The buildings cast shadows across the streets in Brooklyn, New York, blocking the setting sun, hastening the arrival of night. I quickened my step.
It had been a marvelous day. While Lori had accompanied our daughter Mary and her fiancé’s mother and sister to look for wedding dresses, I had the day to myself. And so I wandered through the streets of Brooklyn, sampling coffee shops, bookstores, and bodegas. Before I knew it, the day was gone; it was getting dark.
A section of Union Street was under construction. Workers had made a temporary by-pass for pedestrians with a safety covering, giving it the aura of a tunnel. Just as I was about to enter, I paused, giving two people coming through the right of way. Instead of passing by me, the man walked smack into the barricade, almost losing his footing.
He laughed about it and kept going. Then, I recognized he had a mobility cane used by visually impaired people. And his face was disfigured, as if he had been in a fire, maybe years ago. Then I looked at the lady by his side; she, too, was using a mobility cane.
“The barricade’s bars didn’t touch the ground, so I missed it and walked right into it,” he chuckled to his companion. The little detail, the negligence of the construction crew to the visually impaired, didn’t faze the couple. I stood by, stunned as they walked by me, both of them unaware of my presence. I thought, “I’ve gotten more aggravated by a driver drifting into my lane without signaling than he did at almost falling headfirst into the street.”
Observing them pass by, using their mobility canes as they walked, I froze, amazed. And then I wanted to chase after them, call to them, catch up with them, and ask, “Tell me your story. What happened? How do you have such an amazing attitude, giggling and laughing, even when a seemingly unpleasant thing happened to you: people to whom bad things have already happened?”
But of course, I didn’t. They disappeared, chatting, clickety clacking, east on Union Street.
I thought of the sights I had seen that day. Walking around Park Slope, Brooklyn, I marveled at the ornate detailing of the Italianate Brownstone homes in street after street. At D’Vine Taste, I examined the flakey texture of the freshly made baklava’s slightly browned ends before taking a bite. Then, there were the various, multi-colored designs of book covers—reds, yellows, blacks, oranges—the entire color spectrum jumping out at me from their perches on the bookshelves. I held an ivory-colored coffee mug with an azure blue trim at Enso Café as I sipped my espresso. Pausing at street corners, I peered skyward at the tall buildings, conscious not to look like the “country boy come to town.”
And the visually impaired man and his female companion could see none of that.
But maybe they saw something more. As Helen Keller said: “Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.”
That couple seemed to have a contentment that enabled them to smile, even laugh at a mishap that could have thrown lesser persons into a pit of resentment.
For those of us who have visual abilities—perhaps, especially since it’s Advent for some, Hanukkah for others—as many recite the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light…” maybe, just maybe, we can see the wonders before us, especially the Light of the One who brings us life not only now but forever.
And having taken in the Light, perhaps we too can smile and laugh when we stumble into a barricade.
You can contact Dr. David Whitlock at drdavid@davidwhitlock.org