Humility. Thankfulness.

Both come when

you meet with your old college friend, who lives and works in India. 

Who works with the poor, the disadvantaged, the marginalized, giving them a voice through art therapy.

Who works to make heard a voice of reason against the sweeping sadness of gender-selection abortion that devalues the women of his culture. (In 2005, 814 girls were born in Delhi for every 1000 boys)

When you view your “modest, two-story single family home” not through the eyes of the excesses of your own culture but through the eyes of someone living in a 4-floor walk-up 2 bedroom flat in Delhi. (and knowing what it is like to live in a small Asian apartment oneself)

When you view the acoutrements you have aquired to fill said home and think about the paintings done by the Indian teens giving voice to their bitterness over bulldozers razing their huts to make way for a McDonald’s

When you hear about the American doula who told him how demoralizing it is to attend births of girls, where the family weeps and mourns upon seeing the baby is female.

I count my blessings. I did nothing to deserve them.


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