Crumpled Cardboard Boxes
by Mid Brock
We had just exited the interstate returning from a long weekend in Arizona anxious to get back home and prepare for the oncoming week which would be busy as usual with both of us being pulled in numerous directions. The truck stop we were headed for was busy as it usually is on a holiday or near a weekend. My husband and I have stopped there often as we have made this trek. It is a good place to take a moment’s break, gas the vehicle, wash the windshield and take care of other travel matters.
The usual drill is one we have engaged in for many years. As have many couples who have been partners and best friends for what feels like our entire lifetimes, we have developed familiar routines that are both a comfort to us in their familiarity and time saving in their efficiency. We, like many couples, may be disgruntled with what Dr. George Ritzer has called “The McDonaldization of Society”, but we play along: running through the fast-food lane instead of slowing down to a more civilized pace. This day was the same. Cliff, who was driving, got out and started pumping the gas into the truck tanks, while I made a fast break for the restroom facilities. Then I return usually in time to rescue Cliff from the gas umbilical cord so he can flee to the facilities. We then get back on the road and repeat the procedure as many times as necessary to reach the planned destination.
This time I ran into the unexpected. As I was headed for the doorway of the store, I noticed in my peripheral vision what appeared to be a stack of crumpled cardboard boxes. As I reached out for the double doors, I noticed that it was not discarded cardboard, but a discarded man dressed in cardboard tan hat, jacket, pants, and shoes. As momentum was impelling me forward (as the search for clean restroom facilities can do), I did not stop; I only paused. With curiosity tweaked, however, I paid more attention as I exited. Yes, He was an elderly man, weather scarred, unshaven, silent and still. Still. Skin crumpled, clothes rumpled. He made not a move; just held his head down as if he could carry it no longer. He sat on his rucksack, arms on knees, faced turned from the business of the passersby.
I looked at Cliff and our truck filled with furniture and items we were moving from one location to the other in preparation for our move this spring to the house we are building.
As I reached the truck, I quickly ducked inside and yelled at Cliff, “I’ll be right back”. I grabbed the first food item I could spot: a quart plastic container of chocolate dipped peanut butter candies. Peanut butter equals protein and chocolate, well, it just makes life better. I walked quickly back to the old gentleman and stood in front of him until he looked up.
Within that crumpled cardboard face were two beautiful clear blue eyes. Not the rheumy red of an alcoholic or the dilated eyes of an addict, just old eyes that appeared to have seen more than they cared to tell. I felt humbled and slowly held out my gift to him. He looked at it, looked back into my face, and gently received it. I felt as if I had been blessed when he gently said, “Thank you”.
I ran back to the truck with Cliff waiting patiently for his turn to use the restroom. He passed the pump off to me and I immediately locked the hose down and started filling the second tank. Then I scrambled inside the truck, rifled through all the stuff crowding the cab, and snatched up a bag of fruit. It was only a few grapes, an orange and an apple. Again I ran back to the crumpled cardboard man and quietly held out my offering. “I would like for you to have these, too.” Again, I was repaid through those blue eyes but this time it was accompanied by a deep, broad smile. “Thank you, ma’am. I surely appreciate this.” Then he dropped his head again, looking at these offerings and I noticed the smile remained on his face.
Perhaps it was his humble way or the sincere look of gratitude, but the rest of the trip was just a joy for me. I felt as if I had received a bigger gift than I had given. I wondered about the places he had been, and was he a veteran, as are such a large percentage of our homeless men. Did he have a family somewhere who had lost touch with him long ago? Were people who would love him and tend to him and encourage his telling stories to his grandchildren worrying and wondering where he was?
Had he been institutionalized? That is likely since, according to census bureau estimates, about 30% of the homeless have experienced incarceration at some type of government facility. Had he served time in jail? I didn’t get that feeling at all. I sense emotions in others readily and I did not sense anger or aggression. No. There was just that remarkable stillness, peace compounded with weariness.
I still carry that incident in my mind and have been turning it over repeatedly to try to understand why I became so enraptured by this small event. It was probably not at all significant in the old man’s mind (although I prefer to believe otherwise) but it nags at me and calls to me to give further exploration. Why did this particular day, this particular vagrant, strike such a cord with me?
Many of us spend our days rushing through them on whatever mission we have to accomplish in the limited time we have assigned to accomplish it. Yet when we see a homeless man on the street or a crumpled woman on the sidewalk, we often find ourselves avoiding eye contact, walking around them, crossing the street to avoid them on the sidewalk. Why? Are we afraid that we might see ourselves in those faces? Do we fear that we might catch ‘homelessness’?
Then coming back into my mind was that adage about ‘Angels unaware’. Was I his angel, or was he mine?
In this time of Lent when we are asked to consider that which we hold dear, that which we are willing to sacrifice, that which we are willing to offer up as a token to honor the life on earth that the Son of God sacrificed for us, I think of all that I have. I am grateful for the warm bed, a partner devoted to me, friends and family who genuinely care for me as a human being, and I wonder how many of us are willing to reach out, to show we care, and to search for angels among crumpled cardboard men.