Sunset in Avondale Park. The dogwoods are in bloom. Little League teams are in the park, suited up for practice. Kids are fielding grounders, running bases, or standing in the outfield and seriously picking their noses.
Only a few hours ago, an armed 41-year-old Lebanese-American rammed his truck into a synagogue full of children in Michigan. The gunman was killed. A security guard was injured. Eight first responders are being treated. The kids are safe.
The suspect’s family members, reportedly, had been killed in an Israeli attack earlier this year.
And I am trying to understand this world. Within the last 5 years, there have been nearly 40 major shooting incidents at houses of worship. In the last five years, there have been 181 major shooting incidents in schools. And those are just the “major” ones.
I simply don’t understand.
Tonight, baseball team parents are sitting together on the bleachers, watching their kids play in relative safety.
The parents form their respective cliques. Moms sit with moms. Dads sit with dads, providing an important contribution to the game by slow clapping and telling their ballplayers to “Show some hustle!”
Meanwhile, there is a homeless man who goes largely unnoticed in the park. There are several homeless people encamped in Avondale Park, in plain view, but they are invisible. He sits on a picnic table. His eyes are bloodshot. His clothes are rags.
A little boy in a baseball uniform walks by, on his way to the concession stand. The old man is surprised when the kid approaches him of his own volition.
“Hi,” the boy says, casually.
The man’s eyes register a kind of surprise. His teeth are missing. He returns a greeting.
“How’re you?” the boy asks.
“Good,” the man lies.
Then the boy presents his hand for a handshake.
And I am thinking about my late friend Myron. Myron was homeless for most of his adulthood until he died. Myron once said to me, “Man, one thing you miss when you live on the street is touch. Nobody touches you. You go years without being touched by another person.”
The old man and boy shake hands. The old man’s leathery paw, and the child’s clammy hand, in full contact. Human affection at work.
Then, the little boy reaches into his pocket and hands the old man something. I can’t see what it is. It looks like a small piece of folded green paper.
Then, the boy walks away, back to his family, and he seems taller somehow.
The boy’s mom is furious, of course. She doesn’t know where he’s been for so long, and asks where he was. “And, dangit,” she says, “what happened to the twenty I gave you for the concession stand?”
He doesn’t answer. Mom lets the issue die because she’s too busy watching his little brother standing inert in left field, dutifully eating his own boogers.
But her older son is radiant, glowing after his exchange with the old man. And by “glowing” I don’t mean merely “smiling.” I mean actually radiating. He actually looks brighter in the evening sun.
And I’m thinking about all there is to see and hear in this big, amazing, wonderful world. And how I seldom choose to have ears to hear or eyes to see it.