At the far end of our neighborhood is a house that I noticed pretty soon after we moved in. There was a POW/MIA flag hanging from the front door. And there was a heaviness that blanketed the property.
Over the years I tried to make eye contact and say hello with the man who lived there but he avoided the interactions. I often wondered what his story was. Had he been a prisoner of war? Was someone he loved missing in action? Whatever led him to fly that flag also kept his heart locked up tight.
Then something changed. A second car appeared in his driveway. And soon he was planting flowers outside with a woman. After a year or two they were joined by a chubby baby who’d watch them happy as could be.
Last year I saw him teaching his little one to ride a tiny bike and I could see almost all the heaviness was gone – around him and the house. I was happy for him (even if he still refused to make eye contact with me 🙂
Then yesterday I found myself stopped behind a school bus as he and his wife walked their child up to the steps. He chatted animatedly with the bus driver and his wife walked along the bus waving to her son as he found his seat.
My heart was just bursting thinking about what this must be like for them – and every parent- handing their precious cargo over to the bus drivers on the first day of school. I even got a little teary.
But once his son found his seat, the conversation didn’t stop. He kept talking. At first I thought Awwww, it’s so hard to let them go. He’s probably asking when his little man will be home, where he should stand, anything he needed to know?
As time passed it became clear the conversation wasn’t ending. All necessary details had been exchanged but they decided this would be a great time to have a… catch up? There were now 6 of us waiting patiently in our cars for this to wrap up so we could move through the intersection and there was no sign that this conversation was going to end.
All the affection I had felt toward this little family started to evaporate. I had a choice. I could let my impatience get the better of me or I could summon up the memories of what I had seen happen to this man over the years. Someone, who for reasons I’ll likely never know, flew a flag that said something about him, his journey and his pain.
I could remember that his heart didn’t unlock quickly and what I was watching – this proud dad with a big smile on his face – was nothing less than a miracle.
It was a real wrestling match as the snarky part of me screamed inside my head “Hello!!! There are other people in the world! A little self awareness please!”
And then my choice was over, one of the other cars toot-tooted their horn, the man’s head shot up, looked around abashedly, saw us all sitting there, gave a quick wave to the bus driver, each of us and then grabbed his wife’s hand and moved out of the street. The bus was on its way and so were we.
I’ve thought about those ten minutes a lot since. What let compassion win was the years of progress I saw in him. By the time he was holding up traffic, I already had context. Most people don’t get that kind of runway, and it’s humbling to admit my grace flows more easily when I know a backstory.
So I’m using this as a reminder. The person cutting me off, the rude sales associate… they’re probably carrying some version of that flag too, and I’ll likely never see the porch it hung on for years. I don’t have to know the story. I just need to remember that one exists.
With love,
Patty
