Reality

I spent yesterday communing with people who dedicate an enormous amount of time and money to serving humanity. With a hundred folks during the day and four times as many in the evening, I attended the District Conference for District 6040 of Rotary International. I mingled with people who have collected more than 10,000 shoes for Orphan Souls; contributed a portion of billions used to nearly eradicate polio; and worked to build hospitals, clean water, and bring micro-loans to struggling villages.

I paid for the privilege of serving as their Sergeant-At-Arms. Today my back aches and my shoulders haven’t yet uncoiled. But I’m not complaining.

Neither am I here to brag. Instead, I’m telling you about a moment when reality invaded that gathering of Good Samaritans.

The keynote speaker at the dinner honoring the 100th anniversary of the Rotary Foundation told of coming of age as a Rotary scholar from Brazil. Suddenly hundreds of cell phones bleated into the room. Amber alert. The words rippled from table to table. I slid my phone from a pocket of my purse, along with scores of women. Men tipped theirs from breast pockets. The speaker paused. A loud voice penetrated the silence: It’s in St. Louis. The speaker resumed his talk.

At the end of the dinner, we stood to sing Let There Be Peace On Earth. Then four hundred Rotarians went into the night, reinvigorated for the cause of serving humanity. This morning, scrolling through Facebook, my heart skipped a beat when I saw a post by my cousin Theresa Orso Smythe. The Amber alert had ended with the death of two small boys at the hand of their father.

For the last twenty-four years, I’ve helped people navigate the trauma of divorce and separation. Often the children become ragdolls pulled between two parents whose rage and resentment overshadow love and reason.

Many children come unscathed through the restructuring of their families. But many others suffer. Torn, battered, beaten, the little ones often collapse. They move into adulthood with scars that fester. The gross infection spreads to every limb. And then there are the ones who do not survive — murdered children, others who cope with grief by self-harm or suicide. They fall into the system’s wide cracks and end up beyond repair.

Sounds of Humankind drift into the dining room, a program about charitable giving and what drives the human spirit towards philanthropy. I stare at the picture of two boys and their father. I try to understand. I know that I never will.

It’s the sixth day of the thirty-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.