Words + Images

Organized religion is a touchy subject with my family.  When  I was a pre-teen my mom became fed up with the politics in our Baptist church back home in Virginia.  Both she and my dad would say that if they needed to pray to a higher power they could do so in their backyard.  Regardless of my family history, somehow I have found myself working part-time in a church as a greeter.  Over the years it has been thought provoking to see the interactions of people with each other, with what they consider sacred and holy, and with a physical space that is both a religious and secular landmark.   Despite where I work, I don’t think anyone would consider me religious though they might, just maybe, characterize me as spiritual.  I give you all that background just to share that I was a little surprised at myself today when I picked up a card with the following biblical quotation:

I have called you by name,

you are mine.

You are precious

in my sight,

and I love you.

— Isaiah 43:1,4

I took the card with me to the narthex where I sit to greet visitors.  Through the glass doors, I could see out into the public square.  The square is surrounded by benches.  And on one of those benches I saw a familiar face.  As I watched him, I thought of the quotation, and I found myself writing the following in the card.  To whom I will mail the card, I don’t know.

The Man on the Park Bench

He wears a gray coat that is disintegrating around him.  A darker gray knit cap rests upon his head.  He carries numerous bags of a material I can’t discern unless I move closer.  To be honest I’m not sure I want to get that close.  I’m not sure that I can stomach the stench right now.  I have seen this man for years, always near the church.  Though there are signs about no loitering, I know he sleeps there at night, tucked into a shadowed alcove.  He moves on in the morning just before staff open the church to visitors.  He never strays far.  He used to speak but he seems not to do so anymore.  One time he spoke to me with humor and a crazy intelligence.  We chatted amiably as I placed out signs inviting visitors inside the historic structure.  I remember that I kept my distance because he was so much larger than I.  I still keep my distance.  I see him now sitting on a bench in the square.  With his heft, that coat, and all of his bags, he takes up all the space.  He twists and turns and laughs — he’s in a world unto himself.  Tourists mass around him, as they exit tour buses and trolley cars.  They take pictures.  He must be in their frames.  What will they say or think when they return home?  Will they post his picture on Facebook?  I’ve never seen him ask for anything unlike some of his compatriots holding court on other benches in the square.  The public library is nearby.  Perhaps he goes there for water and to use the facilities.  His foot moves to a song in his head.  He seems so happy.  I have seen the light in his eyes.  I wonder what thoughts bring him such joy?

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