Hard Eyes Deceived
“This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
I was recently driving in southern Brazil, traveling through many small, rural towns. In spite of being in one of the most visually beautiful places on Earth, one can’t help but wonder how these villages came to be. There are no signs of industry or governmental operations. Mostly comprised of dirt roads, of which if you ventured down, one would find shoddy homes with no public utilities. These villages are like forgotten promises in the highland jungles.
Likely uneducated, the residents work long hours each day, earning a humble wage. They walk or ride bicycles, they eat traditional food, and do what they have to in order to maintain themselves and their families.
As the car drove by, I watched the faces of these people. Some were dirty, some beautiful, some sad, some old, some young. Some were light, some were dark. Going about their normal routines, I tried to imagine something deeper. I thought of their names, their loved ones, their dreams, their struggles. Each one unique, but each one so undoubtedly human.
At one point I saw a middle aged man riding an old, rickety bicycle with three plastic bags on each side of the handlebars. The lines and impressions of his face told me his story. He was poor. He had never been deemed great, either by chance or merit. He had never been known for any particular skill. Yet, he had and still did live a great love. His eyes spilled the secret.
There, in that moment, in that village, far from cell reception, and many hours still from my original destination, I recognized that God loves me equally to that man, and to every other individual that has ever walked this Earth.
Sure, I am unique and special in the eyes of the Creator. But so is everyone else. We are all originals. We are not copies of anything else that ever existed in this reality. Let us not try to change that. Let us celebrate it.
Continuing Education
Fast forward two weeks and I am back in the US for a short visit. With each return, it seems like the discrepancy between my old home and me grows. Right when I step off the plane, I look around and get an uneasy feeling that I can’t explain. I have changed a lot in the last two years, and so has this place.
One of the most noticeable differences is that it takes me some time to get used to background noise. In Latin America, it is just that — noise that I can easily block out. I need to really try in order to understand the foreign languages spoken there. Here in the US, normal speech, advertisements, whispers, and chatter are all unconsciously distinguishable and understood.
So when I left the airport and got onto the train for nearly an hour ride through the city, I knew it would be a bit of a trip.
At first the train was nearly empty. The airport is the last stop and I was one of maybe ten people heading towards downtown. I was sitting alone thinking about my plans for the day, enjoying the scenery as we passed by.
At the first stop, many people entered the train as I watched and listened to them. Within the first few minutes I heard it all. Sports, drugs, work, music, and arguments were the first topics that invaded my ears.
It got worse, both the visible demeanor of the passengers and the conversation. I became upset and frustrated. I started to judge them. I saw them through hard eyes and stereotyped each person into a category or class. I started thinking about all of the problems in the US, the reasons why I left, and the misinformation that is communicated here on a daily basis.
I closed my eyes.
We arrived at the next station and a white haired, one-toothed woman walked onto the train and sat behind me. She didn’t say anything for the next few minutes.
Her phone rang three times and what happened next left me in tears.
Scene from the Movies
There should be a word to define moments in life which are so wet with surrealism they slide you towards a precipice of an existential cliff.
There I was, judging strangers based on their appearance and conversations of complaint, gossip, and emptiness. I felt lifeless. I wanted the trip to be over and in the car with my friends.
The phone rang for the third time and finally she answered. In a sort of southern accent, she answered, “Hello?”
A few seconds passed, I was not paying much attention, but she said, “Highway patrol. Okay, what can I do for ya?”
At this point in the trip, we were on the same section of track that I used to ride daily to go to work. I was noticing the changes, both big and small. Sprinkled moments were a sort of deja vu, adding to the surrealism.
“No, those are my parents.” she replied.
“Do I have a pen n’ paper? Damn, hold a minute”. Fumbling through her purse, she repeats, “Damn… Damn… Why the hell I need a pen n’ paper?”
She said, “Okay, I’ve got it, what’s this about? Now, you’re gonna have speak up, I’m on the train.”
Still my attention was split between this woman’s voice and the other activity on the train. A mother and young boy got onto the train at the next stop. The skin around his lips was contrasting with the remnants of his mid morning snack. The tell was the orange finger print smudges on his mother’s white shirt.
I was pulled back from this mental inquiry as I heard the woman behind me question, “What you mean hit n’ run?” The panic in her voice sent electrical impulses down my spine.
“My Daddy’s in the hospital? …How’d he get there?” she asked. “Helicopter? Oh, goodness.” Her voice sank lower.
There was a long pause. I felt her pain and thought about how much of a jerk I had been. I knew nothing about this lady except from a few words and her outward appearance. I assumed things about her. I had forgotten she was uniquely human, an original life, of the same ilk as I.
The silence broke when she asked, “What about my Momma?”
My hopes crushed as I heard her say three letters. “D.O.A. What you mean D.O.A?”
Hundreds of thoughts and memories of my own squeezed into the short time between her question to when the caller gave an answer.
With a whimpered gasp, she asked with disbelief, “You mean she’s dead? My Momma’s dead?”
The train now a roller coaster, hurdling down a steep drop, my heart falling into my stomach with the sharp tug of relentless reality.
At first she did not cry. It showed me how strong she was. The life she must have lived, the pain she must have endured. Each scar providing more protection from the next wound.
She asked the caller, “What about my Daddy?” She waited and then started to cry.
I didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking it was some sort of trick or spoof.
She continued, “But he is still alive? Okay, I will call the hospital.”
“How could someone hit my parents and then drive away? Oh, Lord, how could this happen?” she asked. At this point I am motionless, only with tears in my eyes.
She went on to tell the caller that she did not have enough money to travel to her Father. It was far away as she said the Amtrak (national train service) would take 16 hours to arrive. She said she would get the money on the following Friday, seven days later.
There was other administrative communication before she thanked the caller and ended the call. From what I gathered her Father was in critical condition and had to be airlifted to a hospital. He must have been at least late 70s since this woman was around 60 years old.
Silence lingered through that train, so deep it could make a man go crazy if exposed for long. I don’t know if others were listening to the conversation as well, but something caused all those voices to retire.
Sitting there, looking forward, I noticed that in a small piece of glass in front of me I could see the woman’s reflection. She was faced towards the window, eyes closed, hand to her mouth, trying to hush her cries.
The handmade levee broke and the sorrow and pain made their necessary escape. It was not a hard cry. It was soft and delicate, made with much care. I heard her whisper, “Oh, Lord, my Momma’s dead”. After this brief release, the silence returned.
A Hug & A Kiss
I was reminded about my thoughts two weeks prior. About how the bicycle riding man is loved the same as I am in the heart of our Creator. I thought about this woman behind me and how badly her heart must be aching.
I didn’t want to do anything. I wanted to sit there and be alone with my thoughts and own pain. I wanted to continue on my journey, get off at my station, put on my mask, forget it and pretend that it didn’t ever happen to me.
But I didn’t do that.
I felt the gentle encouragement of our Creator. I wasn’t told what to do. I wasn’t forced. But I felt the warmth and trusted it’s guidance.
I decided what I would do and say. I gathered some strength and turned to look at her. Only, my body didn’t move.
So I told myself, Dude, you are going to do this. So I tried again.
This time I was able to turn around. I think I gave her a half smile, half frown. The nervous kind you give to someone who is hurting but you don’t quite know what to do or say.
While looking in her glossy, brown eyes, I reached out and placed something in her hands. I think she was surprised. I know she was happy, even if only for a fleeting instant. She also gave me a nervous half smile, half frown.
I told her I couldn’t help but overhear her conversation, that I wished her well, and to go be with her Daddy.
We shared a brief moment in time that was human. Both of us could feel that extra part of life. The marrow that is so abundant, yet rare to experience out of our collective fear.
She said thank you and that she was going to get off at the next stop and turn around to go back home. She got up, bent over to give me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
She got off the train, wiped tears from her face, and waved as the train exited the station.
Both of our hearts still ached as the day went on. Mine has stopped, but I’m sure hers still throbs. As each of us exited the train, we put our masks back on and lifted our barriers to protect us once again from the world. But in her suffering, with both of our barriers pulled down, we shared a moment that will stay with me. My only hope is that she got to say goodbye to her Daddy.
It doesn’t matter how big or small are your actions. It only matters if you take action at all. There are things bigger than us. Seek them and follow their love and gentle encouragement. If you freeze like I did, try again, and then try some more. It is worthwhile.
Conquer your own hesitation and you give someone else the chance to experience real human connection. After all, this is life.
“I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life” — Henry David Thoreau
Good things to come,
Luke
