I just met a older lady named Christine.
She is wearing a very light blue t-shirt with something printed on the front, khaki shorts, black velcro sneakers, and a khaki hat. She's got shorter, blond hair and fairly bad teeth.
She's walking up 441 with a burgundy duffle bag, two smaller bags (one of which matches the duffle and one of which is black), and a purse.
She stopped in our driveway and I watched her for a moment, and then realized it's about 95 degrees outside and I have a cooler full of ice cold bottles of water.
Where ever it is she's going, it's bound to be a long way.
I walked out of the office and toward her, she didn't see me coming and couldn't hear me over the highway, but I called to her and asked if she wanted water. When I finally got close enough for her to hear what I was asking her, her chest visibly heaved with relief.
"Like an oasis in the desert, I can't believe you came out of no where and offered me water."
I jogged back to my car to get her some cold water from the cooler. I grabbed two for her. As I handed them to her, she just smiled at me. Without skepticism, without hesitation, purely relieved "there is still good in the human race."
When I asked where she was headed, her answer astounded me, "I'm going back to Minnesota." So matter-of-factly, as if against the will of someone else.
I didn't have any of life's wise offerings for her; she seemed confident in her plans to make it back to Minnesota and comfortable with how she was going to have to do it. But I can't help wondering her story. How'd she get to Reddick? Why does she need to get back to Minnesota?
I suggested lighting her load some how, but the words "these four bags are all I own" resonated so powerfully with me that I felt terrible for even suggesting it.
"I figure I'll make it to the truck stop from here by afternoon and surely someone there can help me out. Is there a post office around here?"
I asked her to please be careful, that it's dangerous asking for rides and she said, "your faith in my good nature and your compassion are proof that good still exists in people. There are more like us than we think."
Then she packed her two bottles of water in one of her bags, slung them up over her shoulders, wiped her brow and pressed on.
I hope she makes it back to Minnesota. And I wish there were more ways I could have helped her along. She never asked me for a thing -- not a ride or a bite to eat, even. She never mentioned money, or hardship. She was content and determined and somehow . . . happy.
I admire the ability to maintain a healthy level of optimism in times when everything around you looks bleak and detrimental.
She is wearing a very light blue t-shirt with something printed on the front, khaki shorts, black velcro sneakers, and a khaki hat. She's got shorter, blond hair and fairly bad teeth.
She's walking up 441 with a burgundy duffle bag, two smaller bags (one of which matches the duffle and one of which is black), and a purse.
She stopped in our driveway and I watched her for a moment, and then realized it's about 95 degrees outside and I have a cooler full of ice cold bottles of water.
Where ever it is she's going, it's bound to be a long way.
I walked out of the office and toward her, she didn't see me coming and couldn't hear me over the highway, but I called to her and asked if she wanted water. When I finally got close enough for her to hear what I was asking her, her chest visibly heaved with relief.
"Like an oasis in the desert, I can't believe you came out of no where and offered me water."
I jogged back to my car to get her some cold water from the cooler. I grabbed two for her. As I handed them to her, she just smiled at me. Without skepticism, without hesitation, purely relieved "there is still good in the human race."
When I asked where she was headed, her answer astounded me, "I'm going back to Minnesota." So matter-of-factly, as if against the will of someone else.
I didn't have any of life's wise offerings for her; she seemed confident in her plans to make it back to Minnesota and comfortable with how she was going to have to do it. But I can't help wondering her story. How'd she get to Reddick? Why does she need to get back to Minnesota?
I suggested lighting her load some how, but the words "these four bags are all I own" resonated so powerfully with me that I felt terrible for even suggesting it.
"I figure I'll make it to the truck stop from here by afternoon and surely someone there can help me out. Is there a post office around here?"
I asked her to please be careful, that it's dangerous asking for rides and she said, "your faith in my good nature and your compassion are proof that good still exists in people. There are more like us than we think."
Then she packed her two bottles of water in one of her bags, slung them up over her shoulders, wiped her brow and pressed on.
I hope she makes it back to Minnesota. And I wish there were more ways I could have helped her along. She never asked me for a thing -- not a ride or a bite to eat, even. She never mentioned money, or hardship. She was content and determined and somehow . . . happy.
I admire the ability to maintain a healthy level of optimism in times when everything around you looks bleak and detrimental.
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