FAMILY

www.MakeADifferenceToday.Info

WC 1,789

At the time of year we just past through our thoughts are turned toward family. If you haven’t seen your family for a long time, or you are over thirty and still living at “home,” your thoughts turn to family. If you are not inclined to think of family at all, then peer pressure during this season will turn your mind toward family. The media will be running seasonal holiday shows. We will all have the chance to see Dr. Seuss's How the Grinch Stole Christmas (1966) , Holiday Inn (1942), It's A Wonderful Life (1946) where once again we can see the stair rail ball come off in James Stewart’s hand.

We too shall turn our spotlight on family, lost friends, and new. This time of year causes us to reach beyond our usual circle. Except for Scrooge (1951) of course, we all tend toward reaching out to others. This phenomena is known as, “The Christmas Spirit,” it is an attitude and not “The spirits” which haunted poor Ebenezer, (but did bring about his Christmas spirit of giving and sharing). Meanwhile our retail outlets try to get us to focus on the purchasing of things, things, and more things to give to others gifts ,things, that can be given.

As individuals or as a family group, think about giving of your time. Yes, we mean volunteer! It can be as simple as sharing a single hour, or going out to work in a volunteer situation. You can invite a co-worker to your home for a holiday meal, take a friend to a movie, visit an elderly aunt, say “Hi” more often to your neighbor, maybe even find out what their name is.

I have read that some postulate a compassion gene (Pinker, Is There a Gene for Compassion? ). I would say that if such exists, it was dormant in me until a learning and instructive experience brought it to my mind and incorporated it into my soul. I loved my wife, indeed. My life was narrow, neighbors were people who passed by, a Hi, how you doing. I was a deep admirer of Mr. Spock, high logic, no emotion. Until my neighbors showed me more compassion than I was capable. Strangers showed more compassion that I could muster, when my wife had a stroke.

A year later my thoughts began to turn outward toward the world around me. It suddenly occurred to me that I had never contacted anyone to tell them about my wife’s stroke. She had six sisters. To them we had dropped off the face of the earth, no car, no phone, and no address.

I called a friend of my wife’s, and she appeared on our door a half hour later. She had thought it odd that we moved and never told her. Her sisters too were surprised. As she could now speak slowly, she was able to talk with them. We eventually went back to the church we had attended

I tried to find my mother and her sister, my aunt. I later found that my aunt had died about the same time as my wife had her stroke. I cannot find any trace of my mother. I cannot find any of my family at all. I have been in touch with friends of my mother, and contacted a few high school friends. My family, though, is missing in action.

I said that I developed a compassion gene during this experience. It grew slowly, and took care and encouragement.

It started as I spent approximately three hours a day on the bus going from our Ybor home to my job at the airport and back again. I only worked 30 hours a week, but I spent 12 hours a week on the Hartline bus. Slowly I became aware that people were on the bus, people were at the airport. My customers were people; my fellow travelers on Hartline were people. Sometimes these people had needs. Somebody would be a nickel short of bus fare. I began to wish I had a nickel; I had a pass, a tightly budgeted for pass, but no pocket change.

I would go home to my county paid apartment in Ybor, fix my wife dinner, and notice she had not eaten her lunch. I’d pick up groceries paid for with food stamps; carry them home as best I could. They were so heavy I ripped out the strap of my old air force duffle bag; those things are tuff, very hard to rip. I took all our dirty clothes to the Laundromat, someone would be short a quarter to finish a drying cycle, and I wished I had a quarter.

My customers were traveling from city to city by air. Some were on vacation; some were going home to illness or a death. Some of my customers were very interesting, saffron robed monks that had a very normal looking wallet hidden somewhere in their robes. Some were dignitaries, the Geek orthodox bishop, recognizable celebrities, that would talk with me, like I was a person.

Some flew in early, wondered around the nearly empty terminal, and shopped. Then they rode back to the gate and reentered to greet the media. The bishop would do this every visit, shop in a suit and tie, and then come back in the robes of office for the media.

I was there during 09/11/2001. I discovered that an airport is part of a tightly knit, very close family. You can’t imagine the panic that swept through, unless you were at an airport at that time. People were shouting, “Oh my God!” from various places, and distances. One of the ladies I worked with had a daughter who was, and is, a flight attendant trainer, and supervisor. She was concerned that her daughter might be on one of those planes. Never before, in the history of US aviation had all planes been grounded.

We had planes ordered to return to our airport that were on their way to Bermuda. Others were returned to our site as well. Soon there were wall-to-wall people, all upset, some terrified, others angry and belligerent. The airport has a Chaplin and staff, and Pilots and Flight attendants, all were trying to keep calm, and to calm others. People were tired, hungry, exhausted and they slept on the floor, everywhere. It seemed like days before they were able to go to their destinations. Weeks after this the lady I worked with told me that Flight attendants were showing up at her door at all hours. Her daughter lived with her, and as flights came in, at whatever hour, they went to their supervisor, like chicks to the protective wings of their mother hen. There was fear in their once enjoyable, even if sometimes difficult jobs, but now there was fear. Everything looked like it was back to normal, but you could hear the quiet, the somberness, the lack of the chatter of travelers, pilots and flight attendants. Armed guards patrolled the gift shops. Dogs were brought in to sniff at bags that stood where someone had forgotten them. Some lady left behind a paper shopping bag. She left it at the table just outside our door, in the hall where she had sat at a table drinking coffee. I could see the salami sticking up from the bag. The bomb sniffing dogs appeared excited, so we had to evacuate.

I went home and in one day planted 200 hundred lilies in a long line along the edge of my property. I dug the trench to plant the lilies, like my life depended on it. The wind was blowing and rain was flying through the air. I got them all set and covered. I slept well that night and in the morning my supervisor called and told me the airport was closed down, again. In all the excitement and activity, we had not noticed a hurricane barring down upon our area. That explained the blowing wind and rain; I thought it was there just to fit my mood. The gift shop found that in the new somberness, that not many were buying gifts. I only worked 35 hours a week, and now I was cut down to less. I haven’t been to the airport without a deep feeling of dread since.

My compassion grew much during that period, I saw so many people in fear, and reaching out to comfort others. I saw the head of the airport walking around with tears in his eyes and comforting employees, as he laid them off, because the flights were down.

Now I have great need to do something that makes a difference and do it every day.

Perhaps you only need to do something that makes a difference once a year, but the need I have is every day.

The people who show up at Metropolitan Ministries of Tampa are there everyday too, not always the same people, but the numbers are increasing daily.

When I was a kid, we had little tin cans handed out at school to collect for the March of Dimes, the money raised found a prevention, not a cure, for polio, a dime, a dollar at a time.

So here, I am saying I do not have deep pockets, nor am I able to dedicate a whole lot of time. A dollar here, an hour, or two volunteering there, it adds up. If 10, 20, a hundred, a thousand do something small, it becomes magnified, and then it becomes a great thing.

Take voting, many people do not vote, because they only have one vote, yet our next president is going to be elected one vote at a time.

An interesting note: a friend whom I haven’t seen or heard from in thirty years, called me as I was typing this article. Our minds are turned to reaching out in seasons. She now lives in London, originally from Indiana, as are my wife and I. Also interesting is the fact that she gave us a gift certificate to Kiva.org - Loans that change lives a micro finance institution.
They give very small loans to people in very much need, twenty five dollars at a time. Now there is a small thing that adds up as more and more people give loans of twenty five dollars. My wife is going to write an article about our experiences using our gift certificate. The concept amazes me so much as I have been trying to induce people to give small and volunteer small, but often.

So look forward to that, and on our About Us page I will post a little something about why we havn’t been updating at least once a month as I would like.

Jack D. Singer

01/14/08 4:00PM EST