People like to remind me that it’s not about the stuff.
I know that. I’m grateful, beyond words, that it was juststuff.
But I suspect that the people who are so quick to say that have never actually had their homes turned upside by burglars, known gang members, when they dared to leave the house for just one hour.
They probably haven’t walked into a three year old boy’s bedroom to find that drawers were searched, toy baskets turned over, and about thirty dollars stolen. Each of those dollars sent by a grandparent on the other side of the country.
They probably haven’t walked into a five year old girl’s bedroom to find that drawers were searched, the same amount of money was stolen, and little girl necklaces (purchased by another grandparent on the other side of the country) were stolen.
And they probably never had to see their own bedrooms in a complete state of disarray with almost everything stolen…including a ring, worthless to anyone else but priceless to me, that belonged to my father. My last little piece of him that I could wear whenever it felt right. A little piece that I could pass on to my daughter…so that she would have something that belonged to the grandfather she never met. Gone. Forever.
No, I suspect that most people haven’t had to pick up these pieces and just move forward.
And I know in my heart that it is not at allabout the stuff…