I wish I was a master of photoshop... (PKW)

And I will tell you why but first I want to warn you that this might need a Possible Kleenex Warning (PKW) because this post is serious.

You might not know this about me but I write every single day. Much of what I write is about deep and painful subjects related to introspective things I don’t really share here . I choose not to share those things because we all have problems. Problems with illness, family, hurt, pain, and loss and I generally want to make myself, and hopefully you, laugh so you can forget all those things if just for a few moments. And even if you don’t laugh I hope I confuse you enough that you can escape from whatever it is pulling you down for a brief minute.

Since mid-August I decided I would write in this blog every single day and except for the rare times when I republish old stories I truly write what comes out of my head. I don’t sit and think…the words just pour out…and then I polish them up a bit and put them here for your consumption.

And I can never, ever write what I don’t feel. It’s strange but I can’t force words to come out of my fingers …and sometimes, honestly, the words don’t go in the direction I think they will. They ramble and weave and go elsewhere and such is the case today.

I sat down truly intending to write some light hearted instructions for Alphabe-Thursday, but I can’t.

The words won’t come. Because what I want to write about is serious. And I suspect not very popular. And I suspect it might even anger some of you.

But I have been thinking and now I have to be true to myself and I need to write what is in my heart…which is sadness and even a little bit of shame. And so I will write this and gather my courage to hit the “publish” button.

And what I truly want to say today is this...

Most of you are probably too young to know this story but in 1938 Orson Welles did a radio adaptation of the H.G. Wells novel, The War of the Worlds. Before media bombarded us with instant news all the time, people listened to their radios and read the newspaper and those were the links they held to the world outside of their own immediate community.

In 1938, though, the sturdy and boxy radios in peoples homes didn’t broadcast the serial stories that kept Americans entranced and entertained. What they heard coming from the tinny speakers was a tale of aliens invading New Jersey…and people reacted with horror and fear and became obsessed with this terrifying possibility.

Times have changed.

Trying to convince someone that aliens were invading would be difficult now. We have access to everything…instantly…u-tube, radio, news, internet. And although we are hoaxed sometimes with fake stories and fake pictures for the most part we believe what we can see. But lately it is what we don’t see that has made me think a little too much.

And that is why I wish I was a master of photoshop.

My purpose would not be to scare people with the fears of 1938 but to perhaps open some eyes, including my own.

I would travel this great country of ours and I would photograph the families I see living from cars or cardboard boxes and trying to survive. I would photograph people who have no idea where and how to get help finding food and medical or mental health assistance. I would photograph people gravely ill from drinking contaminated water. I would come to your city and photograph the people lined up for the soup kitchen to have their only meal of the day. I would go to downtown Phoenix and photograph the addicts huddled in their misery having forgotten the potential of hope or the runaways living under the bridges. With teary eyes my quest would continue and I would photograph the fragile elderly literally counting their pennies trying to decide between purchasing medicine or food. I would photograph children curled up under rags in restless sleep dreaming not of new toys but of simply having enough food so their stomachs didn’t ache.

And I would weep.

And when I was done weeping I would somehow magically photoshop all this together into a collage of sadness...all the faces...all the pain...all the worry over trying to provide or find simple things like food and warmth and clothes and medical care.

And I would take this magical photoshopped collage and I would post pictures everywhere and I would say "these people are suffering from massive destruction the likes of which has never been seen before. There has been an earthquake that has rocked the very foundation of our country !”

And everywhere, all over the world people would be horrified and would cry great tears of sorrow and outrage that not enough was being done. And they would help.

Because that’s what people do. They help when they can. They help when they see the pictures and hear the stories. They help when they watch the news with horrified faces, perhaps shedding tears that there could be so much suffering…and oh, oh, oh, all those poor children.

And they would gather their prayers and their purses and send their spare change away. They would auction items to raise money and they would forego their lattes for a few days to donate a little bit more and they would all gather in a spirit of community to help.

And some of the suffering would be eased. Some of the pain would be abated. And some of the children would have a safe place to sleep and the people would have clean water to drink and for a time people would find some relief from their suffering.

My heart truly hurts for the people of Haiti.

But my heart also hurts deeply for the people right here that need this same level of assistance and this same level of compassion.

I have too often seen and heard the attitude that “people need to help themselves” and I believe this to be true. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help. It just doesn’t work. But if the help needed does not come from a catostrophe of epic weather or war, sometimes we might forget to recognize that “helping themselves” might be something beyond their reach. And their ability to reach for help might be compromised by circumstances we don’t know and can’t imagine or understand.

Because how can people help themselves when they are cold and they are hungry and their every waking moment is consumed with trying to protect their children or balance their meager budget to purchase medicine?

And there’s so much this. An unimaginable amount of it. Right here. In our own cities and neighborhoods.

But perhaps the magical photoshopped collage could show a depth and scope of human suffering that might leave us speechless. And shocked. And in tears.

And everywhere, all over the world, people would be horrified and would cry great tears of sorrow and outrage that not enough was being done to help. And they would help.

Because that’s what people do. They help when they can. They help when they see the pictures and hear the stories. They help when they watch the news with horrified faces, perhaps shedding tears that there could be so much suffering…and oh, oh, oh, all those poor children.

But because our problems here at home aren’t as sensational and aren’t as dramatic and aren’t as huge as what we are watching in Haiti we forgot. I forget. And that is part of the shame I mentioned earlier.

I forget to help wonderful bloggers like Julie who try to make someone warmer…one blanket, one cozy hat at a time. People like Julie can help and do help and will help…they just sometimes need the small amount of help I can give personally. And I forget that. I hop on the bandwagon of public outrage and rush to help elsewhere. And helping is always a good thing. It’s just sometimes I forget it when I’m not being bombarded with mass-in-your-face-requests to do good in small ways here. The small amount I sent to Julie gave her enough to make a blanket. One blanket. And it warms me to think that some cold person might feel cozy for a moment because of that.

But sometimes I forget because I'm not seeing those photos of suffering on every media I follow.

I forget to be vocal about changes that need to be made.

Because I am just one voice and one voice can rarely be heard.

Which is why I wish I was a master of photoshop. Because a picture is worth a thousand times a thousand words.

And if we all gathered to look at the photoshopped collage of pain we would cry great tears and say “something must be done!”

And we’d do it.

Because it would be everywhere we turned so our intentions would not fall by the wayside in our busy lives.

Julie. I am humbled by your efforts and for your ability to remind me of this important fact.

Help begins at home.

And I am proud that perhaps with our combined efforts there will be one less photo on my imaginary photoshopped collage of suffering.

Thank you.