Sometimes, you only need to pay a little attention to life

These past few days, children everywhere have been returning to school.

For some, the first day back is an ordinary one. New schoolbags, new uniforms, bright chatter and laughter outside the school gates. Parents linger to take a few pictures of their children, then head home with their hearts at ease.

But in some places, the first day of school looks different.

There are children in care homes, where being able to call out “Mom” or “Dad” has become a luxury.

There are children lying in hospital beds, with rounds of medication through an IV instead of a new schoolbag.

There are children who lost their fathers or mothers in the pandemic. They still grow, still go to school, but behind those little backpacks there may be vast empty spaces.

This afternoon, on my way to pick up Bánh Mì, I kept thinking about all of this.

The streets were as busy as ever. Streams of traffic flowed through one intersection after another, horns sounding near and far. A small flock of swallows swooped down by the roadside, hurriedly pecked at a few stray grains, then darted back into the sky. A few pigeons beat their wings and wheeled over the rooftops. Who knows where they were hurrying to.

The city kept moving. People were coming home from work, children were chattering behind their parents on motorbikes, and the little restaurants were beginning to turn on their lights.

Everything was so ordinary that it was easy to pass through it all without noticing we were being given a peaceful day.

But there in the afternoon traffic, I suddenly felt something inside me grow still.

I thought of Bánh Mì.

Of the days before my child could speak, of the wheelchair that carries my child to school each morning, of my wife standing at the door, waiting for Bánh Mì and me to come home.

And I found myself wondering:

“Could it be that sometimes we only need to pay a little more attention to life to see how fortunate we are, in a world that still holds so much hardship?”

I still have difficulties of my own.

But today, I am grateful.

Grateful to have my wife and child beside me. Grateful that Bánh Mì is safe and healthy. Grateful that, after the long days, there is still a home to return to.

Perhaps happiness is not always something grand.

Sometimes happiness is simply an afternoon spent bringing your child home.

It is a little voice calling “Dad.”

It is a home with its lights still on.

It is knowing the person you love is still there.

And it is still being fortunate enough to worry about the most ordinary things.

This afternoon, my heart goes out to the children out there.

To those lying in hospital beds.

To those growing up in care homes.

To those who have had to learn too soon to live without the arms that should have held them close.

I do not know what life will bring them.

I only hope they will be safe and well.

I hope those who are hurting will grow well again.

I hope the children missing an embrace will find arms warm enough to hold them.

And I hope that, in this vast world, they will always have somewhere to come home to.

Perhaps today I understand a little more deeply:

“Without mud, there can be no lotus.”

Life is not always gentle. But amid its hardships, if we are willing to pause a little, look a little more closely, feel a little gratitude...

We will see that the things we call “ordinary” are sometimes the most precious gifts life has quietly given us.