Pulling My Leg Without His

Last night, somewhat desperate for a crunchy snack, I sped northward to buy some corn chips -- organic, of course -- so I could make nachos. It was a bit late, so I had to shop at a mini-mart in a town in which I rarely shop since the nearest market was already closed. (It wasn't that late -- it was about 8:30.)

Boring, I know. 

But while I was in the store, I bumped into a man who is a Facebook friend; he represents another person I don't really know who nonetheless solicited my friendship on that fine social networking site. Gladly, I joined him in conversation. I told him I was sorry to hear about the death of Bekah, a 16-year-old girl I learned -- through Facebook -- he knew quite well, as he had been a long-time friend of Bekah's family. 

I noticed during our conversation that his left foot was not in a shoe, but in one of those open-toed booties one gets from the doctor; his sock-covered toes protruded. Odd, though, that he barely mentioned the problem: there was an ulcer on the ball of his foot. Instead he mentioned his right leg and foot, neither of which I had mentioned or noticed; both that foot and lower leg, he told me, had recently been amputated due to complications from diabetes. Now, he said, he had a prosthesis made of titanium. 

Obviously, I was shocked by the news. My instant response was to moan and then hug him, which I did. But his whole persona, his whole being, was just buoyant, even giddy. He was happy, jolly, bright. He was not upset, not one whit. He shared with me the whole ordeal; he told a story of going to get the prosthesis by himself and, despite the doctor's orders, drove himself home, without any practice: 

"The doctor did not know I had driven myself to his office," he exclaimed, "without even having a right foot! I told him, 'Hey, Doc, I got here without a foot, so I think I can get home with one!'" My friend just bellowed as he told his story.  

Why tell you this? First, I find myself once again reminded of what I forget nearly every day: People are suffering all around me. Seriously, I, at least emotionally, forget this about life; I maintain a fairly sensitive mind to such things, but I swear I just forget that life is fraught with pain and peril. The crosses some people bear are just too much for me to countenance; the burdens some folks carry shake me to the core. Yes, I am often guilty of running from that which I fear, namely, the sorrows of the world. Indeed, half the time I  think I'm deliberately shutting such things out solely to protect my unexpressed belief (or idol) that my happiness can only be found in this life -- IF there is no such thing as pain, suffering or death. 

Second, I tell you this because I am also amazed at how beautifully some people carry those brutal crosses. The man with whom I chatted last night actually made me feel better; he was the jolly, buoyant and happy son of God. His faith, in fact, was intractable; his trust in God was not dire and grave, but powerfully rooted in gratitude and joy. In fact, he even laughed at my joke I tried to make as he got into his car: "Now, if you get pulled over for speeding and the cop asks -- 'What, do you have a lead foot?' -- you can say, "No, officer, I have a titanium one." My friend not only yelled out my punch line as I spoke it -- the two of us joined in unison -- he just guffawed, with a full heart, as he climbed into his vehicle. 

Can you imagine meeting someone who has just endured an amputation (he lost his foot and lower leg in October) who puts you at such ease you feel comfortable enough joking about that amputation? Had I followed my little foray into humor with some silly remark, like, "I am sorry. That was clearly a lame joke", I am certain he would have approved. Honestly, his joy was almost surreal: under no other circumstances I can consider would I dare attempt what would normally be deemed a faux pas. And yet he invited and accepted that attempt.

So, from the midst of tragedy and pain, a one-legged man handed me fistfuls of joy. That's a true gift. 

Peace. 

©2010/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.