Nothing can be more humbling ~ everyone should be so lucky.


We’re visual people. Probably 90% of us only see what is in front of us. And what is in front of us is not the full story. Perhaps it is just a symptom, maybe a chapter, could be a back-up player or even a stunt double. It could just be a moment of nothing that you will never know why but it served you well. That one should make you think for a second. Maybe all those delays that seem like a complete waste of your precious time and are even more annoying may actually be a divine intervention that is saving your life. Ever take a wrong turn that set you back 20 minutes? Frustrating, even maddening at times but not the end of the world. So what “if” you had not taken a wrong turn and were right on schedule. 6 miles down the road from where you might have taken the wrong turn you’re instead T-Boned by some idiot who ran a red light. That driver has a bruised forearm, coughing a bit because of the dust from the airbag has managed to get out of his wreck, which happens to be totaled, on his own. Meanwhile, you’re not moving and you can’t feel a thing from your neck down. You’re hoping, praying to God that it isn’t what you think it is. You’re too young, you have children who need a dad, someone they can always lean on, you have a wife that loves you and cares about you, she’s interested in everything about you… until now. You cuss and damn the world. Could be that what we see is not what it is all. It’s what we don’t see, what we don’t know happens to be the truth. Let’s take a look…

bathroom-however-many-times-the-water-ran

Everytime this water ran, there was a wearisome look, a hole in a sole or even a soul, a dollar short... again. A tear of loneliness falls, becoming all too familiar. a deep breath and a sigh, dirty beads of sweat, wearing dust from the road, a man so broken, broken in every way, used every time, when this water flowed. It had no agenda, no hidden flaws, the dirt and the filth, is more than just that, by the man that walks before you. Receiving the dirt, receiving the grime, yet still willing to give the one thing it has, that being of water, essential to life. Like the tattered lonely man, who appears a bit crazed, diseased with no cure, can't look you in the eye, he knows you're response, you'll look away. His dignity a memory, his hope is as well, his spirit lay somewhere, broken up by you. This tattered old man who once had a Mother, a Father he loved, had friends who admired him, then one day, they all damned him to hell. Now all in the past but a memory or two, he's paltry and pitiful, no home nor coin, his only need is his only pleasure, refreshing cool water, that this story old sink offers the treasure, will give and give and never question why. The shabby old timer, stares at the rusted old basin, the dirt and the grime, the faucet then rim. He knows the story, it's a story about him.

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