Playing for Time

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Mornings are hard. Crying early and often seems to be my default mode and I don’t even fight it anymore. Saw a headline this morning, a mother politely begging her disabled daughter’s classmates to please come by the house and wish her a Happy Birthday, no gift necessary, just please say hi. Had to duck out and skip the actual story because I’m a weakling. WTF?? Why are humans, those most exalted of creatures, so incurably cold and cruel? We have the most to give but we grasp all of it like a monkey with his fist in a small-mouth jar.

There’s a man in his 40s or young 50s who’s worked in our building since before we moved here ten years ago. Knows everything about the place, where all the ghosts are, and more importantly, all the shut-offs. And keys. And what not to do. He has a huge heart and he shows up for whatever anyone needs. He’s been walking on a bad knee for a long time and it’s been bone on bone for at least a year. He was scheduled for replacement surgery next month, but in the meantime his insurance has been canceled so that’s off. Our parking lot consists of either resident slots, bank slots, or paid city parking, and this employee has apparently never had a parking permit in all the years he’s worked here, so he has to park wherever he can find a space on the surrounding streets and then hike back there every two hours to move to a different spot, on a knee that’s stealing his joy every second. When Kim found out what’s been going on we both raised a ruckus with the board president who told us she’d talked with a few of the loft owners about getting this man a pass, and they said they’d need to “think about it,” at which time I simply lost it.

Our building is owner-occupied and although we’re not on their level we live among people with real resources who do pretty much as they please. Many are here only part time, as they travel the world on a regular basis while the man in question monitors and safeguards their spaces and belongings. Whatever they need, they buy. Whatever they want to do, they do. Here’s a man making life easier for them every single day, and they can’t find it in their hearts to okay a parking spot close to the building, even knowing he’s in pain every second? Why is that? I mean, one must ask. Is it because he isn’t part of their social strata? Because his truck isn’t new and snazzy? He’s smart, he’s kind, he’s helpful, he somehow works a second job, he’s married with children. He has also helped more than one older person here in the building and around town stay independent by doing the small vital things they could no longer do for themselves. He works soup kitchens in town, which keeps him on that knee. He’s a good man. He’s also Black. Someone please tell me that has no bearing on whether or not he deserves to park next to his place of work.

We have two vehicles, thus two permits. Both cars are nearly always in the parking garage, so we have little use for outdoor passes. Kim gave our friend one of them, end of story, fight us both you crazy messed-up people. This guy is quiet and totally unassuming… “You don’t see me, I’m not really here.” He was never going to push the issue on his own. Sometimes you have to force somebody’s hand.

I’m a recluse for good reason… people can be unspeakably awful, and that’s getting worse not better. I know, I know, they’re unspeakably beautiful as well. Let’s have a whole lot more of that, please, and I might buy in.

It’s dark and rainy this morning, adding to a sense of impending doom, says failed Pollyanna. When people are selfish and unthinking it makes me long to quit the world, just wander off somewhere and make myself comfy in a nice dry cave while I watch it all go by. But I’d miss Kim’s cooking so I’d be home before dark.

Whatever you do with your Sunday, first do no harm, okay? If you’re on your way to church, ask yourself straight up if everybody I know would be welcome in your midst. I have trans friends, lesbian friends, oodles of gay friends, and more Black friends than have likely blessed one of your services, ever, depending on who I’m talking to. I also know people your congregation might be disinclined to even have coffee with, let alone offer the right hand of fellowship. Is your church big on tithes and offerings for people they’ll never have to see? That hardly counts in the overall picture when someone limping right next to you needs a tiny bit of help. Does your church model its actions and outreach on what we’ve been told was the life of Jesus? If not, save time and futility by going straight to Sunday dinner, do not pass GO, do not collect $200, because none of it holds water. As in all of life, we hear what you say, but we see what you do.

This apropos meme just fell into my hands:

Be careful who you hate, it might be someone you love.

All clichés are true, by the way.

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