Thumbs Up.

Ever since I was little, I have distinguished a difference between the hitchhiker that stands on the side of the highway with his thumb out and the one that walks and walks and walks and occasionally raises his thumb to the wind as a car approaches.  There is a world of difference, you know.

I have a chronic condition called Wounded Bird Syndrome.   It is a black hole of compassion for the underdog and downtrodden of society.  As a kid, I always picked the ugliest runt kitten from the litter because I feared no one else would.  I don’t know where I first contracted it, but it still flares up every so often, and I feel compelled to pour out my heart and resources to rectify some universal wrong that has befallen someone.

Over time though, I have learned that there are wolves that hide in wounded bird clothing.   There are people who play the martyr and the victim to limp through life on the crutches of other people’s misguided compassion.

That’s the difference between the hitchhikers: the self-initiated effort to get to the next mile marker.  Time has taught me to measure the weight of a situation and to dole out my compassion in just proportion.  It is all too easy to sit on the side of life’s highway with a thumb out waiting for others to carry you a little further along.   I still believe that universal wrongs happen and that compassion is necessary — required of us, even.  But a dash of discernment will reveal that the man who keeps walking despite the heat or the rain or the blisters will more likely bear a genuine need, a worthy destination, an interesting story.   And I will less likely find myself duped by wolves who play into my syndrome just to catch a free ride to the next stop.

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