"The least of these . . ."

As I have said before, I usually try to keep things positive on this blog, but there is something I need to write here.  Last night at work, while shelving in the children's department, I saw a young man.  He couldn't be much older than Dakota, probably close in age.  His face was very disfigured and he was missing an eye.  I have no idea what happened to him, or if he was born that way.  He moved very quickly from shelf to shelf and kept his head down, so that no one would look at him.  He just wanted to get his book and leave as soon as possible.  My heart went out to him.  I thought of the burn victims I saw as a child, those that my dad had kept in touch with.  I remember how he told me that people would say terrible things to them when they were out in public.  What had been said to this young man?  How would it be to live life, feeling as though you had to protect others somehow, from seeing your face? 

Last night, I went to bed with a feeling of shame for all the little things I have complained about.  None of them seemed very important anymore.  How often we go through our days, stupidly unaware of how blessed we are, and blind to the suffering of those whose loads are so much heavier than our own. 

There is a quote. I can't remember who said it, but it goes something like this, "In the end, it won't matter how many prayers we said, but it will matter how many prayers we answered."