kenlassblog

It was a typical sweltering July day in Alabama. The clock had barely surpassed nine am and already you could feel the humidity pushing down on your skin like a hot blanket fresh out of the dryer. It’s the kind of weather that drives you indoors for exercise. Too hot for walking or jogging or pretty much anything.

I had driven to the gym, gotten out of the car and begun to walk through the parking lot. Let’s get this workout out of the way, I thought. This kind of weather seems to make exercise an unpleasant chore, even indoors. As I approached the double doors at the entrance to the facility, I heard a voice calling “Ken! Hey Ken!” I turned back toward the parking lot and saw a tall man with graying hair and Manchu moustache flowing into a full graying beard. He approached me and thrust his hand out in greeting, flashing a broad smile. “Do you remember me?” he inquired.

As with so many other encounters of this kind, I knew the face was familiar. I knew him from somewhere. But my mind raced for context, and came up blank. It must have shown on my face. “It’s Mike,” he revealed, clearly sensing my struggle. “Remember? We used to be in Sunday School together.” Yes, that was all it took. It came to me now. When we moved to this town back in 1989 we joined the local Baptist church and quickly got involved in Sunday School. We visited a rather large class and felt a bit estranged because we didn’t know anybody. Mike and his sweet wife were among those who befriended us and made us feel welcome.

Every time you move to a new city you start a new life in a way. And that life is not usually a positive one unless you get connected with the community, which almost always starts with making new friends. Mike was one of the first. We had a lot of great times with that group.

But a productive church membership is usually dynamic and fluid. Eventually I left that group to teach my own class. There followed a thirty-five year path spanning several different church ministries and groups, meeting new people, taking on new challenges, reworking Sunday morning schedules and tasks. Along the way I saw Mike and his wife less and less as they followed their own trail in our large congregation. Our church is of a size that couples can be mutual members forever and yet never see each other. We can debate whether that’s good or bad, but let’s leave that for another day.

At some point, I didn’t see Mike at all anymore, nor almost anybody else from that original Bible study group. Many years had passed. Ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years? I have no idea. Suffice it to say it was long enough that I could no longer place the name with the face until he helped me. Yet here we were, in the parking lot of the local civic center, trying desperately to catch up.

The timing was not great for either of us. He had spotted me as he was getting into his car, and clearly had somewhere he needed to go. I was kind of anxious to get on with my workout. But we tried to make the most of the moment we had. He told me his wife was doing great, filled me in on the career success of his son, and updated me on a couple of old acquaintances. I gave him a quick summary of my family and what I was doing to stay out of trouble in retirement. After this brief exchange, we shook hands again and wished each other well as he got into his car and I turned into the gym.

This chance meeting happened just short of two weeks ago. Yesterday I opened up a church prayer list email. I gasped as I read that Mike had taken what was described as “a freak fall” at work and was on life support at the downtown hospital. The email asked for prayer for Mike and his wife. It ended with this ominous sentence: “Mike will be taken off life support on Thursday”.

I was stunned. It was like a psychological punch in the gut. How could I have known that my brief conversation with him a few days ago would be the last time we would meet on this earth? If I had known, how might it have changed my priorities? It’s a hard way to be reminded of the fragility of our existence, of how grateful we need to be for each morning we open our eyes to greet a new day.

My friend’s name is not really Mike. I wanted to protect the privacy of his family. But God knows about him, and now you do too. Hopefully we can all learn something instructive from this story.

Mike would have liked that.

I admit it.  When it comes to my age, I am in complete denial.  My birth certificate states that I was born in 1951.  That would make me 73.  That has to be a mistake.  There’s no way I can be that old. 

In my head I see myself as a much younger man.  After all, I listen to music by folks like Lady Gaga, Ed Sheeran and Adele.  I dress up by wearing a sport coat over a tee-shirt.  I use acronyms in my text messages.  I know what a meme is.  I actually understand all the rules of soccer.  I hang out with minimalists.  I’m considering buying a pair of jeans that have rips in the knees.  I can name at least three of the Backstreet Boys.  Yep, I picture myself as a pretty hip guy. 

Yet, every once in a while, I see something that shocks me out of my delusion, and forces me to acknowledge how much time has passed.  The latest reality check came the other day as I was scrolling through my local newspaper Facebook page.  I came to the article about the teachers who were honored upon their retirement from our school system.  There were nineteen employees in all.  I began scanning through the names, some of which I knew, and some not.  Eventually I came upon a name that stunned me.  Just stunned me. 

The name was Gina Gamble.  Wow.  No way, I thought.  Is that possible?  My mind immediately flashed back to a hot and humid August morning in 1990.  My son Brett was so excited to start the first grade.  He is our oldest child and we were equally excited for him.  It was Meet The Teacher Day.  We brought him to the elementary School.  There was only one then.   Hard to believe, considering there are now three, with plans to build a fourth.   

The old grade school was at the top of a hill.  I think the city fire department uses the building now.  We anxiously found Brett’s classroom and walked inside.  We were greeted by this pretty, youthful, blonde-haired lady with a warm smile.  She introduced herself as Gina Whitson.  Miss Whitson seemed excited, but a little nervous and apprehensive.   Upon talking to her, we learned why.  Turns out this was Gina’s first year as a teacher.  This was to be her first class.   She was going to be in charge of twenty rambunctious six-year-olds, and she wasn’t quite sure what to expect. 

She needn’t have worried.  Brett and all of his classmates had a terrific year in the first grade.  Gina did a great job, and our son loved having her as his first “big school” teacher.   

How can it be that was 34 years ago?  Brett (who is now 40) would go on to work his way through twelve years in the school system, while Gina would go on to become one of its best teachers.   Along the way she got married, raised three beautiful daughters, and put in 34 hard years at three different schools..   

Now she is retiring.  Where did the time go?  She says she still loves to teach, but she just recently was blessed with the birth of her first grandchild, and she wants to spend more time with family.  I saw her picture in the internet article, standing with the other retirees, holding the certificates they received from the Board of Education.  She looked exactly the same as she did the day we met her in that classroom.   

Gina, if you read this, I just want to express our appreciation for everything that you, and all the other retirees, have done for the kids of our town.  Teachers are one of our most precious resources, and we are blessed to have some of the best.  It’s one of the main reasons why everybody wants to move here.  It’s one of the main reasons we have to keep building more schools.   

I hope you have a wonderful retirement.  Oh, and one more thing.  I hope you will forgive me if I just can’t get used to calling you Gamble.  To me, you will always be Miss Whitson.  I guess remembering you that way helps me to keep feeling young. 

These days, I need all the help I can get. 

I’ve been keeping my daughter’s dog while she and her family are off on vacation.  He is a cute little Boston terrier with that classic black and white color pattern.  Black ears and eyes, with the white stripe running down the center of his forehead through his snout, black body with white paws.    

And he is old.  Really old.  Age has taken its toll on this loyal family member.  He can’t see out of one eye, can barely hear, and has trouble walking due to arthritis.  He struggles to chew his food because his teeth are wearing out.  Worst of all, he snores.  I mean, really snores, like a drunken sailor on a park bench.  All night, and most of the day, he rattles the window shutters and vibrates the dishes with his buzzsaw breathing.  I lie in bed listening to the roar, and wonder how such a little animal can emit such a thunderous noise. 

When I’ve had enough,  I get up and approach him, thinking maybe I can jostle him, wake him up, or turn him over in such a way so as to stop the snoring.  Do they make a CPAP for dogs?  But just as I get ready to give him a gentle poke, I can’t help but notice he looks so peaceful and content when he is zonked out.  It’s probably the only time, I think, when he is not aching and feeling the afflictions of his many years.  I can’t bring myself to disturb him. 

Maybe, deep down inside, I feel as though one day that will be me, elderly and infirmed, longing just to sleep for relief from pain and the erosion of my body.  Psalm 71:9 says “Do not cast me off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength is spent.”   

We really need to love and respect the oldest among us.  They have run a long and hard race, and are just trying to cross the finish line the best they can.  It’s easy to become impatient and frustrated with them, but we’re all headed there, and we’re going to need all the grace we can get. 

So I’ve decided to just put up with the dog’s snoring.  Besides, my daughter will be back in  a few days to take him back in.  One day, she may have to do the same for me. 

When I was a young boy I would excitedly await the delivery of the afternoon newspaper.  I would immediately rifle through it to find the comics, and my very favorite strip was Dick Tracy.  Clad in his bright yellow trench coat, Dick was the master sleuth and police detective who always identified the bad guy and always brought him to justice.  Part of me always wondered why someone who wanted to operate in secret, lurking behind the shadows, would want to wear a bright yellow trench coat.  But I figured Dick had his reasons. 

By far, the coolest thing about Dick Tracy was his wristwatch.  It was actually a two way radio through which he could talk to headquarters and fellow policemen on the beat.  I fantasized about having such an incredible gadget.  I would pretend I was Dick Tracy, and I would speak into my bare wrist and make believe I was wearing the magic watch. 

A few years ago, when I heard that Apple had come out with a watch that you can take phone calls on, I splurged and ordered one for myself and one for Sharon.  As soon as they arrived, I ripped open the box, set it up and slapped it on my wrist, immediately asking Sharon to call me.  I think I squealed with glee when my watch ring tone sounded off and I pushed the little green button. 

“Hello?”  she said. 

“HELLO!”  I screamed ecstatically into the watch.  “Who is this?” 

“This is Sharon.  I’m standing right next to you.” 

“Hello Sharon!  How are you?” 

She rolled her eyes and hung up.  No matter.  After seventy years, I had made it.  I was Dick Tracy.  I could call people on my watch.  Now if only I could find a bright yellow trench coat….. 

Actually, I found it quite amazing what my Apple watch could do.  I could watch TV on it, take a picture with it, monitor my heartbeat, send a text, order a sub sandwich, use a compass, check my email, and much more.  It’s basically a smartphone on your arm.  Dick would be jealous of me! 

But now I’m beginning to wonder how much of a blessing it really is.  Last Sunday at 7:45 in the morning, we were in the car pulling out of the garage, whereupon my watch buzzed and informed me “You are six minutes away from First Baptist Church Trussville”.  The next day, as Sharon was heading out, her watch correctly anticipated she was “ten minutes from Trussville Target.”  Our watches not only know where we are, but where we’re going.  In other words, our watches are watching us.  Taking note of where we go and what we do.  Letting us know if we are doing it correctly and on time. 

In fact, mine has gotten a little bossy.  It tells me how much exercise I still need to do that day, when I should stand up, and when I should relax and be “mindful”, whatever the heck that means.  It tells me to go get a package at my front door, that I should be on the lookout for my neighbor’s lost dog, and that it’s my last chance to buy speakers at the electronics store before they are no longer on sale.  It even scolds me when I plug in my earphones to listen to music, telling me the volume is too loud.  Dick Tracy would never put up with this. 

I guess all of this is supposed to make my life easier, but it seems a little creepy.  Is it going to start telling me not to order that banana pudding for dessert because it’s got too much sugar?  Is it going to report me to the police when I gently roll through that stop sign?  (Not that I ever do that)  Is it going to change the channel on my TV when I decide to watch trash? (I might do that)  Will it inform me that I need to change my little grandson’s diaper because he’s had another accident?  (I’ll let Sharon do that) 

Maybe I’m just overreacting.  You have to use the technology, not let it use you.  That’s what one of my tech-savvy friends told me.  I spoke to him through my watch you know.  So from now on I’m going to be more careful with the settings, and cut back on what the time piece has access to. 

That is, if my watch will let me. 

The suitcases were packed and loaded into the car.  Bags of snacks and toiletries and sun block were stuffed into the backseat.  Sharon and I were set to leave for a little Orange Beach getaway.  We like to go before schools leave out and the rates go up and the massive crowds gather. 

One last check through the house to make sure electrical appliances are turned off, doors locked, faucets not running, security system enabled.  All was good.  We excitedly opened the door to the stairs leading down to the garage….and there it was, sitting about halfway up the steps, looking us square in the face.  

It was a chipmunk.  Our Trussville home is surrounded by them.  One of them must have wandered in through an open garage door.  They are as cute as can be, until they’re in your house.   

I’m not sure who was more shocked, us or the chipmunk.  Upon seeing us, it darted down the stairs and took a hard right into the finished basement room.  Not quite knowing what to do, we followed it in and closed the door.  Maybe we could trap it and take it back outside.  What followed must have resembled one of those old Keystone Cops chase scenes.  Sharon grabbed a soft bag which had contained toys we saved for when the grandkids came over.  I had a small open cardboard box.  For roughly the next hour we ridiculously ran after this little guy, bumping into each other and knocking each other down, as it scurried from under the sofa to under the love seat, to behind the tread mill, to behind the TV stand, and then back under the sofa. 

That little fur ball was lightning fast, able to shift direction at right angles, so it had no problem evading our pathetic efforts.  Clearly there was too much operating space.  So we figured if we could force it to flee into the small, connected bathroom it would be easier to corner.  It took a while, but we finally managed to herd it into the little restroom.  Now we’ve got him!  We closed the door and quickly had it trapped behind the toilet. 

When I poked at it, the creature shot into Sharon’s soft bag, which scared the Jesus out of her.  She screamed and lurched backward.  It looked like the squirrel scene from the “Christmas Vacation” movie.  Somehow the chipmunk managed to leap out of the bag, land on the vanity, knock over a bottle of hand soap, and jump back down to the floor.  The doorknob to that bathroom has never closed securely, and apparently one of us had accidentally bumped the door ajar in all the chaos, enabling the animal to escape back into the big room. 

Frustrated and exhausted, we trudged after it, resigned to starting the process all over again.  But now there was no sign of the little troublemaker.  We overturned every piece of furniture, shook every nook and cranny.  Nothing.  We remembered that the squirrels and chipmunks loved to feast on the birdseed dropped to the ground by the sloppy birds who dine at our feeder.  Sharon laid out birdseed in the middle of the room, hoping to attract the rodent out into the open.  Still nothing.  Was it gone?  Did it crawl inside the sofa and get trapped amongst the springs and cushions?  Might it have gotten through the small crack at the bottom of the door and left the room? 

By this time, we were hours late leaving for our trip.  There was no time to go to a store and find a trap of some sort, then wait for the animal to be captured.  That could take days, and there was no guarantee it would even work.  Eventually, we just gave up.  We decided to stuff blankets into the cracks under the doors to the upstairs and the finished room downstairs in an attempt to at least confine the little pest.   It was time to admit defeat.  Just go to the beach and hope for the best. 

But the drama wasn’t over yet.  As we entered the garage, Sharon saw the chipmunk scurry across the floor and under my car.  Given renewed hope, we immediately opened both garage doors, and went about shaking and rattling everything in the basement, trying to flush it outside.  We never actually saw it leave, but once again there was no trace of it anywhere.  As we got in the car and pulled out into the driveway, I chose to believe the unwanted visitor had gleefully sprinted out into the yard to rejoin his family.  Sharon was not so sure. 

The beach was beautiful and relaxing as always, but it was hard not to wonder if we would return to Trussville to find our home chewed and clawed into shambles.  After four days, we arrived back, pulled into the garage, and began to cautiously look around the basement.  So far, so good.  No apparent damage.  But when Sharon opened the door to the stairs, she let out a gasp. 

There, at the base of the steps on the floor, lay the chipmunk, stiff as a board.  Apparently, it had gotten back into the stairwell, but was trapped there and perished.  I disposed of it with a shovel, all the while feeling a curious mix of emotion.  I should have been overjoyed and relieved that we no longer had to worry about a chipmunk in the house.  But somehow, looking at his sad little eyes, his buck teeth, that cute little double black stripe down his back, I felt a strange sadness that one of God’s beautiful, small creatures had to meet with such an unpleasant end.   

I may never again be able to watch a Chip ‘n Dale cartoon without tearing up a little bit. 

There was that time when I desperately wanted the attention of my two older brothers, so I deliberately annoyed them until they chased me through the house with bad intentions.  I knew you were in the kitchen.  You always seemed to be in the kitchen.  So I ran and hid behind you.  You shielded me from a certain beatdown and scolded them for not being sweet to their little brother.  This was a scene that repeated itself daily. 

There was the time my big brothers grew up and left home and I had to go to bed all by myself in the cavernous upper floor of our old house.  I would shudder under the covers as the raw winter wind whistled through the window sills and the walls creaked and groaned like a crying ghost.  I was convinced there were all manner of monsters up there ready to pounce on me.  So I would take my pillow and sneak down the stairs into your bedroom and lay down on the soft rug at the foot of your bed.  Dad would be snoring so loudly he never even heard me come in.  But I knew that you knew I was there.  You never said anything because we both knew if Dad woke up, he would send me back to the tower of terror. 

There was the time you spent all day at my bedside when I was in the hospital for a hernia operation.  In those days they didn’t allow parents to stay with their children overnight.  When the nurse said it was time for you to leave I threw a fit, terrified of spending the night in a strange place with no family around.  I remember you pleading with her to allow you to stay, and finally she relented. 

There were the times I tagged along with you as you walked to your mother’s house a few doors down to bring her mail in to her, as you did every day.  Grandma loved to bake and she always had a big slice of whatever sweet, delicious treat she had whipped up ready for me.  Until the time we arrived to find her lying on the floor, dead of a heart attack.  It was the first time, maybe the only time, I ever saw you cry. 

There were the times I was bored and you entertained me by luring me into a game of Scrabble.  You would regularly beat me like a rented mule because you had such a sharp mind, and because you had the Scrabble dictionary memorized.  To this day I still don’t think “dweezle” is a real word.  Especially when you built it in to a triple word score. 

There was the time you forbade me from going out for football.  You thought I was too small and the bigger guys would crush me.  It broke my heart because the football players were the most popular kids in my high school, not to mention they dated all the prettiest girls.  Today I have countless friends who walk with permanent limp, or can’t raise their arms above their shoulders, or have recurring headaches, and attribute all of it to their football days. 

There was the time when I stunned you and Dad by announcing that I wanted to drop out of college after two years, both of which you paid for, and instead attend a radio/tv/film school you had never heard of, which I also asked you to pay for.  Dad was dead against it, and you had your doubts, but you recognized it was my dream and you talked Dad into allowing me to chase it. 

There was the time in 1983 when I told you that Sharon and I were moving far away to Alabama.  After Dad passed away you bravely navigated some of the hugest and busiest airports in the country alone and flew to visit us and spend time with your grandchildren.  I brought you to church and introduced you to my Sunday School class.  Of course, they all fell in love with you and asked about you for many years. 

There was the time when you turned one hundred years old and the family threw you a big birthday party.  You had always played the ukelele and everybody wanted to hear you play again.  You strummed one song, I believe it was “Toot toot tootsie”, and then you handed the uke to me, because you were always uncomfortable being the center of attention. 

Then there was the time you turned one hundred and three, and you wondered why God had not called you home.  Nine months later He did. 

There were those times and so many more.  Just wanted to say thanks, Mom, and happy Mother’s Day.  Say hi to Dad for me. 

Hello.  My name is Ken.  And I’m a sodaholic.  To be more precise, I’m a diet sodaholic.  For most of my adult life I have been hooked on Diet Coke, Diet Pepsi, Diet Mountain Dew, Diet Sprite, you name it.  If you wrote the word “diet” on a bottle of dish washing liquid I would be tempted to drink it.  “But there’s no sugar!” I would proudly proclaim.  I convinced myself diet soda was healthier, despite the fact the list of ingredients resembles a recipe for motor oil. 

My family doctor tells me I should stop.  So does my neurologist, my urologist, my podiatrist, my dentist, my auto mechanic, and a guy at the gym named Gus who washes the towels.  So, God help me, I’m doing it.  I’m going cold turkey.  No more diet soda.  Instead I am determined to drink (ugh) water.  I don’t like tea.  Milk is for kids.  Alcohol is fattening.  So it’s water.  Just plain old water. 

Problem is, I hate water.  You can squeeze lemon into it, or drop a packet of Splenda into it, but it’s still boring old water.  I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to eating a bacon cheeseburger and french fries, and washing them down with…..water?  (ugh again)  Or enjoying a giant slice of pepperoni pizza topped off with a big gulp of….water?  How about a good ole southern barbecue plate with pulled pork, baked beans, cole slaw and…..water?  Yikes.  This is going to be hard. 

As I write this, I am in the first week of my new life.  I’m doing pretty well.  I haven’t had a diet soda all week.  Of course, it’s Monday morning but you have to start somewhere.  I think I’m going to be okay here at home.  But Sharon and I love to go out for lunch, and we can be regularly seen at Trussville area restaurants.  Our favorites include Edgar’s, Moe’s, Chicken Salad Chick, Full Moon and Zaxby’s.   

What do these establishments all have in common?  All of them allow you to draw your own drink after you order.  You learn a lot about yourself doing this.  Just how much will power do you have?  I give the nice lady behind the counter my food order, then I hesitate, struggling to get the next words out of my mouth.  After what seems like several minutes, I manage to groan in a low, pathetic voice “and I’ll just have water to drink.”  She gives me my cup and off I go to the drink machine.  This is the moment of truth.  It is hard enough to order water.  Unfair torture to have to tap it yourself.  

It would be so easy to push that Diet Coke button.  To savor that wonderful, carbonated mess flowing freely into my cup.  To slink away to my table and revel in my guilty pleasure.  But no, I won’t do it.  What kind of man would I be?  Surely I possess the inner strength and courage of my conviction to handle this moment.  So I do the only thing a real man would do.  I give my cup to Sharon and tell her to draw my drink, while I find a place for us to sit.  Hey, we’re not all cut out to be heroes.   

On the plus side, I have noticed that ordering water does have its financial rewards.  Most eating places are charging between two and four dollars for a drink, but nothing for water.  This can’t last forever.  A tightwad such as me (I prefer the word “frugal”) needs to take advantage of this policy.  It’s almost worth enduring the lack of taste.  Almost. 

Bottom line is, all of my doctors say switching to water will make you feel better, give you more energy, help you think more clearly.   

Well, it’s been nearly a whole day now.  I’m still waiting.  

So I was having this conversation with a friend the other day.  She’s 81 years old, looks twenty years younger, and is quite possibly the sweetest, kindest and friendliest person I know.  We were just making small talk which, of course, always leads to complaining about the weather.   It was a frigid January morning and we got on the subject of school kids having to wait outside for the bus in the cold. 

It was at this point I remarked that many of today’s kids are so lucky that their parents drive them to school each day.  I groused about spending many mornings in my over-sized parka, shivering out on the road in the sub-freezing temperatures, waiting for a rickety old bus to pick me up.  I swear they forgot to put shock absorbers on that thing, because every crack and bump in the road sent us flying off the seats toward the ceiling.  I was one of the first pick-ups on the route, so I had to endure that bumpy journey for over an hour every day of my school life, right up through graduation.  Nothing gets your school day off to a better start than showing up queasy and car sick. 

Poor, poor me.  I guess I was sort of fishing for my friend to feel sorry for me and sympathize.  Instead, she broke into a knowing smile and told me this story:   

She was born in 1942 in Alberta, Alabama, a little community about 30 miles from Selma.  Alberta was a mixture of black and white folks who got along and lived together in relative harmony.  But schools were segregated then.  So at the age of six my friend, who is black, began to attend Alberta Junior High, which was actually an elementary, middle and junior high combined.  The school was five miles away. 

School bus?  Nope.  Every morning all the black kids in the neighborhood would gather as a group and walk it.  Rain or shine, they made the trek.  She recalled it even snowed occasionally.  She had a vivid memory of walking across grass that crackled and snapped after an overnight frost.  

I stopped her there.  Wait a minute, I said.  Aren’t you exaggerating?  Isn’t this one of those “I walked to school in the snow every day uphill both ways” type of stories?  She insisted it was absolutely true, and she had the detail to back it up.  Five miles every day.  Her mind is sharp as a tack and her memory is specific and comprehensive.  Besides, I don’t think her deep Christian values would allow her to tell a lie even if she wanted to.  She’s well beyond the point of needing to impress anybody. 

She went on, revealing that the daily trudge was especially challenging because she had a lame right leg as a child, and she had to kind of drag it as she walked.  She suspected it was some sort of polio, before they knew what polio was. Thankfully the condition improved as she got older.   

Upon finally arriving at school, they would enter a building with no central heating or air, and no cafeteria.  The kids brought their own lunch.  Heat would come from a tall pot belly stove in the room.  Her lunch often consisted of biscuits and syrup.  She would have to wait her turn to put them on the stove to warm up.  There was a dress code.  Girls were not allowed to wear pants.  But during the cold winters they were permitted to wear them underneath their dresses, so long as they took them off once in the building.   

At the closing bell it was back out on the street for the long march home.  She did this every day through the eighth grade.  It was not until high school she was able to board a bus that took her eighteen miles away to Wilcox County Training School.   

She never forgot her humble childhood.  It motivated her to work hard to build a better life for herself, which she clearly accomplished.   

Wow.  After hearing her story, I felt pretty foolish complaining about my experience.  It certainly gave me a new perspective.  Suddenly that bumpy bus ride I took every day seemed like a blessing instead of a curse.  There’s a lesson in here somewhere.  Appreciate what you have, because many others have a far more difficult life than you.  I learned that from my friend.   

I suspect there is a lot more I can learn from her.