The story of the least

There's this house, a house on the Eunice-Iota highway.

The grass around it is neatly trimmed, at about half an acre around it I imagine. The house is painted white, though a new coat or two sure wouldn't hurt. It looks tattered in places, it being wood and all.

The roof is tin, and I can just heart the rain battering it this morning, tap, tap, tapping like ravens on the ceiling.

There is a television antennae, like the type you used to see in the 60s. One wonders what could possibly come from it?

We drive past it four times a week, twice going, twice coming. Once early Sunday morning, once coming back a couple hours later. Once on Mondays, before the light of the sun begins to wane, once coming back when it's near dark and the sun sets ripe orange behind the house to the west.

I've never seen a car there. Never seen a light on in the house. I wonder what the story is. For three months we've driven past this house and seen no life.

It makes me wonder if there is any. Is this house a remnant of someones good past? Did the owner die and the children refuse to sell it because they have so many memories wrapped up in its little rooms?

I don't know. I have no idea what its story truly is.

But I notice.

The point, hidden deeply within these words, is how often do we drive by her, walk past him, and never see or hear or feel them, the lost, the least, the worst and the best of us all? What is their story? What drives them? What has hurt them?

Are they battered by sunset and sunrise? Are they adrift as night overcomes the blank, dried out fields of their lives?

Will we ever stop and ask? Will we ever know what their story is?

I have this annoying new habit, annoying to myself anyway. I can be watching an old movie, as I did this weekend when Close Encounters came on, and I've got my I-pad in my lap and I wonder whatever happened to...

This time it was the kid in the movie. Turns out he appeared in a few movies, then lost contact with the viewing public. Rumor has it he is an investment banker. I wonder if he watches when Close Encounters comes on? Does he remember the days of the shoot? Does he ever wonder why his career came to a close so early?

If only I could bring myself to do the same with those around me; just notice when they're sitting, walking, driving, or even in my pews. The least, the lost, the hurting are all around us. We just have to notice.

What's their story?