“I realize now that I wanted to disappear. To get so lost that nobody ever found me. 
To go so far away that I'd never be able to make my way home again. 
But I have no idea why.” 
(Jessica Warman, Between)

 The Disappearing Man

By Bill Harder

Harold woke up on this particular morning feeling a bit strange. Climbing out of bed he stretched as he looked at himself in the mirror. Oddly, he noticed that his reflection was beginning to fade. Absently he rubbed his sleepy eyes and peered again at the misty image before him. No mistaking it – he was getting fainter by the minute. He thought it peculiar, but dismissed it as he pulled on his clothes and headed down the stairs for the breakfast that his impatience demanded be ready.

As he sat at the table waiting for his wife to bring a cup of coffee he thought he might make mention of his new condition.

“Susan – do I seem a little... transparent to you? Am I fading a bit?”

She didn’t seem to hear him as she puttered about the stove, flipping pancakes and filling coffee cups. He repeated the statement, this time a little louder, but was interrupted mid-sentence. “Harold!” she called out, interrupting his query of concern. “Harold – breakfast is ready!”

Startled, he responded, “Susan you dingbat – I’m right here. Now bring my coffee and something to eat so I won’t be late. You know I hate to be late... Did you hear what I asked you? Am I fading out?”

Susan turned to the table, and looking right through him pinched her brows together in consternation as she again called out the invitation to their morning repast. Pausing only a moment to wait for a response she shrugged her shoulders and sat herself down to dine on two fluffy pancakes. She reached around to set the frying pan back on the stove without so much as a glance over at Harold, who sat in his chair with his mouth hanging agape.

“Well!” he spat out, snapping his jaws shut. “That’s a fine way to treat your husband first thing in the morning. I’ll be off then, without my breakfast and probably late to boot! If I’m fired it will certainly be your fault!” And with that he stormed out of the house, grabbing his overcoat and briefcase as he went.

He walked to the bus stop, as he usually did, stomping down the sidewalk, clouded in frustration. He didn’t have time for the busker playing guitar at the corner; nor did he appreciate the fact that the doorman at his office didn’t take time to open the door for him – Harold withheld any cheery hellos or Merry Christmases in light of the man’s rudeness. In fact, he wondered if the doorman even noticed he was there. On the 10th floor the receptionist didn’t bother to greet him and his own secretary entirely looked right through him when he brought his growing frustration into the front office.

Throughout the day Harold had the mounting sensation that he was completely invisible – un-seeable in any fashion by sight, sound or touch. It absolutely infuriated him. No one gave him a moment’s notice; nobody offered help, extended sympathy, even seemed to miss him. He began to feel very much alone. The more energy he put into being noticed the less anyone around him seemed to care. By mid-afternoon he was desperate to the point of jumping up on the boardroom table in the middle of a high-level meeting, scattering agendas and notices, and shouting at the top of his lungs, “I’m here! I’m here for God’s sake – somebody notice me! Please, somebody say something to me...”

A brief glimmer of hope died out when the board chair looked directly at him and to know one in particular asked, “would someone close the window – a draft seems to be blowing the papers about.”

That was all he could take. Like a scolded puppy he climbed off of the oval table and slumped out of the room. No one saw him leave, no one missed that he was not there. Trudging down the hall he passed a decorative mirror – stopping to gaze, nobody looked back at him. He had completely vanished. “Well...” he thought, “that’s the end of me. No one ever did love me – it’s fitting that I just fade away. The whole miserable lot of ‘em can fade away too for all I care...” And with that Harold the disappearing man drifted out of the building and on to the street.

That might have been the end of him then – he may have simply paled from existence as though he had never been. It just might have been, but for a rather peculiar incident, a few hours later, on 49th and Main. Leaning against a light standard, feeling dreadfully sorry for himself, he noticed a young woman, a girl really, standing at the corner waiting for the light to change. She was shivering, and rightly so for she had no coat and only a wisp of a shirt, and this a cold day. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself, faint protection from the biting chill. What was strange was not the presence of this poorly-dressed teen, for they were plentiful in the city. The unusual thing was his observation of her – that he noticed her at all. It in fact surprised even him.

“Odd,” he thought, “I pass by here everyday and don’t remember seeing so many people so poorly dressed for the weather.” On an impulse, and before he had a chance to rethink it, he had slipped his overcoat off and wrapped it around the shivering teen; it materialized around her gaunt frame from nowhere, becoming solid as soon as he removed it. She turned to see who had helped her. She almost, but not quite caught a glimpse of someone standing behind her, sad eyes moist, coat-less in the wind. He didn’t care about the cold – he was done-for anyway. What was a little cold to add to his despair?

He walked on from there, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, his shoulders caving-in to his despair. Hungry, he stepped into the mall and meandered his way to the food court. He stopped in front of a vender – Asian food. A cacophony of smells made his stomach growl. Reaching to his back pocket for his wallet he addressed the woman behind the counter. “I’d like a plate of...” he began, and then stopped mid-sentence. She did not see him, she had no idea he was there – though she did turn toward him as though a faint noise had caught her attention. Tears again filled his eyes. So this was how it would be – alone and slowly starving to death!

He sat down at a table in the common area. Once again his misery was interrupted by a rather unusual interaction. A scrubby, elderly man sat down at the table directly across from him. The fellow omitted a foul odor, his clothes worn and dirty, his face scarred and deeply creased. The man’s hands were shaking and his eyes darted nervously about the room. Harold’s initial reaction of disgust mutated into compassion as he realized he was not much better off himself. He stared with newfound concern at the man, wondering how he could have gotten into such straits. Without a doubt he needed a hot meal – and a bath!

Opening the wallet that had not yet migrated back to it’s pocket, Harold pulled out $45 bucks, cash, and dropped it on the table in front of the old fellow. It was all he had on him. The vagrant had been looking over his shoulder longingly at a burger joint and did not see the money appear before him out of thin air. Nor did he say thank you to the faintly visible outline of a man whose shoulders hung low as he wandered out of the food court.

Feeling despondent in his loneliness, Harold fled to the streets. The December light was low in the sky and what little warmth the day had promised was giving heed to the dusk. He wrapped his arms around himself, not so unlike the girl an hour earlier. Heading down Main he stepped into an alleyway to get out of the wind and catch his breath. Slipping on some ice he fell hard, scrapping his face and tearing his pants. As he looked up from where he fallen he saw a cat, shivering in the cold, staring vaguely through him. Poor cat, thought Harold – I suppose she can smell me, even if I cannot be seen. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a wrapped chocolate that he’d forgotten he’d picked up earlier. He unwrapped it and laid it on the snow. The kitty meowed piteously and gingerly sniffed the offering. Looking straight at him the cat suddenly grabbed the chocolate and fled down the alley.

Feeling insubstantial to all but the wind Harold decided to make his way home. He ghosted down the darkening streets, cold, as much from dread as from wind-chill. Waif-like, his thoughts drifted with him. He had spent his life, his marriage, all his energy hungry to be loved and here he was fading from the world, and no one cared. The misery of his thoughts was interrupted, however, by a small child in the front yard of a darkened house; a house in fact, that had no Christmas lights, no tree in the front window. The little boy was sitting on the dim front porch, sobbing softly into his sleeve. Forgetting for the moment the immaterial nature of his being Harold walked up to the step and squatted down in front of the child.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, a very real concern etched on his face. The boy looked up, sniffing and wiping his nose with the back of a ragged mitt. He looked directly into Harold’s eyes, and for one heart-stopping moment Harold remembered that he had disappeared. And then, as though the veil between life and death had been pulled aside, the child replied, “Mister, – how come you’re sort of see-through?” Too shocked to make sense of the boy’s question, Harold pressed on. “You’re sad – what’s the matter? Where’s your mom?”

The boy shrugged his small shoulders, “I don’t know,” he said, eyes to the ground, “she’s out somewhere – said she’d be home later.” Harold glanced at the front window – “you don’t have a Christmas tree!” The child’s eyes misted over again and a big tear slid down his cheek as he shook his head “no”. “There’s no Christmas at my house”, he said as he stood and turned to the door. Harold stood with the boy and turned to leave, but just before the door closed he called back to the lad – “maybe it will come – don’t loose hope, maybe...”

His thoughts fired in rapid succession. Without consideration for the misery and seeming failure of the day, let alone of his whole life, Harold ran across the street to a pay phone and called a cab. Minutes later he was again surprised when the cabby stopped right where he was standing. He hopped into the back seat and asked the driver to go to the Department store on 12th. Without a glance back the driver commented absent-mindedly, “it’s cold out fella – you otta be wear’n a jacket...”

“Wait for me,” Harold instructed the cabby as he closed the car door. Catching his reflection in the window he was startled to observe that he was almost substantial – only a glimmer of the street light behind shone eerily through his head like a warning beacon. The cabby nodded non-committedly as Harold ran to the store. Twenty minutes later he returned with a three-foot, pre-decorated, fiber-optic Christmas tree in a box. The cabby popped the trunk and Harold slipped the tree in, closed the trunk and slid into the backseat of the cab. “Take me to that big grocery store near the highway!” The driver gave a nod and pulled away as snow began to fall in earnest.

By the time the taxi drove up to the little boy’s house a blizzard was settling in, obscuring the road and the cheerless house of the child. Harold gave the driver his credit card and waited impatiently as the cabby processed the bill. For the first time, his driving-weary eyes eager for his own home, the taxi-driver looked directly at Harold,. “Here ya go mister – merry Christmas!” Harold returned the glance and for the first time really saw the cabby – a tired, hard-working man longing to finish his shift. “Merry Christmas” He replied, “and thanks for tonight – I really appreciate it.”

It felt a bit weird coming from his mouth – “thank you” – and to a stranger to boot; Harold never said thank you... but then, it had been, by all accounts an exceptionally strange day. Retrieving the tree and an armload of packages from the trunk Harold made his way through the wiping wind to the front porch. Rapping on the door he shivered against the cold. There was no answer at first, but then Harold heard the soft footsteps of the boy inside. The door eased open a crack and the little boy looked out, squinting into the blowing snow at the stranger standing on the stoop. “I have something for you” Harold explained uncomfortably. “Is your mom home yet?” The child shook his head “no”, staring with growing wonder at the pile of packages in Harold’s arms. “What’s your name?” Harold asked. “Charlie,” was the brief reply.

“May I come in Charlie, I have something for you, and your mom?” Nodding “yes” Charlie stepped back to let the stranger in, his eyes getting large as he saw the box with the tree. In but a moment Harold had the tree set up, several wrapped gifts spread enticingly beneath the glittering branches. A small turkey was left in the fridge along with a carton of eggnog and a can of cranberry sauce.

He returned to the front door and bent down to pull on his shoes. “Mister...” Charlie said quietly. “Are you God?” Harold looked at the boy, the child’s face glowing with joy at the amazing events of the evening. “No, son,” he said tiredly as his voice choked with tears. “No, I’m barely even real...”

Impetuously the child ran over and gave him a hug, holding on tightly for a moment before stepping back. “You’re not see-through any more.” He said with innocence.

“No... no I’m not.” A pause and then, “and you’re not either.” There was a moment of quiet, the front hall lit by the twinkling of the Christmas tree lights. Then Charlie said softly, like a benediction, “You sure are real to me!” And with that Harold the visible man stepped into the night and disappeared into the blowing snow.

The Color of Christmas Parables

“Then the Grinch thought of something

he hadn't before!

What if Christmas, he thought,

doesn't come from a store.

What if Christmas perhaps

means a little bit more!” 

(Dr. Seuss, How the Grinch Stole Christmas!)

The Man in the Mirror

A Christmas Parable by Bill

His worn cap has slipped down over his eyes again so that when he looks up all the world seems dim – dim and colorless. That’s him alright, the dim and colorless man. He pushes his hat back with a shaky hand and glares out at the quickly fading daylight. He’d have to find a corner somewhere and make a nest before the thugs come out. Oh yeah, he knows about street thugs. Those bullies in the street community who prey upon the weak, the ones who’d take your shoes and your last few coins in exchange for a knife in the ribs.

He skitters into a nearby alley way, his bony, stick frame casting a long wiry shadow on the rough asphalt. He is the dregs – dressed in rags and smelling worse than the ally gutter. He ghosts silently past darkened windows until his reflection in a passing pane of glass catches him for a moment. Who is he – this worn out old man? He hadn’t started life like this  – oh no. Not so many years ago… well, now that he thinks back, it was probably twenty years… anyway, a ways ago, in a different lifetime he’d been married, had a little house, a good job, a baby girl.

And then he loses his job, can’t pay his bills, becomes depressed – and starts drinking – and loses his wife – and baby girl. No, she doesn’t leave him – that’d be too easy. They’re killed, wife and baby, in a car accident on their way to bail him out of the drunk tank one Friday night; killed by another drunk. What is left of him after that is staring back from the darkened windowpane – a lonely shell of a man who has long ago given up on himself and the world. A fake human being he thinks to himself.

He turns his back on the glass with a snort of derision and nearly stumbles over a man blocking his way. With a knee-jerk reaction of fear he backs up with surprising speed, almost tripping over his own feet. But the man does not seem hostile – probably not a thug – in fact he’s dressed in a Santa suit of all things. So our man, he stops, and in the hazy light of the back alley he takes stock of the fellow. It was all there for sure – beard, red coat and white trim, big black boots… well, he’s seen stranger things than Santa Claus in an alley so he lowers his eyes, looks away and makes to go around and continue his hunt for a place to bed down.

Except, as he goes by Santa, or whoever he is, reaches out and grabs his arm – not with aggression, but firmly. So our man, we’ll call him John, though it’s a name that he’s almost forgotten – been so long since anybody’s called him by name  – John, he gives his arm a shake, glares at Santa, reaches out to push him off. But Santa is persistent and pulls John down the alley like he wants to show him something. A voice in the back of John’s booze-eroded mind tells him he should resist, run, be alarmed, but Santa is insistent and for no reason he can fathom, John acquiesces and follows along, Santa leading him by the sleeve of his thread-bare coat like a lost puppy on a leash.

They haven’t gone more than a block when the fog rolls in real thick. That happens sometimes, but tonight this seems to come out of nowhere.  The world fades back and John and Santa are walking alone in swirling mists. John finally musters enough gumption to confront his silent guide – who are you? What do you want? Where you tak’n me? But Santa, like Dickens’ Christmas ghosts keeps his tongue still and simply points. The mists curl back to reveal a young woman, a girl really, sitting curled up with her back against a dumpster, her arms wrapped protectively around her knees. Wearing skin-tight revealing clothing she is crying, weeping the hopeless tears of one who is trapped in misery.

Now, this isn’t Christmas past or some miserable Christmas future – it is just right now. John’s seen the girl before –14 years old maybe; a prostitute. She’s been beaten. Again. Damn! John thinks to himself – I hate this place. A thought flashes in his mind: this could be my girl – if I hadn’t killed her. But it’s not his problem. He’s his own problem and he doesn’t want anything to do with this girl or her angry pimp. But the real problem is he hasn’t had enough to drink and feelings are threatening to erupt. He wants to run away, but Santa stands firm behind him and points to the girl. A little piece of crust breaks off John’s heart and falls to the ground as he takes a step toward her. He shakes his head at himself – who is he to help anybody? He’s not wearing much of a coat, but he takes it off and wraps it around her. She sniffs, wipes her nose on the sleeve and looks at, or maybe through, the smelly old man who is kneeling beside her.

He pulls her up. He wants to skitter away, find a nest and bed down in his own misery, but he doesn’t. Come on – he says, we’ve got to get you warm. She is so lost that she doesn’t resist. For a moment John glances back to see what Santa is up to, but the man has melted back into the fog so John leads the girl down the alley, just as he had been lead moments before.

The soup kitchen is around the corner. They know John there – he’s a regular. They’ve seen the young woman on the streets. No questions are asked, no judgment made. John takes her to a table and comes back with a steaming bowl of soup, a biscuit and coffee. But she is shaking so hard that she can barely get the spoon to her mouth. John takes her hand, helps her, just for a moment, and in the stillness, in the eternity of this moment John the beggar is made human again. His heart cracks wide open, the encrusted wreak of decades of self-loathing falling aside as tears cascade down his dirty weathered cheeks. Who am I? he repeats to himself as he looks at the frightened girl – who am I to help you?

She looks at him, some color returning to her face, her hands managing the spoon on their own and the raw look of need in her eyes answers his question. You, her eyes say, are the only hope I’ve got. John’s newly exposed heart beats tentatively, afraid to break, uncertain of the landscape that love is drawing him into. Wait here, he says, I’ll be right back. I’ve got to talk to someone. The girl is absorbed in her soup and coffee and barely acknowledges his words.

Outside John returns to the alley. He peers into the gloom, searching for Santa, and again the fog slowly seeps in to absorb the night. As he moves into the mist he is startled to see his Santa walking along beside him. John wants to know what is going on… why did you take me to her… but Santa puts his finger to his lips – ssshhhh he motions. And again guides John down the alley, back to the window pane where they had met. Santa points to the reflection and an unwilling John wrestles his gaze to the dim mirror. He could not be more shocked at what the reflection holds, not John the beggar, John the broken man filled with cheap wine and guilt, but rather John the man he could have been, or perhaps should have been, or perhaps is – strong, kind, wise, clean, sober. For a moment he is resentful to be tortured so by what is lost to him.

He is too tired though to maintain such resentment. His thoughts wrestle within and he thinks, maybe the man in the window -  maybe this is really who I am? He turns to ask Santa – is that me, underneath this rotten life, is that man still there? The last piece of rotten crust falls from John’s heart and a palpable glow fills his being with light. At the event horizon of contrition he surrenders himself… and forgives – forgives the man in the mirror, the threads of life that brought him to this alley, the past, the present, and the unknown future. Time flows and he gently comes back to the moment.

Santa is gone; he has faded away, drawn back into the fog from which he came. Silence erupts – absolute stillness – like gentle falling snow, like the soft morning glow of pre-dawn light. Silence that is so pure you weep for peace and joy. In the distance a church bell rings and the voices of carolers sing out into the night – silent night, holy night…

John blinks tears out of his eyes and in that moment the life pours in and the stillness is gone. He is standing alone in the grey light of the darkened alley, staring at an old weathered man reflected in a pane of glass. He wipes a fingerless glove across his face, smiles and turns down the alley toward the soup kitchen. Somehow the thread of time has unraveled itself and many hours have passed; 12:01 AM, Christmas morning, and John the miracle has work to do. Merry Christmas!

I leave the last word to inventor, author, and American founding father, Benjamin Franklin:

“How many observe Christ's birthday!

How few, His precepts!”

The color of Christmas parables...

walking the talk.

The hardest

candies

have

the softest

centers

Be

true to

Love

Breathe

Play

Laugh

To Ponder Further:

- From the Bible: "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace." (Isaiah 9.6)

- From modern culture: “My idea of Christmas, whether old-fashioned or modern, is very simple: loving others. Come to think of it, why do we have to wait for Christmas to do that?” (Bob Hope)

- From Hinduism: "Whenever the Law declines and the purpose of life is forgotten, I manifest myself on earth. I am born in every age to protect the good, to destroy evil, and to reestablish the Law." (Bhagavad Gita 4.7-8)

The Color of Today

“You can't stop the future
You can't rewind the past
The only way to learn the secret
...is to press play.”
(Jay Asher, Thirteen Reasons Why)

I came across a quote recently: “You can’t ‘should’ve done’ something; you can only do something.” It provoked an avalanche of thoughts on the things that I “should’ve done” – I should’ve emptied the trailer’s hot water tank before it froze; I should’ve taken the garbage out before the garbage truck came; I should have moved my vehicle before the grader cleared the street… and many more serious “should haves” on the list.

My brain has a tendency to ruminate endlessly on the “should’ve dones,” emotionally kneading them like some kind of mental dough. Problem is, I have no power to go back and do something yesterday. In fact, I have no power (that I am currently aware of) to make any change yesterday or tomorrow. I am firmly planted, entrenched even, in the present.

“Yesterday I was clever,

so I wanted to change the world.

Today I am wise,

so I am changing myself.”
(Rumi)

Most acknowledge that we cannot change the past (even though we ruminate over should’ve dones), however, there is a persistent cultural belief that we can change the future. “It is unwritten… we can sculpt it as we desire…” This is, perhaps, one of the greatest subterfuges of truth that modern society inflicts upon itself, the belief in a malleable tomorrow.

“...the past gives you an identity

and the future holds the promise of salvation,

of fulfillment in whatever form.

Both are illusions.”
(Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now)

It all comes down to the seemingly difficult-to-grasp truth that change happens right now, with today’s choices, with this moment’s commitments. Without doubt, the past has molded us, and with equal certainty the path ahead will be shaped by today’s choices. Still, it is today that is being changed then, it is life right now that bears the burden of renewal.

“Change will not come if we wait for some other person,

or if we wait for some other time.

We are the ones we've been waiting for.

We are the change that we seek.”
(Barack Obama)

“I’ll do it tomorrow” is a commitment right now – a choice not to do something, or from another angle it is a choice to some action, but not the one that resides in the fantasy of tomorrow. The real questions as far as change is concerned is what am I going to do right now? If we are going to seek renewal, if we are going to stretch to reach our potentials, then that will happen today. We cannot “should’ve done,” and we cannot “will do tomorrow,” but we can do right now.

So what is it time for you to do today – for your body, your mind, your heart… your soul? What choices/changes does your work life need so that life pours into it? What does today need from your relationships at home and in the community? What is working well and needs to be affirmed?

I’m not suggesting that this moment needs to be filled with dramatic alterations to the path. Rather, I acknowledge the limits with which reality has bound us: we have great power, in this moment, to breathe, to act, to be. If something needs to happen it will not happen yesterday or tomorrow – it will happen now. The apples are picked from the branch as I plant an apple seed… now. The broken bones mends as the cast is applied to the limb… now.

If your wellness tank is getting low make choices today that will affect your well-being. Be attentive to yourself, and to all that Love brings to your path in any given moment. In so doing you are fully open to life in all of its color and wonder.

I leave the last word to author, Alice Hoffman:

“Although I am no longer caught in the past,

the future seems like a ridiculous thing to me.

Try to catch it, hold it in your hand.

It disappears every time.”
(Alice Hoffman, Green Heart)

The color of today…

Love embedded in time.

All my sorrow

All my hope

All my memories

All my fantasies

Are experienced

Now

Breathe

Pray

Listen

To Ponder Further:

- From the Bible: “Do not be deceived: God is not mocked, for whatever one sows, that will he also reap.” (Galatians 6.7)

- From the Unification Church: “To prepare for heaven, we should live our daily lives with sacrifice and service. (Sun Myung Moon, 2-6-77)

- African Traditional: “We are on a market trip to earth: Whether we fill our baskets or not, once the time is up, we go home. (Igbo Song (Nigeria))

The Color of Other Perspectives

“In all affairs it's a healthy thing now and then

to hang a question mark

on the things you have long taken for granted.” 

(Bertrand Russell)

Recent conversations with my brother are a reminder that the world, and the reality through which we perceive it, are a multi-faceted gem. While Cameron and I share many viewpoints, we have an equal number of divergent perspectives on life.

Perhaps one of the most threatening areas of human growth in which to explore is that of accepting that there are ways to be in this world than our own. We tend to carefully construct our reality upon learned beliefs, values, and morals. In so doing an underlying mandate informs us that any beliefs, values, or morals that differ from our own must be wrong.

“We can complain

because rose bushes have thorns,

or rejoice

because thorn bushes have roses.” 

(Abraham Lincoln)

I’m not saying that we should not cling to our beliefs – faith demands diligence and steadfastness. However, faith is weak if it is easily threatened by another’s perspective. For Christians and Muslims this can create something of a moral dilemma, for both of these religions espouse one true perspective, one right path. How then do we both cling, and be open to another’s journey?

“There are no facts,

only interpretations.” 

(Friedrich Nietzsche)

Perhaps the challenge is to understand our own beliefs, values, and morals so deeply that we can sit in the presence of contrary beliefs without feeling threatened. More even, in the face of contradictory values we may find our own understandings sharpened, defined, and enriched.

“One person's craziness

is another person's reality.” 

(Tim Burton)

To step outside of ourselves and acknowledge the ideas and beliefs of someone else takes great self-awareness.

Is that not Love at work? Recognizing that the political, religious, or cultural underpinnings of our neighbor are as important as our own? That another’s lens is also a way to see the world. Love is unity in diversity, making room at the table even when it pushes our limits or tests our boundaries.

Often we are so utterly convinced that our way is the right way, that it is the only way. At the very same time someone else is looking at us and thinking the same thing about their thoughts… Love seeks to build bridges, to start conversations, to create the ground where “aha” moments open our hearts to an epiphany.

Find a moment this week to sit down with someone whose point of view is different from your own. Don’t try to convert them, just listen. Then share your thoughts and let them listen. No conversion necessary; agreement is not the goal. Simply enjoy the colors of the sunrise from somebody else’s mountain.

I leave the last word to author Shannon Alder:

“Your perspective on life

comes from the cage you were held captive in.” 

(Shannon L. Alder)

The color of other perspectives…

Loving your neighbor as yourself.

The caterpillars

Were convinced

They’d figured it out

 And then

Came

Butterflies

Smile

Breathe

Pray 

To Ponder Further:
- From the Bible: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:28 )

- From Islam: “Be not be like those who are divided amongst themselves and fall into disputations after receiving clear signs…” (Qur’an 3.105)

- From Africa: “It is because one antelope will blow the dust from the other's eye that two antelopes walk together.” (African Traditional Religions. Akan Proverb [Ghana])