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I sit on my porch, a warm, sunny morning with birds announcing their awakening; some singing melodiously, others producing somewhat annoying, repetitious cheeps.

Across the street is the brick, three-story former village educational institution now serving seniors in well-appointed apartments. Buses no longer line the street. No chattering children express their joy at seeing their friends for the day.

Now, residents occasionally amble from their homes to the nearby commercial area, pulling small service carts; a bit of banter may often be exchanged between us about weather and local events. It’s a tranquil scene.

Then my inquisitive mind books me on a trip. The constant disturbing news of world conflict assembled from accounts in the newspaper swirls in my mind. Feeling powerless to change it, I can only pray. In a mind-generated vision I see the building across the street totally destroyed by artillery fire, some parts still standing ragged, others in shambles; window openings agape with shattered framings hanging limply.

All the scenes from television newscasts replay for me. Outside, surviving residents move despondently. Some pick through rubble to find lost treasure, perhaps a family photo, a small ceramic animal once a gift to grandma from a preschool child, anything on which to hang a memory. Others, dejected, gaze vacantly at the destruction, no doubt ruminating on a very unsure future.

I return from this brief mental odyssey, all the destruction erased, everything back to normal. I’m happy that the visions were only that. I can live here, safe and sound and still feel connected to many around the world who live under grave, troubling conditions.

I know I have little power other than a pocketbook to bring some semblance of change. Yet, I find it difficult to abide my fellow man’s petty grievances about the weather or street noises.

Many of us live lives circumscribed by limited circles of awareness, but I have had the dubious fortune of traveling and serving in troubled countries struggling with a hand-to-mouth livelihoods. This past weekend we entertained visitors who had 48 hours to vacate their home in St. Petersburg, Russia, with two kids and three suitcases. They are traveling cross-country to her parents in Seattle.

What did they see sitting with me on the porch? As we chatted about our lives, no doubt they were partly absorbed with visions they have experienced recently. Were there grave mixed emotions, juxtaposed with this time of calm, as the pictures of destruction in the country they called home reeled on in their minds?

Never having experienced such dire events, I can only imagine their thoughts. We did find some solace as the couple described a network of friends who carry on the tasks of serving the street children and orphans they had to leave behind. Also, their contacts in Ukraine continued bringing needed food and supplies to those scenes of disruption.

One despairing result of my mind-travels: I find myself drawing away from friends who cannot see life globally, and who persist, with little forethought, in elevating insignificant irritants into dire events.

So, friends. I may be away on a trip or two. There are numerous destinations that beckon me. But don’t expect postcards; the news might unhinge you.

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