On Being Human

 

human: n.  A person.[1]

 

It has been one of “those” weeks. Some are harder than others. At every turn it seemed I found myself either saying or doing something stupid, intrusive, or out of order—at least that was how I felt. “Open mouth. Insert foot.” has apparently been my theme song for several days.

Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? Why did I do that? What was I thinking? Right—I wasn’t thinking!

This sort of behavior has me second-guessing myself—continually. Instead of just flowing, I find myself hesitant, then apologizing for things I have said or done. It is the antithesis of what God has taught me, but nonetheless that’s where I’ve been—in a state where I heard myself say as I awakened in the morning, I’m so tired of being human.

When I first began my spiritual walk, in innocence and naivete, I had an unrealistic picture of life. I felt I was something special—a bit (a lot!) better than others. The attitude of "being spiritual” was my virtual sidekick. When anger, doubt, impatience, or fear manifest itself in the reality of living everyday life, I was easily set into a tailspin of self-condemnation.

 One particular time, I was sharing a “failure” with a friend. I hadn’t lived up to the requirements of what I thought I should be like or how I should be living. Her response was, “What are you expecting? You are human.”

Boy! Am I ever!!

Even though I have a lifetime of experience with my loving, kind Father, I struggle with finding peace. I wrestle with doubt. I question myself, criticizing aspects of interaction with others.

Life brings with it adversities and challenges. There may be a health issue with a parent, a child struggling to find his/her way. The bottom might drop out of personal budgets as a costly automobile or home repair comes out of nowhere. Family dynamics may become toxic with no ready resolution available. It’s really easy to have patience when there is no stress or pressure. Being kind and caring is a piece of cake when all is well with--and in--the world. Difficult circumstances are revealing.

My walk with God began decades ago. He has continually pushed me beyond my limits, shored me up, and ministered to me. As a bona fide old lady, I can attest to His presence in every aspect of life.

I am human—with more than enough flaws, warts, and foibles to confirm that. That fact also places me on the same plane as every other person in this world. I am no better than…I am no worse. If anything of any value is manifest in my life, it is His work--not mine.

I am human and in good company—the person of Christ. He laid aside his cape of glory, replacing it with the rags of humanity. While He never succumbed to “The Three S’s—Satan, Sin, and Self,” He knew and understood the human factor—and now intercedes in my behalf before God. While walking this earth, I wonder if He ever awakened with the same thought: I’m so tired of being human.

God knows my heart. He loves and accepts me as I am. The great importance is that I accept myself and, in that, accept my humanness. The universal message and hope for all who walk with Him is that He neither judges nor condemns us for being human. We do that to ourselves.

 

“And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us…” John 1:14

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[1] American Webster Dictionary

Why?

  

The street I live on is quiet this morning with very little activity. There is no hum of traffic; the sidewalks are empty. The only sound is that of birds beginning their day with songs. No clues are left to indicate what took place less than twelve hours earlier.

Last night presented a completely different scene. I was minding my own business when I heard and saw it unfold. First came the sound of a torrent of police sirens; second, a display of pink and blue flashing lights visible through my translucent blinds; third, the sound of a crash. The whole thing took place in a brief period of time, directly across the street. Cop cars kept coming, the immediate night sky filled with their flashing color. I raised my blinds and opened the window, cognizant something serious was taking place.

The car chase came to an abrupt halt. The recalcitrant driver’s vehicle was met by a police car outfitted with a push bar, a heavy-duty front bumper guard. His truck was pushed into a grassy space next to the sidewalk, the vehicle rendered undrivable. The tire had come off the left rear axle; the one on the left front was barely hanging on. The driver wasn’t going anywhere.

“Raise your hands and get out of the car!” The arresting officer repeated it a second time, then a third, each time louder and more emphatic. The final time an expletive was inserted as he bellowed: “RAISE YOUR ******* HANDS AND KEEP THEM UP!!” Peering through the open window, I sensed the gravity of what was happening and moved away. I had given no thought to the possibility of the driver having a gun. The police knew he left his home with one.

The miscreant was escorted to my side of the street. With his hands secured behind his back, he sat on the sidewalk curb while the necessary process of documenting and questioning took place. The scene drew a crowd of locals from the neighborhood—including me--while traffic was detoured due to the street being blocked.

Cop cars were stacked up everywhere. I counted at least eleven with fourteen or more officers on hand. A fire truck was on site plus two tow trucks. I watched him as he sat, and the police engaged him.  How did this happen? How did a man’s life come to this point? He was heading for jail on a warm, lovely Spring night, something I doubt he expected when his day began.

He was in a state of compliance and didn’t appear to be resistant. There was no sense of danger as I watched, a bird’s-eye view of a real-life TV cop show. The officers checked him out to see if he had been injured in the crash. He was treated with dignity—the result of his concession, I suspect. I heard one officer talk with him about the choice he made that resulted in the current state of affairs and offer other options.

As things wound down, the one responsible for the current scenario was escorted to a waiting police car. It was dark outside, but the inside of the car was lit up. I saw his face as he sat quietly in the back, and the car moved out slowly. His fate--for this night at least—was determined. He would not be going home.

Law enforcement presence began to diminish as cars and officers left the scene. The tow truck with the disabled vehicle in tow was the last to go.

Out my window I saw a water bottle left on the curb. Other than the tire marks left in the grass where the truck landed, it was all that remained of the event. The officers had given the offender water to drink and doused his head as well, because the evening was warm.

The water bottle is gone this morning, probably snagged up by someone walking by.

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It has been several days since excitement landed at my front doorstep. The images from that night play out in my mind at random moments. I find I am struck by the fact that shared experiences are, at the same time, so personal, private, and solitary. A group of people may be present and witness the same scene, yet each person’s observations and responses are individual.

As I sit at my computer, I look out the window and see, in my mind’s eye, the image of a man--a stranger to me—sitting on the curb. I doubt anyone else present that night carries that picture.

Life has gone on since then. I have worked in my garden, planting brussels sprouts and a Mesclun lettuce mix. I sowed pea seeds and carrots. I could never survive on the fruits of my garden as my father did, but that never stops me from trying.

The local kids will walk to and from school today, passing by the perch occupied by a man just days ago who, in a drunken, enraged state, left his home with a gun after punching holes in the wall. Traffic passes by, oblivious of the “lights of Vegas” atmosphere previously present.

No one will know, other than those who witnessed the scene. That happens over and over, day in and day out, as stories of life play out in microcosmic spaces.

One of my beliefs and convictions is that there is a point and purpose to everything. I believe that all things are spiritual, and nothing happens in my life that is separate from God.

What was the point for me, personally, as I was eyewitness to a single act in one man’s life?

This morning upon awakening, his image was present in my thoughts. Let Your will be done, Father.

I cannot state with certainty, but perhaps that is the reason--a single prayer of intercession offered to God on behalf of another.

I won’t forget him. And God won’t either.