I’m writing to the woman with the boy in the wheelchair. He followed beside her buggy in the supermarket, hands on his wheels.
They didn’t say much to each other. She was too busy shopping. Then, for no reason at all, she leaned over to kiss his cheek.
You’ve never seen a kid so happy.
I’m writing to the kid who isn’t nice-looking. Who’s chubby. Short. Big-eared. Non-athletic. Clumsy. Or God help him—redheaded.
Also, the girl who wishes boys would pay attention to her. Who feels ugly. Who walks with slumped shoulders.
I’m writing to anyone who misses parents; to anyone who misses their spouse. I’m writing to people who miss their dog.
To Guillermo, who I met many years ago in the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant. He lived in his car. He helped jumpstart my truck, then he offered me a twenty.
It moved me to tears. I refused.
So he hugged me and gave me a “God bless you, man.”
To my mama—the woman who threw newspapers. Who lived in a one-bedroom trailer. Who worked from can to can’t. Who is one of the strongest humans I’ve known.
And to you.
We’ve never met, but I know you. Maybe you woke to screaming kids and an empty bank account. Perhaps you have achy joints, and the meds aren’t working.
Whoever you are, this world has sucked you dry, and now it’s billing you for the damage. You used to pray, but you’ve sort of given up the habit.
You ask yourself, “If there really is a God, then why the hell hasn’t he shown up to make things better?”
Yeah. I’m talking to you. I can’t do jack-squat but hook a few words together. But I can tell you something I know:
Not hateful things, not good things. Not ugliness, not beauty. Not football games, back pain, or kidney stones. Not newspaper-delivery jobs. Not life. Not death. Not childhood wheelchairs. Not the dirt beneath you.
There is one thing that will outlive this cotton-picking universe. You already know what it is.
So find a person who needs some.
And give it away.