Influence
Two Paths
I went to see a
friend the other day. I passed through two sets of polished doors and ascended
the building in a gleaming elevator to get to his office. A receptionist
offered me a cup of gourmet coffee before ushering me into a spacious conference
room, where personal mementos, souvenirs from world travels, and numerous
awards competed for space on teak shelves.
My friend arrived a minute later
and greeted me warmly with a winning smile, his tailored suit slightly rumpled
from a long day in the office. He sighed as he sat down across from me, and his
smile dropped momentarily, revealing a tired and careworn face.
“Long day?” I inquired. He nodded.
It had been a long day. It seemed like every day was a long day, even weekends,
especially now with the burgeoning economy and the flood of new projects coming
the company’s way. Business was good and he was happy, he said, but I knew him
well enough to not completely believe him.
Had I already heard that he was
buying a second house? His wife was visiting friends in Rome and had been gone
for over a month now, his children were studying abroad, and he had just
returned from Madrid. A third car was arriving from the BMW showroom next week.
An extra car would make things easier for him and his family. One less thing to
argue about. There had been a lot of changes recently—a new office in a better
location, a more efficient staff, a better PR manager—and there were more
changes coming in his company’s management, image, and products. It takes a lot
to succeed in the fast-paced world of today.
Sometimes the best things in life
are the things that money can’t buy
We chatted about my recent
volunteer work, a trip to a flooded province. He glanced through the pictures I
showed him and commented on the beauty and simplicity of rural life.
His phone rang and… he excused
himself, returning a minute later to apologize for a hasty departure. Some
urgent matters had come up, and he needed to attend to them at once. “We should
get together again soon. Call me next week,” he said.
I went to see a friend yesterday. I
drove eight hours up winding mountain roads to get to a refugee camp scattered
across four square kilometers of rural countryside. A breathtaking view, but
rudimentary common conveniences. Where the road ended, the walking began. I
waded through a knee-deep stream and hiked up a deeply rutted mud trail,
accompanied by a dozen eager children who had spotted me on the road below. I
sat on the step of my friend’s bamboo hut and smiled at the ragged children who
promised that my friend would arrive shortly. Then they ran off in the
direction of the local well to announce my arrival to the others.
A minute later my friend was
rushing to embrace me, a six-month-old baby slung across her back. She ushered
me away from the throng of children that had reassembled, playfully shooing
away the ones that chattered over one another as they tugged on my pants leg.
In the dim, warm interior of her one-room hut, coffee was served. As I savored
each sip, I considered my friend’s thoughtful gesture; my cupful was probably
her ration for the week.
Our conversation was broken and
limited due to the mountain dialect she spoke, but her face shone as she
struggled to tell me about her new baby, her family, and the small group of orphans
she was helping to care for.
“What do you need most?” I asked
her, thinking to offer her the best from the truckload of supplies I had
waiting back on the road at the trail’s end. I anticipated a detailed list in
reply.
“Nothing,” she answered. “Whatever
we need, God supplies. He takes good care of us.” Her baby began whimpering and
she hugged him close, describing once again the joy he brings her every day and
mentioning nothing of the lack of money, official papers, and other resources
needed to give him a good start in life.
Another refugee, a T-shirted boy in
his late teens, came into the hut. After introductions he sat on the matted
floor next to her, his fingers skillfully plucking a soft, sweet tune on the
weathered guitar he held in his lap as he listened to our conversation.
“It must be wonderful to live in a city,” he said at last, a little wistfully.
“Have you ever been to one?” I
asked.
“No,” he replied, shaking his head
sadly. “But I hope to one day. I hope to move to a big city and become rich and
famous.”
I smiled as my eyes took in the
breathtaking mountain sunset that lit up the western sky and my ears caught the
happy laughter from a volleyball game outside the hut.
“I don’t think that’s what you
really want,” I replied to his surprise. “Believe me, sometimes the best things
in life are the things that money can’t buy.”
Author: Christina
Andreassen
http://thehappypill.wordpress.com/2008/07/05/two-paths/#more-88