I am afraid I have a corny sense of humor, but there is something about this man that just kills me with laughter every time I hear about him!
Is it just me?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am so honored to be invited to Eddie Blue Light's to be the Roast there December 20!
I was in the center lane of the intersection, coming off the freeway, when the light turned red. I was five cars back. He was standing on the corner, in twenty degrees, wearing a light weight jacket, a black beanie, and thin yarn gloves. His sign read Will Work written in black marker and the typical God Bless was scrawled below.
I dug into my purse to see if I had a couple bucks to give him. To my surprise, there was a ten dollar bill. Glancing over my shoulder to the left I saw no traffic. I pulled into the left hand lane and rolled down the window. The freezing air rushed in. I wondered what it would feel like to stand in a busy place, invisible, dressed in thin clothing, with nothing but time and the bitter cold on my hands. What would it feel like watching Christmas trees go by on the car roofs of people who did not seem to be able to see me?
It seemed I had been sitting at the light for a few minutes and I began to worry perhaps the light would change before I had time to give him the money. I was too far from him. I put my arm out the window and waved. He saw me and began to jog toward my car. His breath freezing in air as he approached. He looked only at my hand and not at my eyes. I wanted to see his eyes; more than that wanted him to see mine. I held the money rolled in my hand. When he noticed I was holding it tightly he looked into my eyes.
Our eyes met. I wasn't in the least afraid of him standing there, tall, thin, bones protruding from a sharpened face and wild gray curls peeking beneath his hat. His blue eyes were alert, curious and sadder than eyes I have seen in a very long time. His thin mittened hand brushed mine as I handed him the money. "Thank you, thank you so very much," he said softly. The light turned green, but I kept the window down and said, "You are welcome." I smiled at him, and as he walked away, he turned and said in the kindest voice, "Have a really nice day."
I wanted to say I see you. I see you. I see you standing here aging in winter and it is all wrong. I don't know how to fix it, and I don't care what you have done, or what you will do with the money. I see you and I care that you are here in the cold.
But instead I rolled up my automatic windows, turned up the heat, and wrapped my wool scarf closer to my neck. I didn't care what he did with the money. Had I had more I would have given it to him that day. What could I hold against a homeless man who might leave the corner and get drunk or high in this winter weather, and find a way to escape his sorrows for now? How could I judge what it is to be him? What do I know about being invisible, unseen, swept away?
I have always excused myself from helping these people with the self righteous questions of what they would do with the money and how did they get there anyway. But for some reason this year, it doesn't matter to me anymore how they got there, or what they will do.
Instead I am wondering how I got to a place where I didn't see people starving, cold, humiliated standing on corners with card board signs, ironically writing God Bless You, to people who don't even acknowledge they are human beings lost somehow in the hardness of what life has dealt. I am wondering how I am comfortable pulling my car up to a coffee shop drive-through for a warm cup of coffee, because I don't like the one I make as well, while nearby, on a corner, someone is hungry, broken, freezing. I am suddenly more worried about my own sins than those of this world who stand in winter, vulnerable, with their failure in life written on a small card board sign.
In my heart I tell myself this must change in me. I ask God to bless them and forgive me. I begin with the simple phrase I see you. I see You.
(For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.
'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?'
He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'
Matthew 25:42-45 emphasis mine)
Sometimes a woman
Can't make up her mind
She can't decide
What is up or
Down
Especially
When she is
Inside out
I am
Inside out
I am white paper
Dipped in oil
See through
I am made of glass
Breaking
Able to
Shatter
I am thrown
Away
I gather
Me up
In a room the
Hue of
Melted butter
I listen to music
I write
Carly sings
You gave away the
Things you loved
And one of them was
Me
My young daughter
Plays nearby
Waiting for Christmas
Santa and gifts
Susan Boyle sings
Let's do some living
After we die
I know just what
She means
It is possible to
Die while
Breathing in
Air
One can simply
Wither
Crumple
Wrinkle inside and nearly
Fade
I have been to that place
Entered the
Dark
I Chose not to
Stay
I pick up my daughter
I dance in a
Room the color of
Light
With her in
My arms
I dip
I swirl
I sing
With Susan
Her voice like an
Angel
Wild horses couldn't
Drag me away
My tiny girl
Laughs
Sing it again Mama
I love this song
She tells me
I gather the pieces of me
As I sing
In a room
Painted yellow
Sun breaks through
Blinded windows
A beam of morning
Rests upon
My face
In wonder
I open my eyes and
Bask in
Rays of
Hope
Dawn graciously
Mercifully
Faithfully
Follows
Night
My marriage has ended. A marriage breaker was found by me. After encouragement from friends I have decided I will continue to blog about my journey here. Those who would be hurt by reading my words always have the choice not to. I will not detail what has happened. I will only say I am responding to what has occurred and finding my way through a divorce.
This is a blog about hope. Hope is only meaningful to those who know what it is to be without it. I am not without it. Let's do some living after we die is a place I have been to. I have caught the morning sun on my face and stood in the promise of it.
I am overwhelmed at the email responses and comments I received after my last post. Thank you! I will continue blogging at The Things We Carried. It is woman's prerogative, after all, to change her mind.
If you have a blog and would like to follow my new blog when I start one please email me at meretgarden@gmail.com
Thanks for following The Things We Carried!
MT
We stroll through a crowded shopping mall a familiar distance now between us. He slips away little by little, in the smallest increments, nearly imperceptible, but in this place I find myself acutely aware of a widening gap. It is as it must be, as it should be, as I knew it would be from almost the very beginning. I used to believe knowing this would make it easier to bare, but instead it begs my acceptance, my blessing, my letting go. I release him minute by minute, hour by hour, like a woman in labor, I await the inevitable change, reminding myself to breath. Remember how important it is to breath in every minute and hold the air in your heart as long as you can, I tell myself in these days. I give myself good advice.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, for no reason at all, his hand slips once again into mine. We walk hand and hand as we have countless of times his life. And though the number is beyond counting that this son of mine and I have meandered, our fingers entwined, I instinctively, correctly, know to count this time, to add it to the end of all the other numbers, because it will be the last time.
Store fronts and people passing by slip into a blur as my eyes fight to regain composure. My boy chatters away and I listen to his high pitched voice, knowing something he doesn't of lasts. It is not right for me to tell him or ask him to carry the responsibility and weight of such knowledge. But as we move through the crowd I consider what it is to be grown and what it is to be a child. I am struck by the firsts and the lasts that come and go. Lasts differ from firsts, as often we have no idea when lasts are happening. They slip in, like dreams, while we sleep and we awaken to find them already gone.
More lasts have already happened then I, yet, even know. Still some of them I caught as they attempted to slither by unnoticed. The walk with my son, hand in hand, I captured. I caught it and held it tight, and though my boy slips away, and a man replaces his childhood self, I will remember the familiar feel of his small hand in mine; the way his happy voice lit up my heart like the sun in a field of wildflowers. I will wish him the joy of knowing the perfect fit of another hand in his, though mine has outgrown him.
Lasts come and go like dreams while we sleep. But, if we awaken in the middle of their passing, sometimes we can catch them and store them away like pearls.
(This post, a memory from several years ago, was inspired by the incredible writer, Erin, at Woman in a Window.)
