All we could do was watch as the old man trudged along the sidewalk opposite our junior high school.
It was a closed campus.
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 packed with three half-gallons of milk and a loaf of bread.
Carrying is not the right word. He was laden with it. 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. 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.
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.
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: he was not going to make it. I wanted him to make it, but 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 his face.
Back then we were a resolute lot, especially people of his generation. So, he soldiered on. He had lived through some trying times; 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 a few droplets of milk. 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, 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 … while grasping the folded and useless piece of cardboard … then the old man cried.
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In this week’s scriptures, we find both Job and Jesus suffering. 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 he could just come before God ... if only God could be found. The Psalmist somehow 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?”
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, alone in his struggle, tried so hard, but lost it all, anyway. That is carved into my memory. That gives me a sense of the isolation suffered by Job and Jesus ... the crushing sense that God had abandoned them in the time of their greatest need.
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 sense of abandonment as he died in pain.
If all we had was that, how sad our lives would be. But, the Hebrews selection reminds us that Jesus “in every respect has been tested as we are….” And that because He can “sympathize with our weaknesses,” we can find help when we need it most.
Do you find yourself in deep distress? Is life, sometimes, just too hard? Do your friends, like Job’s, think you are at fault for the trouble you’re in? Do you, sometimes, think they might be right? In those moments when you feel isolated, abandoned, disregarded, uncared for; unable to find God ... hold on. Even though you feel utterly alone in your suffering, you are not alone. God is there, has been there all along.
You. Are. Not. Alone.
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PHOTO CREDIT: Adobe Spark Post and Adobe Photoshop Express
The story of the old man is selected from a memoir entitled Incident at 10th and Clark. Locate the link on the right side of the page to read the full memoir (02Memoir-Incident at 10th and Clark):
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Sadly, there is no in-person gathering this Friday. So, join us (on Zoom only) for DaySpring’s Lectionary Breakfast. We gather at 8:00 for an hour of scripture, discussion, and laughter.
Blessings,
Steve
Contact me for the Zoom link
NOTE: Zoom allows you to mute the camera if you don’t wish to be seen and to mute the microphone if you don’t wish to speak.
SCRIPTURES FOR SUNDAY & THE COMING WEEK
Find them here:
Print them here:
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
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