Just a couple of days ago, as I walked out to my car for an appointment, a man walked up my front stairs and stood before me on our front porch.
He looked me in the eyes and said "excuse me, I live on this road and I've hurt myself and I need money to get to the hospital", I looked at him and pulled out my purse, breathing deeply and thinking about what is appropriate in this moment.
I said to him "sure, of course" and I sat on our steps and said "tell me some of your story and how you got here today"
He looked me in the eyes and said "I promise I'll bring the money back, I'm your neighbour" and I said "honestly I don't need the money back, I just want to know your story"
He lifted his leg, onto the bottom step, it was wrapped in bandages and his shaved head betrayed his age, with spots and scars. And he whispered.
Watch the documentary "The Coconut Revolution". "I survived the most gruesome of conflict and I've never been the same since." He went on to tell me about how he served in armies, about his wife who ran from the conflict in her country and both fleeing for their life.
The bags under his eyes and the water he carried in his used Coke bottle, hinted that alcohol had become his comforting friend.
This was on my suburban doorstep, just a few short days ago.
I've watched my neighbour walk past my house since our simple interaction on our porch steps and each time I've said a little prayer that the haunting embers of war, would settle softly on his soul.
Today I made these biscuits thinking of my Granma, my Pop and every young man whose dreams have been forever scarred.
I personally hate war but I am profoundly impacted by sacrifice.
Sacrifice is a word that cannot be said without echoes of courage in its wake.
Lest we forget.
And neighbour next time maybe you might have tea on my porch and you could possibly tell me another yarn.
Because how are we ever going to learn unless we sit and listen to those who have gone before?