As I get older, so does the world. But as the world’s age is defined by revolutions of itself and the sun, my life is defined by memories – or should I say it was defined by memories. For it no longer carries definition, and I am dead; yes, dead to society, dead to sympathy. Perhaps a few who lay eyes on me say to themselves “I hope I don’t end up like him” or “there’s a fellow who’s done nothing with his life and now wishes he had.” I have done enough with my life, and now it seemed my life has done away with me.
My world has been reduced to a head full of memories, my universe is a patch of sidewalk, on which I am allowed a chair, on which I sit. Reality is constrained to the cars and the hours that go by, neither of which will slow for me. And I sit – just sit – picking grass from the cracks in the sidewalk on which I am situated, as a songwriter would pick a melody. But my melody is broken, its song is nearly over. Soon the music will cease, and – Any joy has been replaced by sorrow, any sorrow, with indifference. I am left alone to my thoughts and the grass. To release myself from my thoughts, I pick the grass. Blade by blade. As I watch it grow, I feel my spirit die. How cruel is this world that it would leave a dying man to his thoughts! How heartless that it should not offer a more concrete companion than the ghosts of a waning memory! This time, as I pick the grass, I take it by the roots. It will not grow again. A man is walking on my sidewalk. I assume he will pass me by, as all others do, but he does not. Stopping at my side, he, after an introduction, asks if I need anything. I remain silent, hoping that my silence would speak more loudly than any words I could form. I wait for him to leave, but he remains beside me – in fact, he kneels down next to my chair, placing a book he was carrying on the sidewalk to his right. He asks me my name, and I give it. With a brief sigh, he asks me if I am enjoying the unusual warmth of the season. He nods as I shrug. Why won’t he walk away? The breeze lifts up his brown hair, revealing a brow that was much less creased than mine. After a silence, he opens his mouth to speak. My eyes are on the ground as he asks if he can pray with me. Again, I remain silent. Upon this silence he asks if he can pray for me. What is so different about this man and his persistence? The peace in which he appears to be immersed? The compassion? The hope? All three? Assuredly it isn’t simple youthfulness that brought about these attributes. I nod my head, and he begins. “Heavenly Father, you know our hearts, and you know what is troubling this man. I pray that you may bring healing into his life, and that he may grow accustomed to your Light. You made the blind to see, the deaf to hear, the dead to rise – surely you can bring life into this man’s heart and bring him to you. If this man has committed wrong, may he accept the forgiveness that is offered to him freely. In Christ’s name I pray, amen.” With a hand placed on my shoulder and a “take care,” he gets to his feet. As he walks away, I slowly dip my head to the sidewalk. I continue to pick the grass. The subtle sound of a breeze playing tenderly with the pages of an open book meets my ears, and I turn my head. On the sidewalk is the book the stranger had been carrying under his arm, and, upon a second glance, I discern that it is a Bible. Gently placing it on my lap, I examine the worn pages; they are covered in highlights and scattered notes. With surprise, I determine that this book was the stranger’s personal Bible, and, upon observing the “presented to” date, that he had had it for what was likely most of his life. And he had left it on the sidewalk – for me? I put it down beside me, and once again turn to the grass. With a second’s hesitation, I work at uprooting the last few clusters. When, amidst scattering ants and scattered dirt, there remains one solitary blade, I pause. It isn’t too late. As an arm that I assume is my own extends toward the final blade of grass, I – what can I do? I will it to incline in direction of the book. This is my last chance. My hand reaches for the book, and my fingers close upon it. It’s now or never
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