Writing Life: The World Standing Beside Me
by Jo Kadlecek

She didn't mean to make me sad. My colleague's words were short and brave, but there was no mistaking the heavy worry she felt as a mother.

"He'll be here for a 10-day break," she smiled. "Then back to Iraq for another tour. But really, it's been okay. He's okay."

When I asked how she was doing, she emphasized the ways in which her son's courage had grown during his 12 months away from home, how his sense of humor was still intact and his weekly phone calls encouraging.

Still, her face told another story. And the more I saw the weariness in her eyes, the more I noticed something else began to happen: I could no longer measure the toll of this confusing and complicated war from news reports or impersonal statistics. It was now standing beside me, evidence of how hard—and close—a global tragedy could be.

I recognized it again with a friend who'd been working with women in Uganda, helping them fight the AIDS epidemic. Then, just like that, she had to be evacuated during an Ebola outbreak in their village. After a two-year mission, this was not the closure she'd hoped for.

Now that she's back in the U.S., trying to adjust to busy subways, running water and television sound bites, she tells me she misses the spirit and pace of her African friends. I nod and listen, because apart from her experiences, I'd know nothing of the beauty of Uganda, or of the humanity behind this terrible killer called AIDS.

But there they are. Global tragedies, earthly struggles, cultural nuances, all living in the words and stories of those around us, helping us understand and learn and travel without moving a step. Hearing them, I feel connected to a type of suffering I can barely imagine, inspired by the places humans survive no matter the cost.

Thankfully, there are celebrations, too. The young filmmakers in Denmark my husband met recently who believe their films can make a difference in the spiritual lives of their churches. The beautiful Mexican neighbors in my hometown of Denver determined to support their families by working jobs most of us would never take. The company execs who offer free diversity training so their employees and clients can better appreciate each others' backgrounds. And of course, the Irish, Thai and Indian restaurant owners in my neighborhood who've made it their business to help us experience the flavors of their home countries.

These examples—along with the gift of modern technology—remind us that the world is indeed smaller than we thought. A trip across the Internet's multi-lingual blogs, videos and e-zines reveals how accessible our once unconquerable planet has become. Its bigness can now be reduced to a screen, bringing us a click away to the virtual places we might never see with our real eyes.

We need these technological tools if for no other reason than to remember the world beyond our desks and chairs. They can be powerful tour guides, and equally effective tutors.

Even so, I fear their constant barrage of messages can also make us numb, apathetic, even compassion-fatigued. One more image of desperate women in poverty and we're likely to click or glaze.

Unless the image is described—in real time and voice—by someone we know, like my old friend Lynn, whose vision for small business ownership has moved many Fijian women out of poverty. Nothing replaces the flesh-and-blood stories that stand beside us in the daily tasks of our lives. Listening to their words—and studying their faces—weaves into us a global perspective that is immediate and human, present and alive, tangible and moving. They feed a writer's soul.

Sure, their experiences will sometimes make us sad. But some are likely to inspire us as well. Either way, they'll make us better people, better writers, and better citizens of this world that for now we all call home. Which, I think, is the point after all.

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When she's not writing fiction or essays, Jo Kadlecek, an ASJA member since 2002, teaches nonfiction writing and journalism at Gordon College on Boston's North shore. www.lamppostmedia.net