Recognizing who we are

“...the God of Jacob,
who turns the rock into a pool of water

and the flint into a flowing spring…” 
--Psalm 114:8

How often do we feel misunderstood? Or worse, unnoticed.  Unseen.  People look at us and see not a refreshing pool of water or a life-giving stream, but a jagged rock, a flinty piece of stone.  They see not us (at least not who we imagine we are), but someone else… Perhaps it is just who they think we are.

Sometimes this isn’t necessarily unpleasant.  At least a few times I have been standing in the frozen food aisle at HEB and had someone ask me where the eggs are?  Or, wandering through Barnes and Noble, I am occasionally stopped by someone looking for a particular book.  Both cases might be explained by the fact that I was wearing a tie and looked like I could be an employee.  But, explain this one: I was waiting at the light at Gessner and I-10 when someone pulled up next to me and rolled down his window. I thought he was going to ask directions, so I rolled mine down ready to help. But, instead he said, Hey! Are you a preacher? You look like a preacher.  (I wonder what he would have thought if he had seen that I was wearing my red pants!)

People have their ideas, their opinions; I still remember overhearing a salesman tell my mom that I had wide hips like a girl.  I was 8 years old.  That was 1967. I was in the dressing room at the Craig’s store at Memorial City.  All, I wanted were some hip-huggers and a Nehru shirt! But what I remember is that comment.  It has stuck with me. In my imagination I was a lean, athletic build. A cross between Peter Noone and Jimmy Wynn! Was it true? Did I have wide hips?  I don’t know. Do I still? Does it matter? I guess the answer is obvious; to an 8 year old boy it did.

No matter how hard we try to be a fountain, too often the world looks at us and sees only a pile of rocks (in mom-jeans). 

Anyway, perhaps because of my life-long concern over my hips, I try to exercise every day. I get up and go for morning walks.  It is something I’ve written about before-- my morning walks to the park; and over the years a part of my morning routine has become picking up the trash at the park.  I try to make the place look a little better for the people who come after me.  I’m not alone in my efforts. There are a few of us.  We have a kind of community.  No special handshakes or anything, but we know each other’s faces and we thank each other for our efforts. And when the messes get really bad, we offer sympathy and a helping hand.

But during the school week I am often out extra early—before dawn, so I don't see my trash buddies, and when it is that dark I can’t always see the trash --or what’s in it.  One morning I had the awful experience of picking up a pizza box only to have a swarm of ants come streaming out complaining that they hadn’t finished breakfast.   So, on this particular morning I was just walking, praying my rosary and enjoying the stars. The sky was beautiful and clear and the trees were thick dark shadows against it. At that hour the park is pretty empty, but occasionally someone would pass and--not wanting to disturb the quiet-- we would mutter a quiet good morning to each other.  Near the end of my walk as I was coming around the far end of the park to the street side I caught a glimpse of something in the headlights of a passing car.  It was a Burger King bag standing on the curb. I thought about just leaving it. Someone else will get it.  But, instead I walked out the gate. Picking up the bag, of course I found more: a cup and fry envelope close by and burger wrapper a few feet away with some wadded up napkins and a couple of ketchup packets.  Anyway, there I was bent over by the curb carefully trying to pick up a straw and cup lid without letting go of everything else, when I heard a voice call:  Hey. I haven’t seen you for a while. How are you doing?   

Looking up, there was the silhouette of a woman paused on the track.   After a few niceties, she thanked me for picking up the trash and waved and disappeared into the dark. Only after she was gone did I realize it was Sara. The freckle-faced woman in the hijab that I talked about in another of these essays.  I couldn’t see her face, but I knew it was her by two things: first, her speed. She’s a pretty serious runner. And second, and most certainly, as she passed under the dim glow of a street lamp I caught a glimpse of her head covering.

After putting the trash into a can, I headed home feeling slightly giddy. I kept hearing those words in my head: she hadn’t seen me for a while.  She had stood out to me, because I don't see many women dressed like that. Full body jogging suit and a hijab. But me, I'm just a goofy old guy who walks at the park. We're a dime a dozen! No one even sees me...  And yet...

It feels good to be noticed. Makes us feel –what? Seen. As if someone has recognized that we matter. We have value.

But how? Why had she recognized me? We don't really know each other. We just see each other at the park --and not that often.  I was out in the street, a good 15 or 20 yards away from her. And it was dark. And the nearest street lamp was half a block away. And my back was to her; I was bent over the curb picking up trash and… oh.  That!  She recognized me not by my face, not by my clothes, or even my name, but by what I was doing. She knew me by my action. 

And in that moment I felt truly recognized. Like I had been truly seen. And it felt wonderful. Almoast home, I paused at the corner.  My shadow stretching out over the damp grass, across a driveway and into the street ahead, majestic and tall --a reflection of how I felt at that very moment.  I looked up into the sky in wonder at the feathery edges of the tall pine trees against the fading night. And I remembered those beautifull lines from Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “As Kingfishers Catch Fire.”

“Each mortal thing does one thing and the same…

…what I do is me: for that I came.”

And I thought –yes. This is who I am. This is why I came.  I am more than the mistakes I make. The annoying habits I can’t seem to quit.  More than the foolish things I say in public.  I admit that sometimes I may be a rock, a real stumbling block.  But sometimes, gosh darn it! I can also be a pool of cool and refreshing water. And standing there I had the wonderful feeling that this person, this near stranger, had recognized that. Had recognized me.

Of course, there is more to me than what I do at the park.  For instance, in the 5^th grade a girl told me I was a good kisser.  You can probably tell, I am still very proud of that.  And of course, there is more to Sara than her head covering, her speed and her great posture.  But for the moment, I felt seen, truly seen and it felt very good.  Realizing that I still had to get home and shower before work, I started walking again. And noticed again my shadow stretching out before me.  Looking at it now, I realized how comical and elongated it actually looked. And I noticed something else; the shape of it bounding ahead of me shrinking slightly as I came to the next street lamp. Watching it, I realized there was something about the middle… the shape… in fact, the pockets of my walking shorts seemed oddly prominent. I touched them.  In one was my phone; the other had a packet of Kleenex and my rosary; but there was something else about the shape of it --of me... something about the hips…  Oh well… At least I was recognized. That’s what really counts.  Right?

Nor return by the way you came

“You are to eat or drink nothing,

nor to return by the way you came.”

1 Kings 13:9

I walked home from the park by a different way this morning.  Not a big change; just Conrad Sauer instead of Shadowdale.  And on my way home I met a man I rarely see anymore.  He is a neighbor of ours, but lives toward the east end of the street and works nights, so he isn’t out during the day much and I guess he has already gone to work when we are out for an evening stroll.  I used to see him in he early mornings when he was coming home from work.  Around 5:30 or 6am he’d come pulling into his driveway usually just as I was pausing to put Mrs. V’s newspaper by her front door.  She lives across the street from him.  Normally we would wave, say good morning. Things like that. Maybe get as far as the weather if we were feeling chatty.  Rarely, but on occasion, he would ask about the kids. After his divorce, the conversation got even more stoic.  We would nod, raise a hand, at most our socializing would extend as far as a greeting.  Nothing more.

Now, usually my walking path is very routine.  I go east to Conrad Sauer and then turn on Londonderry back to Shadowdale and head to the park. The way home is straight Shadowdale. Basically, I pretty much return the way I came.  But this morning I was reading 1 Kings 13 about the “man of God” who was given the order not to eat or drink or return by the way he came, and when he disobeys things don’t go so well for him. So, I thought –let me try it. I will change my route a little.  See what happens.

Coming home, I noticed that the recycle truck must have come. The lids to the green bins were open and there were a few messes in the street where recycled paper and plastic and cans had spilled.   If you read my post about my red pants and picking up trash, you’ll know I am one of those neighbors who doesn’t like to just walk past a mess.  Especially when there is an open can so nearby.  So, coming around the corner I don’t normally return by I saw a few plastic bottles and cans in front of the driveway of the corner house. And a tipped over recycle bin. Without too much hesitation, I picked up the bin and started picking up the mess.  And when I finished I was feeling pretty good about myself.  I’d done my walk –burned enough calories to enjoy a croissant, I hoped—and even done a good deed for a neighbor.  This Bible stuff, it’s not so bad, I thought.

And then I saw my neighbor’s car zip into his driveway, and he hopped out wearing workout clothes that made him look like he could handle a few croissants and a jelly doughnut or two!  I have to say, he’s getting a little buff (if that’s the right word). Anyway he hops out of his car in his skintight workout pants and t-shirt and points to the street, where the truck had spilled beer cans and water bottles and shredded paper from his bin. And he starts cursing. I don’t mean calling on the gods to smite someone with a rain of fire and brimstone or frogs and locus or skin lesions and boils…eegads!  But serious drunken sailor/hammer to the thumb type cursing! He’s cursing the recycle truck and the [expletive deleted] idiots who drive it.  He was standing there, basically yelling some of the most creative expletives deleted I have ever heard outside of a Joe Pesci movie. And in his skin-tight workout pants and t-shirt he starts grabbing up beer cans and plastic bottles and throwing them violently into his recycle bin.

My gut reaction was to bend down and start helping him, but I hesitated. Anger frightens me. But, I was also a little worried that if I started helping things would only get worse.  So, I nodded my head and said, “What can you do?”  It’s a classic non-committal comment that allows an impression of sympathy and compassion without affirming the actual behavior.  I think I learned that one with my kids.

I stood there for a few seconds watching him work. Wishing that I had the spine to just bend over and pick something up.  But before I could summon the gumption, he slammed the lid of his bin closed and wheeled it away cursing again –but a little more quietly this time.

In the story, the “man of God” fails to follow God’s directions; he is tempted by another prophet to come and share a meal. And because he disobeys the Lord, on his way home he is killed by a lion.  But, oddly enough, the lion doesn’t eat him, it just mauls and kills him --then stands guard over his body (cf. 1 Kings 13:24-28) without harming the man’s donkey. In the end, when the body is found, the lion and the donkey are standing either side of it—just waiting. It is a strange and fearful ending to an odd story.

In my version, I guess there is a lion, but instead of killing me he yelled at his recycle bin and walked away. Walking home, I was a little shook up. I had this strange feeling of fear and shame haunting me. I think I was ashamed of our shared moment there. It was such an oddly intimate moment. That was certainly part of it. But also, I think I felt ashamed of my hesitation to help. Why had not just stooped down and begun helping him? But even more, I think I was ashamed because I’ve lived down the street from this man for almost 17 years and I have no idea who he really is.   

And the fear… Well, I’m not good with anger. I have struggled with that fear all my life. When people get angry they lose control.  Situations get out of control.  I think I fear that loss of control most of all.  I think I fear being not only other people losing control, but  that somehow their loss of control will envelop me as well.  It is --I think-- a fear of being completely and utterly vulnerable.  That morning I returned I let go of my habitual route, and came home by a way I had not gone. And in doing so, I saw things –my neighborhood, my neighbor and myself—in a different way. 

Every once in a while, it is important to do that, to break your habits, change your way of thinking, take a different route home.  It may not be easy, and you may start to feel vulnerable, but do it anyway. Even if you are afraid.  Perhaps, especially if you are.