As our caravan pulled up to the curb we saw him .
At a distance we watched as he crossed against traffic in the beating sun walking again to the doors of the closed -for-the-weekend city buildings each time trying the still locked doors, each time moving on, out of sight crossing the street to the other buildings.
We carried on our assignment in this Southern Oregon town, Declaring, celebrating , releasing Gods goodness.
“When he comes close give him what you have” whispered I AM.
There was no doubt in my mind who “he” referred to since from our high up vantage point we could see him beginning the cycle again.
He seemed more confused each time he made the circuit , this time stepping into traffic. Looking up at the light and cross walk signal , he stepped back onto the curb allowing the light Saturday traffic to pass.
For a moment it seemed the opportunity failed, as he paused to cross mid block in a different direction.
“When he comes close, give him what you have.”
Turning back toward the stairs he began his circuit, still apparently not noticing our group of 9. Slipping down the steps to meet him with a small bag of provisions our team had put together , his head came up slightly when he realized someone was on his path.
Staying still, my hand slowly came up in greeting . He moved forward assuring me verbally he was fine and didn’t need the granola bar or orange peeking through the plastic bag.
His once sparkling eyes this day were glazed, hazy. His full head of thick white hair a contrast against his leathery weathered face and dirty button up shirt.
Revealing the bottle of water got a momentary glimmer but was gone in the same moment. His full white mustache and beard , with remnants of yesterday, barely moved as his parched weathered lips spoke his distant, programmed words “im fine , im good.”
In one leathered hand he held a pair of new snowy white socks. On his aging , shuffling feet were tattered , worn shoes .
“Give him what you have”.
“What’s your name?”
Coming to a full stop, his head came up and his voice momentarily cleared. Face to face he stopped just briefly.
“My name is Craig”
A fleeting smile…”What’s yours?”
He repeated it , adding, “That’s pretty.”
We shook hands.
“Give him what you have”.
Holding out the bag once more “Absolutely no strings”.
His once strong hands silently received it. He moved on renewing his cycle , shuffling up the stairs in the pounding heat, where he once again tried the locked doors of first one building then another.
Then Craig -who could be you, your uncle, your father , your grandfather, your brother , a husband- was gone.
Is there more? Much . But that’s another story.
Giving what I have~Shandra
and linking here: The Social Scene