Pammie

This weekend has been one of complaints.

Mine, hers, his.

Complaints everywhere.

I started thinking about this today, and I had this really weird realization.  That I also had a friend who I had been thinking about all weekend.  I suspect this was my subconscious way of trying to put my own stuff into perspective.

My complaints consist of TheKidlet acting like a brat, mostly cause she doesn’t feel well.   The cleaning lady didn’t vacuum under the end tables.  Some very personal complaints about myself.  Her complaints consist of anger over the fact that we forced her to go trick or treating.  (The nerve, right?)  And that she has to do everything around here.  (Note my second complaint, yes?)  His complaints mimic mine, plus complaints about the dog not getting enough exercise.

Even writing these out, I’m having a hard time seeing why anyone was worked up this weekend, why there were moments of absolute frustration.  But there were, as petty as it seems.

As I said, in the midst of all of this, I wondered how my friend was doing.  I hoped that he is faring well, and I hoped that his wife and new baby were amazing and glowing and happy, and that his two older children were still awe-struck and in love with their new baby sister.

Tonight it hit me, like a ton of bricks.  My friend is incredibly blessed, and when you can get him to be serious for a moment, he will tell you that he is blessed and feels lucky and he has his faith in G-d and overall, he is happy.

And yet, out of the people that I know personally, my friend has reason to complain.  Not a current event, but he has a story.  Yeah, we all have stories, but he has a STORY.  One of a type that most of us never think about, and when we do we widen our eyes in horror and maybe shed a tear for the story-teller.  We might ask a few details but overall, we don’t want to know that these stories are out there, perhaps affecting those that we know.  I think most of us want to believe that these things don’t happen in the world that we live in.

I won’t tell his story here; it’s not mine to tell.  It’s his story, should he choose to tell it.  And his story is not really the point.  My point is that I am spoiled, we are spoiled.  We complain about mundane things, we complain about the trivial.  When in reality, we should be thankful, and consider ourselves blessed.  Because we do have a nice roof over our heads, and we eat very well, and we have time and money to play, and we have the cleaning lady who forgets to vacuum under end tables.  I should not be amazed at my friend’s unwavering faith, I should be thankful that we live somewhere that he is allowed to express it freely.