In a conversation once I said complaining, "My life isn't what I expected it to be." A fair statement given the deaths in our family that summer. "Whose is?" was the reply.
I think a lot of us are feeling that way. At least right now our lives are not what we expected them to be. I don't need to list all the ways.
I know of no new sickness among our circle of family or friends. And the friend who was in intensive care is home. We give thanks. But this morning I stood in line behind a young man wearing a protective mask. I had seen him before the pharmacy opened, stretched out on an out-of-the-way bench for customers. He lay there alone, eyes closed keeping his distance. Tall, thin and with a shaved head, now he was kneeling at the pharmacy counter. Too weak to stand for long, he waited on his knees as his prescriptions were filled. My first thought was, "Here is someone to pray for." Then he rose and slowly left the store.
Each of us in line--three women all standing 6 feet apart--looked at him and at each other with visible compassion. It was hard seeing this man, this stranger with whom it was so easy to feel kinship. I don't believe I'll ever forget the sight he made. Him tall enough to easily reach the counter while on his knees and me immediately thinking of prayer. In a safer world I could have knelt beside him, though he would have surely found that strange. After all, we were in a pharmacy not church. After he left the three of us spoke about him briefly from our distances.
I had a tall thin sick boy of my own a few years back, that summer that I mentioned. I've written of him before ("The Sundial," 7/23/19). I came home and lit a fire to ward off the inner chill and saw this:
Life is messy and complicated and we are afraid.
But we show up anyway.
All the changes of this season are not this difficult. But for this post, I'll leave it with the picture of the young man kneeling and how he woke compassion in the women in line behind him.
No comments:
Post a Comment