More Everyday Heroes

Time to get rolling. With teachers back at school after a holiday break and in the second semester of their licensure program, it's time to do the prerequisite classroom observations required for their licenses and/or endorsements. Once I’m sitting in their classrooms with my computer poised on my lap, I am deeply appreciative of this aspect of my work. I sit and peck away, typing what I’m hearing and seeing. For the most part, it’s like eavesdropping with permission on lots of everyday heroes.

Like a lot of you, I loved hearing about the pilot, Sully, who heroically landed the big airliner in the Hudson River recently without one fatality. After a couple of geese hit his plane, a mixture of skills, experience, and pure instincts took over with little thought about what he should or shouldn’t do. He didn’t have the luxury of extra time.

I see this kind of scenario over and over with teachers, exhausted though they may be. First of all, rarely do they have that luxury of time. From the get-go of a teacher’s day the clock rules. While students are filing out of one class, other students are bumping into them arriving for the next. Planning period is consumed with making copies, calling parents, filling out incident report forms or other endless paperwork, consoling a student or a colleague, grading, and if you’re extremely lucky, maybe making a few plans. Going to the bathroom feels like an indulgence. Dawdling or water cooler talk isn’t a common activity for most teachers. Gone are the days of smoke wafting out of teacher lounges while teachers puff and commiserate.

The real treat in today’s world of education is when a teacher has somehow managed the time to carefully think through and prepare a lesson. But whatever plan she/he has at hand, most often the pure determination, tenacity, and strong, open heart anxious to teach someone something is readily observable. The unadulterated joy of watching a young person learn something is what keeps most of us coming back, day after day, year after year.

The teacher is often excited and quite enthusiastic about what she/he will be doing with students. A bell rings, students wander in, often moodily wearing whatever has happened to them throughout their lives, during the last week, last night, or becaue of an incident/exchange that just happened in the hallway. Teachers understand this, and know who is most vulnerable to disruptive behavior. They are well aware of how it can be a crap shoot as to who will be able to shuck off interfering attitudes and shift into being a receptive learner. They're constantly on the look out for the saboteurs. Teachers become masters at the control panel, checking the gauges and quickly making even the slightest adjustments instinctively to steer the take-off and entire flight of a lesson in a successful direction.

Geese come out of nowhere. One, two, plowing into our best intentions, threatening to disintegrate a lesson easily within nano seconds. An offensive side comment from one student to the next, an exasperated “this class sucks” from a student needing some extra attention for one reason or another, too many students not having read an assignment or brought their materials, a cell phone ringing and a student obstinately answering with the all too predictable response of “It’s my mom!”

Over half of the teachers in the alternative licensure program where I am an instructor and teacher evaluator work with adjudicated youth at minimum or maximum security lock down facilities (for those who have committed more serious crimes), or at residential treatment centers (for those with severe emotional and behavior problems to help them manage the impact of traumatic experiences and/or mental illness). Many of these students are master manipulators, and when you have an entire classroom of such, imagine the genius required of the teacher in this cockpit.

Regularly the take-off happens and the hour flies, usually not without some turbulence, sometimes major. Most teachers, so beautifully earnest with their dreams and honorable intentions for their students, do the best they can with what they have, frequently working with youth that have largely been discarded by the rest of society. So many teachers navigate their way through the geese and storms, with outdated equipment in less than desirable physical environments, often receiving only minimal direction from air traffic controllers, yet they fly and land safely hour after hour, regularly making emergency landings, unbelievably managing to teach many children every day. I bet that even Captain Sully calls these people his heroes.

Sniffles and Sneezes

Where are the kleenix? Looks like this year has rolled in spreading colds and sinus infections. Our writer’s retreat was just cancelled with two out of three of us coughing and sneezing, and this morning I woke up looking for tissue. Three out of three now.

Oh, winter. Colorado is stingy with its daylight compared to Texas during these cold months. We celebrated December 21 as the shortest day of the year, eager for the day’s light to be on the other side of the hump. Ever so slowly we began watching it stay a wee bit lighter until 5PM. Night still feels like it slams down way too soon, with a cloak of darkness hanging heavily by the time we sit down to a much too early dinner. By 8:00 it’s already been dark for hours and can so easily feel like bedtime.

When feeling a little puny, winter evenings are best handled by getting warm and comfortable with something good to read. After reading cumbersome teacher portfolios most of the day, laptop positioned, where else but in my lap, glancing back and forth to mark the rubric on my computer screen, my eyes beg for a good reading light and a small, well-written book come evening (Current reading: Truth and Beauty by Ann Patchett).

I admit, however, this morning's cheery light leaves me wishing I were tucked around a kitchen table in the hideout mountain cabin with my two writing colleagues, sipping coffee as our pens scratch out a couple of pages on whatever writing prompt that has come to one of us in the night. We’d have a box of kleenix on the table and when done, we would read our words to one another between sniffles and sneezes.

Back and Forward

("firecracker" dandelion photographed at Graceland)

12/31/08
Last chance for 2008. Another year is heading out and I eye the one coming with suspicion. What will it hold? A new President for starters, thank goodness. More political shifts throughout the world, no doubt. Further economic downturn? Probably a blizzard here, a hurricane down there, twisters in the middle, and unpredictable floods somewhere. Some people will get well and others will receive unpromising diagnoses. And amidst it all, faith will seed and grow, offering to carry us through.

Looking back on 2008 helps me to understand why I'm so comfortable with it coming to an end. Early in the year I helped my elderly parents finally make the grueling decision to sell their beautiful country land and home in Texas and move into town for their last years. Finding them a new home, selling the old, dealing with animals, and packing up their long lives were extremely challenging endeavors. Settling them into a different environment in their mid-eighties and watching them re-sort belongings into different kitchen drawers, while learning to navigate an unfamiliar house and new town was difficult. But they are no longer isolated in the country far from help. How must it feel to make such a monumental change near the end of one’s life? I'm so sorry my parents had to go through this, and sure hope I never do.

Mid-year our dearest friends told Bill and me they were splitting up. We were stunned. Had we been so unaware as to not see there were serious problems? We shared weekly dinners with these friends, holiday and birthday celebrations, and regular journeys to the valley where we have land close to one another. When deciding to move a few years ago, being in close proximity to this couple had been at the top of our wanted list in a new home. Now three blocks away, the friend-family we had grown accustomed to and had come to love so deeply abruptly began to drop away. We felt a gaping hole in our lives with the loss of those times we all regularly shared together, our hearts aching for what our friends were going through. Remembering our own relationship’s unpredictable journey, we reached for compassion and understanding, realizing how our decisions of many years ago may have impacted those we are close to in difficult ways as well.

In the middle and at the end of this year, two people I worked with died unexpectedly. Shawna, our MHM office person, gave in to heartache and a treatable respiratory infection. (Refer to “That Duck” piece of 11/26/08.) Then Dave, a formidable teacher candidate just finishing our arduous year-long program, died several days before Christmas a little over three weeks after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Dave is still fresh in my memory due to our recent discussions about artifacts he had selected and reflections he had written for his final portfolio. Images of both Shawna and Dave remain crisp in my memory, whether it's how Shawna’s hair fell so beautifully onto her shoulders, or the neon orange winter cap Dave popped on his head when leaving class. I can still hear how each of them laughed. And unfortunately with both, I remember hastily ending our last conversations so that I could get back to my “schedule”.

This past fall, when our class venue changed, I found myself confronted with the necessity of teaching the value of reflective practice to a huge group of students in a large, vacuous space. The environment certainly wasn’t conducive to quiet reflection, but most of all my challenges of standing in front of large groups hit me square in the gut. I couldn’t hear well, I stammered, I got lost. Trying to navigate away from the quiet groups around conference tables in Houston classes, to the circular tables in smaller classrooms of the La Academia School, to the uncomfortable picnic tables of this warehouse space with half the students’ backs turned to me felt miserable. Struggling and determined to be flexible with the environmental and number challenges, I made significant yet disappointing changes in my curriculum that have not revealed the same growth in teachers’ abilities to be self-reflective that I have noticed in the past.

The year ended with the Texas Christmas fiasco. Trying to coordinate with multiple families and expectations proved dismal and hopelessly chaotic. Our desires to create a space for a family time ran amuck and Bill and I fell into bed most evenings questioning our intentions and vowing to stay upbeat. Exhausted, on our flight home we determined that in the future we will certainly visit family regularly, but not on holidays, removing ourselves from the unpredictable and apparently unsolvable equation of how to celebrate or spend time with everyone. The necessity for amends from this trip still hang in the air, regrets that have left tender, sore spots on several hearts.

Moving into 2009 is just fine with me. In all fairness, however, let me mention some of the brighter moments of 2008 and promises of ‘09. My parents are in a safer place. Our friends that split up seem to be forging a supportive friendship. I think I’m learning to not rush so much, to listen more carefully and let conversations linger, recognizing that I never know when it could be the last with someone. After our final November class, it looks like we’ll have smaller groups in different classrooms when classes begin again in February. Bill and I look forward to those non-holiday Texas visits in 2009, visiting family we love, soon to include another grandchild arriving in August. And of course we predict our garden will be as beautiful and productive this coming summer as last, supplying delicious food for our cooking and dinner ventures.

Bear with me a moment while I rattle off a list of treasures from '08. Visits from Bill’s brother in June, and our son Shawn and his family in August. Reestablishing contact with Billy, Bill’s oldest son, and another grandchild, Kayla. Rusty & Cece’s trip earlier in the year, more precious visits from Nancy and Malcolm, reconnecting with Blake in May, then having Peggy, Mary, Connie, and Carolyn all come to Graceland (our place in the valley), and the Durango and Taos trip in October to visit friends in their homes. Sharon and I making poetry mobiles this summer while Pat grilled goodies. Becoming closer to our neighbor Kathy - a high spot of our move to this ‘hood. Ann and Ben, other neighbors, promising us opportunities of babysitting soon with a baby coming in April. Weekly meetings with our writer’s group and the commitment Rebecca, Karla, and I have made to regular writing retreats. And of course the relief and blessing of watching QKS, Quality Knife & Supply/http://www.qks.com/, (Bill’s small business) hold steady in strange times.

A new year? There are sure to be more testy challenges a-comin', along with ample occasions for joy. My wish: may our faith in the future continue to be nourished, growing ever stronger regardless of how we label the experiences we encounter.

The Reason for the Season

“The wisdom of the world is folly with God.”(I Corinthians 3:19) I’m not sure what this verse means, other than how it feels to me, and I’m darn sure no theologian. The Bible has been revealed to me in bits and pieces through the last six decades and I remain mystified at how many people feel they know exactly what parts of it mean, and how often these views vary. I’ve even been told before that an understanding/interpretation I have arrived at is wrong, something I can’t imagine telling a student when she/he interprets a poem or story in a way that presents meaning to her/him. Regardless, I keep on exploring the Bible, which is exactly what I want my students to do with whatever literature they are reading.

Rereading that phrase swerves around in my head and I find myself thinking about events of this past week as my family has tried to coordinate a Christmas dinner gathering in Texas. It turned ugly. Who said what and when exactly, and why it wasn’t said this way or that and what was right or wrong. Accusations flew and judgments were touted, and I watched my own behavior sink to a dismal low in a way I’ve never experienced before with a family member. Confiding my anguish to a Jewish friend she listened lovingly and then asked, “What would Jesus do?” Sometimes I need a surprise response like this to help me stop and reconsider why I’m so clearly stuck in the muck.

Eckhart Tolle says, “Your sense of who you are determines what you perceive as your needs and what matters to you in life – and whatever matters to you will have the power to upset and disturb you. . .You accuse and blame, attack, defend, or justify yourself, and it’s all happening on autopilot. Something is obviously much more important to you now than the inner peace that a moment ago you said was all you wanted. . .”

Well, well, well. Guess I've been thinking a little too much, even feeling like I had a handle of sorts on how I thought things were and just what was right - no doubt obvious folly. Indeed the world has a way of not letting me fool myself for long about what I think really matters or what I think is going on. It looks like I sometimes have to become an absolute fool so I can even approach the wisdom I hope for. And inner peace? It slips away so easily when I start pointing my finger at others.

So what would Jesus do? I’m afraid I can’t second guess that. But I don’t think he would focus on the perceived faults of others, and he certainly didn’t put much stock in acting like a victim. I mean, no matter what was happening in his life, the guy never resorted to ‘woe is me’ behavior and he doesn't come across to me as particularly self-righteous. “Don’t judge, and you won’t be judged. Don’t condemn, and you won’t be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven.” (Luke 6:37)

Oh, all right. I’ve got to let all this go and get off my (high) horse to even go to Texas. Bill looked at me yesterday and said he just hoped I wouldn’t spend too much energy trying to be right. I realized that I couldn’t even refute what he said without doing exactly that, expending energy trying to be right. That man of mine says the darn-dest things. Sort of like Tolle, and even Jesus.

Boulder Kindness

(Flatirons photo found on web)
Time for some Yak-trax. I had just heard about these little contraptions that strap on the bottom of one’s shoes only an hour or so before I slipped on an ice patch. Really, the fall was unnecessary; I had already been convinced to buy some. But the snow was packed slick and my hiking boots were like ice skates.

The real trouble was I hadn’t brought my gloves, so I had unzipped my vest pockets to warm my hands - an easy escape hatch for my car keys when I went down. I didn’t notice a thing, except that I wasn’t hurt, thank you God.

Arriving at my car later, I interrupted the conversation of a friend to announce that I had lost my keys. Mary, an educator who works with special needs children, looked at me in a familiar and understanding way. It wasn’t the first time I had lost something or gotten lost when meeting her, leading to comments about my being a special needs child turned into a special needs adult. We made a game plan with Mary revisiting the site of the fall, and I would head to the Chautauqua ranger station.

Amber Grace, my dog, was with me. I popped my head in the ranger’s station and asked if Amber could come in with me. I explained that I had lost my car keys, had they been turned in,
and could I use a phone. “Just keep your dog away from me,” the female ranger nervously responded. “I was bitten by a dog last week.”

Amber was much more interested in all the preserved animals on a display than another human. Sheesh, a mountain lion, a bear, a wolf, a fox, a coyote were all on her level, looking awfully real. She crept toward them, sniffing warily while I pondered if this were such a good idea. We had just run into a bear several weeks ago and I sure was glad when she froze on call and let me leash her. Somehow she seemed to sense the danger. I didn’t want her thinking these critters were anything to get pal-sy with.

No keys at the ranger’s, and she stood close by anxiously waiting for Amber and me to leave. I punched in Bill’s phone numbers several times before I hit the right ones (regularly using automatic dial coupled with a very poor memory for numbers anyway becomes a problem when I need to actually remember a number). I alerted Bill of what had happened and that he might need to drive to Boulder soon with an extra key if Mary didn’t find mine where I had fallen.

Let me mention how patient Bill is around situations like this. Last year my car door swung closed when I stood up to snap on my snowshoes. My keys were on the back seat where I had been sitting. There was no cell service in the area. Amber and I were alone. I tried to retrieve the keys by poking a long stick through a barely open window and sliding the stick on the key ring. No luck. When some fishermen arrived I asked if I could borrow a pole, which didn’t work either. Some other snow shoers were getting ready to leave so I gave them Bill’s number and asked if they would please call him once in an area with service. Bill showed up laughing and good natured as usual, making a lousy morning feel ok after all. Here we go again, I thought, a new snowshoe season and already I’m calling him.

To the ranger’s delight I finally finished my calls and left. I panned the hills at the base of the Flat Irons looking for Mary. Feeling unlucky I turned to watch the other hikers arriving. Several families were setting up photo shoots, probably for Christmas cards, dressed in matching outfits. A bride and groom were posing in another direction, the mountain behind them providing an imposing background to his shiny tux and her flowing gown. I noticed all the hybrid vehicles in the parking lot and the trendy clothing of hikers. This was Boulder, after all.

Suddenly a gigantic old Pontiac came huffing into the parking lot. The car sounded like if turned off it might never start again. The black family that emerged didn’t blend into any of the faces I had been observing: three little boys in high tops and an older man and younger woman, modestly dressed and not wearing a bit of hiking gear. The boys were immediately interested in Amber, and the older gentleman looked directly at me and exclaimed, “Are you doing ok m'am?” with obvious concern in his voice.

Was my face that transparent? I admit I was feeling frustrated. I told him I had fallen and lost my car keys and he started in with the questions: where was I when I fell, was I hurt, was anyone helping me??? Turning to his boys he announced they were all going to be “trackers” and look for this poor lady’s car keys. “Now you listen for me while you’re back here cuz if I find them I’m gonna yell real loud. Ok?”

Smiling, I thanked him and promised I’d be listening. I wondered how far they would get really with the shoes they were wearing and no warm coats. The afternoon was chilly every time the sun went behind the clouds and the trails solid ice. Out of all the people I had been watching and whose eyes I had met, it struck me as interesting, and beautiful, that his were the only ones that had really seen me.

Mary returned after doing our entire hike again, but no keys. I called Bill and he was on his way. While we waited, the tracker family returned. Of course the man asked if my friend had found my keys and I told him no, but that “my husband is a good man like you and he is on his way to Boulder with an extra key.” The man and his family acted genuinely happy to hear this and wished me well as he fired up the Pontiac, that by the grace of God came on, and clattered out of the parking lot while people turned to see what all the noise was about.

Bill soon arrived and I promised him lunch for his troubles. Later that afternoon back at home my phone rang. “This is Suzahnne from Chautauqua and someone has turned in your keys.”

“Wow! Thanks so much for calling, Suzanne. Do you happen to have the name and number of the person who found my keys?”

“It’s Suzahnne, and yes, his name is Gahbriel and his number is . . . .”

“Sorry, Suzahnne. So it’s Gabriel at . . . .”

“It's Gahbriel, and yes that is the correct number.”

Ok, ok I was getting the message here and definitely feeling like a hick. No, this woman did not have any kind of accent when I talked with her earlier in the day, but apparently she had a preference for how names are to be pronounced. That's fair, I thought, I like being called Patricia instead of Pat. I thanked her again and arranged a pick-up for my keys.

Laughing about that conversation, I called Gahbriel and left a message thanking him for picking up my keys and dropping them at the ranger’s station. Within minutes he called back.

“Hi, this is Gabriel (as in Gay-briel). You just called. Glad I could help. What goes around comes around, you know?”

Gay-briel, eh? I’m not sure what the pronunciation thing was all about or if it really matters in the grand scheme of things. Part of me wanted to stereotype it “Bouldereeze” but that is clearly not fair. Gabriel and the black man and his family were all ready to help a fellow citizen. Mary had cheerfully taken off to redo our hike, in her gripper snowboots, and look for my key, commenting later that the extra exercise was a bonus. And, Suzahnne, though reluctant at first to write down my name and number earlier in the day “in case someone finds my keys” had done just that, then indeed called me. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll just chalk this up as one more memory of some wonderfully kind people in Boulder.

Woman Power

The street was blocked off with dingy orange cones and at least a dozen guys milling around. Several big trucks bore the label of Denver Water Department. A hole had been dug in my neighbor’s yard and in the street in efforts to remedy an apparent water problem.

Boys and their big equipment. While one guy would wheel some enormous contraption around, others would wave directions. One worker jumped into the eight foot hole to dig some more while others lined up around the rim, smoking and inspecting the deed. At any one time, more workers seemed to be simply watching than actually doing anything related to this job. Various machines sat scattered in the yard and street, as the guys waited to see what would be next. I felt the beginning of a bad joke coming on: How many city workers does it take to dig one hole in the road?

I left for an appointment, and on my return hours later observed the job still in progress. Holes were being filled, but no one was in a sweat. With a surplus of workers, the job of standing around and looking at the progress seemed to always be open. Maybe they rotated.

The next day my morning stillness was once again interrupted. Another large truck stopped out front, only this one was unmarked. Finally a lone female hopped out, walked over to the day’s previous work, and gave it a close eye. She strolled back to the driver’s side and stood in the street while she pulled her long blond hair back and whipped it into a working pony tail.

Slamming her door shut she proceeded to the back of the truck and moved this lever and that to open doors and make a tailgate incline. Soon she was guiding a gigantic machine down the back of the truck into the street. She stopped, looked both directions, arranged her head gear, put in some ear plugs, and snapped on work gloves. With the flip of a switch the huge machine roared into action and she began guiding it effortlessly along the perimeter of the hole filled in from the previous day. I couldn’t tell you what she was doing or why, but she was alone smack in the middle of the road, cutting the pavement with the speed and efficiency of a skilled surgeon.

Work done, she flipped off the machine, removed her protective gear, and proceeded to roll that big baby back up in the truck. Jumping down, she closed the tailgate, snapped the gloves off, and cast a glance back at a job well done. She was out of there before a car had even come down the street. I don’t think the entire endeavor had taken her 20 minutes. A one woman job. She made it look so easy. Too bad all those guys from the day before hadn’t been around to observe her example. They might have learned something.

Stop and Listen

Someone was yelling loudly. A domestic dispute this early? My eyes panned the condos at the eastern edge of Rocky Mountain Lake. Nothing. I turned my binoculars back on the lake, hoping to spot the wood ducks again. Nary a one. The “hoodies” were putting on a show however, with three males touting their flared heads at the lone female they were all after. Poor girl. Hooded mergansers, the males looked like they had on Roman helmets with plumes waving, going off to war.

“THE LORD DELIVERTH! THE LORD GIVETH AND THE LORD TAKETH AWAY!”

“What?” Now I could hear what someone was yelling. Turning I saw a woman walking up from Federal Blvd, a backpack on and an open book in her palms. She appeared to be screaming bible verses.

I had seen this woman yesterday on the park bench, sitting quietly, an open bible in her lap, feet tucked into a sleeping bag, a hot convenience store cup of coffee in hand. Eight hours later she was still there, only asleep on the bench. The cup had rolled down to the lake’s edge. It was the evening of the same morning I had experienced duck bingo. (See blog piece entitled, "That Duck.") I couldn't resist stopping by on my way home from work, wanting to close the day with another peek at the variety of feathered creatures I had seen earlier in the day.

This was the very next morning and it appeared the wood ducks had only been visiting the previous morning. Too bad, but I was enjoying the rest of of the travelers. Looked like some ring-necked ducks had even popped in. The lake had been so serene just minutes before, and now this ranting. It was unsettling. She walked to the other side of the lake from where I was standing, knelt down, and raised her voice a couple of notches. At least she was sending all the ducks my way.

Who is this woman? What is her story? She knew how to pick out a good spot to spend her days. Yesterday I had looked carefully at her sleeping face. She was pretty, and maybe close to my age. She, too, had spent a lot of time in the sun, only she obviously still was. Her face was leathery and brown, her dirty and unkempt hair pulled back in a clumsy ponytail. A backpack and a bible were her possessions, the sleeping bag riding in the pack when not in use. Whose child is she? Does she have children, a spouse, siblings, friends?

Samuel Johnson and his sister came to mind. He had interrupted my search for meter change standing outside my car one afternoon recently. “Could you spare some extra change?” I heard through my closed window. Oh, gosh, why did such encounters make me feel so edgy?

“What are you going to do with it if I give you some?” I demanded, hearing the arrogance in my inquiry and hating how it sounded.

“Head right down there to that café and get a bite to eat,” he answered kindly.

“Oh, ok, let’s go down there together and I’ll buy your lunch.” I popped some money in the meter and checked the time. I only had about 15 minutes before an appointment down the road. I had parked in front of a baby boutique where I had planned on running in and grabbing a growth chart for my grandson’s first birthday. Now I was traipsing down Broadway’s sidewalk with a homeless guy.

“So what’s your story? How did you become homeless?” I asked, trying to take the edge off my attempts at a conversational tone, but still hearing it as I hurriedly moved us toward the café.

“I’m a Vietnam vet,” he answered, like that answered the question, pulling some card out of his pocket. I gave it a glance, then looked at him.

“How does that make you homeless?” I kept on, curious, but sounding so insensitive. I couldn’t seem to stop it. “You don’t look much older than me. How old are you?”

“Fifty-two.”

“Four years younger than me!” I admit I was doing the math and wondering if that vet card was legit. The war was ending during my final years in college. Maybe he went to Vietnam toward the end of that mess. Oh, heck, what did it matter? I asked his name; he asked mine.

“Patricia? That’s my sister’s name! Patricia Johnson. We always called her PJ.” He seemed so delighted about all this. I stopped walking.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “My maiden name is Johnson, and I was always called PJ too.”

Sam was elated, saying he couldn’t believe it, slapping his knee like he had just found family. We entered the café and I pointed the menu out to him, suggesting he pick something out so I could pay for it and be on my way. His smile fizzled and he looked confused, not sure what to do, or what to order. Me and my god damn hurry. I think he thought we were going to have lunch together. And why not?

A waitress stopped by and suggested we have a seat. I pushed eight bucks in her hand and told her it was for Sam’s ham and cheese omelet and a tip. She surmised the situation and seemed to get the idea. I turned to leave. For all I knew I could be getting a ticket from Denver’s parking Nazis by this time. After all, I’d only put in a quarter.

Sam looked sad and reached out to hug me. It was a gentle hug, and very appropriate - this tall, black man in worn and dirty clothes, and this busy white woman dressed up in her clean clothes. His eyes teared up as he looked at me with utter kindness.

Why didn’t I stay? I rushed out, bought Robbie’s birthday gift, and made it to my appointment on time. I felt awful. What if I had sat down and talked with Sam during his lunch? Bought Robbie’s gift later, skipped my appointment, risked another parking ticket? He hadn’t been drinking, and had even acknowledged that he figured I was buying him lunch so he wouldn’t use the money on booze. But what he really seemed to want was company, someone like his sister to chat with. I missed an opportunity to slip out of life as I know it and get to know someone else’s story. Maybe understand humanity just a little bit better. I take time to watch ducks, for God's sake, why not take time for something like this?

Those of you who are teachers or parents, do you ever look at your students/children and wonder what they will be like as adults? Sometimes worry about the consequences of decisions you are seeing them make now and how those will manifest later? Often I look at adults like Sam and the bible lady at the park and wonder what they were like as children, and where their story went awry. (Of course I’ve come to understand there are those who have looked at me and thought the same thing.) Oh, if only we would really look at each other. Look closely. Slow down. Take time. Risk. Stop and listen.