wish i could do more
I have a dear friend who needs a new job. She has a job that pays pretty well and provides decent benefits. Basic employment-wise, she’s a lot better off than lots of Americans. However, the job is killing her spirit.
Five days a week she has to deal with people who have been dealt extremely poor hands at the great poker table of life. Extremely poor hands. Some of these people are victims of others’ vile actions. Some of them are the victims of their own poor decisions. Some were born with problems that normal, nurturing upbringings couldn’t solve. A few are truly scary people. All of them need counseling, medication, and a sympathetic ear.
Each and every one of them has a story to tell. I’m sure many of the stories are way stranger than the wildest fiction we could imagine. Some of the stories are probably carbon copies of others with the names changed. There may even be a few with stories that seem fairly normal but still need help. My friend has to listen to each and every one and make a judgment. She has to determine what the best course of action is based on each individual. There are no cookie cutter short cuts.
After hearing a couple million of these stories I can tell it’s affecting her. She seems sad and tired. The playful, airy, light soul is still there, but it takes a little more prodding to bring out at times. She’s even quit believing in things she used to know were integral elements of life. Her job has hardened a bit of her soul. Picture a beautiful little stream. Full of clear, clean babbling water. Supporting an entire community of wildlife and people. Mossy rocks and wildflowers. Dogwood trees in bloom and watercress. Then somebody up the hill dumps over a load of pesticide that flows into the stream. Some of the qualities that make the stream a wonderful place are killed off. In time, some return but they’re never the same. Each pollutant hurts the stream. Each story tears her apart.
She wants to do more for each and every one of her storytellers but knows she can’t and it weighs heavily on her. I sense a feeling of helplessness in her at times. She really helps all her storytellers. Many in clearly visible ways. Some imperceptibly. Some are aware of the help she provides and actually thank her. These are rare. I truly believe that most of them would vocalize their thanks if they could only sense her need a little better. Most are unfortunately barely aware of their own needs.
There’s light at the other end of the tunnel. She’s working at changing jobs. I know she’ll pull through but I wish it could be a little easier and a little quicker. I worry about her some. She needs a hug real bad. I wish we didn’t live so far apart.
Five days a week she has to deal with people who have been dealt extremely poor hands at the great poker table of life. Extremely poor hands. Some of these people are victims of others’ vile actions. Some of them are the victims of their own poor decisions. Some were born with problems that normal, nurturing upbringings couldn’t solve. A few are truly scary people. All of them need counseling, medication, and a sympathetic ear.
Each and every one of them has a story to tell. I’m sure many of the stories are way stranger than the wildest fiction we could imagine. Some of the stories are probably carbon copies of others with the names changed. There may even be a few with stories that seem fairly normal but still need help. My friend has to listen to each and every one and make a judgment. She has to determine what the best course of action is based on each individual. There are no cookie cutter short cuts.
After hearing a couple million of these stories I can tell it’s affecting her. She seems sad and tired. The playful, airy, light soul is still there, but it takes a little more prodding to bring out at times. She’s even quit believing in things she used to know were integral elements of life. Her job has hardened a bit of her soul. Picture a beautiful little stream. Full of clear, clean babbling water. Supporting an entire community of wildlife and people. Mossy rocks and wildflowers. Dogwood trees in bloom and watercress. Then somebody up the hill dumps over a load of pesticide that flows into the stream. Some of the qualities that make the stream a wonderful place are killed off. In time, some return but they’re never the same. Each pollutant hurts the stream. Each story tears her apart.
She wants to do more for each and every one of her storytellers but knows she can’t and it weighs heavily on her. I sense a feeling of helplessness in her at times. She really helps all her storytellers. Many in clearly visible ways. Some imperceptibly. Some are aware of the help she provides and actually thank her. These are rare. I truly believe that most of them would vocalize their thanks if they could only sense her need a little better. Most are unfortunately barely aware of their own needs.
There’s light at the other end of the tunnel. She’s working at changing jobs. I know she’ll pull through but I wish it could be a little easier and a little quicker. I worry about her some. She needs a hug real bad. I wish we didn’t live so far apart.
posted by steve | 12:38 PM
2 Comments:
Steve, do you know how much I love you?
"Some seem better prepared to step off on road onto another more promising one.
The courage to act depends upon the strength one has gathered, the dares one has dared,
and sometimes just because one was loved.
Your hands guided me, your words encouraged me, your strength lifted me. Because of your love, my world has grown with possibility." Maya Angelou
Friendship is such an interesting phenomenon. Who would have known that twenty-five years later you would remain my kindred soul? You are an intricate part of the tapestry of my life. This has certainly been a process. I am still unsure if my vision can sustain the sacrifices but your support has helped. You are a comfort in my life.
Thank you, Lana
Oops, Forgot the "e"
"Some seem better prepared to step off ONE road onto another more promising one." I send my apology to Maya.
lana
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