Several years ago on a cruise ship, Janet and I met a hard-working young lady named Lenora.
She was cleaning tables and carrying away dirty dishes when we sat down for breakfast.
Lenora was from Ukraine. Janet’s been to Ukraine before, so someone who knew exactly where her country was, much less having been there before, seemed a genuine treat for Lenora.
Quick observation — most people vacationing on cruises don’t really see the people working on the ship. It’s like the workers are simply working movable fixtures, walking robots, not real people at all, as if invisible.
I found an old journal I wrote in college, one I haven’t read in years. Page by page, I re-introduced me to myself from things penciled years ago.
Below is a story that flooded back to memory. It was in a college town two days after graduation, 36 years ago today. I was staying the summer to work two jobs in town while almost every other college student moved back home.
Here’s my journal entry from Monday, May 20, 1985:
I like broken people, the ones whose frames are scratched, dented and their corners don’t match up well. I like people who have discolored pictures, broken glass, torn canvases. Somehow troubles, pain, turmoil, and suffering tends to create genuineness.
There’s something about pain and trouble that acts like a cleansing fire burning out the impurities of life. Those who emerge from hard times are tempered, refined, and often, real. It’s not that anyone wants a broken frame or cracked glass, but life breaks and shatters us anyway. Continue reading Broken Picture Frames→
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