On Monday, I met a self-proclaimed Grunkle. He's an incredibly cheery grand-uncle. He unconvincingly tried to get me to believe that he's 102 but he's actually 75. He said he's very happy and he attributes a large part of his happiness to his faith, as a practicing Catholic. In Manhattan, it's unusual to meet such happy people who share their smiles and silliness with strangers like me.
Last Saturday, we went to a church to pack Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes, and this one guy in his early twenties, Daniel, was so diligent and often worked alongside us but never said hello. After a long while, I introduced myself and learned that he's never been to that church before and doesn't know much about God, and his favorite religious text is Paradise Lost. He told me about his sand-blown glass vases which he makes and sells. I asked if he enjoys being an artist, to which he replied, "It's a good thing I'm autistic, otherwise I would go crazy with the slow, precise work required to make the vases." An interesting perspective on thankfulness.
When with the Grove City students who came to serve in NYC, I also spoke with a number of homeless people on the streets of Midtown. A young bearded writer told us about his journey to New York and being homeless since he arrived. He's never been short on food; he has many warm coats to survive winter; and he has friends both in NYC and in LA; so he said one of his bigger troubles is simply finding a place to shower. He preferred to live on the streets, write, and "have all the free time in the world" than to have a desk job and no free time. I suppose we all have different values.
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