To my sorrow — a mark of my failings — I no longer always engage with people on the street: homeless or not. I used to: I used to smile and say Hello to everyone, meeting their eyes and offering out my heart, hoping it would be some small gesture, that, maybe, a token of my love would brighten their day.As is often the case with naiveté and innocence (of which I both have a shocking abundance and disturbing lack of, depending on the situation), mine bit me in the ass a few too many times to continue to so openly offer myself. I was followed, harassed. Screamed at.Straight up challenged to a fight on a busy New York street, all 120 pounds of me slack-jawed in bewilderment.Because, when you’re in pain, who really wants someone smiling and making eye contact all the time? Who did I think I was? A rainbow fairy?So now, I often nod. Avert my eyes. Give the tight-lipped smile that is a fan favorite at funerals and cancer wards.But this girl.She was my sister’s age — about 25 — and earnestly pretty through her sunburned, tear and dirt-streaked face. Her freckles were fresh as new milk, and her eyes were hollow and old. She was holding a sign that said Just hungry.Hunched over, she counted pennies on the sidewalk and I counted blessings that I don’t deserve, circumstances and coincidences that put me in Yoga pants and her in rags.Both counting.All I could bring her was dinner and my own shame. I placed the bag at her feet, head bowed, and cautioned a glimpse into her face.She looked like Christmas morning. I felt like last night’s party.I wanted to thank her: for humility, for humanity.For the struggle she carries and the mirror she gave me.All I could do was nod.
Source: Poverty & Privilege: A Divine Lesson In Humility. | Rebelle Society
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