Decades ago I went with my father to visit a customer who was suffering from cancer. The man was still able to live in his home, which was a beautiful structure set on a hill overlooking a gorgeous mountain valley in Montana. The living room had a wall of windows that looked out over irrigated bottom land where the alfalfa was blooming. There was an orchard between his home and the river which would be brimming with apples later in the season. The property was well maintained and the machinery was parked in neat rows. It had the appearance of the home of a man who had made a success of his life.

I really don’t know all of the details. Perhaps the cancer was already causing the man a great deal of pain. Perhaps the diagnosis had thrown him into depression. Perhaps loneliness had gotten the best of him. What I do know is that he was alone when we visited him and that the entire visit was filled with his complaints. We heard about all of the grievances he had with his son. We heard about his anger over medical bills. We heard about what he considered to be unfair taxes. We heard about his displeasure with a local farm organization. We heard about his anger at a County Commissioner. We heard about a raw deal from local automobile dealership. I don’t remember all of the details of the meeting, but when I think back I can’t think of anything positive or joyful that was expressed by the man in our hour or so of visiting him. The meeting was just one long complaint session.

I hope and pray that the visit helped. I want to think that he got some of his frustrations off of his chest at the meeting. Because a month later he had died. He spent the last week of his life in the hospital with very few visitors. I didn’t visit, but I heard about it from my dad who did. I hope he wasn’t quite as angry at the time of his death as he had been when we visited.

I think of the man from time to time. I don’t want to become someone who spends his aging years complaining. Sometimes I worry because I can come up with a list of complaints. Today I’m tired of shoveling snow. I cleared the driveway last night after work and it needs to be cleared again this morning and it is forecast to keep snowing all morning long. It is the first day of a new month, but I’m still smarting from last month when we had to pay a higher than expected tax bill. Some people got an income tax break from the new law. We lost all of our deductions and our tax burden went up significantly. I get frustrated at the lack of commitment from some folks in the church. I’ve heard every excuse in the book to explain why high school students don’t come to church, but I still don’t understand why parents want their youth to be confirmed when the teens can’t even commit to attending church a dozen times in a year and can’t schedule any confirmation preparation classes.

I could go on and on with my list of complaints.

But I really, really, don’t want to be that kind of person and a list of complaints isn’t interesting reading for the folks who check out my journal from time to time.

And the truth is, I’ve been blessed. It could be so much worse.

Imagine the parents of the people who were killed on the last day of class at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte yesterday. Imagine the parents of those who are injured and in critical condition at the hospital. A 22-year-old student opened fire for reasons that are unknown and the all too familiar story of campus violence erupted on what should have been a day of celebration of the accomplishments of another academic year.

Meanwhile, I have two children who have grown into adulthood and not suffered violence.

Nearly every day I work with people whose lives have been marked by tragedy much deeper than anything that I have ever experienced. I’ve know my share of loss and grief in this life, but nowhere near what others have been forced to face.

I complain about the heat bills at my house, but I live in a wonderful home in a great neighborhood with deer and rabbits and turkeys in the yard and a lake only ten miles away and access to the national forest closer than the lake. I can go for a walk in breathtaking natural beauty any day I want. But there are a lot of people in our community who live in poverty housing. One recent poll revealed that nearly twenty percent of households with children in our town live with housing insecurity - spending more than 30 percent of their income on housing costs.

I know without even checking the the shelters in our town were full last night. Those people don’t even know where they will sleep tonight. A blanket and a mattress and a sack lunch isn’t much consolation when it is snowing and you’ve got no place to go.

During the first world war when radio communications were just being explored as a tool of warfare communications were further complicated by the different languages spoken by the allies. After the war it was determined that there needed to be an international radio language with specific calls for emergency situations. A senior radio officer at a London airport suggested that the official distress call should be “mayday” because it sounds like the French “m’aider” which means “help me.” The phrase stuck and to this day “mayday” is a universal call for help.

Today is May Day. And I’m not the one who is in need. I’ve got a wonderful family, a comfortable home, a meaningful job and a community of loving and supportive people. The distress call is coming from others.

When I respond to their cries for help, I forget about my own troubles. The best way to avoid becoming a person who can only voice complaints is to reach out to those who are in need.

Copyright (c) 2019 by Ted E. Huffman. I wrote this. If you would like to share it, please direct your friends to my web site. If you'd like permission to copy, please send me an email. Thanks!