earpieces and visors

I hadn't seen him in years, and I wasn't really expecting to, either. But there he was, standing behind the register, waiting to take my order, recognizing me, I saw by the look in his eyes. I balked for a second that I hope was invisible, and it was only by the grace of God that I smiled, spoke to him by name, asked him how he was.

I expected the rote answer, the quick smile, the back-to-business attitude. But instead he answered pretty honestly, told me about his life, his recent adventures, his brothers. Somehow I found myself able to be interested, not to think about what I would say next, but able to really stop and listen and care about his answers. He asked about my life, a startling development. The last time I saw him, he was a semi-sullen teenager, focused on his own self and not much else. I told him the quick answer, but tried to be as honest as possible in just a few moments' conversation. I told him about seeing his parents, tried to communicate how much I appreciate and enjoy them. Finally, I excused myself, placed an order, went and sat down with my small-group parents.

Strange. I knew much more about him than I verbalized. I knew about the running from home, the abrupt betrayal of familial bonds, the financial crisis, the head-hanging return. I didn't tell him I knew those things (who wants to be told Oh, I heard about all your recent failures?), but I found myself wondering how his heart was really doing.

Are you happy, though? I wanted to ask. You have a job and a girlfriend and a place to stay, but are you happy, really and truly happy? It wasn't morbid curiosity that made me want to ask. It was a concern so deep and full that I felt it wrenching at the roots of my soul. But how does one ask that of a friend not seen for so many months, weeks, days? It was those small increments of time that changed us most, and it was those small increments that I felt helpless to surmount.

I wish I had asked him. When I stood, walked to the door, he came to the register, smiled at me from under the visor, and said goodbye to me by name. I wish I had the courage to turn around, lean my arms on his counter, and tell him I pray for you whenever you come to my mind. I wish I did, was all those things . . . but God help me, I did not, I am not.

Oh, have mercy on my weak soul. Forgive me for the moments when my time or the task or my pride is all that stops me from reaching out my hand and touching another person. Heal me from the disease of fear and caring about what will they think?