I am only one person. I can only see and feel and touch with my own senses--eyes and ears, hands and heart. I cannot begin to feel someone else's pain until I am touched by what I see or hear or experience. I once knew of a man who was described by someone close to him as someone with "bad" feet. I never saw his feet, but this person who was close to him, someone who knew him, kept telling me in private how bad his feet were and how many problems he had with his feet; however, the man never complained, ever. He not only never wanted pity, but also refused to bring attention on himself, so every morning he slowly and methodically bandaged his feet and then put on his socks and shoes. He wore the shoes all day. He only removed the shoes and socks before going to bed for the night.
One night he took a fall during the night, and I was the person who came to help. In the panic of trying to help him up, I saw his feet. I saw his feet for the first time. I was embarrassed to look, but only because I felt his embarrassment and his pain. For one brief moment as I watched him helplessly try to recover, and as I tried with all my strength to help him up, I saw the exposed frailty of not only a man, but of all humankind. Hiding his pain I saw him quickly put his foot into the overturned slipper. With his toe nails injured and feet crippled, he shuffled away trying to make sense of an unforeseen accident, an accident that left him dazed and slightly more conscious of his aging body. I, on the other hand, could not bear to watch or even think about what had just occurred.
Human suffering. Everywhere, everyday, behind the walls of houses and the walls of hospitals, behind the walls of back alleys and the walls of convalescent centers and even behind the walls of mansions, people are begging for mercy, begging for people not to see, to look the other way, to pretend not to see who they are and what they have become, for they don't even recognize themselves. They can no longer fix their broken toes and calloused feet, yet they shuffle forward, but it is in the voice of their shuffle that I know God exists.
As much as I felt the pain of one man's fall, the pain of watching one man reassemble himself, trying to hide his crooked feet, how much more could a God who sits on a throne in heaven ever relate in an intimate way to humankind unless he walked the walk? How could God possibly know humankind unless he became one of them? And who, on the other hand, could ever worship or understand a God who did not feel the pain of being human? As my heart breaks for this one man, God's heart broke for all of His creation; he saw the crooked feet and the embarrassed eyes, so he became one of us. He is easily moved by the feeling of humankind's infirmities. I could worship and love no other kind of God, nothing other than a human God, regardless of how great and powerful, regardless of how hot the flames of hell or an eternity of brimstone and fire, regardless of damnation. The God who made this man feels for this man because He was a man.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Life
The day was no different than the day before, except that it was a new day with a unique date in time: July 11, 2009. Yesterday was gone and this was Saturday, not Friday. This was July not June. This was 2009 not 2008 or 2007 or 2006 . . . She had to remind herself that this day was not the day before or the day before that; it was a new today; unfortunately though, she had to remind herself of the importance of the day. For her, at this particular moment in her life, one day was like another day, and as hard as she tried to be thankful and happy for the day, to be happy to be alive, and make no mistake, she knew how fortunate she was, some days were definitely more difficult than others. In spite of her apparent boredom, she knew life was a gift, if only because of its temporality. In fact, she even advised other people who were having a tough time, a rough day or who were slightly unimpressed with their lives to look on the bright side, that they were fortunate to be alive, to be well, and she meant it, but she found that really living the words were more difficult but not impossible.
She knew life was beautiful; life was good, and she believed it, but she also knew that her recently apparent lack of luster for life was not shared by those who had something worthwhile to live for or were so absorbed in the moment, the everyday, were less likely to lose sight of the new day. For most, a new day is another opportunity to be preoccupied with life, to live, a new day to go to work, to love someone, or to do this or do that. They are usually too busy to think about the regularity of life, or at the very least, this is how it seemed to her. When people are busy with life, in a good way. they very rarely have the time to think about life in the same way as people who are not busy. Everyone who is old enough to reflect upon his or her own life understands the pauses in life, the moments when life seems to slow down or suddenly halt; in the same way, the overdrives of life--or the moments when there are not enough hours in the day. This particular moment in her life is a time of pause.
She remembers when she was a kid and her Mom worked everyday. More than anything at that time, she wished her Mom didn't have to go to work. She wished she would've stayed home, so they could go places and do things. Later on, when she was a grown, working woman with kids herself, the timetable had shifted. Her Mom now retired had time to go places and do things, but she did not. Time marches on . . .
Countless moments in life, when one day passes and another confronts, as people come and go and pass by, or speak or refrain from speaking, or sit or stand or wait, even as life progresses, sometimes slowly and meditatively and often instantaneously, how often do people think about who they are or where they've been or where they are going? The pauses of life provide such reflection. She is facing another day, barely recognizing herself or being completely in tune with her surroundings; she checks the calendar and adamantly tells herself that this day is a new day, and that she is lucky to be alive. Some are not so lucky. Five were killed yesterday in a train wreck. She is well. She is clothed. She has a roof over her head. Her kids are healthy . . . so life is good, yet she is idle. She is in the pause mode. She is waiting. She is waiting for something, but what? What will cease the waiting, the expectation? She is secretly, silently, sometimes anxiously awaiting and hoping for a better tomorrow, but how? What will make tomorrow better than today? Is today really all she needs, wants but cannot see? She hopes tomorrow will be different. She is hoping that someday her life will resume. She is hoping for employment, a job, for money; life will begin again, but, in the interim, she lives, she waits. There is living in the waiting; it is just more heavy. More internal. More limited. She thinks how much life is wasted on the waiting? How much of life does she waste in the waiting? She wonders if she has always been waiting . . . waiting Life is really all about tomorrow, about a new day, a new beginning, a new chance. New expectations? Human beings are always waiting for something? Waiting for tomorrow . . . to be older, wiser, more experienced? Is life really about waiting and being content in the waiting? Is the mistake of life neglecting today for tomorrow? Do people innately hope for a better tomorrow at the expense of losing today, which is really tomorrow.
In the absence, the pause of her life, she has been the burden instead of the carrier of burdens, the recipient rather than the provider, the child rather than the adult mother or adult parent, the dependent one rather than the independent one. Rather than making her own decisions, she nods in agreement. She molds. She grovels. She weakens. She changes. Days transform into tomorrow. It is impossible not to. She knows waiting to live is not living, so she attempts to make the day count; although, she cannot, really, no one can, breathe the fresh air of her own thoughts and life until they are free, free to make their own choices, yet she is alive. She refuses to lose today because she knows about the passing of time, and she cannot have the tangible moment of yesterday back; although, the days do lose their identity, one merges into another, the past into the present and yesterday into tomorrow. She attempts to make today count. She knows that tomorrow will be different, even as today is somewhat brighter, shaded, or misted from yesterday, and more so, altered from last year, so yes, she is trapped within her own mind and body, her own dwelling place, so to speak, but content knowing that nothing stays the same-she changes, people change,ideas change, flowers bloom and die, seasons come and go, and more importantly, the situations of life force change. Today is all she has. How many times has she heard it?
Even as she kicks and silently screams, as most do at one time or another, in their life, she knows from experience that today is all she has. She can play the game. She can be content in the waiting. Pauses are part of life--a big part of life. The pauses make a difference; amid the uncertainty, she knows that life is an interesting gift. Being alive, amid the everyday, breathing and being well, living today for all its worth, in the midst of the uncertain, is all she can ask or hope. In fact, within the pause lies the mystery of life--the time to reflect, the time to ponder, the time to question, the time to look around, the time to realize that life is a mystery and each day a miracle if not for the fact that our comprehension is limited and our lives finite.
She knew life was beautiful; life was good, and she believed it, but she also knew that her recently apparent lack of luster for life was not shared by those who had something worthwhile to live for or were so absorbed in the moment, the everyday, were less likely to lose sight of the new day. For most, a new day is another opportunity to be preoccupied with life, to live, a new day to go to work, to love someone, or to do this or do that. They are usually too busy to think about the regularity of life, or at the very least, this is how it seemed to her. When people are busy with life, in a good way. they very rarely have the time to think about life in the same way as people who are not busy. Everyone who is old enough to reflect upon his or her own life understands the pauses in life, the moments when life seems to slow down or suddenly halt; in the same way, the overdrives of life--or the moments when there are not enough hours in the day. This particular moment in her life is a time of pause.
She remembers when she was a kid and her Mom worked everyday. More than anything at that time, she wished her Mom didn't have to go to work. She wished she would've stayed home, so they could go places and do things. Later on, when she was a grown, working woman with kids herself, the timetable had shifted. Her Mom now retired had time to go places and do things, but she did not. Time marches on . . .
Countless moments in life, when one day passes and another confronts, as people come and go and pass by, or speak or refrain from speaking, or sit or stand or wait, even as life progresses, sometimes slowly and meditatively and often instantaneously, how often do people think about who they are or where they've been or where they are going? The pauses of life provide such reflection. She is facing another day, barely recognizing herself or being completely in tune with her surroundings; she checks the calendar and adamantly tells herself that this day is a new day, and that she is lucky to be alive. Some are not so lucky. Five were killed yesterday in a train wreck. She is well. She is clothed. She has a roof over her head. Her kids are healthy . . . so life is good, yet she is idle. She is in the pause mode. She is waiting. She is waiting for something, but what? What will cease the waiting, the expectation? She is secretly, silently, sometimes anxiously awaiting and hoping for a better tomorrow, but how? What will make tomorrow better than today? Is today really all she needs, wants but cannot see? She hopes tomorrow will be different. She is hoping that someday her life will resume. She is hoping for employment, a job, for money; life will begin again, but, in the interim, she lives, she waits. There is living in the waiting; it is just more heavy. More internal. More limited. She thinks how much life is wasted on the waiting? How much of life does she waste in the waiting? She wonders if she has always been waiting . . . waiting Life is really all about tomorrow, about a new day, a new beginning, a new chance. New expectations? Human beings are always waiting for something? Waiting for tomorrow . . . to be older, wiser, more experienced? Is life really about waiting and being content in the waiting? Is the mistake of life neglecting today for tomorrow? Do people innately hope for a better tomorrow at the expense of losing today, which is really tomorrow.
In the absence, the pause of her life, she has been the burden instead of the carrier of burdens, the recipient rather than the provider, the child rather than the adult mother or adult parent, the dependent one rather than the independent one. Rather than making her own decisions, she nods in agreement. She molds. She grovels. She weakens. She changes. Days transform into tomorrow. It is impossible not to. She knows waiting to live is not living, so she attempts to make the day count; although, she cannot, really, no one can, breathe the fresh air of her own thoughts and life until they are free, free to make their own choices, yet she is alive. She refuses to lose today because she knows about the passing of time, and she cannot have the tangible moment of yesterday back; although, the days do lose their identity, one merges into another, the past into the present and yesterday into tomorrow. She attempts to make today count. She knows that tomorrow will be different, even as today is somewhat brighter, shaded, or misted from yesterday, and more so, altered from last year, so yes, she is trapped within her own mind and body, her own dwelling place, so to speak, but content knowing that nothing stays the same-she changes, people change,ideas change, flowers bloom and die, seasons come and go, and more importantly, the situations of life force change. Today is all she has. How many times has she heard it?
Even as she kicks and silently screams, as most do at one time or another, in their life, she knows from experience that today is all she has. She can play the game. She can be content in the waiting. Pauses are part of life--a big part of life. The pauses make a difference; amid the uncertainty, she knows that life is an interesting gift. Being alive, amid the everyday, breathing and being well, living today for all its worth, in the midst of the uncertain, is all she can ask or hope. In fact, within the pause lies the mystery of life--the time to reflect, the time to ponder, the time to question, the time to look around, the time to realize that life is a mystery and each day a miracle if not for the fact that our comprehension is limited and our lives finite.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Today
Yesterday I said goodbye in the same way I have for years,
at every family function,
at every birthday party,
at every summer barbecue.
I said, "See ya later." "Thanks." "Take care."
Last night I said good night in the same way I have for years,
depending where and when and how . . .
I said, "Pleasant dreams." "Good night." "Don't let the bed bugs bite."
I assume the goodbyes are temporal. The separation reprieve.
I assume the night will bring a similar tomorrow, a recognizable day,
dependent upon yesterday and the day before and the day before that,
Until the daybreak when the sun sits somewhat differently in the sky.
The morning is different.
I am rearranged.
I scramble to adjust.
I hold on to the goodbyes and goodnights.
I know tomorrow is not today and yesterday is gone . . .
but only if I have no memory,
only if I have not said my goodbyes and goodnights,
only if I have not lived my today.
at every family function,
at every birthday party,
at every summer barbecue.
I said, "See ya later." "Thanks." "Take care."
Last night I said good night in the same way I have for years,
depending where and when and how . . .
I said, "Pleasant dreams." "Good night." "Don't let the bed bugs bite."
I assume the goodbyes are temporal. The separation reprieve.
I assume the night will bring a similar tomorrow, a recognizable day,
dependent upon yesterday and the day before and the day before that,
Until the daybreak when the sun sits somewhat differently in the sky.
The morning is different.
I am rearranged.
I scramble to adjust.
I hold on to the goodbyes and goodnights.
I know tomorrow is not today and yesterday is gone . . .
but only if I have no memory,
only if I have not said my goodbyes and goodnights,
only if I have not lived my today.
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