I hope you had a magical holiday.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Eyes to See
Oh how rich we'd all be if we had dimes for every time we've been told to remember that there is always more to people's lives than what shows on the surface. That if we treated the world as if most were having some serious sort of heartbreak/trial, we'd be right over half the time.
The trouble is, it's easy to forget. The driver who cuts you off becomes less 'someone who might be on the way to his baby's delivery' and more 'inconsiderate Northern Virginia Driver #125'. The store clerk who refuses to return your merchandise looks less like someone who could be grieving for an ailing grandmother, and more like a chronic grump who wants to make your life harder.
But every once in a while--every blessed once in a while--a moment taps me on my shoulder and reminds me to approach strangers with more TLC.
I was late to the hospital a few weeks ago. I was supposed to meet up with a fellow resident to split up the list of newborns to be seen, and felt badly that I was ten minutes behind schedule. Mostly, it was my fault that I was late. Little E had woken up right as I was leaving. Chris had things covered, but when I hear that little cry, it is pure instinct (and pleasure) to run upstairs and wrap that baby in my arms. In the moment (and in retrospect) mommy cuddles seem more important than ten minutes of tardiness in a morning where I can easily absorb it. Still, I hate walking in late.
Rushing in the door, I was happy to see the elevator waiting for me, empty. I hit the '7' button and sighed while the doors closed. Right before closure, someone pushed the up button and the doors re-opened. Grrr. Normally, I'm all about holding the door, but when time is pressed, it can feel like an imposition. I smiled (force of habit) as a twenty-something year old male, decked out in the latest fashion and reeking of smoke, stepped onboard with someone who looked like his father.
"Thanks," they said.
"Sure."
Emphysema, Lung Cancer, Heart Disease...my mental check-list of 'why I get sad that people smoke' began rolling. I looked at my watch, at the floor, at my cell. How late am I now? Then I looked at the elevator door and realized that the young man had pressed 2. The elevator stopped on said floor. The doors opened, he gave me a small smile, and both men stepped off. I paused. See, the only thing on the 2nd floor is the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit). He was going to the NICU.
Which meant that heaven only knows what he was going to face when he walked off that elevator:
A premature baby who may have little chance of survival?
A child who will face serious disability?
Good news about a baby who is beating the odds?
Sadness?
Elation?
Grief?
If nothing else that day was going to give an inch, he might have appreciated the little mercy of catching an elevator before it went up.
So it got me thinking again about how little we know of the people who we pass on the street. Of the smoking hipster who looks nothing like a father or of the woman waiting at the bus stop.
I thought back to this summer, when I might have been that person. I too rode up in an elevator, to a Labor and Delivery floor, where Caitlin was in labor with Reese. I'm sure I looked the part of a woman about to become a proud auntie for the third time. In actuality, my heart felt like it had been hand-dipped in lead. Every poster of a mother cuddling with a newborn seemed like a cruel joke and I wanted to wrap my brother and his lovely wife in a blanket of healing that would somehow erase the grief that threatened to overwhelm. I needed every kindness of every stranger that I met that day. And, happily, I received many small gifts on the streets of SF. I recall other times when a smile or a hand on my shoulder has reduced me to tears of gratitude.
So, in this holiday season, I hope we'll all remember something: How much we need to be tender with each other. How much the world needs us to remember that we are all in need. Simple things make a difference. Smiles builds bridges. Charity lifts burdens. Love moves mountains and strangers.
It has moved me. I'm sure it has moved you.
Let's all, collectively, hold the elevator.
Happy Holidays. :)
The trouble is, it's easy to forget. The driver who cuts you off becomes less 'someone who might be on the way to his baby's delivery' and more 'inconsiderate Northern Virginia Driver #125'. The store clerk who refuses to return your merchandise looks less like someone who could be grieving for an ailing grandmother, and more like a chronic grump who wants to make your life harder.
But every once in a while--every blessed once in a while--a moment taps me on my shoulder and reminds me to approach strangers with more TLC.
I was late to the hospital a few weeks ago. I was supposed to meet up with a fellow resident to split up the list of newborns to be seen, and felt badly that I was ten minutes behind schedule. Mostly, it was my fault that I was late. Little E had woken up right as I was leaving. Chris had things covered, but when I hear that little cry, it is pure instinct (and pleasure) to run upstairs and wrap that baby in my arms. In the moment (and in retrospect) mommy cuddles seem more important than ten minutes of tardiness in a morning where I can easily absorb it. Still, I hate walking in late.
Rushing in the door, I was happy to see the elevator waiting for me, empty. I hit the '7' button and sighed while the doors closed. Right before closure, someone pushed the up button and the doors re-opened. Grrr. Normally, I'm all about holding the door, but when time is pressed, it can feel like an imposition. I smiled (force of habit) as a twenty-something year old male, decked out in the latest fashion and reeking of smoke, stepped onboard with someone who looked like his father.
"Thanks," they said.
"Sure."
Emphysema, Lung Cancer, Heart Disease...my mental check-list of 'why I get sad that people smoke' began rolling. I looked at my watch, at the floor, at my cell. How late am I now? Then I looked at the elevator door and realized that the young man had pressed 2. The elevator stopped on said floor. The doors opened, he gave me a small smile, and both men stepped off. I paused. See, the only thing on the 2nd floor is the NICU (neonatal intensive care unit). He was going to the NICU.
Which meant that heaven only knows what he was going to face when he walked off that elevator:
A premature baby who may have little chance of survival?
A child who will face serious disability?
Good news about a baby who is beating the odds?
Sadness?
Elation?
Grief?
If nothing else that day was going to give an inch, he might have appreciated the little mercy of catching an elevator before it went up.
So it got me thinking again about how little we know of the people who we pass on the street. Of the smoking hipster who looks nothing like a father or of the woman waiting at the bus stop.
I thought back to this summer, when I might have been that person. I too rode up in an elevator, to a Labor and Delivery floor, where Caitlin was in labor with Reese. I'm sure I looked the part of a woman about to become a proud auntie for the third time. In actuality, my heart felt like it had been hand-dipped in lead. Every poster of a mother cuddling with a newborn seemed like a cruel joke and I wanted to wrap my brother and his lovely wife in a blanket of healing that would somehow erase the grief that threatened to overwhelm. I needed every kindness of every stranger that I met that day. And, happily, I received many small gifts on the streets of SF. I recall other times when a smile or a hand on my shoulder has reduced me to tears of gratitude.
So, in this holiday season, I hope we'll all remember something: How much we need to be tender with each other. How much the world needs us to remember that we are all in need. Simple things make a difference. Smiles builds bridges. Charity lifts burdens. Love moves mountains and strangers.
It has moved me. I'm sure it has moved you.
Let's all, collectively, hold the elevator.
Happy Holidays. :)
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Make My Day
If you need a pick-me-up, you should watch this video of my adorable nephew singing 'O Shenandoah'. He is 3 now, but started singing this when he was 2. Everytime he sings it, my heart melts. It really doesn't get old. Niko, you are good medicine. :)
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