Dismissals

There is a man in prison I’ve been writing to for some years. I write on plain paper, address an ordinary envelope, affix a stamp and a return address label. I get labels free in the mail with solicitations. My friend asked if I would order him return address labels like mine. I did so but he did not use them when he wrote to me. Why was this so? It took a few letters for me to appreciate the problem. He wanted his labels to be exactly like mine, with “Mr.” printed before his name. My error! I reordered. 

I’ve written before about Loretta at the drug store, how on most days over the past years she’s been there to hand me my newspaper and count the nickels and dimes I slide across the counter. While all this high finance is going on, there’s always some small thing to converse about, maybe no more than, “How’re you today?” Times are changing. Lately, I pick up my paper from a rack and deal with a machine: “Please scan your purchase … Place your purchase in the bagging area.” I’ll miss newspapers when they’re gone. I already miss Loretta’s “How’re you today?”

I was with her once a week for an entire afternoon. She was fussy and annoying and it left me exhausted. In a waiting room, she levered herself from her chair, toddled over to the magazine rack and straightened the magazines. In an elevator, with an old hanky, she wiped down the rail and button panel. She picked up bits of paper from the sidewalk. I asked her, as kindly as I could, “Why?” Her answer changed me: “Oh,” said she, “As a child I was taught to leave wherever I have been a better place than when I came.” 

I felt a little hunger coming on so I made for the door and kept a brisk pace to the sandwich shop. I ordered and loitered. With my sandwich in a paper bag, I headed back. I saw her walking toward me. She stopped. “You mind sharing that sandwich?” I was a bit vexed, my heart set on that sandwich, but she looked peaked so I said, “How ‘bout I give you this one? I’ll go get myself another.” She sized me up and said, “God bless you!” She walked away empty-handed, leaving me puzzled, still holding my sandwich. 

Dear Granddaughter, When I write to prisoners, I begin each letter with the words: “Peace to you, and to all there with you!” My letters are read first by a prison employee, then by the prisoner, probably many times. If it’s a good letter, it may be passed along to other prisoners. Each will read the words, “Peace to you, and to all there with you!” In this way, all receive a blessing for peace in their lives. Never miss an opportunity to send a small blessing. Peace to you, Granddaughter, and to all there with you! Pass it along! 

Visiting a prisoner, I’m in the vending machine line. A lady is on her knees before the machine. She stands, inserts dollar bills, and the machine gives food. My turn. I feed dollar bills. She’s still there, looking skeptical. My bills are rejected. She says, “Them’s old bills. I got new ones.” I trade for crisp bills and survey the cuisine. She says, “Don’t get egg salad or tuna. Past their date.” I thank her and complete my purchase. She wasn’t praying, but looking up at the sell-by dates on the bottom of the packages. I learn every day.

At Mobile Pantry, where fresh produce is given to all comers, there is a line of people on the sidewalk. It’s often a half hour’s wait. By the time people are in the entryway and I greet them, I sometimes sense that people who did not know each other have made a connection. People of different nationalities, from different neighborhoods, something unexpected has happened while standing so close, hearing each others’ conversations, brought together in the common effort of putting food on their tables. Kind words are exchanged, a few minutes of grace, a sure sign of God among us. 

Kids gather around a big grate in the street. I stop, “What’s up?” They say, “Kitten fell in.” I can see the little fella, way down there, sitting on a pile of debris. They’ve taped a fishing net to a rake handle but the grate is so heavy. A pickup truck stops, “What’s up?” The kids tell the driver about the kitten and the heavy grate. He gets out. He is a big man. He lifts the grate, sets it on the grass, and helps the kids lift kitty from the hole. You never know who will pass your way.

Not long ago, I heard a man make his will, an oral will, what the lawyers would call a nuncupative will, spoken and not written. The man, who had been unwell for some time, sat at a table in the cafeteria of the homeless shelter with a few other men. He owned precious little but did have a good blanket, a portable radio, an old Barlow pocket knife, and whatnot. He spoke their names and said what each was to have. The men nodded, the world shifted a little on its axis, and they helped him back to his bunk.

A small book came to hand, a gift from friends. First published in 1692, written by Brother Lawrence,* a lay monk in a French Carmelite monastery, it is but sixty pages. I spent an hour rereading this fine little book and I struck yet another line under these words: “That in order to form a habit of conversing with God continually, and referring all we do to Him, we must at first apply to Him with some diligence; but that after a little care we should find His love inwardly excite us to it without any difficulty.” Thank you, Brother Lawrence.  * Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God, Forward Movement Publications, Cincinnati, Ohio 

He said offhandedly, “I’m tired of my taxes feeding lazy people who won’t work.” I let it slide. I don’t know him well and the conversation would go nowhere. Still, I could have said what’s true: I have never met anyone too lazy to work. I do know people too tired, sick, depressed or disfigured to hold a job. I know people with mental illness, criminal records and physical disabilities who will probably never get a job. If ever I find someone too lazy to work, I’ll hear them out. I’d still give them a sandwich if they were hungry. 

My sister, Lorinda, was seven years old. I was eight. We were in a park, crossing a grassy field, my sister between mom and dad, holding their hands. I was off on my own, looking for treasure but lost in thought. Lorinda found the treasure, a scattering of coins in the grass. Lorinda and my parents searched about for buffalo nickels, Mercury dimes, silver quarters and half-dollars. I stood back, disappointed. They counted. They divided the coins. My sister, her hands too small for the coins she carried, walked to where I stood and gave me half the treasure.