|Pausing to reflect|
Feeling a little beat after a sleep-deprived flat-out work weekend, and rocking a little stubborn bronchitis, I rolled up behind the stopped school bus along with several vehicles. I wrote this post several ways in my head, and I'll just go for the straight up approach: the bus driver was lowering a wheel chair lift. A kid, probably a third or fourth grader, in a motorized wheel chair of a type indicating that he can't really control or move very much on his own, rolled up with his mom and waited for the lift. He rolled on, lifted up, and rolled into position. Mom handed the driver a giant backpack, probably filled with important accessories, and the bus rolled away.
To do that every day. That kid has more strength than I do, and is far braver. I remember third grade as tough enough and I could run and jump and was a good student. The bus moment put stuff into perspective. I didn't feel tired any more, I felt incredibly fortunate, and that whatever I may have thought of as my own challenges at that moment were actually trivial, insignificant, and rather unimportant. I rode to work fast from there, to feel the wind, and the sunshine, and the spinning. Because I can, and I appreciated that immensely. That kid in the wheel chair on the bus: the bravest, and strongest, person I encountered all day.