I sit by this large, bright window every day. It’s not a particularly spectacular window. In fact, the window and what it looks out to is arguably very boring. The glass faces a concrete parking lot, but the view is mostly hidden behind some shadowy tree branches that watch you with a sort of tired, uninterested feel.
One time a bird flew straight into the window. I wasn’t there, but it left a thick trace of its crash landing, as if it were trying to be remembered.
A friend of mine brought up a commercial he had heard the other day that sold some thing or another that promised relief for the person who is just plain tired of other people. It struck me as callous, but familiar. Why is this something we commonly advertise?
In a world where we glorify being uninterested in other people, how many people a day go without feeling loved?
I think of the bird that hit the window, and I think of people who similarly make crash landings in the hopes of being noticed or remembered. Of course, I realize the bird likely did not hit the window with a purpose and goal of being noticed, but what if people do?
Subtly or obviously, crash landings are dressed in many different ways. There are people on the edge of emptiness who need our love more than ever, and love too can look and be given in a heap of colorful ways.
Maybe it’s a hug hello that says without words, “You’re so cared for.”
Or, maybe it’s letting yourself genuinely feel interested when you ask how a person’s weekend was or how they’re doing.
I want to be a person who cares. I don’t want to be on the other side of the window – a witness to a crash landing. I want to be on the outside yelling, “Hey you, come back!”