I did.  Especially my two year old nephew who--not too long ago--returned home from a Disney World trip with his family.  It's hard not to empathize with that parents who--like so many other parents--planned what was supposed to be a positively memorable experience for their children....  There aren't words.  How does one heal from something like that?

Ok--so, how are we supposed to be comforted?  Where can we, collectively and/or individually, turn for peace?

For me, the answer is simple (but very, very profound):  Peace is found in Jesus Christ.

All right, all right, all right.  I'm sure there are a host of you tuning out now.  I get it--no one wants religion forced down their throats.  But hear me out.  I'm not going to try to convert anyone here, but I would like to explain a piece of the Mormon perspective on the Atonement (the suffering, death and resurrection of Christ), because we explain the Atonement a bit differently than main-stream Christianity.

I believe that when Jesus Christ suffered in the Garden of Gethsemane that He suffered for more than just sins.  I believe He took on every circumstance of the human condition--past, present, and future.  In the Book of Mormon, we're taught that Christ took upon Himself every pain, infirmity, and affliction of all people so that He would know best how to succor them in their times of need.

Think about that.  Every situation.  Every sickness.  Every senseless act of hate.  Every gut-wrenching accident.  Every struggle to make peace with the aftermath.  That's what I believe Jesus Christ felt as He knelt there in that garden.

What's more, is that I also believe the Lord felt these things individually--not collectively.  He knows what it's like to be me.  He knows what it's like to be you.  He knows what it's like to be a young man excited to go dancing at a nightclub--only to experience a hellish kind of fear as he's gunned down by one claiming moral superiority.  He knows what it's like to be that young man's friend who saw it happen.  He knows what it's like to be a two year old boy who, while visiting the happiest place on Earth, was taken painfully too soon.  He knows what's it's like to be that little boy's father.  And that little boy's mother.  And He knows what it is to be a sibling of that boy.  Because He felt it.  Because, in some way impossible for me to comprehend, the Savior lived it too.

So, what does that mean for those directly involved in these incidents (and other incidents just as awful)?  It means that Jesus Christ was there to comfort and love the victims before, during, and after the tragedy.  It means that He is still there to love and comfort those left behind.

And, what does that mean for those of us who are merely sympathetic (or perhaps empathetic) spectators?  Again, I think the answer is simple--yet profound.  We are to follow the lead of the one called Master and do as He would do.  We are to mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort.  We are to seek to understand before seeking to be understood.  We are to have compassion.  We are to exemplify all that is good about humanity and life, especially when it seems that goodness comes in short supply.

At the beginning of this post, I have a quote from Elder Russell M. Nelson, an Apostle.  Here it is again (in case you've forgotten):

"The only way to take sorrow out of death is to take love out of life."

May all of us those who suffer (which is all of us, in some way or another) find the courage to give and receive love-- and to appreciate every moment allotted to us.  And may we find comfort in knowing that feelings of sorrow are evidence that we have loved and been loved.  And, above all else, may we always remember that it is through the infinite and eternal love of Jesus Christ that all of our temporary set-backs and heart aches, including death, will be mended.  I can confidently say that somehow, someday everything that is wrong and unfair about this life will be corrected and made whole again through the Atonement of Jesus Christ.  But, until then, it is my prayer that this same love will sufficiently succor all those in need of it--that they may find some peace in the hours, days, weeks, months, and years ahead.

Does This Mean I'm Libertarian?

Can I get my one rant out of the way before I start posting anything of substance?....  Thanks.

So--during the last election, I spent a lot of time reading articles (and their comment sections), watching political reports, and studying the various stances of those running.  I tried not to take personal offense when Conservatives would say how they couldn't, in good conscience, vote for Romney.  Because he was Mormon and, therefore, not Christian enough to be President of the United States.  (Yeah--I get it.  Mormon doctrine is strange.  But, guess what else is strange?  Religion in general.)  I find it rather hypocritical that it's this same anti-Romney group who is singing the praises of the Donald....  I guess I missed the memo explaining how Trump represents Christianity better than Romney.....  Seriously, GOP?  That's the best you can do?

Anyway--thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

And now, in honor of Prince's death, here's a song from a musician of his era who I actually enjoy listening to.  (This will make sense, I promise):

Remember that song.  It comes into play later.

The current condition of the United States of America concerns me.  You see, my ancestors built this country before it was even a country.  My great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather was one of them.  His name was Colonel George Eskridge, and--if I remember my family history correctly--during his younger years he was taken against his will to the Colonies.  He worked as an indentured servant until he could afford passage back to England.  Once there, he became a lawyer and even worked in the Queen's Court.  (Or something like that.)  He eventually returned to the Colonies.  At that point in time, two of his close friends passed away and left their daughter in his charge.  George and his wife raised this little girl as their own, and this little girl absolutely adored my great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather.  She adored him so much, in fact, that when she grew up and got married and had a son of her own, she named that son after her adoptive father.  Chances are, you hadn't heard of George Eskridge before, but I'm betting you have heard of George Washington.

So--yeah--my American roots grow deeply, and I feel it somewhat important that I carry on the legacy of liberty that my forefathers fought so hard to achieve and preserve.  Whether it be the Revolutionaries who founded the United States, the Pioneers who settled what would become Wyoming, or the beloved grandfather who fought in WWII--I feel that I owe it to them to carry their torch, even the same that beckons, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

(I suppose I could add here that some family historians claim that some of my bloodlines can be traced back to the Cherokee tribe--for those who want to get all technical about who was here first.  But I don't want this to be so much a political post about what could have, and some say should have, been.  I'd rather like to focus on the current and impending plights of this country.)

Am I upset that I think so many Republicans are idiots?  Yes.

Am I upset that I think so many Democrats are idiots?  Yes.

Am I upset because I think my forefathers' country has been overrun by idiots?  Yes.

But, you know what?  (Besides the fact that I keep starting sentences with the word 'but.'  My old fourth graders would just love to laugh at that.)  I don't think all hope is lost, even though it may feel like it.  While, yes, the POTUS is a critical element as to the overall well-being of our nation, I don't think it is the most critical element.

So what could be more important than the man (or woman?) who sits in the Oval Office?

The answer I've come to is this:  The individual is more important than the President.  Seriously.  Think about it.  The President, in a lot of ways, is just a figure head and a representation of how the American public were feeling during a given election season.

I don't know that I'll ever have to stand before God and account for my voting history.  (Although, I still think all should vote according to dictates of their own educated conscience.)  I think God will be more concerned with me and what I've made of myself.  I will have to account for that.  For my beliefs--and not just what I say I believe.  I'll have to account for my actions as a result of my beliefs.  I'll have to stand accountable as one who either contributed to the problems or as one who fought to solve those problems.

I recognize that I'm just one person, but I also recognize that it is often the small and simple things that can bring about great change.  I may not be able to change policy on immigration or welfare or insurance or [insert policy here], but I can change myself.  I can live responsibly and productively.  In turn, I can help others in whatever capacity I am able.  And we, as individuals with the ability to make our own choices, can act together to build the America that we want.

It isn't some random "politician" who defines our country.  It's us.  We do.  I truly believe that it is our own individual lifestyles that will determine the future of the United States.

So, if you're feeling powerless this political season, remember this:  Start with the person you see in the mirror.  Ask what they can do to make America great.  Then... do it.  And keep doing it.  And maybe, just maybe, if enough of us make enough of those changes, we'll start a new kind of Revolution.

My ancestors dug in their heels to defend their beliefs, in their own ways, when it seemed all odds were against them.  So can I dig in my heels and defend my America through my actions.  

After all, I have a legacy of integrity and grit on which to stand--as does every true red-white-and-blue-blooded American.  (Immigrants included.)  May we carry that legacy with dignity, even until the end.

That We Might Have Joy

*Disclaimer:  I promise this isn’t a pity-party post.  You should probably read to the end, or you might think I have chronic depression.

Just got back from the best wedding I’ve ever attended.  It was so much fun!  (But we’ll get to that in just a minute.)

During my recent travels, I was able to catch up with a lot of friends—past, present, and future—who each bring a unique perspective to life.  In my conversations this week, here are a few of the thoughts that I had:

Being single without children is hard.  Every time I see friends whom I haven’t seen in a while, I wish I had more to report other than, “I’m busy.  I work a lot.”  I know it’s self-imposed, but events like weddings can have a little bit of a bite to them.  (Why bother standing to catch the bouquet?  I know that I’m not next in line for anything.)  It feels a little bit like being a clearance item at the store—one that’s been marked down so many times that the store is practically begging someone to take it.  But no one ever does—because who wants something that’s been sitting on the shelf that long?  The idea of being a young, blushing bride is replaced by gray hair and wrinkles.  And the hope of someday having a family becomes exponentially less likely with every passing year.

Being single with children is hard.  And then there are those who are like me, but they have kids.  Whether from death, divorce, or poor decisions, living the single life with kids presents its own difficulties.  From the way it’s been described to me, it sounds an awful lot like trying to run a marathon with a child (or multiple children) strapped to one’s back.  Then there’s the balancing act of trying to figure out how to provide for the kids, yet still have enough time and energy leftover to nurture them too.  Between finances and household chores, there seems little left for the kids themselves.  And the uncertain future looms in the far—but not far enough—distance.  How long can a person be expected to shoulder the responsibilities of a family on their own?

Being married without children is hard.  The question, “So when are you two going to have kids?” becomes an irritating conversation starter a mere 5 seconds into the marriage.  (Because first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in a baby carriage.)  For some, just figuring out how to be married is hard enough, and their trepidation for fitting a child into the mix is well-founded.  For others, it seems an especially difficult journey because they yearn for children but are childless.  And even though some couples would make amazing parents, they get to watch as others—perhaps even others less fit or deserving of parenthood—have a child.  Or two.  Or three.  It may seem like getting to watch everyone else get to have fun at Disneyland, but you and your spouse aren't allowed in.  And no one can seem to tell you why.

Being married with children is hard.  Really hard.  Because I’m convinced that a good parent physically hurts when their children are hurting.  Because the responsibility of caring for other humans can be crushing.  Because kids have minds and personalities of their own.  Because sleep deprivation is a real thing.  Because sometimes parents have to give more financially, emotionally, physically, and/or spiritually than they feel they are able.  And just when it seems like there’s smooth sailing, the car breaks down.  Or the pet hamster dies.  Or you accidentally start World War III by cooking a dinner that has onions in it.  (Sorry, Mom.)  There’s always another load of laundry.  There’s always an appliance that needs fixing.  There’s always a child who needs you to be strong for them, right parents and grandparents?  And with all of that, a mother or father is still expected to honor and cherish their spouse.  (They must do that for the whole three minutes a week when all the kids are placated by Daniel Tiger.)

Getting older is hard.  I've heard it asked, "So when does it get easy?"  Well--best I can figure--it doesn't.  As one gets older, they too must face whatever is thrown their way.  The phrase "endure to the end" is thought of often.

Do you get what I’m saying?  Being a human is hard.

So why do we do it?  If everyone has it so hard, then why are so many of us so happy?

Because we are that we might have joy.  So—back to this wedding story.  Two of the best people I’ve ever met finally tied the knot after years of dating and planning.  Truly, it was one of the best weddings I’ve ever attended.  Many were in attendance—all of us at different phases in our lives.  And as I watched the bride and groom exchange their vows—one of them on guitar—I was overwhelmed by the love in the room.  Their love for each other.  The attendees’ collective love for them.  Their love and appreciation toward us for sharing in their special day.  As I sat there surrounded by friends who have become like family, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for our moments together.  To say it was beautiful wouldn’t begin to be sufficient.

So—my point, I guess, is this:  Yes, we all have hardships.  But, life is for living.  Life is for laughing.  Life is for loving.  (I think I saw that on a plaque at Hobby Lobby or something.)  We are meant to have joy, and not some kind of hypothetical joy in the future.  Not when/if we get married.  Not when/if we have kids.  Not when/if all of our problems go away.  We are to have joy here.  Now.  In whatever phase of life we may find ourselves.

May we all choose to seek out and share those moments of joy.

Me and My Broken Heart

Valentine's Day, we meet again.

Remind me, again, why I'm supposed to care about a day where it's obligatory to profess my love?  Are the other 364.25 days a year not good enough?  But y'all already know my feelings on that.  I just happen to have a thought (just one) that relates a bit to the holiday--and it applies to everyone, from the happily married to the chronically single.

It's about broken hearts.

But first, a song:

A broken heart, then.  Not the superficial kind either, the truly broken heart.  It's part of what it means to be mortal, and--I submit--that to not ever experience this kind of heart ache is to never experience true mortality, in all its oppositions.

Because, without having experienced a broken heart, how can I fully appreciate what love can do to that same heart?

There are so many, many, many ways to experience a truly broken heart.  Of course, many are familiar with the break-up scenario-- the kind where we question the saying, 'It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.'....  Really?  Because I'm pretty sure there are more than a few of us out there who would very much like to take back the time, money, and emotion we invested in a dead-end relationship-- losing sucks, and no one likes a loser.  (Right?)

There's also those who wait patiently--sometimes actively, sometimes passively--for someone, anyone, to come into their life and help them to feel wanted/needed/appreciated.  And, you know what?  Sometimes that patience thing hurts.  And with every passing year, Valentine's Day feels like a reminder that, perhaps, some of us are just too unlovable to expect more than a table set for one on what's supposed to be the most romantic day of the year.

But what of more serious breaks?

What about the child who has to wonder if their parents even love them at all, and their heart gets damaged in the process?

What about the parents who worry about a child who is damaging their life with seemingly irreparable choices, and those same parents feel like there's nothing left they can do to guide their child back home?

What about the parents who wish to have a family but--for whatever reason--are denied that opportunity, perhaps only momentarily or perhaps permanently?

What about divorce and the broken families it leaves behind?

What about the husband or wife who has to bury their spouse?

What about the parents who have to bury their child?

You see where I'm going with this?

And do you know what all of these experiences--and the multitude of other broken-heart situations not listed--have in common?...  It's love.  These situations are difficult, because--in juxtaposition to them--is love.  To never know a broken heart is to never know love.

So, here's the question that comes up a lot:  Is it worth it?  Is it worth it to feel the effects of a broken heart?

Yes!  Of course, it is!  I'm not saying that it's easy.  I'm not saying that the pain during the process isn't excruciating at times.  I'm not saying that having a broken heart is a trivial thing easily fixed in a day or two---or even a year or two.

What I am saying is this:

We're all on different paths, experiencing our own situations of love and-- on occasion-- heart-breaking disappointments.  And that's OK.  The Savior Himself spoke of broken hearts, and He told us that it's not only OK, but necessary, for us to have a broken heart if we are to reach our full potential.  Because every time our heart breaks, if we turn to Him, those cracks are filled in with an Infinitely Perfect kind of love--the kind that bore our griefs and carried our sorrows.  And if our hearts are filled-in with that kind of love, we--somehow--become better than we were before and more capable of loving with that kind of love in the future.

So maybe having a broken heart isn't such a bad thing after all.

Is This What Christmas Feels Like?

I was sitting in Church today (Sacrament Meeting for those saavy on Mormon lingo), and this post smacked me in the face....  Not literally.  Figuratively.  I was figuratively smacked in the face by an unwritten blog post.

And now that that's out of the way...

I want to tell you another story-- it's actually several different Christmas stories strewn together over the last several years.  I think I've made it fairly clear in my other posts that, while I was teaching in Colorado, I watched some of my students tackle some serious issues.  Issues like homelessness.  Like being in charge of the care of younger siblings because Mom and her boyfriend are too drugged up to care.  Like hiding in the closet when Christmas day rolls around, because that's when Dad does more drinking than usual, and that's never a good thing.

For me, I always looked forward to the holidays, because there were traditions and memories--all of them comforting.  It was such a strange thing to see something different in the holidays for my students--it was a time too many of them dreaded, because school--their comforting and safe place--would be sending them home for prolonged periods of time.  And they'd be left crossing their fingers that there'd be enough food to eat or a place to sleep.

And that's why I put my mom and a classroom volunteer from a local church in charge of my classroom's holiday parties.

Year after year, my mom would outdo herself, hauling bags of food and crafts from Wyoming so that my students would have a real taste of what the holidays are supposed to be like.  (And my classroom volunteer always matched my mother's efforts.)  I remember that first year when even I was overwhelmed with everything that she was able to fit into her Chevy Equinox.  There were boxes of food and a stocking for each of my students--each stocking labeled with a student's name and filled with candy and toys.  My mom always went even so far as to make sure she brought extra stockings for the siblings of my students (because she didn't want them to feel left out).

Over the years, my students have enjoyed crock-pot chili, vegetable and fruit platters, even individual-sized pies-- all homemade.  I remember last Christmas when my mom and volunteer purposefully brought too much food so that they could send the leftovers home with a little boy who would need it.

On one of those years, I remember my dad came too.  During that particular school year, I had a student--a little girl who we'll name Carmen--who didn't speak English.  In fact, I seldom heard her speak in English or Spanish.  But during that Christmas party, she looked at my dad and said, "I'm so happy."  And later, she came to me and said, "This is the best day of my life."

Another little boy--though I don't remember which one or when--at one of these Christmas parties came to me and asked, "Miss, is this what Christmas feels like?"

And to him, my answer was (and is) yes.  Yes, this is what Christmas feels like.

Christmas doesn't feel like wrapped boxes stacked beneath a tree or like taking advantage of the ever-important Black Friday deals.

Christmas doesn't feel like watching holiday-themed Hallmark channel movies until our eyeballs fall out.  (I submit that that could actually happen.)

Christmas doesn't feel like tinsel or lights or snow.

Christmas does feel like hope.  Like comfort.  Like peace.  Like knowing someone cares.

Christmas feels like there has always been, and will always be, goodness in the world.

Christmas feels like service, like caring about others before we care about ourselves.

Christmas feels like the understanding that, no matter what happens, everything will be OK in the end.

Christmas feels like the love of Christ, that He is ever aware of our struggles and our needs.  That because of Him, we will all forever have a friend to comfort us in our sorrows and celebrate with us in our triumphs.

It's my hope that all of us, like my students in years past, will truly get to know (or remember) what Christmas feels like.  Because it's so much more than decorated trees and reindeer.

Who's Going to Love Me Now?

Ok, folks, so—here's the deal: I was up until about 11:30 last night fretting over last-minute travel details, and then I got up at 4 to make sure I got to the airport in time for a flight. And then I flew to Boston and wandered around said city until I passed out and a homeless person had to carry me back to my hotel. (Ok—that last part didn't happen. But it could have with how tired I feel.) I also ate copious amounts of seafood.

So, here I am, lying comfortably on a bed that very closely resembles a marshmallow. But, try as I might, I can't get to sleep. The thought keeps running through my head that this post needs to be shared, and I had better get it done. So—I had better get it done or else I won't be sleeping very well tonight. And that would be tragic, because I need to have ample energy for more exploring (and a conference, I guess) tomorrow.

Here's what I'm thinking about: families. Parents—and, more specifically, the role of a father in a family.

I have a few thoughts to share on the subject. The first stems from this new Carrie Underwood song that I just love and have listened to more times than is probably psychologically healthy.... Anyway—here it is:

It's so true. Once, while dj-ing a school dance, I played a song and called it the "parent-child dance."  I will forever remember one father—a tall and stocky gentleman—as he lead his tiny daughter through the dance. She barely reached his knee, even as she stood on his shoes. Her hair had been put in two little pig-tails, each with a pink bow to match her frilly pink party dress. The looks on their faces were precious—a father who clearly cherished his baby girl. And a baby girl who clearly idolized her father. Maybe I'm just naive, but I believe many of the world's social ills could be solved if every little girl had a father who invested in her, cheered for her, and bolstered her up in the midst of societies so often trying to tear her down.

But girls aren't the only ones who need fathers. Little boys (and big boys) need fathers too. Just as I remember the happy moment between a father and his daughter, I just as vividly remember another event involving fathers. But this one is more tragic. In one of my years of teaching, I encountered a little boy who was quite sensitive to the feelings of others. He was bright and cheerful and always tried his hardest—even though academics didn't come easily for him. One day, he pulled me aside and said, “Miss, I don't know what I'm going to do.” As tears welled in his eyes, he continued, “My real dad used to play basketball with me, but I was stupid, and he left us. Now my step dad is moving back to Texas.... Miss, who's going to love me now?”

We both had a good cry as we hugged it out. And I've never forgotten that question, or the desperation in which it was asked. “Miss, who's going to love me now?”

Perhaps as a result of this event, or the result of many others, I found myself calling my own father. I remember, on more than one occasion, venting to him that there were children—too many of them—who wondered who was going to love them, some of them not even knowing who their fathers are. I had known children despised by their fathers. Beaten by their fathers. Molested by their fathers. The task felt insurmountable to combat such deplorable circumstances. I remember speaking poorly of these wretched “fathers” who didn't deserve their titles. I remember, during one conversation, telling my dad that every one of my students would be so much better off—and not just academically—if they knew they had a father (or father figure) who loved them.

And his answer to me was this: They do have a Father who loves them.

That was all I needed to hear. Such a simple, yet complex, concept.

They do have a Father who loves them—immeasurably and perfectly—even at their weakest. It's been said that “Heavenly Father sees us in terms of our potential.” (I think it was Dieter F. Uchtdorf who said that, but don't judge me too harshly if I'm wrong.)

If I were only allowed to preach one doctrine from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, it wouldn't be about controversial decisions made by church leaders. I wouldn't teach of church history or the Book of Mormon or even the Atonement. (Though, those are great topics of conversation.) The doctrine I would preach for the rest of my life would be this: That every member of the human family has a Father in Heaven who cherishes them, invests in them, cheers for them, and wishes to bolster them up in a world so intent on tearing them down. It would be that everyone has a Father in Heaven who will continue loving them in spite of whatever errors they make.

This is a truth I would shout from the rooftops and defend to the death. Because everyone deserves to know that they need never ask the question “who's going to love me now?” Especially because one particular Father never has—and never will—stop loving us.

Help Thy Brother's Boat Across

"Help thy brother's boat across, and lo!  Thine own has reached the shore."  --Hindu Proverb

"We are the product of the lives who have touched ours."  --Gordon B. Hinckley

"When ye are in the service of your fellow beings, ye are only in the service of your God."  --Mosiah 2:17 in The Book of Mormon


Can I be a bragging sister for a minute or two?  If not--stop reading and go play Candy Crush (or whatever it is you young people like to do nowadays.)

Remember my brothers?  I wrote a whole blog about them a year or two or three ago--the one where I compared them to the Ninja Turtles.  Well, I have a quick--but totally true--story about "Leonardo" and "Raphael."  It happened last night, and it goes like this:

Leonardo had finished work for the day--it was well after 6, and he had put in long hours for a couple of days in a row.  He stopped by the grocery store to pick up a few things for his family.  Outside, in the chilly now-October evening, stood a young man.  He was shivering in his t-shirt, and concrete covered his boots and pants.  As people walked by him, he would say, "Hablas espanol?"  (Do you speak Spanish?)  My brother saw a series of people shake their heads 'no' and walk on.

Leonardo speaks Portuguese, not Spanish.  But he was willing to try.  As Leonardo walked closer, he saw a look of desperation in this man's eyes as he said, "I'm lost.  I don't know where I am."

And--in those few broken words--Leonardo was determined to help in whatever way he could.  In a fairly quick and--I'm assuming--disjointed conversation, my brother found out that this man was a construction worker from a town in Northern Colorado and had been working on a project in our town.  His carpool--a group of uncaring co-workers who were known to play hurtful 'jokes' on the young man--had left him at this grocery store without a coat and without a working cell phone.

Jerks.  (I would tell you the real word I'm thinking in my head, but it would be inappropriate for the internet.)

As fate would have it, my brother Raphael speaks better Spanish than any other gringo I know-- and Leonardo put him on the phone with the young man--who we'll now call Carlos.  So, anyway, Carlos spoke with Raphael on the phone, and--within a few short minutes--Raphael had assessed the situation, thrown his own children in the back of the car, dropped them off to be watched by Leonardo's wife, and then rushed to meet with Carlos and Leonardo at the grocery store.

As they waited for Raphael, Leonardo, having been gifted earlier that day with a rather expensive--and long sleeve--shirt, offered it to Carlos.  (I can't help but think that this is now the nicest shirt that Carlos owns.)  My brother also took Carlos into the grocery store and bought him dinner from the deli.

Enter Raphael who, without hesitating, told Carlos that he'd be driving him back home that night--even though it would be at least a 45 minute both to and from the destination.  Leonardo went home to help watch kids.  Raphael drove Carlos home.

On the car-ride to Colorado, Carlos mentioned having a wife and baby girl at home-- he was worried that they would be worried about him.  He then said something to the effect of, "It's interesting how God takes care of us sometimes."  Because just a mere seconds before Leonardo had approached him, Carlos had been praying that someone would be there to help him.

But the story doesn't stop there.

It turns out that Carlos hasn't been treated very well by his coworkers for the entirety of his employment here in the United States.  It also turns out that Raphael is acquainted with several people who own companies similar to the one in which Carlos is now working.  Suffice it to say, Carlos now has connections to other possible job opportunities.

Now, isn't it quite the coincidence that Carlos happened to cross paths with Leonardo--and, in turn, Raphael--the two people most suited to help him in his situation?

Yeah, coincidence.

So, let's apply the story to us.  How many of us, in our rushed lifestyles, have been blinded to those around us saying, "I'm lost.  I don't know where I am."?  How many of us are turned so inward that we fail to recognize the desperation in the eyes of those whom we encounter?  Worse yet, how many of us see these opportunities to show compassion yet willingly turn away?

Apply that to crisis situations we see going on in our world.  Apply that to programs put in place to help others.  Apply that to those we may randomly encounter on the street.  Apply that to acquaintances and coworkers.  Apply that to friendships.  Apply that to families.

I hope that none of us are ever so hurried, or so uncaring, that we fail to act when we see another--whether it be literally, figuratively, or spiritually-- say, "I'm lost.  I don't know where I am."

Because in helping others to find out where they are, maybe--just maybe--we'll add an extra measure of direction to our own lives.