NOT WHAT I CAN’T

It started with an ordinary bunch of seasonal flowers, the kind I once picked up at the Farmer’s Market—back in the days when it was safe to venture into crowds of people bunched as closely as the fresh pickings that beckoned seductively from portable tables under pop-up tents; back when the fragrance of flowers packed tightly in Mason jars rose valiantly over the musty smells of earth and the salty whiff of glistening shoppers. 

How I love the freshly cut offerings of Spring and early Summer. Their rag-tag blossoms are compelling precisely because they lack the artifice of more structured bouquets. Their random assemblage delights me because it gives more than it gets and requires almost nothing from me. No floral foam bricks, no frogs, no wires, none of the props employed by more gifted designers. My steps for arranging a bouquet read like the box of a ready-mix, no bake dessert. ‘Select one appropriately sized pitcher (a vase or a jar will do), trim stems, place flowers in container, add water, and enjoy.’ I have employed this technique so often I no longer have to read my own directions. 

Floral fortune has smiled on me especially brightly for the last few months. Neighbors on both sides have filled my life with flowers, almost as if in coordinated effort to make sure I didn’t forget that beauty still exists in a world darkened by grief and fear, and where sicknesses of body and soul compete for top billing on the nightly news. 

On one side, I have my thoughtful and generous daughter-in-law who, ingeniously intent on bolstering the local economy and my spirits simultaneously, had farm fresh flowers delivered weekly. Long-lived blossoms, their stems kept strong in water, took center stage in the dining room until their tired petals fell silently in permanent repose. Other flowers, not giving up so easily, chose to dry rather than die and live on in more permanent arrangements throughout the house.

On the other side, my talented and industrious neighbor brightened my days by posting her photographs of flowers. With a lens and an artful eye, she transforms flowers from farms and neighborhood gardens into still-life masterpieces. No vases or pitchers distract from the intense beauty of the flowers. A black backdrop removes the challenge of competing hues so that the shyest of shades feels free to show off. Often a single naked flower stands unblinking in its beauty, unembarrassed by its flaws, its stalwart dignity not letting the bruising from a harsh rain or the scars of a tormenting insect keep it from sharing what it still can offer.

I tried recently to explain to my neighbor how much her photographs moved me. The intent and intensity of my meaning must have been lost across the socially distanced span because, in response, she replied, “Do what I do. Just take pictures of the flowers in the neighborhood when you go for a walk.” 

“No, I can’t,” I laughed. And I knew I couldn’t.

As much as I would love to interpret my world through the lens of a camera, I haven’t yet mastered centering and focus, not to mention aperture or F-stop. Particularly during these trying days where real friends have been reduced to talking heads and conversations across intimate tables now take place via internet devices, a creative outlet that produces beauty or touches other people was particularly appealing. As I bemoaned my lack of photographic talent, a life motto floated through my thoughts, “Do what you can and not what you can’t.” 

Suddenly my mind was embroiled in one of its internal dialogues. “Well, if you can’t take photos, what can you do?” 

“Well, I can clean out my kitchen cabinets and sort through 50 years of pictures.”

“But what else can you do that would bring you joy and might be shared with others?”

“Hmmm. Oh. I see what you mean. I can write. I love to do it and people don’t mind reading it.”

“So, why aren’t you doing it?”

And so I did. But before I wrote, I began to think more about the opportunities at hand and less about the restrictions currently in place; I focused more at what I had and less on what I’d lost; I focused on an envelope of memorabilia I could cull and not on the boxes stacked in the closet. Then I began to write. (A recent post about savoring a deep woods experience from my front porch was a direct result.)

In recent days, I have thought a lot about what it means to ‘Do what you can and not what you can’t.’ It seems that too often we focus on the second half of the sentence and less eagerly on the first. It serves as a flippant excuse to avoid what we do not want to do—or can’t do without considerable effort. It has become the lumpy, yet familiar, place of repose, a piece of mental furniture we should replace but don’t because we have grown accustomed to its mind-numbing contours.

For me, the phrase ‘what I can’t’ has become the wake-up call to look toward what I can. When I cannot take a trip, it reminds me to enjoy the beauty of my yard. When I miss having coffee dates, it reminds me to call friends or write a note. When I can’t stop a dripping faucet, it reminds me to call the plumber. When I can’t clean the whole house, it reminds me to wash the dishes or pick up offending crumbs. 

When I want to capture the beauty of a moment, the smile of a child, the blush of fresh picked flowers, and have neither the camera or the skill, it reminds me to write—to do what I can and not what I can’t.

VACATION CAME TO ME

Overcast skies lost their battle to fight back their tears. They lacked the roiling determination of blacker clouds, so they did not succumb to hiccoughing sobs over what should have been a sunny, almost-summer day. Rather they simply allowed droplets to ooze steadily from their dreary gray, then roll through the leaves of gently swaying trees, skid over roofing shingles, and drop softly to the ground.

The soaked vegetation was a fitting tribute to my dampened plans. I stared into unending dreariness from my front porch chair, armed against the unseasonal chill with steaming coffee and cozy blanket. I needed time to absorb the pain of turning in a ‘no’ RSVP for an event I desperately wanted to attend and cancelling a hotel reservation made six months ago.

This was just the latest in voided travel plans. 2020 has been a year upended for me, a woman who would rather travel than eat—although if you travel, you know the absence of food is rarely an issue. From March through August, I had planned to visit four states and seven European countries. Holidays, birthdays, funerals, a retirement ceremony, excursions, and vacations all washed away by a global pandemic.

From my perch on the porch, I looked down on robins frolicking in tiny puddles and snacking on worms pulled effortlessly from sodden ground. I scowled only slightly at the woodpecker tapping a steady rhythm on a pine. “Nice to finally meet you,” I thought, putting sight to the sound heard so frequently from inside my doors. I enjoyed the irony of our reversed positions—these birds beneath my gaze usually perched on branches and looked down at me.

Breathing deeply of the rain-washed air, I was suddenly overwhelmed by the distantly remembered fragrance of wet pine trees and musty soil, a smell that took me back to years of camping in the Smoky Mountains. Instantly I was transported to another place and time, and the deep relaxation that comes from hours and days in a pine-filled woods.

Memories of crawling from a tent in the dew of early morning washed over me with the soft insistence of a soggy day. I thought of the tender bodies still curled into sleeping bags, not yet ready to face another day of dad-planned hikes. My fingers felt the warmth of the pink Melamine mug full of coffee brewed on a Coleman stove and handed to me by my ‘rise-to-meet-the-dawn’ husband and his tow-headed side-kick who awoke early on camping trips to have daddy all to himself. Often we pitched our tent by a stream, nestled under trees and so sheltered from the sun that even during the hottest days, the smell of pine and moldy dampness lingered—not unpleasantly.

Now, from the comfort of my urban porch, I once again savored the rich smells of a rain-soaked woods. I looked more closely at the intricacies of a thousand shades of green. I watched a rabbit hop slowly into the bushes while squirrels played tag in the trees. I heard the subtle rustlings of small creatures through tall grass. My heart picked up the beat to nature’s rhythm. 

I discovered I wouldn’t really need travel itineraries, airline tickets, hotel reservations, or road maps this year. Vacation came to me.

HONEST REFLECTIONS

I raced my cart toward checkout as fast as the crowded aisles allowed. I was powerfully motivated to escape further temptation in this home goods nirvana.  A simple stop for a dish drainer had tempted me with an unending display of items I had not known existed and now couldn’t live without.

I was focused on the exit when I saw her from the corner of my eye, and then only from her elbows down. Even this brief glimpse provoked strong emotions that swung unbidden between judgment and pity. “Oh, my! Who would leave the house looking like that?” My ungracious thought was quickly followed with the more charitable, and entirely Southern, “Bless her heart. What an unfortunate wardrobe choice.”

I peeked at her face. The woman wearing the walking wardrobe disaster bore an uncanny resemblance to me. She apparently saw me looking her direction and stared back. Shock and dismay registered on her familiar face. I realized then I was walking by the mirror department.

I made a sharp left turn, moving deeper into the rows of mirrors in a desperate attempt to hide until I could make a more accurate assessment. I nurtured the irrational hope a different mirror would produce a more favorable result. I had dressed so carefully that morning and left home with the pert confidence of one who thinks she looks exceptionally stylish.

Every mirror in the department (I’m pretty sure I checked every one.) confirmed my worst suspicion. My perky yellow top was not long enough for leggings. I had no business being in public wearing an outfit that would be adorable on a chubby-bottomed toddler or alluring on a nubile teen. Too late I realized I had taken for granted the value of the full-length mirrors attached to every closet door in the home from which I had recently moved.

At that point I did what any woman in my vulnerable position would have done—I picked up the closest full-length mirror, used it to shield myself from further view, added it to my other purchases, and escaped to my car.

I have not always appreciated the brutal appraisal a good mirror offers, wishing instead to see a face I only imagine staring back at me—the one devoid of blemishes and under-eye circles, the one with a less prominent jaw and a more prominent nose. Yet I cannot live without mirrors. Their forthright honesty serves me well. They keep me from thinking more highly of my appearance than I ought. Their accurate revelation gives me the opportunity to change what I can and to accept graciously what I cannot.

True friends are like good mirrors. They often see things about me that I cannot see myself. They tell me the truth when my actions and attitudes, my words or even my wardrobe, needs to change. They let me know when I am “too big for my britches”—both literally and figuratively. Their insight encourages me to change.

Faithful friends who have done more to clothe me in body and soul than they will ever know. Friends have suggested what styles and colors look best on me and which ones I should never wear again. Friends have given me clothes they decided would look better on me than on them. Jewelry-making friends have generously accessorized my outfits, adding color and sophistication to my often-black attire.

Although I can recognize obvious flaws in a mirror, only a talented and true friend will point out more than what a mirror reveals. One friend spent four hours helping me find the perfect dress to wear to my daughter’s wedding. My personal standards weren’t that high. As long as the dressing room mirror reflected an image that wasn’t too fat or too frumpy, I would have settled at the two-hour mark. It was my friend who looked beyond the most glaring problems and recognized the best color, the right fit, a style that was uniquely mine, and had the tenacity to keep me going. I learned two things that day: how to be a better dresser but more importantly, how to be a better friend.

Ultimately it isn’t the external image that matters most. Beauty fades. Styles change. Hours spent making the corrections the mirror suggests will not stop the steady march of lines across once-dewy skin. The mirror may remind a grumpy face to smile, but it cannot provide the joy. The mirror will know a worried life by its deeply furrowed brow, but it cannot lighten the load. A mirror may subtly reveal a ‘stinky attitude,’ but it cannot change the heart.

Faithful friends provide mirrors for my soul. They see my lines and wrinkles through my daily life. They show me the state of my heart and the adequacy of my thinking. They notice whether I am glowing and growing or frumpy and fading. They recognize when I am becoming ‘unbecoming.’ True friends tell me what they see with grace; with mercy they challenge me to change.

Not too long ago I unloaded a litany of woes on a friend. I was confident I was justified in my rambling lament. She listened empathetically, mirrored my pain, then offered a redemptive perspective. “I know it is hard,” she comforted, “but when I was in a similar situation, it helped me to thank God for the health and strength to carry the burden instead of simply complaining about the load.” Her gracious acceptance showed me my selfish heart; her merciful counsel gave me a pathway for change.

As I transition to new adventures, I must ensure the safeguards both mirrors and friends provide. A full-length mirror can be replaced with a few screws. Close friends will never be replaced. Their continued insights reach across the miles, arriving in texts and letters, FaceTime and phone calls, but their input is limited by what I choose to share and not what they can observe first hand. So now I am hoping for additional friends who can see my latest flaws up close and personal—people who will have the insight and have courage to look me in the eye and suggest that perhaps I shouldn’t be seen in public until I change my attire, my attitude or even my heart.

Trustworthy are the bruises of a friend…. Proverbs 27:6a (CEB)

LICENSED TO SMILE

My dark-hued cape of self-pity proved futile against the chilly wind. Not even a base-layer of resignation was sufficient to buffer me from the biting dread. The April day itself was as gray as my soul. The sun struggled valiantly to throw off its own murky covering, but the temperatures dropped as the day progressed. Only my need to check another item off an unending list propelled me forward; that…and the knowledge I was on a collision course (metaphorically speaking) with Louisiana and North Carolina and their irritating insistence that my vehicle should be registered to the address where it resides.

An online study of DMV regulations did little to quell my anxiety. A somewhat straightforward list of required documents was sabotaged by an ambiguous reference to having something notarized. Furthermore, the reasonableness of my DMV avoidance had been reinforced during the process of getting a new driver’s license a few weeks before. It took two trips before I had the necessary paperwork, and I still had to wait three hours.

I asked a friend for advice. She had no personal experience, but her husband, who had overheard my concerns, answered from the other room. This solid, masculine counsel confirmed the reason for my self-pity. Registering a vehicle is not women’s work! At least it wasn’t as long as I had my own husband who did such things for me.

George was the one who spoke the language of vehicular bureaucracy, took time off work to stand in line, and then presented me with a new license plate at the end of the day. I was better suited to pouring him a glass of wine, rubbing his aching back, and paying online renewals. My oft-intoned mantra of ‘women-can-do-anything’ did not apply when it came to this intersection between personal property and state regulations.

Now, with no one but me to handle such tasks, I braved the cold and my own uncertainty to join the line inside DMV. I clutched a document-filled folder and staggered under the weight of my widowhood as I stood at the back of the queue.

“Is this where I get an ID?” the latest arrival asked. I was pretty sure it wasn’t. This was the vehicle registration office. My two trips to get a driver’s license had been at a different location, one that presumably issued IDs. Signs everywhere clearly marked this distinction. The smiling and confident woman who stood there with a white cane couldn’t see any of them.

No one in line offered a solution or a helping hand. No husband, parent or friend came to her aid. Where were her people? Who would be brave enough, or crazy enough, to go blind and alone, to the DMV? I thought it would be best for her to speak with one of the officials, so I suggested she join me in line and go to the counter with me.

If I sounded more like an interrogator than a friendly extrovert, this friendly woman didn’t let on. She had used Uber to get to the DMV. She had just moved to Durham and didn’t know anyone here. Her move was neither job nor education related. Although she did not have family in the area, she was relocating her aging mother here. She had picked Durham because it seemed like a good fit for her, and it was a midway point of sorts between where she had been living in Paris and where her mother currently lived in Spokane.

She spoke as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a blind woman to move around the globe and to take up residence in an unfamiliar city where she had no connections. She acted as if keeping an eye on an elderly relative when you can’t see a thing is something people do every day. She moved purposefully, as one who can only feel their way but who doesn't doubt they will get where they want to go. She radiated warmth and joy, and she did it without the apparent support of friends or family. There was no mention of a husband.

“Next,” called the man, and we made our way to the counter. Never before had a long line seemed too short. He answered her questions quickly; then she was on her way.

I wanted to follow, to hear more of her story, to offer friendship and help, and to discover the secret of her confidence. Instead, I did what I had come to do. I presented my documents and hoped for the best. Five minutes and a design choice later, I left with a new license plate. I looked for the woman; she was nowhere to be seen.

Stepping through the heavy glass doors, I discovered the world had warmed during my absence. The clouds were beating a steady retreat from the victorious sun. I was overdressed for such a day. With eyes awakened by the brightness of the day and by the fortitude of a woman who could only feel the sun, I saw how tattered and threadbare my covering of self-pity had become. Maybe I needn’t wear it so often. Perhaps I should hang it in the back of my closet. In time I might even give it away, I thought. And, I smiled.

I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet. – Helen Keller

For You have been my help, And in the shadow of Your wings I sing for joy.
Psalms 63:7 (NASB)

SO THIS IS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE

It was the final day of a chaotic year. Because New Year’s Eve came on Sunday, large numbers of establishments—including the church I attend and the restaurant where we had hoped to lunch—locked their doors for a year-end reprieve. A deep chill invaded a city unaccustomed to such arctic influence. Only the promise of worshiping with my daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law lured me from my cozy home.

A church I had attended on previous occasions would be holding a mid-morning service. This church, with its inspiring worship and preaching, was full of people in my life stage. I sometimes wondered if it would have been a better fit for me than the small church of Millennials I had chosen.

We raced from the car through the bitter cold to find seats in a sanctuary alive with the sounds of friends greeting each other after the holidays. As a detached observer, I concluded these people had intimate relationships that spanned generations. How comforting it would be to nestle into fellowship with such warm-hearted people.

Yet I already knew that if I wanted to connect with this body of believers, I would have to take the initiative. During previous visits, I had learned members didn't talk to strangers—except when they passed the peace by offering limp hands and a perfunctory, “Peace of Christ.” I had been surprised, but not offended, when no one spoke to me as I entered or when I left. I had simply filled out the attendance sheet and waited for the follow-up that never came.

I had not entirely given up on the notion of getting involved with this church. Perhaps in the spring I would join one of their women’s groups. Maybe I would begin attending their early service before heading to my own small church. I could always meet with one of the pastors.

Seated next to my daughter and her fiancé, I reveled in the exquisite pleasure of worshiping with two people who loved me well. Our voices blended in harmony as we sang familiar songs. Our elbows touched as we knelt during silent confession. I anticipated the warmth of receiving their heartfelt “Peace of Christ” and was grateful I wouldn’t be left standing awkwardly alone as people around me resumed conversations begun days or weeks before.

To my surprise, when I turned to offer the “Peace of Christ” to my loved ones, they were already engaged in an intense conversation. The group of older couples who surrounded them apparently had dispensed with ‘passing the peace’ and moved directly to ‘let’s get acquainted.’

“Good morning. We are so glad to have you with us,” one woman gushed. “Are you students at Duke?” “Did you just move to Durham?” “We would love to have you join us regularly.” “You must meet our friends.”

My daughter and her fiancé were like a horseshoe magnet in a bowl of paper clips. Her engaging smile, his Asian heritage, and their vibrant youth proved an irresistible draw for this gray-headed flock.

My daughter tried to pull me into the conversation, “I want you meet my mother. She just moved to Durham and really doesn’t know anyone yet.” I smiled warmly into faces fleetingly diverted in my direction and offered my name for good measure. Only one woman responded. Her obligatory ‘how very nice to meet you,’ sounded alarmingly like ‘how nice for you, dear,’ but I couldn’t be sure. In her haste to turn back to my daughter, her intentions spoke more clearly than her actual words.

“So this is what it feels like," I thought, borrowing the words and bemused expression of Andrew Hennings, the jilted groom in Sweet Home Alabama. This is what it feels like to be looked over and then summarily overlooked. This is what it means to be denied acceptance—not because of who I am, but because of what I am perceived to be. This is what discrimination feels like—to be rejected for criteria beyond my control—to know that I will always be too old and too American, that I will always lie outside the demographic of their intended mission.

Even as I reeled from the sting of this transitory discomfort, I recognized it as an insignificant incident in a primarily privileged life. My previous experiences with prejudice had been based on gender or things aligned with choice, like education or beliefs. Oh, I had sometimes been ridiculed for being blond—and for living up to the reputation—but other than that, I had no recollection of being discriminated against based on identity until this day. But at that same moment, I was jolted by remembering that encounters more blatant than this are the way of life for multitudes of men, women and children. My heart responded with a newly awakened compassion for those who have reaped the harvest of repeated discrimination.

I cringed anew as I remembered an incident that occurred years ago while we were hosting a stranger from West Virginia. Her son was participating in the Special Olympics; we had registered as a host family. We had inadvertently overheard her conversation as she tried to reassure her mother long-distance, “No, I’ll be fine. They seem like a nice white family. I don't think they will murder me in my sleep.” And we didn’t. On the contrary, we discovered, along with our guest, that what we held in common was greater than the differences on our skin. At the time I assessed her mother’s concern as the laughable worry of an old woman. Now I recognized it as a reflection of personal experience.

I recalled books I had read, and I saw the characters more sharply defined and illustrated in denser hues. I experienced a profound empathy with Ruth Jefferson, the protagonist in Small Great Things (Jodi Picoult), whose education, competence and reputation were of less consequence than the color of her skin. Whereas previously I had absorbed with abhorrence the experiences chronicled in the fictionalized history of Lalita Tedemy’s family (Cane River and Red River), I had gained a new perspective and a small glimpse into the despair that must surely settle into marginalized and persecuted souls.

I have thought about the incident for months now and have shared the story with other people. Some have winced at the transparent age discrimination; others have shuddered at an unfortunate church growth strategy. Many have encouraged me to talk to one of the pastors. To do so would be to miss the point of what I gained that day. That brief episode was a gift I opened and am slowly unpacking. In it I am uncovering new insight, greater compassion, and a heightened awareness of injustice. (As a bonus, I also gained deep gratitude for the young people who embraced me in the very diverse faith family I truly call my church home.)

It would be tempting, and far too easy, to come away from this experience with grand declarations for radical personal change. Reality reminds me this is the start of a journey.

NOT BY DEFAULT, BUT BY DECLARATION

My friend needed a ride. I had a car. She was just out of the hospital. I had just left church. She needed groceries. I needed a moment of quiet. It was an errand of mercy—as it turns out, more for my benefit than hers.

While she shopped, I waited contentedly in the parking lot. The slight breeze coming through open car windows provided the perfect counterpoint to the enthusiastic effort of the sun. I checked emails on my phone. I planned my week. I had a front row seat to a constantly moving parade of humanity.

From this vantage point, I saw the motorized shopping cart the moment it emerged through the automatic doors. It moved ever so slowly across the driveway toward handicapped parking. I opened my door, ready to spring into action should a speedy driver fail to see the cart in time to stop. (Years of hanging out with children have made me hyper-vigilant in areas shared by cars and shorter than hood-height humans.) My relief at seeing the cart come to rest by a car was interrupted by my dismay over the challenges facing the woman who drove it.

Perhaps she had a plan. Perhaps she knew how to get multiple bags of groceries and two 12-pack cartons of drinks from the cart into her car, but it was not apparent to me. At the risk of insulting her independence, I met her at the car and asked if I could help. She hesitated. She had a plan, and I wasn’t it. Her plan was to yell loudly and ask the cell-phone talking stranger leaning against his truck in the next row to help her. I assured her I was strong enough for the task at hand.

She pulled her cane from the back of the cart and stood as tall as a body resembling a lower case ‘c’ allowed. Her movements appeared painful and agonizingly slow.  I finished loading the car several minutes before she was able to lower herself into the driver’s seat.

From the comfort of seated security, she began, “I wasn’t always like this, you know. I used to be so strong. I could do anything.” To make sure I understood, she recounted details of those former years. I heard this as no mere lament but as a plea to see her as more than she now appeared. For one brief moment my heart joined hers in the backward glance. I saw her as the blushing bride and eager first time mom. I saw her in the tennis skirt and as the faithful wife and as the soccer mom.

This woman, who could no longer walk, was at heart all these things and more. Time had changed what she could do. It had not altered who she was. In her own way, she asked, “See me! See me for who I am and not what I can do. Know that I am more than what my body has become.” I was instantly convicted of my too quick tendency to brand people by the packaging in which they are wrapped—of my propensity to mete out pity or praise based on momentary observation.

In that moment, her self-disclosure of a richer, fuller life now lost reminded me that identity exists beyond the transitory circumstances of our temporal lives. It cannot be defined by the innocence of childhood, the vigor of youth, or the surprising frailty of an aging body. It resides deeper and rises higher than the events we use to mark our steady progress to an eternal destiny. Identity is determined not by default, but by the declaration of a heavenly Father.

Her face brightened, as if she suddenly remembered who she was. “There is one thing I am really grateful for,” she said. “I can still get to my church on Sunday morning.” She put up her window. Our encounter was over; the truth remains.

SUCH AS I HAVE, I GIVE TO YOU

I had no cash on me as I raced into my neighborhood market. The plastic card tucked into my cell phone case would be sufficient for two small items.

The sun had just relinquished its claim to the sky, reluctantly handing over its task to the artificial radiance of security lights and neon signs. This changing of the guard went unnoticed by the unusually large number of people who crowded the entryway.

Husbands, on their way home, shopped with lists so short they didn’t have to write them down. Vibrant young adults arrived as couples or in groups, apparently having not yet learned a list saves time and money. A Girl Scout troop, hoping to entice shoppers with their famous cookies and winsome smiles, flanked one side of the sliding door. A solitary figure, sat round-shouldered, cross-legged and alcohol-fogged on the filthy concrete, a counterpoint to the happy and expectant scouts.

Fellow shoppers with cash and a sweet tooth cheerfully greeted the scouts. They paid no more attention to the man on the ground than they did to a misplaced shopping cart they had to step around. I was careful to avoid eye contact with either the Scouts or the derelict. It seemed easier than explaining I had nothing to give.

I was dismayed to discover nothing had changed by the time I left the store. No Good Samaritan had brought a hungry man food or helped him on his way. He continued to sit there, while I, heartsick over the scene, escaped quickly to my car--feeling more and more like the hypocritical priest and Levite who hurried past the robbed and beaten man in the parable in Luke.

“Really, now,” I argued with the inner voice that is not my own. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Give him the gift of human dignity. Look him in the eye. Acknowledge he is a person.”

I retraced my steps across the parking lot. Hoping to make our encounter less awkward, I had retrieved cash from the emergency stash in my car. It wasn’t much, but it was what I had. A store employee confirmed the man had been there an hour. No one else had talked to him.

I knelt beside the man so I could look him in the eye. I asked if he was all right—if he needed help. He said he was hungry. I slipped my meager offering into his hands, hoping he would buy food but suspecting he wouldn’t. The help he needed was beyond my ability to give.

I said I would pray for him—and I meant it. He challenged me, asking if I knew how to really pray. I assured him I did, and he began, “Our Father.” Together we said the Lord’s Prayer, word by word, line by line, outside on the concrete amid the noise of shoppers and Scouts. Few sanctuaries have ever seemed as sacred.

He took my hand and touched it to his head. We connected, one child of God with another, and then I was free to go.  “Silver and gold have I none, but what I have that I give you.”

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