Remember the More Important Things

For 8 days in a row I have taken a walk around my neighborhood. It is the first thing I do in the morning when I wake up. This is a big surprise to me and Stewart, too, since I am definitely not a morning person and I have always dismissed morning for exercise. But when I was in CT I quite enjoyed the morning walks with Dominick so I vowed to continue the trend. It can only be done very early here because the day quickly gets too hot for outside activity.

My walks are starting to stress me out emotionally, however. It’s the graffiti. And the garbage. And the rude people. It’s all been creeping up on me and this morning I took some paper and a small pencil and I wrote down the addresses where all the tags appear. There are 23 homes with graffiti in front of them or on trees. There are three homes in a row that are rentals, 2 are vacant, all three have garbage piling up in front of them. There was a gardener who revved up his equipment at 6:30AM and did not care when I pointed out that the noise ordinance allows that activity to begin at 7:30.

Physically, these morning walks are helping. I get up early and I’m ready to start the day sooner. I am getting more physically fit. (It’s all relative.) But I have a gripe every time I return to my front door. Today it’s a rant. This doesn’t seem healthy.

When I sat here to research the noise ordinance (to back up my claim, to find that gardener’s phone number and report him, etc.) I had an email in my in-box with a little story. I know it’s corny, but it reminded me that there are bigger things to worry about. Still, graffiti removal is important, because graffiti left unchecked can lead to the destruction of bigger, more important things. So if you came here because you searched for “graffiti removal san fernando valley,” please call West Valley Alliance at 818-885-8885 and report a tag today.

Here it is the story, reprinted. Warning, it’s like a Hallmark commercial:

A little girl went to her bedroom and pulled a glass jelly jar from its hiding place in the closet. She poured all the change out on the floor and carefully counted it three times, just to be sure. The total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Carefully placing the coins back in the jar and twisting on the cap, she slipped out the back door and walked the six blocks to the local drug store with the big Red Indian Chief sign above the door.

The little girl walked in, heading for the pharmacy. She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her some attention but he was too busy talking with another man. Tess twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. Nothing. She cleared her throat with the most disgusting sound she could muster. No good. Finally, she took a quarter from her jar and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!

“And what do you want?” the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice. “I’m talking to my brother from Chicago whom I haven’t seen in ages,” he said without waiting for a reply to his question.

“Well, I want to talk to you about my brother,” Tess answered back in the same annoyed tone. “He’s really, really sick… and I want to buy a miracle.” “I beg your pardon?” said the pharmacist. The little girl replied, “His name is Andrew and he has something bad growing inside his head and my Daddy says only a miracle can save him now. So how much does a miracle cost?”

“We don’t sell miracles here, little girl. I’m sorry but I can’t help you,” the pharmacist said in a slightly softer voice. She persisted, “Listen, I have the money to pay for it. If it isn’t enough, I will get the rest. Just tell me how much it costs.”

The pharmacist’s brother was a well dressed man. He stooped down and asked the little girl, “What kind of a miracle does your brother need?” “I don’t know,” Tess replied with her eyes welling up. “I just know he’s really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my Daddy can’t pay for it, so I want to use my money”.

“How much money do you have?” asked the man from Chicago. “One dollar and eleven cents,” Tess answered barely audibly. “And it’s all the money I have, but I can get some more if I need to.” “Well, what a coincidence,” smiled the man. “One dollar and eleven cents is the exact price of a miracle for little brothers.” He took her money in one hand and grasped the other mitten covered hand, saying, “Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents. Let’s see if I have the kind of miracle you need.”

That well dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, surgeon, specializing in neurosurgery. The operation was completed without charge and it wasn’t long until Andrew was home again and doing well. Mom and Dad were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place. The mother said, “That surgery was a real miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost.” Tess smiled. She knew exactly how much a miracle costs – one dollar and eleven cents – plus the faith of a little child.