I wish I could introduce you to my friend John, but I’m not exactly sure where he is right now.
We’ve only met once, actually. It was a couple of weeks ago. I was on my way home from the post office, waiting in a line of cars for the light to turn green. It’s a busy intersection and seemed to be more backed up than usual. I craned my neck a little and spied the problem.
A man was trying to cross the intersection while pulling/pushing two shopping carts (one large, one small), and propelling his hand-powered wheelchair. He needed about three more hands.
It was excruciating to watch.
Drivers were starting to get impatient. A few began inching forward. One or two tapped their horns. The man was sweating visibly (and I was 3 cars back), desperately trying to maneuver his meager belongings across the 6-lane road.
“I wish someone would help him!” I grumbled to God.
“Why don’t you?” He replied.
“I’m too many cars back.”
“You won’t always be.”
“I have a wonky knee.”
“You have a cane.”
“I’m in a turn lane.”
“So turn. You can always turn around.”
God is irritatingly good at poking holes in my excuses.
Cars inched past, and by the time I reached the intersection the man was almost across. The only place he could possibly be aiming for was the grocery store on the corner. The road begins a downward slope right there; once past the store entrance and its uphill incline, it gets steeper. If he missed that entrance, he was in danger of picking up too much speed and rolling uncontrollably to the bottom of the hill.
Traffic, still inching past the man and his carts and giving him disapproving looks, grudgingly let me move over two lanes. I pulled into the grocery store parking lot and stopped.
“I might fall going down that entrance,” I reminded God.
“And you might not.” He answered.
I didn’t.
As I approached the man, he looked wary and I realized that oncoming strangers were not usually a positive experience in his world.
“Where can I push this for you?” I asked, reaching for the larger cart. Out of breath, he gestured to the grocery store. I pushed the cart up to a level place and went back. He’d reached the upward slope with the smaller cart in tow.
“I’ve got it,” he panted, but he hadn’t. I grabbed one end and said, “You push and I’ll pull,” and between us we got the cart up the slope and onto level ground beside the larger one. It crossed my mind that passers-by might assume that I, too, was homeless and that made me smile. We made a confusing pair: thin, wiry, homeless him and out-of-shape, obviously-not-underfed me.
“Do you have any chocolate milk?” he asked and I thought that a bit odd. “I need the calories and the fat,” he added, and then it made heartbreaking sense.
I apologized for my lack of chocolate milk and held out my hand. “I’m Carol.” He shook my hand firmly. “John,” he said, “like the author of Revelation.” I laughed and countered, “And like my late husband. It's a really good name.”
Side-by-side, we made our way to the grocery store, me walking and pushing the large cart, John rolling and pushing the small one. He shared a couple of stories from his life on the streets. Not self-pitying, just factual. The car that hit him because he was in the way. The frequent thefts because others could run and he couldn’t give chase.
“But I’ll survive,” he said. “I have so far.”
We reached the grocery store. John was going to go in and use what little money he had to buy chocolate milk. It killed me that I had no cash in my purse to offer him. We parted ways.
As I started to walk back to my car, he called out, “Stop, please!”
I turned and he gestured for me to come nearer. As I did, he took out a beautiful purple, blue and green handmade throw. “A lady made this for me,” he said softly. “I can’t bear for it to be stolen. I want the chance to give it away. I want to give it away to you.”
His face looked haunted. I thanked him for his generosity and promised to take good care of it. “I’ll survive,” he said again, “and I have other things to keep me warm. But I’ll be happier knowing I was able to give it away.”
So I turned and walked to my car, a man’s dearest treasure in my hands. I was glad he couldn’t see me cry.
I haven’t seen John-like-the-author-of-Revelation since, but I carry chocolate Ensure in my car now, just in case.
And yesterday marked 19 years since my John died. Generosity was his hallmark. He would have stopped his old pickup truck mid-intersection, gotten out and helped push the carts, chatting with his namesake, and gleefully exaggerating his limp for the benefit of all the impatient drivers.
I don’t have his chutzpah. Instead, I have a world of memories of one John to make me smile, and the precious treasure of another to keep me humble.
That's a lot to pack into a name. Unless it's a really good one.
©2024 Carol Shaw
