… as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness… Colossians 3:12
San Antonio, Texas
We are on the road and, as typically happens when I travel with Bryson, I am being taught new lessons and reminded of the old ones – especially those we are meant to cling to and to live out each day.
This city of diverse languages, cultures, and skin color, is awash in the sights and sounds created by families at play. Hundreds have gathered here to enjoy Spring Break: there are college kids, high school kids, families and more. There are grandparents and babies, newlyweds and young lovers, families and tour groups.
We have seen people in wheelchairs, people on crutches, and strollers by the dozens. People run, people sit, people work, people play. Most of them are gathered along the Riverwalk, a thriving, bustling, hum of color stretched along both banks of the narrow river as it winds through downtown. It is lined with restaurants and shops, hotels and office buildings.
The trees are budding with the green of spring growth. Yellow daffodils, purple pansies, and the green of soon-to-open iris line stretches of the walk or encircle a statue here, a sculpture there.
Below the busy, crowded streets and the steel-and-stone 19th Century bridges, the businesses along the river have thrown open their doors; the chairs and tables spill out onto patios and terraces and long undulating stretches of asphalt and concrete. Restaurants are crowded with people laughing and eating and drinking. We walk between canyons of glass, steel and concrete. In many places, people look down from their offices or the hotel lobbies or the balconies of a pub, a grill or a bar.
The sun is warm and bright. The temperature approaches 80 and we are on the move, exploring unknown sights and taking in long stretches of river, sidewalk and the flow of humanity.
Bryson, of course, is in his wheelchair. I am pushing and Myra is with us. We are trying to simply let ourselves become immersed in all that comes along, seeing what we might learn or find.
I can’t help but notice that Bryson singles out people for a friendly hello or quick question. He does this often when we travel, but I notice that no matter what or where or who we come across, he always makes a point to speak to those who appear to be living on the margins.
For here, along with the sounds of celebration and the spending of money and the gleeful expressions of people at play, we still see the poor, the forgotten, and the struggling. They are few and they are tucked away, just off the beaten path.
As we pass beneath one bridge, where the walk curves mightily and gives way to a crowded, narrow strip of restaurant terraces, a man sits tucked in the shade. He’s perched on the wall, eating M&Ms from a plastic CVS bag. Another CVS bag sits beside him.
He is young, unremarkable and ragged. His mustache is ragged. His T-shirt is white and ragged. His jeans are worn and smudged and ragged. We are all passing him by.
Bryson sees him and speaks.
“What’s up, man? How are you?”
The man smiles – most of his teeth are gone, the remaining are stained brown — and raises his hand. “Good, thank you.”
A little later, further down the walk where the crowds have thinned and the offices are more numerous than the restaurants, a man sits on low wall of stone.
He is alone, older, perhaps in his late 50s. He is sweating, seated just along the line that separates warm afternoon sunlight from the shade of the building behind him. His shirt is stained with sweat. He wears a few days of stubble on his chin.
Immediately beside him sits a small, brown paper bag. The top of a sweating aluminum can peeks out of its top.
Bryson raises his hand in greeting as we walk by. “Hey, what’s up?”
The guy smiles. “God Bless you son.”
“You, too,” Bryson responds and then we are beyond him.
But I am unable to shake these tiny, minute, exchanges from my mind. I have seen such before from my son. Whenever we are out and about, whether at home or far afield, Bryson offers a hello or a wave or both to those we see living on the margins.
If a guy is panhandling on the roadside, he wants to stop and offer cash. If we see a guy sitting alone, in a corner, he heads for him. If we somebody looking especially sad or even tearful, Bryson wants to find out what is wrong, what can be done?
So far as I can tell, he does it without assessing or considering anything much more than the troubled countenance borne by the solitary soul before us. He does not weigh what they have or need against what we have on hand. He does not wonder if they have brought this upon themselves with poor choices or addictions. He does not wonder how much he will have left if we give some of what we have away.
He simply reaches out. His gifts are usually a smile, a kind word, a bright, enthusiastic greeting. He offers a handful of connection, community, even compassion. And, when I watch closely, I see one human with tough stuff to live through reaching out to another living with his own brand of tough stuff.
