Exceptional Grit And Courage In The Pursuit Of A Regular Life

I hope that you are reading this, Bill Porter. I want you to know how I feel about you.

We have never met. It is odd for a perfect stranger to have had such a profound effect on my life. But in just a few short minutes, you changed my outlook, my attitude and my feelings about my life entirely.

I read about you in Positive Living magazine. It was the condensed version of an article that appeared in the Oregonian in your hometown of Portland.

I felt pity for you at first, and I know that pity is the last thing you want from anyone. And then I felt intense admiration and respect.

I know that when people read your story and tried to send you financial help and other things to make your life easier, you wouldn’t accept them. You wanted it to be known that you are not a charity case. On the contrary, you are a magnanimous example of courage and strength.

But please, if you will not accept my money or my help, accept my gratitude for the impact you have made on my life.

When I begrudgingly get up at 6 every morning, I will try to remember that you have already been up for quite a while. It takes a long time for you to get ready for work.

Instead of snickering while I iron the day’s clothes, I will remember that it takes three hours for you to board the bus for the shoeshine stand where someone ties your laces for you.

When a button pops off one of my husband’s shirts, I will remind myself that a doorman at a hotel buttons your shirts for you and adjusts your tie because your fingers cannot do it for you.

At night, when my feet ache from chasing three preschoolers all day long, I will remember that you walk over 10 miles a day, selling Watkins products door to door.

When money is tight and I complain about my work, I will remember that you refused state financial assistance and that typing up two weeks of orders takes you 10 hours; you must type with one finger.

I know you work on straight commission. I know you sometimes get doors slammed in your face.

When I kiss my children good night, I will thank God they did not suffer the same birth trauma that left you disabled. I will see no scars on their foreheads like the ones you carry from the forceps that crushed your skull and damaged your brain at birth, and left you with cerebral palsy. I will remember that years of walking required you to have back surgery. You do not own a car.

When I’m feeling lonely, I will look around me and see my husband and children, and remember that you live alone, no parents, no siblings and no wife or children.

When I curse another birthday, I will remember that in your 64 years you have felt more pain and endured more tragedy than I will ever see.

It can’t be easy to take the daily rejection of being a salesman. It can’t be easy to take society’s rejection, either. But you seem to take it all in stride.

I do not pity you, Bill Porter. I thank you. Life’s lessons are the greatest teachers. Your life’s lessons have taught me to rejoice in the sunshine instead of noticing how dirty my kitchen windows look on a sunny day.

I will remember your life as a testimony to a motto that I will carry with me always:

Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.

xxxx

The following fields overflowed: CREDIT = Michae’l Alegria, Contributing writer