the girl in grey

Chin tucked down, eyes lowered to the splintered wooden floorboards, she shuffled forward in line with 124 other homeless people seeking food and shelter that night. The cuffs of her silver grey suit shone with wear; the heels of her black pumps sloped down on the outer edge. She carried a small black purse, hooked over her head and shoulder, and wrapped a black overcoat around her arm.

Every two steps, she leaned forward a little, shunting a battered suitcase in front of her with the side of her leg. She was blond and pale and baby-faced, but I guessed she was in her mid-twenties.

Earlier, we’d filmed outside the building but weren’t allowed to shoot or conduct interviews inside the shelter, so Scott tucked our camera and sound gear under one of the large standard army equipment desks that doubled as a buffet table. For all intents and purposes, I was just another faceless volunteer serving the needy.

I spooned pale gravy over the plate of mashed potato and dry chicken that the girl held out to me, and made some stupid remark about enjoying her meal. She didn’t meet my gaze, or return my smile, but turned away with a barely whispered “Thank you.”

As other ‘guests’ came back for seconds, or to share their stories of the day now behind them, I looked around the room for the girl who didn’t belong here. She was in the far corner, rolling out one of the yoga-like mats that the homeless were given to sleep on. Between each mat and the stranger next to it, lay only 18-inches of bare floor.

There were drunks here. Others who were clearly meth and heroin addicts. There were the paranoid, the ranting, the scathing. There were the grateful, the helpful, the humble. There were the mentally ill, the physically challenged, and the folks who pushed life beyond the edge.

And then there was the girl in grey.

Who was she? Was this her first night at the shelter? Was she a regular? Did she have family? Or friends? A job? Why was she here tonight?

The shelter manager asked us to leave so the guests could prepare for lights out. Scott lugged our heavy equipment and I followed behind, looking one last time over my shoulder at the girl in grey. She was kneeling on her mat, head tucked in silent prayer.

We threw the gear in the back of the van and remained mute until Scott dropped me at my front door. “Heavy, huh?” he looked over the top of his glasses.

Next evening—and the next—I went back to the shelter. No Scott. No video equipment. Just me and a glimmer of hope.

I wasn’t looking for ‘a story’; I wanted to talk to her, to hear her story. I hung around the square outside the front door watching the expressions on the faces of the homeless flip from anxiety to relief as they were head-counted indoors, assured of a mat for the night. But I never saw her again.

Occasionally, the glance or gesture of a stranger, sparks a memory of that night and the girl who didn't belong there. So I pause for a moment, wondering what truth the girl in grey could tell these years later … and, although I’ll never know who she was or what story she had to tell, I truly want to believe that she found the happiest of endings.

child heart

"The great man is he that does not lose his child's heart.” Menius
“Bang! Stick ‘em up mummy. Bang! Bang!”

But instead of raising her arms in the air, her mother took a photograph. This child never had to be told to smile for the camera—her eyes twinkled mischievously and she laughed every day, brimming with an abundance of love and compassion, hope and wonder, joy and curiosity.
 

She had not a fear in the world. She knew she was loved. Knew she was safe. Knew she was precious. And she reciprocated.

She adored her mom. Worshipped her dad. And kissed and cuddled and dressed My Lady in discarded baby clothes, far beyond the tolerance of most long-suffering rescue dogs.

She had a brother two years her junior. His special name was Coco and she loved to squeeze his coco-puff cheeks and kiss his pursed red lips, never quite sure if he was trying to cuddle her back, or push her away.

And now—after spending a week with her cousins—she'd come home to a brand new baby sister.

She couldn’t pronounce the baby's name, but slapped her hands tight against her own cheeks and gasped "Pretty pretty Kaya,” as they met for the first time. She snuggled into Kaya's neck, sniffing her baby-smell, and gently slid her small hands under baby's shoulders to lift her from the cot.  Her mother reached over and whispered “Let’s go outside and play while baby sleeps.”

Straightening her Sheriff’s hat, she raced downstairs and into the yard.

She couldn’t wait until her brother could run—then she’d have had a real bad cowboy to chase! (No way was she giving up her Sheriff’s badge.) And when her sister was big enough to climb on the shiny, black wooden pony that daddy had carved, she’d make her a deputy. That would make the new baby feel special. She smiled and her tummy tickled and tickled inside.  Nanny said those were butterflies, and she had a belly full, fluttering and dancing around. Life could get no better …

“Bang. Bang. Stick ‘em up mummy. Bang. Bang.”

 ~ ~

Like an ever-burning flame, the essence of who we are flickers within us forever. It may get blown around a little. Or quiver for a while. It may feel dampened—weighed down by this journey called life. We may be brought to our knees by the cruel grip of grief, or the crushing black pain of betrayal and heartbreak. Our very essence may feel scorched. Blistered and damaged beyond repair. The flame gone. Burned out.

But it’s not.

No matter how small, or how dim, the spark is always there. Smoldering eternal.

When we are weary or fearful, confused, or tearful, we need to be still. We need to look deep inside ourselves and nurture the ember, rekindling the unique and wondrous essence that we each brought with us into the world. We need to refuel. To reconnect with the earth. To tease the flame. Gently. Gently. Until it glows. Until the ember grows strong. Until it once again flames. Not so that we can be who we once were—but so that we can become, so much more.
"For it is better to have a heart without words, than words without a heart. " John Bunyan.