It's the end of the afternoon in New York City, before the weekend begins. When I look out my window I see the first signs of evening -- feel the warmth from the radiator near my desk -- hear the sound of cars on our street speeding to the avenue -- trucks making their last delivery -- yellow cabs delivering and picking up people, shiny automobiles already on their way home.
The feeling I have had today, the good feeling most of us have had about safety, warmth, water, food, phones, lights, walking on the busy streets with others going somewhere -- shopping, picking up groceries, mailing a letter -- knowing you'll soon be sitting down for dinner, relaxing, watching television, maybe taking a shower before brushing your teeth.
We'll be safe in our beds, with our soft pillows and comforters and blankets and sheets, while millions in Haiti are sick, dying, homeless, thirsty, hungry, desperate, wandering.
We'll think are we safe? We've thought that before. We feel sad for the children and the dead and those who may still be alive but not found -- can't hold that thought for long, but we bless the men and women who're arriving from all over the world in order to help.
We'll think all those other thoughts you have when you're okay and so many, many people are not.
We'll wonder is it God, or punishment, or nature -- why them, not us, not me? We'll shake our heads, unable to blame a God, a government, a war -- and maybe chat back and forth with someone about what's happening there, lifting the weight a little from our minds.
Words help. Sending money helps. Going to sleep in your warm, blanketed, sheeted, pillowed bed helps -- the feeling of being oh so lucky to be who you are, so gifted to be where you are, with a tomorrow that's predictable, safe -- yes, you'll be safe like you were today ...
"Thank God," you'll think inside yourself, and that helps you close your eyes and fall asleep.
A good life, being safe in your home is an incredibly precious gift isn't it?