Writing about the end of the world has become a common topic. Whenever I come across the theme, I am reminded of a beggar I once saw in Cardiff, U.K. He was silently sitting behind a box marked "I'm hungry". When I passed him, my face must have looked worried.
"C'mon, it's not the end of the world!"
That was all he said.
He didn't ask for money or anything. I remember I gave him something like 50 pence, all the coins that happened to be in the pocket of my jeans.
Maybe he was smart, smarter than I, and knew how to organize his act. Probably he got what he wanted. I don't care.
Many times, when troubled or desperate, these words kept coming back to my mind:
"C'mon, it's not the end of the world!"
Thank God, it's not the end of the world. I have a lot of things I want to do before then. I do think, though, that we often consider things to be more dire than they are. I love the story of the two little boys on Christmas morning. One got an expensive toy but handed it back to his parents; he was afraid he would break it. The other got a pile of manure. He grabbed a shovel in delight, assuming that there must be a pony making the manure. I want to be that little boy, always looking for the pony!
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