I’m a Creep. I’m a Weirdo. I Don’t Belong

Years ago, there was a woman in my community that I learned to love. She was in her late 50s, was short and overweight. Uneducated and slow of mind, she lived on small disability payments.

When she was young, various men wandered into her life, using her, getting her pregnant, and then abandoning her. She had several children but all of them had been placed in foster care when they were toddlers by the state. She wasn’t able to parent or take care of them properly.

Mary attended the church where I was the minister. I would often check on her during the week. Sometimes she would ask me to change a lightbulb she couldn’t reach, or explain a bill she had gotten in the mail.

In return, she would bake a loaf of bread and bring it to my wife and me and our baby son. She would walk across town to deliver it. Still, it was always warm and delicious.

Ostracized by most people she lived a quiet life in her tiny house, which she kept clean and welcoming. Knitting and baking bread were her joys. But loneliness was her closest companion.

There is song by the band, Radiohead, about a guy seeking love he couldn’t have. Some of the lines are these:

“You float like a feather

In a beautiful world

I wish I was special

You're so very special

But I'm a creep

I'm a weirdo

What the hell am I doin' here?

I don't belong here”

There are people whose lives are so small and isolated they often feel they don’t belong. They live and age in solitude, without family or friends. Often they are individuals difficult to like or love. Addictions, disabilities, poverty, lack of education, an absence of social skills, mental illness, a history of abuse, they languish in needs unmet, desires unfulfilled, love lost.

They become invisible to us, or dismissed by us.

I’m guilty, too. I pass them on the corners of busy streets with their cardboard signs. Some, perhaps many of them, are frauds. And I justify my passing them by with that mental reasoning.

But the health of our humanity relies on the consistent exercise of our compassion.

In our day, with this infestation of anger and hatred, of elitism and arrogance, of demanding rights we have abused, we fail so utterly in being humane, approachable, tender and patient with others.

There have been ugly periods of history where humans have lost the humility of their own mortality and the brief beauty that life at its longest can be. The fall of the Roman Empire. The Catholic Inquisition. The American Civil War. The South African Apartheid.

These were barbaric times when the preciousness and reverence for the lives of others were replaced with cold indifference and cruel acts of inhumanity.

Today, we Americans face a crossroad in our brief history. Will we learn to see the Mary’s around us. Be human and compassionate. Revive the purpose of our hearts. Feel again the warmth of being gentle and loving to others not like us.

We have been inching along another way, dark and forbidden. If we keep going we will be lost in another history of casualties and catastrophe.

But if we turn back and take another road, the way of learning our lessons, the light will lead us. And we’ll find again the meaning of being human.

If I had five minutes to evacuate--what would I take with me?

If I was told there was a bomb in my building and I had five minutes to evacuate my apartment I’d grab a grocery bag and quickly toss these items into it: 1. A photo of my grandparents, Mom and Pop and me, when I was 15 years old. I learned what love is made of from them. I learned what it is to be kissed on and hugged in arms so tender they felt like God’s arms. I discovered self worth from those two angels in human flesh. Of all the people in my life, they were the ones who made me feel I counted. Honestly, whatever capacity I have to love others came from them. 2. A sentimental, dog-eared, stars in the margin copy of Pat Conroy’s, “The Prince of Tides.” It is a book I have read three times and often return to for its wisdom. It is a harsh, profoundly tragic novel, the story of a family so broken and tortured by such flawed and wounded people that it is sometimes difficult to turn the next page. And yet it is the story of such Herculean courage and endurance that you want...

I Saw the Delicacy of Life

I was flying Across the deep And I saw the delicacy Of life Wrinkles on the faces Of the old So pure they glistened Like awards The joy of children Running with abandon Their laughter ringing Like chimes in the wind I saw the soft moving waves Across the sea And the trees releasing Their rainbow leaves Birds joined me on my flight And I saw the surface of their wings Adorned with patterns Glorious and unfurled I saw the tears of the sad And the smiles of the glad The suffering in mourning And the celebration of birth As I descended toward the ground Slowly, slowly, softly I saw the gentle grass of the field And smelled the fresh earth It was a perfect landing © 2018 Timothy Moody

Actions Make a Difference

“We make progress in society only if we stop cursing and complaining about its shortcomings and have the courage to do something about them.” ~ Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, Physician/Author Pictured here is Kikuko Shinjo, 89 years old, a survivor of the Hiroshima atomic bomb blast. As a 17-year old nursing student she helped nurse victims of the carnage back to health. Many of them died in her care. She says she holds no grudge against America and encourages interaction between the Japanese and Americans. She has devoted her life to peace, saying, “I want all the people around the world to be friends, and I want to make my country peaceful without fighting.” Today she makes colorful paper cranes and donates them to the Children’s Peace Monument at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park.

The Unclad Soul

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