I'm not a morning person. And I rarely leave for work the same time two mornings in a row. (I know, you're wondering where I'm going with this.) Yesterday morning, as I was on my way to work, I was stopped in my car on the ramp to get on the highway, which happens to have a walking trail that runs beside it. And I saw a mother dressed for work, pushing a stroller with two small boys. The oldest boy (who was about three) was singing to himself and bouncing his head. And I love kids, so I spent several seconds watching him, and thinking it was darned cute. Then I drove on, went about my day, and forgot all about that little family. But this morning, as I was stopped in traffic yet again, that same family strolled by, and the little boy was pointing at cars and exclaiming to his mother excitedly. And it struck me, how different our lives are, that mother's and mine. Her strolling her two children to daycare, me sitting in my car after having to get just myself ready that morning. And yet there we were, passing not one, but two days in a row. Living in the same neighborhood, living the same days as they passed on the calendar. The same days that are passed by over seven billion people on this planet.
I am not alone.
But I am also part of something so much bigger than myself.