I could see that most of the fast food establishments were closed as I entered the food court. I had come in looking for a gyro but the gyro shop was closed. I felt annoyed about settling for a sandwich. The hall was nearly empty as I made my way across the room. The brightness of the fluorescent lights seemed to clash with the deserted room. A soft voice caught my attention as I passed one of the tables.
“Sir?”
I turned to see an old man sitting alone in the middle of the vast room. I say old but I tend to underestimate my own age and overestimate that of others. I saw the gray flecked in his black hair even as I ignore the gray spots in my own. His salt and pepper beard was neatly trimmed. His brown courdoroy jacket showed signed of wear. He looked up at me with a soft smile and chocolate brown eyes.
“How do you spell dirt?”
I stepped closer and leaned down. I was sure I had misheard the question. “Durp?” I asked.
“Dirt.”
I glanced at the round white Formica table. Hanging off the edge was a cane. A plastic shopping bag stuffed with clothes lay on the yellow chair next to him. His slender brown hands rested on an open book. I saw that it was a Bible. To the left of the Bible lay a spiral notebook. Three words were printed neatly on each line, like an elementary school writing assignment.
ball spring paper
home clean Jesus
apple clothes red
“You need to know how to spell dirt?” I asked.
“Yes, please.” Again the soft smile. “Sorry to trouble you.”
“It’s no trouble,” I said, but I still wasn’t sure that I’d heard him correctly.
“dirk?”
“dirt,” he repeated.
“It’s d-i-r-t.”
As I started spelling, he grabbed a blue ball point pen and wrote, repeating each letter aloud. He wrote in lower case and with effort.
“d-r”
“No,” I made an effort to speak slower. “It’s d-i-r.”
He looked up at me, confusion on his face.
I pointed to the space between the “d” and the “r”. “The ‘i’ goes here.”
“Would you write it for me?”
I took the pen and wrote, speaking as I did.
“d-i-r-t.” I handed the pen back.
He stared at the letters for a moment. I could see his lips moving as he repeated the sequence silently to himself. Then he looked up at me and smiled.
“You write real good,” he said. “Did you go to college?”
I felt my cheeks begin to flush. “Yes, I did,” I stammered.
The gentleman kept smiling. “Write real good,” he repeated, half to himself. I wanted to explain that I had learned to spell ‘dirt’ long before college, but that seemed like an unnecessary correction to his impression.
“Thank you,” he said.
I nodded quickly and turned away. He turned back to his Bible and kept working.
I thought of all the arguments and counter-arguments about poverty and race in America. About the differences in education outcomes based on socio-economic status and about the partisan bickering about the appropriate role of government in the lives of the governed. All of these concepts faded in comparison to the example of quiet perseverance in front of me.
As I walked away, my problems seemed smaller. I said a small prayer. I gave thanks for all that I have. I prayed for the old, gray black gentleman and his studies.
I thought about him for the rest of the week. I was happy that I had been able to help. I wondered if I should have bought him some food. I regretted that I didn’t sit down and talk to him about the Bible.
I wished my kids had been with me, but I couldn’t explain why. Would I have used him as a living teachable moment, to stress to them the importance of a good education? Would I have been worried that they would say something that hurt his feelings as I tried to help him? Probably both, I reflected. I decided that it was better that I had been alone for the encounter.
There are 7 billion people on this planet, each with a separate story. Everyday our stories intersect in ways planned and unimagined. This was one of those unplanned moments. It broke my heart and made me grateful for all of my blessings at the same time.