A lot has likely happened
in your last two
weeks, but maybe you remember
my last column,
the one about the shrieking
toddler in the highway rest
area. About three, she
voiced rage at her father by
squatting in the middle of
the crowded lobby and loosing
a shriek that almost set
light bulbs popping and
ceiling tiles dropping from
overhead.
So piercing and so endless
was that shriek that
scores around her covered
their ears.
Finally her crimson faced
father picked her up,
still shrieking, still crouching
like a garden gnome,
and strode out of the building
with her under his
arm.
Hers was a bravura performance,
and a great illustration
of a trait that, sadly,
many of us adults, ``children
of a larger growth,’’
carry through life and to
the grave. For many humans,
almost every choice,
big and small, echoes the
essence of the toddler’s
shriek, ``I WANT WHAT I
WANT!’’ It makes for much
personal unhappiness.
After the little girl was
gone and the lobby had settled
to a normal buzzing
swirl of people, I still had
some time left to loiter and
watch. (I was awaiting, you
may remember, Anne’s arrival
from walking Blue,
my signal to go out and sit
with Blue in the car.) And
so I stood to the side and
out of the way, against a
blank wall just past Auntie
Anne’s Pretzels.
There were lots of careworn
adults to watch, and
cranky kids, too, though
none to match that little
screecher. I watched one
weary family group —
mom, dad, daughter, son —
standing in the McDonald’s
line, endearingly leaning
against each other. I saw
an old gent scuff slowly toward
a marble column,
bump his forehead against
it and stop, maybe to enjoy
its cool surface, maybe because
he just hadn’t seen it
in his path.
But across the crowded
lobby, through the moving
skein of bodies big and
small, I saw something arresting,
beautiful. And
there began my second adventure
in ten minutes. In
fact, it only took three minutes,
but I doubt that I’ll
ever forget it.
Standing against the opposite
wall was a man of
my height and age, but he
was not loitering and
watching. He was very still,
and his dark eyes were
slightly raised above the
crowd scene. His rich mahogany
skin and classic
features identified him as a
Dravidian from southernmost
India. And so did his
dress, all of it a brilliant
white.
His snowy tunic almost
reached his knees; beneath
it he wore loose white trousers.
Around his shoulders
was a scarf, wide and full,
and again it almost reached
his knees. Above his dark
face and full gray beard and
mustache, he wore a white
turban wound from soft,
snowy gauze. Unwound,
the strip must have been
ten feet long.
My eyes were riveted on
him, this figure of total
composure beyond the
swirling people. And,
though this is difficult to
describe, something deep in
me began to respond. Across
the crowd, I felt linked to
him, drawn to him.
And I began to walk toward
him, through the
crowds.
When I was halfway
across the lobby, his eyes
met mine and a wondrous
smile broke out on his face.
I raised my hands, palms
together, up to my chin in
namaste, the Indian greeting.
He did the same, still
smiling, but with a luminous
softness now in his
features.
``Namaste,’’ you may
know, isn’t a simple ``hello.’’
In its origin, it means,
``That of God in me greets
that of God in you.’’
As I approached, this
grand man began to chuckle,
and he spread his arms.
The hug he then gave me
was the sort one gives on
suddenly meeting an old
friend. Then he took me by
the elbows; I did the same,
and we stood smiling at
each other. Not knowing
whether he spoke English,
I gestured with my head to
the lobby’s other side and
said slowly, ``I felt light
coming from you.’’
His head tipped back in
another joyful chuckle. And
then he raised his right
hand and placed the heel of
his palm high on my forehead,
fingertips resting on
what’s left of my hair. The
few Hindi words he murmured
were surely a blessing.
Then, this smiling, gentle
man nodded slowly at
me, and I back at him. And
I walked away, down the
swarming lobby. And here
came Anne, just walking in
the doors at the far end.
I didn’t look back, almost
fearful the man would have
disappeared. But he would
have still been there. He
was no apparition; he was
as real as I am. But his
blessing changed me. These
days when I praise my Creator
through Jesus, I no
longer center myself behind
my closed eyes. My consciousness
drifts in the
darkness up to my forehead,
where I still sense
the soft pressure of that
hand.
Oh, friends, we can’t
cage a Being of infinite love
inside a palisade of dogma.
Grace is everywhere, everywhere.
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek —
Celebrating Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com.
