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He crawled to my door, recently cast to earth by that which he considered to be god-like. He was a discombobulated mutation of the Gingerbread Man, Humpty Dumpty and a misfit toy. After twenty plus years of marriage, three children, late notices on bills, burned meat loaf and too few kisses, he found himself alone–abandoned by the other human soul who had promised to remain forever.
He was suddenly surrounded by ants, worms, dirt and spit-out gum. Like the ant, he was scurrying around to rediscover the picnic. As the worm, he was flat on his belly, sucking up the soil–and he was discarded, flavorless.
He and she were no longer we.
He was alone for the first time in over two decades and had no idea what to do. I am not so sure why he decided to seek me out. But years of handling such visitations have taught me the rules of operation: never bring an opinion–just a cup of coffee “to go” and two ears “to stay.”
He sat on the floor so as not to allow himself any further descent–and uttered the typical words: How could she do that? What did I do wrong? What are people going to think? What am I going to do now?
Even though these might sound like questions, they really aren’t. They are screams into the darkness, pleading for response but never remaining for an answer. It is important to remember that two words are absolutely forbidden during these excursions into the dark night of bewilderment: “God” and “the future.” Both of them seem too mean, too forbidding, too misunderstood and too impotent.
He is hurt. He presently does not possess faith, but is rather possessed by a smothering faithlessness. He doesn’t need quotations and does not require counsel. He doesn’t even really appreciate a flick of my eyebrow or an ill-placed, “I see.”
He is fallen. He will never rise again if he is not allowed to savor the moments of self-pity that generate the revelation of the true value of existing blessing.
We spend too much time criticizing those who have already been criticized. We are too eager to throw stones at those who have already been stoned. We sit in judgment over those who are precariously doomed to execution.
We lack the sensibility to remember what it is like to be fallen when we are standing on our own two feet, peering down at the hapless victim.
He will have better days. He may reconcile with his former love or he may not. But this is not a sickness unto death. Recuperation, however, demands that we allow people to crawl before they walk, and stroll before they run.
Sometimes “fallen” is the only way we actually become grounded.
Because dirt is closer to the earth–and the earth is our residence.
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