nothing to complain about

Every morning from train to office I pass four or five homeless men, most holding cardboard signs summarizing their plight. For a few months I randomly handed out dollar bills when I could. Sometimes now I think ahead and offer a bottle of water or the fruit I bring for my breakfast. But mostly I just walk by and feel kind of sad and useless that there’s nothing significant I can do.

Yesterday as I turned from Wacker onto the Franklin Street bridge, I caught the face of a man I hadn’t seen on previous commutes. Clearly wilting from the unexpected September heat and in need of a shave, he stood against the scaffolding with a warm, friendly gaze and a piece of cardboard on which he had simply penned, “Smile,” in bold black letters.  

It was so surprising to see this sign and the man who held it, I couldn’t help but meet his gaze and give him a huge smile.

Near the end of the train ride that brought me into the city that morning, a woman ran through the cars calling urgently for a doctor or a nurse. Moments earlier the conductor had made a similar announcement over the intercom. Two women sitting across the aisle from me commented loudly how the woman running through the car should get the conductor to make an announcement.

“He did make an announcement,” many of the passengers noted to them.

They hadn’t noticed because they had spent the entire train ride complaining to each other. About a co-worker who slacks off and doesn’t get reprimanded. About a teenage son who always leaves the car tank empty. About something shoddy one of them bought and had trouble returning. About all the work they do that no one notices. About the train schedule. About the heat.

The ladies were dressed nicely and clearly had good jobs. But whatever their lot in life, they appeared to be utterly miserable. It seemed like their only enjoyment was feeding off the other’s greatest woe of the moment. A conductor’s call for help didn’t even move them.

Don’t get me wrong. I know how easy it is to complain, to get bogged down by the small injustices of life, but the contrast yesterday morning between two middle class women and a homeless man gave me pause.

Although not widely recognized, September is devoted to childhood cancer awareness. The only reason I know this is because we have friends whose son died of cancer just shy of his second birthday. Every day this month my friend has been posting links on Facebook to stories of families whose kids have or had cancer. Some of these kids are right in the thick of their treatment, some are in remission, and some, like my friends' son Gabe, lost their fight with this wicked disease.

Every night on my train ride home I read the story of the day. The stories hurt and sometimes I end up in tears. But I am compelled to read. Even with the hell the parents and kids, many of them babies or toddlers, have been through, not one complaint makes it onto the page. Instead, in every story, there is, amazingly, an element of thankfulness. The stories help me gain the things those women seemed to be lacking yesterday morning: perspective, empathy, awareness and incredible gratitude.

Last night when I got off the train I so easily could have gotten into the car and complained about how long the commute was, how it's getting dark earlier, how hot it still is, how tired I was. But all of those thoughts faded away when I saw two boys hanging out of the car windows shouting, “Hi mom!”

I have a vehicle, a house, a job, a beautiful, healthy family. I have absolutely nothing to complain about.

So, for the second time that day, I gratefully accepted the homeless man’s gift. I got into the car and gave my husband and my kids a huge smile.

***

I encourage you to read the story about my friends' son Gabe and their experience with childhood cancer. The story is beautiful and heartbreaking. I believe knowing stories like Gabe's make us all better people.