Tall, thin, not-recently-shaven; he wore one of those sleeveless undershirts with the scoop neck, a pair of grey, shapeless pants that had been washed too often, leather shoes that had seen better days, no socks. He was carrying a low-sided cardboard box with three half-gallons of milk and a loaf of bread in it.
That’s not the right word. He was laden with that low-sided box and its content. From his slow, wobbly gate, anyone could see he had more than his ancient limbs could handle. Each step was a struggle. I could see the thin, ropey muscles of his arms starkly etched against the parchment of his skin.
To say the old man struggled would be to use too light a word. “Struggled,” “wrestled,” “fought”; we’ve managed somehow to leech the weight and power out of these words. All that’s left me, that truly describes these events, is “battle.” That day I witnessed a man battle against his own body with all the ferocity of a soldier charging the enemy amid a barrage of weapons fire. He gave it his all with each wavering step, knees slightly bent against the weight of his burden, determination painted in rivulets of sweat coursing down his face.
I don’t think any of us was shocked when the first milk carton tumbled.
It all seemed to move in some sort of horror-film-slow-motion; the corner of the box buckling just a little, the milk carton starting to tip over the edge, the old man reactively tugging everything up, causing the falling carton to start a slow end-over-end spin as it floated out of the box and toward the sidewalk. We watched that carton of milk … oh … so … slowly … somersault toward the sidewalk. Kurosawa and Peckinpah could have taken lessons.
It hit with a slapping sound we all could hear.
And … nothing happened. The carton landed on its bottom, with no apparent damage. Everyone breathed. The moment of horror had passed. The relief that flooded though us was so strong, so palpable. Everything was A-O-K.
Then, as we were just beginning to think of returning to our previous activities, the old man knelt to pick up the errant milk carton … and the second carton began its tumble from the box.
Stephen King fans will recognize this as a “Cujo” moment, that instant when —the good guys having finally won the day and realizing they have somehow survived; a moment of abject and profound relief— evil surges back for another bite! Long before I ever read Stephen King, long before I ever saw one of those just-can’t-kill-the-bad-guy movies, I experienced this horror.
Right then I knew. Deep in the inmost place of my being I was forced to recognize truth: he was not going to make it. I wanted him to make it, but I had already concluded he just could not do it. How does a man who has difficulty just walking pick up a carton of milk without dropping the rest of his load?
This time the top of the carton struck the concrete sidewalk. Milk spewed in every direction. Milk splattered his feet, his legs, his shirt; droplets dotted face.
But, back then we were a resolute lot, especially people of his generation. He soldiered on. He had lived through some of the more trying times of history; World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, Korea. Even my generation had been taught what to do in a situation like this: no crying over spilt milk.
And he didn’t cry. He passed his hand over his face, wiping away the few droplets of milk there. He reached for the first, upright milk carton, placed it back in the box, and then slowly, carefully managed to raise himself back to a standing position without further crisis.
He resumed his slow, unsteady shuffle; not looking back at his failure, leaving it behind him in the way we had all been taught. In all this time, he had not taken as much as 15 steps. Now, he resumed putting one foot before the other, wobbly but resolute.
One step.
Two.
Three.
I’m not sure what actually happened. Maybe the first milk carton had sustained some damage when it landed upright on the sidewalk and had sprung a slow leak. Maybe all of his efforts had just exhausted the man. Whatever the cause, whether liquid-weakened cardboard or life-weakened sinews, on his sixth step away from the milk spill the box caved in the middle.
It happened very fast. The two sides of the box flipped up to meet each other in the middle. The bread and surviving milk cartons flew forward from the old man’s grasp. And he did grasp, at all of it. He actually got one hand on one of the cartons, but it slipped right through.
In a flash, chaos.
Before him on the sidewalk were two burst milk cartons; a loaf of bread split open and sopping wet with milk, one of the cartons having landed directly on it before spilling and soaking the loaf. And then … then, while grasping the folded and useless piece of cardboard … then the old man cried.
I wasn’t there when Job nearly crumpled under the weight of the troubles Satan piled on him. I wasn’t there when the Psalmist prophesied the crucifixion of Jesus in Psalm 22. But I was there when that old man was alone in his struggle, tried so hard, but lost it all, anyway. Watching him struggle gave me a sense of the isolation suffered by both Job and Jesus ... the crushing sense that God had abandoned them in the time of their greatest need.
Job thought God was the source of his misery, and he just wanted it all to end. He believed he could successfully plead his case if could just come before God ... if only God could be found. The Psalmist foresaw Jesus suffering at the hands of Roman Soldiers, tapped into the moment when Jesus felt so abandoned by God He cried out, “My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me?”
Not only was God aware of Job’s trials, hearing every word his servant Job spoke as he suffered ... God had to hear His own son shout out His overwhelming sense of abandonment as he died in pain. In those moments when you feel isolated, abandoned, disregarded, uncared for; unable to find God ... hold on to this: even though you feel utterly alone in your suffering, God is there, has been there all along.
You are not alone.
_________________________
The story of the old man is selected from a memoir entitled Incident at 10th and Clark. You can read the full memoir at www.steveorr.blogspot.com.
_________________________
READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 23 (28) (October 14, 2018)
https://lectionary.library.vanderbilt.edu//
Job 23:1-9, 16-17
Psalm 22:1-15
Amos 5:6-7, 10-15
Psalm 90:12-17
Hebrews 4:12-16
Mark 10:17-31
_________________________
DaySpring’s Lectionary Breakfast meets each Friday morning at the Waco “Egg and I.” Our time of scripture, discussion, prayer, food, and (surprisingly) fun starts at 8:00. That hour flies by. Join us.
Blessings!
Steve
No comments:
Post a Comment