PS draft- advice
Posted: Sun Jan 03, 2010 2:49 pm
Im not really sold on this PS, but I want to know what some other people think. Pro's/con's? Let me have it. Thanks.
After two weeks at Gilber’s home, I had learned Costa Rican roosters did not come with snooze buttons. It was an hour when reasonable people, and farm animals, were sleeping, yet that damn rooster wanted me up. There was no use trying to sleep through it, so I threw off my blankets, went outside, and jumped into the ice-cold shower. Maybe a minute later I was out, not very clean, but certainly awake. Still shivering, I dressed, making sure to check if any tarantulas (big enforcers of trespassing codes) had decided to make my boots home for the evening. After a quick breakfast, it was time for the day’s work.
The nature of the work was visible through Gilber’s hands. After many years, his once useful and vigorous tools had deteriorated into the fifty-year-old antiques hanging by his sides. They were calloused and cripplingly arthritic. The pain was obvious in his eyes whether he was picking coffee beans, repairing a neighbor’s shed, or butchering a sow, but his work never slowed. Not once did he complain. As I worked beside him, constantly reminding myself of my supposed youth and vigor, I was moved.
I vividly remember looking down at my own pair. Dirty from working outside, but below that initial layer of dirt lay smooth hands. I realized the closest thing I had to a callous was where my pen sat between my thumb and forefinger. I was ashamed. The more I watched and got to know Gilber, the more I realized his hands, old and tired as they were, were symbols of his all-around approach to life.
Yes, his hands were the physical manifestation of a passionate dedication to his work, but they also represented the similar steadfast approach he took in all aspects of his life, including family, God, and community. He approached his faith, being a husband, father, brother, friend, and neighbor the same way his hands approached another day in the field, determined, regardless of the pain and personal sacrifice, to do what needed to be done, do it to the best of his abilities, and to go about it the right way.
My mother and father have all the aforementioned values, and they worked to instill them in all of their children. While they succeeded to an extent, there was something about seeing another example of such complete and absolute dedication, up close and personal. Maybe it was being a few thousand miles away in a place as different culturally as Costa Rica, or maybe I had finally reached a level of maturity where I was able to comprehend and put into perspective the things my parents had always done. Whatever the case was, Gilber's hands and actions left an indelible mark on me. I know my hands will never look like Gilber's, but I can embrace the things he embraced, the things that his hands represented. He helped me realize how important it is to live a life full of passion, dedication, love, family, and faith.
I had got into the habit of keeping a journal of my days in Costa Rica, and any given entry might detail a day or two’s events over the course of a page or so. Looking for inspiration for this essay, I was recently flipping through the journal when I got to an entry dated February 14th, 2007. Squeezed between two much longer and detailed entries were two underlined words: “his hands”. Though I had forgotten about the journal entry, the message behind it remains a vital part of my character. I know I have shortcomings, but just a moment thinking about Gilber and all his hands represented gives me the inspiration to be the best person I can. When I left for Costa Rica I was skeptical that I would have the life changing moment that people describe after a trip abroad. I never had such a moment, but a man and his hands did impact me in ways I could never have imagined.
After two weeks at Gilber’s home, I had learned Costa Rican roosters did not come with snooze buttons. It was an hour when reasonable people, and farm animals, were sleeping, yet that damn rooster wanted me up. There was no use trying to sleep through it, so I threw off my blankets, went outside, and jumped into the ice-cold shower. Maybe a minute later I was out, not very clean, but certainly awake. Still shivering, I dressed, making sure to check if any tarantulas (big enforcers of trespassing codes) had decided to make my boots home for the evening. After a quick breakfast, it was time for the day’s work.
The nature of the work was visible through Gilber’s hands. After many years, his once useful and vigorous tools had deteriorated into the fifty-year-old antiques hanging by his sides. They were calloused and cripplingly arthritic. The pain was obvious in his eyes whether he was picking coffee beans, repairing a neighbor’s shed, or butchering a sow, but his work never slowed. Not once did he complain. As I worked beside him, constantly reminding myself of my supposed youth and vigor, I was moved.
I vividly remember looking down at my own pair. Dirty from working outside, but below that initial layer of dirt lay smooth hands. I realized the closest thing I had to a callous was where my pen sat between my thumb and forefinger. I was ashamed. The more I watched and got to know Gilber, the more I realized his hands, old and tired as they were, were symbols of his all-around approach to life.
Yes, his hands were the physical manifestation of a passionate dedication to his work, but they also represented the similar steadfast approach he took in all aspects of his life, including family, God, and community. He approached his faith, being a husband, father, brother, friend, and neighbor the same way his hands approached another day in the field, determined, regardless of the pain and personal sacrifice, to do what needed to be done, do it to the best of his abilities, and to go about it the right way.
My mother and father have all the aforementioned values, and they worked to instill them in all of their children. While they succeeded to an extent, there was something about seeing another example of such complete and absolute dedication, up close and personal. Maybe it was being a few thousand miles away in a place as different culturally as Costa Rica, or maybe I had finally reached a level of maturity where I was able to comprehend and put into perspective the things my parents had always done. Whatever the case was, Gilber's hands and actions left an indelible mark on me. I know my hands will never look like Gilber's, but I can embrace the things he embraced, the things that his hands represented. He helped me realize how important it is to live a life full of passion, dedication, love, family, and faith.
I had got into the habit of keeping a journal of my days in Costa Rica, and any given entry might detail a day or two’s events over the course of a page or so. Looking for inspiration for this essay, I was recently flipping through the journal when I got to an entry dated February 14th, 2007. Squeezed between two much longer and detailed entries were two underlined words: “his hands”. Though I had forgotten about the journal entry, the message behind it remains a vital part of my character. I know I have shortcomings, but just a moment thinking about Gilber and all his hands represented gives me the inspiration to be the best person I can. When I left for Costa Rica I was skeptical that I would have the life changing moment that people describe after a trip abroad. I never had such a moment, but a man and his hands did impact me in ways I could never have imagined.