Marcs sister passed away 6 years ago suddenly without warning at 42 years old. She wrote this true story 3 months before she died. (It takes place in Detroit) I have always wanted to share it with my friends because it touched our hearts deeply and it is a Christmas story. If you have a few minutes to read it I am sure it will touch you too. Believe In Miracles Cold Christmas Eve. Another money-grubbing-gotta-have it day of “ celebration.” My body aches, my brain is bruised, my eye is blackened and swollen. Too much. I don’t want to be a part of any of it. The greed. The gluttony. I do not have to have anything, I need nothing. I have a roof over my head. Food in my refrigerator. Sure there are things I would like but I definitely do not have to have. And I do not need. I do want peace and quiet. Mostly peace and harmony, but good luck on that one. There are so many homeless people. Too many, in fact. But I’m one person. What can I do? As much as I can. Not the best part of town. In fact, most people are afraid to venture there. Scary people live there - homeless people, drug dealers and users, people chewed up by life and spit out. Not me. Send me where I can touch their pain, feel their plight, and understand them as I am : A human being. My prayer was answered. Out of the blue. My Jeep was loaded with gifts given to me from my kind-hearted clients wishing to express their appreciation. Oh, how they would - most without even knowing the gift that they had truly given. Huddled in the cold, damp shadows stood a woman. Age unknown. Luck and faith forgotten. I did not see her at first. The street light was red and she was so small, four cars ahead of me in the dark, sitting on a snowy, ice covered curb. By the time I saw her it was too later. Cars behind me and in front of me, the light now green, I could not stop. But that did not mean I could not go back. The woman silently called to me. I had to go back. Back I did go. To a woman who life had beaten down and left for nothing. Small and hunched over beyond her years. What had brought her here? It did not matter; I was there and I could make a difference. I sat in the driver’s seat, eye blackened by my own pain. I listened through four green lights, opening the driver’s door to this unknown woman. We talked though four green lights; no one hit their horn for us to move. (It won’t have mattered if they had, I wasn’t moving.) This broken woman who could have been me , but could never have been me, told stories of not a single driver stopping to hand her a fistful of change or a dollar or two. The paltry amount of money I gave meant nothing to me and yet everything to her. She spoke of a daughter she had given birth to thirty-four years ago and had to surrender on the day of her birth: Christmas. She said she had never recovered from the loss of her daughter. My heart broke over and over again and yet I felt alive and alighted, fortified. “I want to die,” the woman confessed. “My heart is broken and I have nothing to live for.” I handed her more money. She accepted with tears and filthy hands. And then it dawned on me; I could offer more than money. The car was loaded with goodies given to me by generous customers. It was a win-win situation. Hesitantly, I asked if she would accept the food. Sometimes pride prevents people from accepting exactly what they need most of all. Fortunately, she accepted the food gladly and with wonderment. Why are you doing is? she questioned. “Because people have been wonderful to me,” I replied. We moved to the gas station across the street. I climbed out of the car with the homeless woman whose name I had forgotten to ask . We stood face to face, my broken angel and myself. “Do you think it’s a sin to kill yourself ,” she asked in a weak, beaten voice. My automatic reaction would have been to say do what you have to do. But that night, that night, Christmas Eve, other words tumbled out of my mouth, Yes, it is a sin. She cried into a filthy tissue. I hurt, I feel broke, she confessed. I steeled myself because I knew what she was talking about - the pain, the sense of feeling broken. I pointed to my bruised, swollen eye. I did this to myself, I calmly informed her. She gave me a knowing, half-smile. She had been there; she was still there. Broken. My hand rested on a Valium in my pocket, always there to numb myself to reality I had no desire for. Limited escapism. “Sometimes I take something to forget,” she informed me. “But it only helps for a little while.” She sniffled. I dropped the pill in my pocket. Limited escapism would serve no purpose. I placed my hand on her shoulder, not wanting to overstep any imaginary boundaries. I know your pain, I repeated. But the world awaits you. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring you. My wounded angel cried, trying to fight back the tears. Feeling weak. And broken. But still standing on the high plains of wounded expectations, Still drawing breath. “Will I go to hell if I kill myself,” she asked. I wrapped my arms around the fragile woman most people would never speak to never mind touch. I held her tightly. “I believe in you. You have to believe in yourself,” I told her. “Stay strong and true.” She shivered in my arms, uncertain yet comforted. Human contact was something she probably hadn’t felt in a long time, My warmth filled her small frame and I swear I received more comfort from her than she did from me. I filled garbage bags of food and goodies as she apologized for taking up so much of my time. You are my time. You are what matters, I informed her. She cried harder into my shoulder. I held her tighter, thankful for meeting her. Thank you for talking to me, You are a soul to love and be loved. You are worthwhile. Tomorrow is a new day. You’re like a wounded dove waiting to fly. You will spread your wings and leap when you are ready, amazing graze. I’ll never forget her dirty, crumpled tissue in the back of the my now considerably empty Jeep. One of her few belongings: The tissue. She reached in and grabbed the dirty tissue, her nose sniffling. “Thank you,” she said through tears. “We really are one big family.” My heart warmed. I wasn’t sure if she was an angel sent to me. Or if I was an angel sent to her. A little of both I suppose allowed our paths to cross. P.S. I have never seen the woman before or again no matter the times I have ventured down to her corner. I returned with more to give but she was gone.
Posted on: Thu, 05 Dec 2013 03:17:46 +0000
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