I really like people. I really like to observe them, to meet them, to get to know them.  Usually, most usually, I am not afraid of people.  There is the occasional thuggish looking person in the Ubahn (subway) but they are drunk and harmless.  There may be the occational "weird vibe" from someone on the street but I usually have this sense of peace about me that keeps me from freaking out.

Until of late.  Until I listen to the media about refugees and ISIS and terrorist attacks and calls to bear arms by American politicians and preachers.  Just yesterday, I read where my country is constructing a barrier to bar refugees from entering; I read about 25 young men (16 - 18 yrs. old) arrested after fighting at a Refugee center about 2 hours away due to ethnic differences; I read about a Swedish teenage girl (17 yrs. old) who was arrested at a local train station (just 15 minutes from my flat) in connection with ISIS; I read about the Austrian Minister of Integration declaring that 150 local Kindergartens cater to Muslim children and parents and claims they are teaching radicalization of a culture that refuses to integrate into it's Austrian hosts.  This ... this makes me afraid ... of certain people.

I hate it.  But I can't shake it.  And then ...

Yesterday, I meet my little beggar woman who I've come to know (the one that sells papers outside my grocery store).  I've wondered about the young men in her family ... are they potential terrorists?  She wears a head covering.

I saw her and wanted to avoid her.  I forced myself to meet her eyes.  She always greets me with a familiar sense of "friendship".  We engaged in our ritual primitive communication and I noticed her hands.  Big, worn, cracked hands exposed to the cold.  I asked her if she had gloves.  No.  I then knew what the One who drew me to her in the first place wanted me to do ... give her mine.

• Let me interject a little ironic story about my gloves.  My dear step-mom ... whom I love as my own Momma and affectionately call my Momma ... always gives the best gifts.  Good quality.  Much nicer than I would buy for myself. And, because of her Mother's heart and knack for shopping, she keeps us warm with good gloves, hats, sock warmers, and these other things ... that I have no idea what they are called ... but they are like heavy-duty socks with fluffy stuff at the top that you can wear inside your boots ... but part of it sticks out ... the fluffy stuff ... and looks really cool but feels really warm.  All that to say ... I thought I had lost one of my fancy gloves that she had given to me just a few days ago ... only to be delighted way too much over a lost glove discovered.  These ... these black, fancy, with fur that I secretly think is mink ... or something ... these were the gloves I knew I must depart with ... to give away ... to a potential family member of a suspected-in-my-mind terrorist.

I slipped them off my average-sized, clean, and manicured hands, exposing them to the cold.  She shook her head in total defiance.  She would not take my gloves.  I would not take her rejection and tried to put one on her hands.  She joined me ... to no avail.  They were too small.

I slipped them back on my hands, grateful, relieved, and on mission to find the biggest gloves I could find and return to present them to my ... friend ... who I still may be afraid of ... and of her fellow countrymen ... and others like her ... and her part of the world ... but for one act of courage ... I beat the fear.

Not Reading Anymore Media Today,
christina