Disjointed

I would never have survived a concentration camp; I don't have the stamina.

I would have worked my swollen fingers to the bone.
I would have struggled for breath.
I would have collapsed during work detail.
I would have been executed for being lazy and not strong enough.

I live a 'soft' life, so to speak.
I have work, clothing, food and drink.
I have a TV and a car.
I have air conditioning and heat.
I have a bed.
I have my health.

For food, all I do is open a cabinet or refrigerator door.
Or, I walk through a door and up to a counter. I speak my wish, hand a person a card or some pale green paper...and my gluttony is satisfied.

This past weekend, my husband met two young women who approached him while he worked in our yard. The young ladies introduced themselves.

A conversation ensued for at least an hour.

Both women were African American.
Both women were endeavoring to make their lives better through the PSI Transitioning Youth/Young Adults Program.

One woman was 19 years old.
She told Hubby that she wants to have a baby when she is 20.
Hubby said to her, "Don't do that. Wait. Wait until your 24 or 25."

When my husband stated to the 19-year old, "Wait..." the 27-year old's heart opened and she began to share her story.
She echoed my husband's words of advice to the 19-year old.

The 27-year old had gotten pregnant at 12 years of age.
Her father threw her out when he discovered she was pregnant.
So she went to live with her mother. Her mother was a crack addict.
The 27-year old birthed her first child at 13 years old while living with her crack-addict mother.
The 27-year old cared for her mother's other children and for her own baby.
She birthed her second child when she was 18 years old.

She said to my husband, "If I had had a father like you, my life would have turned out differently."
She asked him jokingly, "Would you like to adopt me? You'd have a couple of instant chocolate grand children."
They all laughed.

Hubby contributed to their sponsorship and ordered three magazines for donation and three to come to our home.

The 19 year old asked him, "Have you ever held a thousand dollars in your hand?"
He chuckled and answered, "Yes. But I wasn't 19; I was in my 40s before I ever held $1000.00 in my hand."

A couple nights prior to that Saturday afternoon fellowship between my husband and the two young ladies whom he invited inside, I bought a meal for a young homeless man. I would have liked to brought him home, but the last homeless person I brought to live with us...well, it didn't end well. Nothing horrific, but I keep my distance now from bringing in folks I don't know.

After I left the young man to his meal and drove home in the dark I thought, It would have been nice to have bought him a hotel room for the night. I'll have to remember that for one of my next deeds. But I wouldn't want to have a stranger in my car. These days, I'd have to have a very clear intuitive direction to do such a thing, to allow a stranger in my car alone with me.

I used to pick up strangers, in my younger days.

There are stories there too...
...like the guy who I dropped off at the edge of some woods where he said he lived...
...or the hitch hiker dude I picked up on Interstate 40 near Morganton and then immediately two unmarked police cars appear, one car pulls in front of me and one behind me, and then an officer knocks on my driver's window frantically shaking his head "NO!" with his eyes just as frantically talking to me without his voice ever muttering a word while the stranger in the passenger's seat beside me having locked his door verbally and frantically whispers for me to "GO. GO. GO."
I unlock the passenger's door and the officer at his door opens it and the stranger exits the car and I wonder later if I did the right thing by letting him go, that maybe he needed help more than he needed officers taking him in.

We all have stories.

I am not a good story teller.
Maybe I'll want to detail stories (again) when I have more time and energy.
My inclination and creativity for writing details has (again) waned.
The details tire me instead of inspire me.

The serum sickness recently reared its ugly symptoms again. I wore my compression gloves today to help the weakness and tenderness in my hands.
My feet are tender too. I may wear the compression socks again this week but I don't want to.

Still, I live on easy avenue.

I wonder where the strangers from past stories are now?

I wonder where the strangers from the current stories will be in the future?