Grand Theft

Recently my apartment was burglarized. In broad daylight, someone violently kicked in the door of my apartment, as well as the doors of three others. In the moments that ensued, these thieves took only a few electronics, a pistol, a badge, a briefcase and a phone. From me, all that was taken was a television, empty briefcase and a phone. What they left is more puzzling than what they took, but that’s another matter. They managed to open and rummage through every drawer, look under the mattress, and otherwise help themselves to whatever they wished. They just didn’t take much.


It’s the second time this year that I’ve felt “violated”. If you want to know about the other time, check out my blog archives. This time was different. When I got the news that I had been burglarized, I was 600 miles away in another state. I was helpless to really do much, including give the police officer any kind of accurate inventory. Over the phone, we were able to establish that some of my most precious keepsakes were still there. Odd.

At first, I just felt helpless, maybe even a little ill. There truly was little that I could do, so I tried not to let it ruin my mini-vacation. Over the next couple of days I felt some anguish, some anger. I was curious to see what my humble little abode looked like in the aftermath. There were times I was truly angry and disgusted. At other times I tried to go the “they must have needed it worse than I did” route. You know, it’s a bad economy and times are tough. This kind of thing is going to happen. But that just didn’t work for me. Oddly, neither did the anger.

Who among us hasn’t stolen something at one time or another? Bear with me. I’m not talking about material stuff. There have been times in my life where I have barged into a life where I wasn’t necessarily welcome and made a mess of an otherwise peaceful house. Through my words or actions I have stolen or damaged dignity and peace of mind. I have robbed people of their sense of security and safety. I have robbed those closest to me of their confidence, their purpose. I have, at one time or another, left them standing in the door with their mouth open, wondering how on earth I could do this to them.

I wonder if the thieves that made themselves at home in those four apartments, look in the mirror and ask themselves how they could do such a thing. I doubt it. I know I wake up every day and wonder how I can ever give back the things I’ve taken. I can’t. Trust is a commodity not easily replaced. I can’t say I forgive those who burglarized my home. But I understand. I worked hard for my “stuff” and it amazes me that someone would help themselves.

What those people did was illegal, at best. But the things I’ve taken over the course of a lifetime are in a category all itself. I can’t go to jail, but in many ways I’ve created my own prison. Be careful what you take. The price of taking what isn’t yours may be far higher than any price tag. Can you even put a price on integrity?