Crumbs In Our Wake

Crumbs in Our Wake

As we walk the quiet streets of our cities in the assumed isolation of our seemingly contented spaces, we so easily and unknowingly leave crumbs of who and what we are in our wake.

Others, like pigeons of the air, swoop down and peck away at those crumbs, a meal provided by the divine hand of providence, in whom we can scarcely believe cares enough for us, even when neither bird nor beast worries, for provision does indeed come.

These crumbs tell other stories, the ones we cannot let go of because unanswered questions remain. It is unlikely we would ever get the opportunity to satisfy the curiosity that one strange encounter brings into view, even as we try to mind our own business.

A Chance Encounter

Much earlier today, a lady was coming towards me, pushing a pram. I presumed she was a grandmother, and not a walking miracle of Sarah begetting Isaac after the incredulity of her laughter at the idea that she could still bear a child.

She was adjusting a paper windmill, or pinwheel, and for that alone the expectation was that a child, reclined in the pram, was being entertained or distracted with the novelty of a spinning attraction. Had small talk ensued, it would have been about seeing a pleasantly focused, smiling toddler, whilst commending the grandmother for keeping the child at peace.

The Doll in the Pram

As I walked past, I looked to see a grinning face, teeth showing with the gaiety of the widest smile possible, even legs being thrown up in the air in acknowledgement of the object positioned for their attention. Nothing of the sort; the passenger in the ornate perambulator was a doll, unmistakably the plastic rigidity of a lifeless presence that only a doll could muster.

There was no need for a double take, but one did vacillate between concern and sympathy. Concern that this story was one of mental illness brought into the public sphere; the wish for a child now given over to the taking of a doll for an outing, with all the presence of mind to furnish that doll with the trimmings that might accompany a child.

Sympathy and Grace

Then came sympathy for whatever the tragic story might be, such as the loss of a grandchild remembered daily in this sad display of grief that I had now uncomfortably witnessed. A daily upset for her, and a lingering one for me, for how do you ask the pertinent questions?

There might be another angle, though, beyond concern or sympathy, this being eccentricity, and we all have some of that in us in different measures. Whether this be suffering expressed so vividly, or an expression too quickly misunderstood, the reality of a person's private world is not that private when brought into the public sphere.

A Good Samaritan Nature

Yet even this might not begin to cover the spectrum of life experiences that became that momentary observation, for any person's story is barely told in a brief encounter. Rather, what we know in part might define them too narrowly in comparison to who they really are.

And if we were to ignore the things we see, we could, in that very mindset, miss the moment when someone in distress could do with our Good Samaritan nature and our help.

Yet, in the crumbs that the pigeons do get to feed on, is a complete meal not better than manna, without a care for what tomorrow brings? There, but for the grace of God, go we, so that whatever story we tell might be a blessing to another.

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