Saturday, February 22, 2014

Sore Thumb




In the flat-like-a-pancake land, the boy stood out like a sore thumb.  Especially when he opened his mouth.

Ha! We knew you are different! You are from… people said, recognizing his unmistakable accent. With that they thought they already knew everything there was to know about the boy and for some reason felt better about themselves. 

They shrugged their shoulders and went to their homes knowing that they belonged and thanked God that they were not foreigners like the orphan boy who spoke with a funny accent. 

So, the boy learned that listening is better than speaking and quiet is better than many words.  

As he moved through life, listening and quiet, he heard and noticed what most of us loud and chattering types tend to overlook. He became more gentle and tender, more caring and attentive to others, as if he somehow knew, as if he somehow understood that they too carried a burden too heavy for their shoulders.  

Even if nobody else could see it.  

Even if nobody else could notice.

And something deep would stir within the boy, something that felt like it was going to swallow him alive. But he couldn't allow it... He had to push it down, hard, hard, biting his lips, clenching his teeth, pushing back the rain cloud gathering on his eyelashes until the stirring subsided and he could breathe again.

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