My day starts at 5:40.
Five forty is a brutal time in Winter in New England. It’s cold. and dark. And did I mention it’s cold? Frickin’ cold. Tundra cold. Brutal cold. (And did I mention it’s dark?…) And I’m tired…
But contrary to appearances, I’m not writing this post to whine.
I commute with my aide. We take the turnpike to work. You may know that on a turn pike, you get the ticket marked with where you enter and pay based on how far you take it.
Most mornings, there is this woman who gives us a ticket. Since I’m the passenger (and usually tired) I’m not positioned to actually see her. And her voice sounds a tiny bit like Marge Simpsons sisters.
But every morning she offers us the most hearty and friendly hello. It’s the first happy and good thing that happens almost every day of my life. (Perhaps there would be other things early but I’m too asleep to notice…) It’s rather stupid, it’s a small thing, but I almost look foreward to hearing her greeting each day.
Sometimes I struggle with the idea that we ought to do everything we can for God. Intellectually, I understand that it doesn’t matter if we’re cleaning toilets or operating on somebody’s brain; we ought to bring enthusiasm to whatever it is. On a practical level, I struggle with living this out.
I don’t know anything about that ticket-passing-out woman. I don’t know if she knows God. I don’t know if she’s able to be that friendly for her whole shift. I don’t know her name.
But I know that it would be easy for her to grunt as we drive up. I know that it’s not easy to be cheerful in the cold. I know that she is a living, breathing embodiment of doing everything, no matter what it is, with excellence.
Some of the most outstanding people I know bring joy and excellence to everything they do. I imagine that they sometimes wonder if it is worth it. I bet they wonder if it is noticed.
Who ever you are reading this, if you are one of these people, thank you. These “little” things can impact people, people who you never know. They are worth it. They do change things.
