. . . behind his home, the man sat with his father. They looked out over the ponds and into the woods beyond. They talked of many things.
“I’ve been thinking about your celebration dinner,” said the man.
“So have I. Here’s the seating chart.” The man’s Father pulled out his phone, and showed the man an image of the head table.
“W-w-what? I’m. . .,” the son’s voice tapered off as he soaked it all in.
“Of course you are at the head table.”
“Wow,” the man let out his breath. “I feel important, as I’ve done something really incredible—though I know I haven’t.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, father.”
A few days went by. They’d talked several times of different things, for they often sat on the deck together.
“Thank you,” the man said, “for making me feel so important.”
“You are important. Now, make other’s feel important, too.”
The man though about this the rest of the day. And the next day. And the next.
“I’ve been thinking about ways,” said the man, “to show people they are important too.”
“Well,” said the man,”I’m trying to be kind to everyone. But there are a few people I just don’t feel kind toward, people I don’t really like very much.”
“Ah. Yes.” the man’s father said. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?”
“Yes. . .”
The man’s father spent some time talking about acts of kindness and how they can be artificial if there is nothing behind them from the heart.
“It’s all in perspective,” said the man’s father. “It’s how we see the world and the people in the world. For instance, I see them not as they are now,” Father said, “but as they are suppose to be, as they were created to be.”
“Oh?” said the man. “Oh! I get it. I can try to put on an act, follow a list of things that might be kind or helpful to somebody, but if I don’t see the person as important, as of value, as of having done something incredibly honorable, then it’s all simple like ritual without any feeling. If I see them as special, I’ll show that in my actions. And I won’t need a list to follow, either.”
(To Be Continued)
Lord Bless, Keep, Shine upon you and yours. . .