What If I Had to Be …
What if I had to be her? Could I carry the basket as she—with due dignity on display?
It was easy for me. Mere spectator passing by enroute one morning so long ago. Now, the picture’s placed just so—so I can remember.
What is it I remember each time I glance at it? I remember that I don’t remember ever having to wear a pair of well-worn shoes with no strings attached—as she. I remember the modest black dress with tattered slip peeking out of the hem of her garment. I remember the blue cloth draped just so—so the sun would not leather her skin as it twas already well worn. Perhaps, though, perhaps she didn’t have a comb to comb her hair and needed a cover-up and this would do.
I remember her veins popping upon her weathered legs and as she held tightly to that which was in her hands, the river ran red throughout her hands. Tipsy was her basket as she made her way to market—heavy laden with herbs for sale. Determination was written all over her face as she stared straight ahead unaware that I’d snapped the pic.
The dignity of determination on display was mesmerizing. Yet, at the end of the day, I had the pic and she had her life. I didn’t have to be her—or should I say, I didn’t get to be her.
What if I had to be him? Could I carry the sack on my back as he—with due dignity on display?
It was easy for me. Mere spectator passing by enroute one morning so long ago. Now the picture’s placed just so—so I can remember.
What is it I remember each time I glance at it? I remember that I don’t remember ever having to wear of pair of homemade shoes utilizing rubber tires for the soles of my shoes. I remember the tattered sack upon his back slung just so. I remember the tilt of his hat and the too big brown baggy coat matching the swag of the sack to which he clung.
I remember his quiet smile as he turned back in the direction of the camera after having crossed over the barbed wire fence which divided two countries. There was a bounce in his step, this man walking alone in the countryside with the goods in his sack and the sack in his hands.
The dignity of determination on display was mesmerizing. Yet, at the end of the day, I had the pic and he had his life. I didn’t have to be him—or should I say, I didn’t get to be him.
Luke 6:20 speaks, too. “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.”
One day, I pray, that I may tell them all they have taught me throughout the years of their reflective silence. Amen.
