It was a routine morning, buying an energy drink in the gas station next to LA Fitness before my racquetball game. I brought the can to the counter, and the same young woman, whom I guessed to be mid-20’s and who had been behind the counter for the last several weeks, greeted me with a bright and open smile “Good morning.” And in my “dad joke manner” I greeted her laughing with “Same old, same old.” She looked slightly confused but went over to the cigarette case and started getting me a pack of smokes. I laughed and said, “no, no, don’t want any cigarettes.” So her misunderstanding confirmed my previous guess that she was new to America. I then said, “May I ask what country you’re from?” She answered “India” with a bright smile. “And how long have you been in this country?” “Four months” she said. Then she said something which stunned me and which I will always remember . . . “And this is my dream job,” as if I, of course, could relate to that and be proud of her realizing her dream for the future. A dream I imagine born out of abject poverty, half-way across the globe, quite possibly living at times with less than enough to eat, wondering if this was her unchanging destiny in life . . . And here she was in Indianapolis, deeply, genuinely grateful for landing a job in a gas station making minimum wage. . . so thankful for her new life. Which for her, by comparison . . . I quickly recognized that I, nor anyone I’ve ever known or grown up with, nor none of my children or grandchildren, have ever imagined and prayed for their “dream job” to be working behind the counter at a gas station. Dearest Lord, in Your mercy, keep me humble and always thankful for every single blessing I have almost always taken for granted, and that huge portions of the world’s people can only dream about.