Dismissals

It’s a small store in a neighborhood that’s seen better days. The lettering on the front window still says “Hardware” but the store sells Little Debbie and Hostess snacks, dusty cans of soup and SpaghettiOs, cigarettes, tobacco and roll-your-own papers. The store is near St. Luke’s Episcopal Church where we give away fresh produce at the Food Pantry. On those days, I stop at the store, put a few items on the counter, and chat with the proprietor. I remind him that it’s Pantry Day and to send folks our way for free, fresh produce … and he does. 

Summoned to jury duty, I sat in a big room in the courthouse until lunchtime. Then, with forty other prospective jurors, I was herded into a courtroom where a young man accused of murder sat at a table with his lawyers. We were under oath to tell the truth. The judge asked each of us, “How do you feel about the charge of murder brought against this man?” We answered in turn. Most said, “I feel it’s very serious.” My turn came and I said, “I feel sad.” Apparently, that was not what I was supposed to say. They sent me home. 

At the family gravesite, a large, gray stone is inscribed with the family surname. At each end of this marker, a stern stone angel keeps watch. Not long ago, as I pulled weeds and tidied, a thought came to me that those now under the earth had all hoped and longed for a good and peaceful life … hopes and longings that they pass on to the living … now mine to keep and tend. As I walked from the gravesite, the stone angels appeared markedly different … not as dour or forbidding … even the hint of a smile … but I kept walking. 

I helped Barry with chores. More than that, we were friends. Barry died last September. He had no family. I went to his Jewish burial, a cold and gray day. At one point, I was given a gentle push toward the open grave and handed a shovel. I looked down and saw the coffin. As is the custom, I took my turn and shoveled earth into the grave. I can recollect no experience quite like that. I handed the shovel to another mourner and turned from the grave. I thought I’d broken a sweat but it was only a tear.

Early every morning, rain, snow or warm sun, the New York Times is delivered to my driveway. Early every morning, I toddle out to get it. I read less of it now than once. The news is terrible and my attention span short. And, lately, the paper might not hit the driveway until late morning. I see ads for local delivery drivers, a demanding job. The hours are harsh, the pay’s not great. One day, when it’s not cold out, I’ll sit on the front steps and wave to the driver … offer a kind word and maybe a cuppa coffee.

The words of Thomas Merton: “Le point vierge … at the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will. This little point of nothingness and of absolute poverty is the pure glory of God in us. It is so to speak His name written in us, as our poverty, as our indigence, as our dependence, as our being children of God.” Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (Image Classic),…

I never met her, but I’d heard tell. She was a legend among the street folks and shelter residents. Some said she was a nurse, others said she was a saint. Either way, if you were in need, whatever the affliction, she’d steer you right. She had aspirin, iodine, bandaids and always a kind word. When it was something serious, she’d call for the ambulance and ride along. Folks had a name for her: WeGotta. It came from her saying to those she helped, We got to do this … or We gotta do that. Never, You gotta … Always, We gotta …

I had an errand about 80 miles to the east so I drove straight to the turnpike. At the entrance, a long line of cars. There had been an accident and the eastbound lanes were closed. Annoyed and unsure, I made a u-turn and drove until I saw a highway sign for “Old U.S. 30.” I took this two lane road and headed east. I drove past farms, forests and streams. There were roadside picnic tables along the way, and narrow bridges over creeks. I saw farms, barns and silos. I saw a man and a horse, plowing a field.

Sometimes I wear an old hat. Occasionally, people remark that it has some style. It’s an Akubra from Australia, a gift from a man who was in difficult straits. I had given him a few bucks to get back home and as he boarded the bus he turned and thanked me. That was all I expected but he took off his hat and handed it to me. He didn’t say another word and that was the last I saw or heard of him. It’s a good hat. I have a few others I like, but that Akubra is my hat. 

I’ve visited prisoners for 20 years. Mostly death row. I don’t know why. Maybe because few others visit them. They’re the least of the least. I visit Mike. At 19, sentenced to death. His death sentence was vacated because of prosecutorial misconduct. Another five years, a total of forty, they will set Mike free … whatever “free” might mean for Mike. Mike has limited reasoning, limited judgment. Mike has no job skills. They’re training Mike to be a janitor but Mike cannot read the labels on the cleaning products. I write and I visit. The hard stuff I leave to God. 

It’s been a long couple of Covid years but I will soon return as a volunteer at the men’s homeless shelter, 2100 Lakeside in Cleveland. Something new … I will be there as a listener … two chairs, facing each other in a secluded hallway, and a sign: “Do you want to talk?” There are about 350 men in the shelter at any given time. Any one of them might set himself down and tell me about the Browns or Cavaliers or whatever it may be. The conversation may start there, but it will move along to wherever it needs to be. 

Bryan owns the corner gas station. He’s a terrific mechanic and a good guy, usually jovial and wisecracking. Lately, Bryan’s been testy. He told me he can’t find anyone to pump gas or put air in tires while he fixes cars. When I stopped by for an oil change, Bryan growled and muttered. Out of the blue, I asked him, “Is there anything I can do to help?” I thought he might tell me to change my own oil or go pump gas, but the old Bryan suddenly returned. Sometimes, the offer to help is all the help that’s needed.