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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