Once in a while we have the opportunity to marvel at something. Maybe it's an 800 year-old building filled with ancient footsteps. Maybe it's something new: a baby, a song, a soulful view at the edge of a cliff, or the feeling of satisfaction after eating a sumptuous meal. Have you ever marveled at bread? Tapped its crust, held the length of it up to your nose to inhale the yeasty dough, savored the soft crunch when you took your first bite, smeared with a creamy cheese?
As a child, when did you first become aware that people in the world who lived differently than you? I was about 10 years old. For several years, my family had volunteered at a meals-on-wheels-style nonprofit just one city over. I was still young, so my job usually involved scooping mashed potatoes into the plastic containers, or tying ribbon on Christmas presents in December, but this particular time, I rode in the car with my dad to help with the deliveries. We joined several other volunteers and made our way to motels and mobile home parks, knocking on doors and handing out the hot meals. It was Thanksgiving morning, a day to be grateful. We had made our way around the entire building but still had extra meals in the back of a truck, so we started making rounds again asking if anyone needed an extra one. A girl answered the door, about my age, and without so much as a breath of hesitation said, "No thank you. Other people need it more than me."
When I was in college, I once heard Naomi Shihab Nye give a reading and remember thinking how confident she was. Not in a loud, overbearing way, but she just stood in her poems so strongly, the way roots go down into the earth and support the large tree branches above it. Her voice had a certain quietness, but each word was spoken with a strength like she knew she had painstakingly chosen every word and placed them on the page just so, and that each word was exactly right.