I met him again this morning as I was walking to work, this skinny, angry wheelchair bound old man. I wondered if he were a war veteran. Whoever he is, he seems to make an early morning beer run to the little IGA grocery store as soon as its open in the morning. I speculate whether he is out navigating this early because there is less traffic, because it hasn't gotten hot out, because he has been up all night and he is in pain. I have no way of knowing. He does not respond to my "Good Morning" s in any way. It is as if he neither sees nor hears me. He mumbles under his breath sometimes, unintelligible words. And he seems to feel that he owns the road. If I am on the same side of the road as he is, he guns his electric wheelchair, determined that he not be the one who gives way. And of course, I always step to one side to let him pass (as if there isn't a whole unused road surrounding us!).
His face is always screwed into a frown, his cheeks unshaven and gaunt, his clothes dirty. Where does he live, this unhappy man? Is he by himself? Is that by choice or default? What does he do with himself all day (besides drink a 6 pack of cheap beer)? Does anyone love this man? Has he driven away all his friends and family? Is it his fault? Does he wrestle with some sort of post traumatic stress syndrome brought on by a war experience? Is he connected to any agencies that could help him out? Does he have a painful terminal disease?
Well, maybe it is none of the above. I have no way of knowing since he is not open to conversation. I can only pray for this man that God will touch his life, heal his anger, and maybe his broken body. And I pray that I don't end up like that. Jarring, this brush with another's reality. Reminds one of how fragile life is, how beneficent God has been towards me, how blessed I am. How difficult it is to touch the life of another person.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment