Things were given to me in a platter. Not necessarily in silver or gold but in a platter nevertheless. I grew up having all my clothes pressed, folded and stacked neatly in my closet. My bed was made for me everyday. I never saw my room dirty or messy the way I see my room now. Everything was dusted, swept and pillow puffed. Our floors were mopped and waxed on a weekly basis. There was always cooked food on the table. They would call my name at 11am to say that food was ready. I would fumble out of bed, go straight to the table and not even care to thank those that prepared it.  I was so lazy that even a glass of water would literally be placed on my hand when I was thirsty. 

I never thought of service because I never had to.

I did not have the opportunity to serve. Well maybe I did but my heart probably kept distant and always stayed where it was comfortable to back out – when it wanted out.  It didn’t want to get dirty and too involved because it had no time to think or care other than for itself. Naturally, my view on service was limited and rather shallow. Either service was something “BIG” (something SEEN. Corrupt politicians come to mind.) with a galactic impact like organizing a fundraiser or planting a tree. Or service was something simple and quick like holding the door open for an elderly. I never thought that a substantial part of service meant taking away part of yourself. Actually sacrificing something of yourself, getting dirty and giving your all. I never figured that service would mean pain or discomfort.

This is what being a mom and being a foreigner in this fast paced culture taught me. I find myself stopping in the middle of sweeping or cooking and FINALLY get the point that its not about me, never was and never will be.