Note: This post was originally published Sept. 13, 2017, on the website Tiny Buddha, and you can find that version here.

Over breakfast one morning recently, Jeff and I started reminiscing about past years, and something was said that brought back a painful memory for me. My boss at the time had been unimaginably small-minded. He had hung me out to dry. “I still can’t understand why he did that,” I said.

Jeff looked at me levelly. “You need to get over it, Jan,” he said. “It was years ago.”

Wise advice, without question. The only problem was that I didn’t want it just then.

Why is it that we are so seldom allowed a few moments just to hurt?

Rain was coming—again. In anticipation Jeff and I pulled up our hoods and hunched our shoulders, although we were long past the point where the incessant patter bothered us. It’s supposed to rain a lot in Alaska; that’s why the landscape is so green. I tried not to think about the two weeks of pure sunshine that had preceded our vacation, when I’d been working in Anchorage.

We were taking a short walk to Riley Creek near the campground where we were staying in Denali National Park. Our Alaska explorations had exceeded all our hopes, except for the weather, and we’d made a conscious decision not to mind the clouds and drizzle. At least it wasn’t cold. We’d managed to stay comfortable, except for the night we awoke to find water flowing through our tent. Now the trip was drawing to a close. The following afternoon we’d be leaving for Anchorage and our flight home. We strolled through alder and spruce, past moss and fern, reveling in the moist freshness of the north woods.

To reach the creek we had to pass beneath a high railroad trestle. As we neared it we heard an approaching locomotive. “Let’s go catch it!” I said, and

The man (or was it a woman?) lay facedown on the cobblestone street, his knees folded beneath him, his forehead pressed to the ground in a posture of supplication. He wore a shapeless, dirty blue tunic and a rough piece of dark cloth over his head. The begging cup in front of him was empty. He might have been deeply asleep, except for his right arm, which shook with spasms. Dozens of people stepped around him, almost over him, barely taking notice.

Jeff and I were in Florence, Italy, for a few days,

What if I were to tell you that in the next few years an event will transform you by exposing you to things that make you a much better person. There’s a catch, though: The event itself will utterly break your heart.  Would you sign on for this?

I would not. But I didn’t have a choice.

If you’re familiar with my story, you’ll know that the catalyst for my change was the sudden death of my son eight years ago. Ever since, I’ve been trying to make the best of the bad hand I was dealt. Isn’t that what we’re all asked to do? For me this meant trying to learn how to help people in need or trouble, really help them. I hoped that working on behalf of others would help me, too, by returning a sense of meaning to my life.

To my great surprise, this worked. 

They’re not pretty, a cluster of dark-brick garden apartments from the seventies with rain-filled potholes in the parking lot that seem capable of swallowing small cars.  The rooms have fake wood paneling and carpets that saw better days a decade ago.

But they’re safe. No one will break into your bedroom in the middle of the night to arrest you or your family. There will be no more torture or killings. It’s hard to imagine what the Burmese refugees who are being settled here have experienced, and I am not going to ask them.