Infinitely Fragile

I had such an insight as I walked home from cleaning the church this afternoon. I could only think it might have partly been the influence of Ishmael. His is our pastor's son. He is developmentally disabled--what used to be called mentally retarded except that is no longer the accepted term to describe people like him. He is, in so many ways, indescribable. He is 24. He likes to come over to the church and keep me company when I clean. We have this little schtick we do. It goes like this. He says, "What are you doing?" and he snickers a little.

And I answer, "Cleaning."

"Why?" (Small snicker.)

"Because it's my job."

"You like it?" (Slight guffaw.)

"Sometimes."

Every week, the same banter. One time it happened when I was cleaning earlier than usual on a Saturday, because there was a wedding that afternoon. Ishmael was attending the wedding; his mom is our Pastor; it was the son of one of our church families who was getting married. The next day Ishmael's dad Matthew told me that as part of the ceremony, the flower girl threw rose petals on the floor as she walked up the aisle. When Ishmael saw that, he stood up in his pew. He yelled, "Hey! Stop that! Rozenkraai just cleaned that floor this morning!"

And when the wedding was over, he walked through the church and picked up every single petal from the floor.

Anyway, I have often thought Ishmael is a gentle angel sent here to teach us new ways to love. He has bright blue eyes and a sweet, open face. He has been raised with loving kindness and consideration. He is gentle, and funny, stubborn and loud, and he lopes around the village looking for bottles and cans. He takes off on his parents, he disappears for hours just when they want him home. Some people leave the bottles and cans in bags on the porch for him, and others he just finds. He has an amazing memory for where he saw them on the roadside as he rode by in the car or the bus that takes him to his work program. The church collects them, and Ishmael and his dad do all the leg work of sorting through and rinsing them and then returning them to the store for the deposit money. We use that money to fund our Jamaica mission trip. Without their hard, weekly work and dedication, we wouldn't be able to go.

Anyway, it was after I had finished cleaning the church and visiting with Ishmael today, that I saw a woman walking down the hill as I was walking up. She looked as harried and preoccupied as I often feel myself as I travel up and down this hill. And suddenly it seemed as if the world grew brighter, and I had a flash of insight. 'People are so infinitely fragile', I thought, 'so completely breakable. All people. Every single one, not just the ones I like.' And nestled in the center of that thought was a bright core of compassion, complete compassion for my fellow human sufferers such as I never feel. And I thought, 'If I could only hold onto this depth of understanding and compassion, I would be such a kind and forgiving person.'

But I really can't hold onto it like that. I know I can't. I also know I wouldn't always want to. But what I can do is remember it, and try, (or try to try, as Bart Simpson once promised to do). Because several minutes after that glowing, golden, holy moment of divine insight, a car passed me by, too close, and I stopped and glared at the driver as I always do when that happens and I feel threatened and disrespected. I had quite naturally returned to my usual snarky self.

Until next time, I remain, your friend, Rozenkraai