The Language of the Liar

I was living in Brazil. It had been an especially frustrating day getting my car fixed. As I drove off, two devils perched on my shoulders.  They spoke the language of the Liar. One was anger; the other self-pity!  I rolled down my window when I reached a traffic stop.  I saw a boy, probably nine years old.  Shirtless.  Barefooted.

“What’s your name?” I asked. “Jose,” he answered.  Two other orphans with him were naked except for ragged gym shorts.

“Have you collected much money today?” I asked.  He opened a dirty hand full of coins.  Enough perhaps for a soft drink.  As I pulled out the equivalent of a dollar his eyes brightened and he ran to tell his friends!

God sent Jose to me that day with this message:  “Max, you cry over spilled champagne. You bellyache over frills, not the basics.” Jose gave me a lot for my dollar… he gave me a lesson on gratitude.

from: Six Hours One Friday