One afternoon when my ex-husband and I were dating, we were stopped at a red light in Seattle when we were approached by a man holding a cardboard sign asking for change. I rolled down my window and handed him a dollar, and a heated discussion ensued inside the car that ended with a few well-timed expletives and the door slamming behind me. I stood there on the sidewalk, already shivering in the drizzle, wondering how in the world I could be so desperately in love with such a heartless piece of shit. He eventually coaxed me back into the car and we made up, but this was the first of many disappointing discussions we would have on the subject of homelessness, charity, and giving. He was such a practical man, always dissecting the pros and cons of any given decision and analyzing the potential benefits and downfalls. As useful and sensible as it was, his cerebral approach would absolutely infuriate me and our debates invariably ended with me in tears, and a confused Ammon shaking his head at the emotional instability of his wife.

When I was fifteen I ran away from home, lost in a haze of drug use and depression that left me incapable of doing the things a normal high school girl would do. I could barely attend my classes, much less football games and school dances, because I was completely consumed with trying not to kill myself. Life was so hopeless for me that the choice to leave home was a simple one: I could either stay in that world of hurt and anger and crippling depression, or I could run as fast and far as I could. I took off, and I ended up living with a group of runaways who slept in a camp under the freeway and roamed the streets of Capitol Hill during the day. Everyone had a horrific story of why they couldn’t go back to their homes and families. We were all so young, and we were all so scared. We were harmless- I never once saw any of my friends in a verbal altercation, much less carrying a weapon- and yet we were routinely witnesses to the very worst side of humanity. We had bottles thrown at us from open car windows, every insult you could ever imagine spat out of the mouths of passersby, and the police constantly telling us to move on, no loitering here as my wan and exhausted group shuffled from one side of the street to the other. It was clear that to the working, ‘civilized’ world we were less than human, worth even less sympathy than the stray dog shivering in the park. We were despised, although for most of us, that was nothing new.

Although the abuse and hatred became familiar, part of the daily routine, there were also some of the most breathtaking acts of kindness. A $20 bill, folded and pressed into the palm of my hand by a quickly passing stranger. A bag of take-out, still hot, set at our feet. A new jacket hung gently around my friend’s bony shoulders. What fascinated me was that these anonymous donors never once stayed to talk to us. While an older gentleman might stand with us and lecture us about the merits of holding a job and contributing to society, he invariably left us only with the wet thwack of phlegm spat at our shoes before he walked away. The acts of kindness we received were never paired with instructions on what to do with the things we were given. These people appeared for only an instant, and without exception disappeared into the busy street before we were even able to voice our thanks.

I was lucky. My stay on the streets was relatively short; I was back home and trying to resume a normal life within a couple of weeks. But the sides of humanity I witnessed, both terrible and heartbreakingly beautiful, have never left me. I will never forget how the most minute act of kindness can change someone’s view of the world. And I will never forget how easy it is for a person to avert their eyes and turn you invisible. And how if enough people turn you invisible, it begins to define you until not even your heartbeat or regular intakes of breath can convince you that you’re still human.

I have changed a lot since then. I have sobered up, had a family, owned homes. I’ve become one of the ‘contributing members of society.’ Although I still roll down my window at street corners and place a dollar into the outstretched hand, I’ve become less hurt by the people in my life who don’t choose to do the same. I understand that everyone has a valid opinion on the subject of who deserves what kind of charity, and I’ve learned to respect those that are different from mine. I allow you your beliefs, and am grateful when you allow me mine. But I’ve noticed that the people who are closest to me share, at least in part, my unwavering belief in giving. I have been amazed by the generosity of the people who I love, even more so because the discussion of charity is one that rarely comes up in conversation. Without ever having discussed it, somehow the little family I have created has been peopled by those with the most beautiful and generous of hearts.

A week ago I was out to dinner with one of my closest friends. It was freezing out, and we rushed from the restaurant to my car, shoulders hunched against the biting wind and our leftovers clutched to our chests. We cut through a parking lot and passed by a woman of indeterminate age, bundled in layers of tattered clothes and pushing a shopping cart full of what looked like garbage. Our conversation fell silent as we passed this woman, watching as she struggled to push her cart up onto the sidewalk. We had walked in silence for about a minute when my friend suddenly stopped. She turned around and ran back towards the woman, chasing her up the sidewalk until she caught up to her. I watched as they talked for a moment, and then my friend walked back to where I stood waiting. Her white box of leftovers was gone. As we reached my car and huddled in the darkness waiting for the engine to warm up, I wondered how in the world I could so desperately love this sweet, amazing friend sitting beside me. But how could I not. She, along with all of the other incredible friends I am blessed to know, is exactly the kind of human I wish we all could be.

I was driving home tonight when I happened to look up and catch sight of the moon. It was blindingly white, illuminating the clusters of small clouds that clung to each other like puffs of warm breath in the cold winter air. I was awestruck. Not because of the moon’s intense beauty, which was incredible, but because I had forgotten how vast the sky can seem sometimes. How when you look up, it feels like you’re drowning in its hugeness. I am so focused on the importance of my daily activities that I have forgotten that sometimes the only way to make it through your day it to look to the sky and find some perspective.

It reminded me of something wonderful I read once about the creation of the world, a page from the novel Ashes and Snow by Gregory Colbert:

“In the beginning of time, the skies were filled with flying elephants. Too heavy for their wings, they sometimes crashed through the trees and frightened other animals.

All the flying grey elephants migrated to the source of Ganges. They agreed to renounce their wings and settle on the earth. When they molted millions of wings fell to the earth, the snow covered them, and the Himalayas were born.

The blue elephants landed in the sea and their wings became fins. They are whales, the trunkless elephants of the ocean. Their cousins are the manatees, the trunkless elephants of the rivers.

The chameleon elephants kept their wings but agreed never again to land on earth. They change the colors of their feathers every day. Today they are azure, and when it rains they are the color of pearls.

When they go to sleep, the chameleon elephants always lie down in the same place in the sky and dream with one eye open. The stars you see at night are the unblinking eyes of sleeping elephants, who sleep with one eye open to best keep watch over us.”

I like to think of life this way, with elephants in the sky and in the waters; a mystical, secret way in which we are not alone. Go outside tonight and look up at the stars. Tell me if you see the eye of an elephant looking back at you.

I think most people would describe me as a pretty nice girl. And I am, to everyone but myself. I spent years tearing myself down, piece by bloody piece, until all that was left was a very broken, very sad girl. And then I had a baby. And my god, how I loved that baby. She was so perfect, so incredibly beautiful, and every ounce of my being knew she was the most worthy, precious soul that ever lived. I wanted her to know that. I wanted her to know that she was beautiful and loved and good. But I realized that I would never be able to teach her those things, and have her truly believe them, unless she knew that I saw them in myself, too. No one would want to learn how to sail around the globe from a man who believed the world was flat. So I have spent the last seven years slowly rebuilding myself, finding all the parts that I hated and rejected and stripped away and meticulously piecing this person back together.

One of the most important things I have learned through all this work is never to listen to Thought Number One. Thought Number One comes from my old self, from the sick and tattered mind of the girl who knew she was unacceptable. Thought Number One pops up all the time, and it is so immediate and sly that often times it slips by without me even noticing how terribly cruel it is. It says things like, “Of course those pants don’t fit you! Haven’t you seen how disgusting your thighs are?” and “This guy will never want to date you- you’re the most undesirable creature on the planet!” and “Your car is a mess because you’re a mess- even Jesus hates you!”

Thought Number One is an asshole. And Thought Number One always, always lies.

It’s the second thought, the quieter, gentler thought, that speaks the truth. The second thought sees things through the eyes of this whole and healthy me, the one who knows that she is loved and fundamentally okay. The second thought tells me that things are never as wild and drastic as Thought Number One, ever the drama queen, would have me believe. The second thought calms me, smoothes out the crinkles in my worried forehead. It tells me that the pants don’t fit because I need a different size- it has nothing to do with my thighs. And that the men I know are just as confused as I am about life and love, and besides, it’s never good to judge my self-worth by how often I get asked out. The second thought admires my messy car because it’s a testament to how busy and full my life is. And the second thought knows that god adores every inch of beautiful, messy me.

It’s hard, because listening to Thought Number One became such a habit that its cruel, terrible voice became more familiar to me than my own. But I know now that if I believe that voice, I end up wounded. I feel hopeless and black and I tend to make awful decisions. No good decision was ever made based on a lie. So I practice listening to the second thought, I practice waiting for it to come and tell me what is true. Sitting quietly and waiting for the voice of love and reason to show up is incredibly difficult for a girl who’s entire life has been built on rash decisions, but it’s so, so rewarding. So I do it; I stop. I wait. And every time, without fail, the truth is whispered in my ear.