Most of us will have a happy Thanksgiving, but I
can't help thinking about many others who won't...
Once the dogs bugged me enough to take them for a
run at Moses Creek preserve, I went ahead and loaded all three into
the truck, as we do most mornings, and headed South to our somewhat
isolated spot. A cloudless sky allowed an unfettered sunshine to nip
at my skin. Vibrant greens and browns splashed the pines and scrub
that flank our path leading to an open field. A light breeze seemed
to be caught in transition, hot summer to cool winter, without too
much lingering in between. Twenty minutes into our walk, the dogs
were still lost in finding new scat, maybe that day old pile of hay
left there after processing by whatever horse it is that regularly
leaves tracks in the damp areas near a swampy place in the trail. The
wind picked up and called for my attention as clouds moved silently
in, completely blanketing the sky with gray. The rain started lightly
at first but within minutes it poured in a way on which Florida seems
to hold a patent. Giants overhead emptying buckets, a river falling
from the sky. The four of us had no choice but to turn and head back
without any possibility of cover. Soaked to the skin, the rain
bouncing off of my bare head, Chica, the little firecracker of a
terrier mix, sat down. Normally pointed ears lay flat. She was
miserable and didn't know what to do about it. Nowhere to run,
nowhere to hide. We plodded on as I thought about the last time I had
walked, uncovered, in a downpour. Nothing came to mind. That brief
exposure was bearable because I knew that the dry truck was waiting
for us, just a few miles ahead. But what of the homeless? What of the
Syrian refugees? What if there was no truck waiting, no home for me
with its closets full of dry clothes and refrigerator stocked with
too much food? I remembered a picture someone had posted of a
refugee, a big man in his forties dressed in clothes that made him
look like anyone I may pass on the street. He was clutching his
little daughter to his chest. Both were crying. The father crying out
of frustration that he could no longer feed and house his child. What
else had he lost to the violence? His wife? Other children? He had
lost almost everything and he had no place to go. Terrified, exposed,
almost in shock. No warm truck waiting at the end of the trail, his
home a memory, lost.
This perspective helps me to be very thankful
today, my plate is so full. But I want the Statue of Liberty to stand
tall as it always has, welcoming: "Give me your tired, your
poor,your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,the wretched refuse
of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,I
lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
I hope we still mean it.
On the ride back it was immediately obvious that
we had picked up a fifth passenger...myself, the three dogs, and the
overwhelming stink of wet dogs with generous amounts of horeshit
perfume rolled vigorously behind their ears. And I was, I am, a very
grateful, thankful, man.
