Last year, we had the opportunity to reunite my son with his foster mother. It was a beautiful moment. A moment that encompassed both joy and the shared recognition of loss. His foster mother’s face shone with pride; the fifth and final baby she had fostered had returned to pay his respects. As I watched the two of them together, I was so grateful that I bore witness to that moment. She loved him and he loved her. My admiration for her only deepened.
Our visit took place in her new house, a home different than the one in which she’d raised my son. As we sat around drinking cold water out of sweating cups and laughing over stories about the boy who is our common destiny, I began asking about this new place. In looking about, I noticed that the concrete columns that supported the house were two-toned, and I inquired as to why.
I was told that that when the massive flooding had occurred many months before, the downstairs had been underwater for approximately three months. The white line line showed the depth of the water.
We were told that the family, young and old alike, lived upstairs for three months. When we asked what they ate given this difficult living condition, the foster mother’s son-in-law grinned and replied “fish.” It turns out they caught the fish out of the windows.
The documentary Happy opens with a rickshaw driver from India. He talks about how his feet and head burn in summer from the heat of the sun. But he says the monsoons do not bother him because he knows his wet clothes will dry when he runs with the next passenger. He talks about the joy of coming home and hearing his son call out to him “Baba. The narrator says that according to a survey, this rickshaw driver is as happy as the average American.
It is not wealth, education or heritage that divides the haves from the have-nots – it’s purpose.
Without purpose, we exist. With purpose, we live.
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