A Roof With A Quote or Two

A good quote is often worth a thousand conversations. Or, a good quote inspires a thousand conversations and prayers. Here is an anonymous quote. "Once, we were prisoners, then we were liberated again. This war continues; sin often pretends to surrender. Pain and heartache affect all people, all families. We are all sinners. We are constantly losing and finding our way to God."

A barefoot man wearing a white terry cloth robe walks onto the rooftop with a woman in flip-flops, black pants and white short-sleeved blouse. They each are carrying mugs. He leans over and kisses her hand and then he lights her cigarette. She wears glasses. I can neither hear nor imagine their conversation. I look up as the woman exhales a stream of smoke.

I skimmed through an article about the widening unemployment racial gap in New York. I was concerned and saddened. I wondered about the implications for the rest of the country. I wondered about the implications for individuals affected and for their families.

I thought about social justice. I wondered about the suffering and hardship that people would face because of someone else's greed or carelessness. I wondered how many others would end up in that situation.

I look up as the man puts his mug to his lips, the woman says something, then smiles.

I think that there is a disconnect in our culture. Our concern is limited by immediacy or limited to the immediate. Our concern should be universal and unconditional. All around us are indicators which inform us how busy, chaotic modern life is. Between bus schedules, train schedules, television schedules, how do we find time to find time. When do we have time to exam our lives and our choices.

I am sitting trying to decide why I like the word encyclical when I hear the door to the roof deck open. I see two heads in the distance. I return to typing and thinking. As they get closer I realize that it is the same couple from yesterday.

The man is still barefoot. He wears some loose over-sized shorts which from certain angles look like a skirt and a white tee shirt. The shorts stop just below his knees and the fabric has a slightly Asian or African look to it. The shorts are definitely foreign. The woman wears flip flops, black pants, and white and black sleeve top. Her hair is messily pulled back into an unruly ponytail. In the direct, bright July sunshine her hair looks brown. They are engaged in some type of intense conversation. I can hear sounds but not words. I can see their hands move, see the breeze move through their hair. I can see her shake her head no, then nod it yes. I can see his lips move. I can see her rub her elbow.

She has a glass of water. He has a pack of cigarettes. He lights her cigarette.

I can observe so much. But, what am I really seeing? What am I really feeling? If they were hungry would I give them food? If they were thirsty would I give them water? If they were crying would I offer compassion?

Although we live in the same building, they are strangers. In my mind they can be imaginary villains. Maybe they are spying for Cuba or Albania or Syria? Maybe they are bank robbers or Mafia hitmen? Maybe they are in the Witness Protection program?

It really should not matter. I should treat them with respect and compassion automatically. Right now I am more concerned with my typographical errors. In the sky a helicopter approaches the building from the south before turning and flying to the east.

And sitting here I wonder how I approach God. Am I moving in a straight line or is my approach more circuitous?