She-With-The-Headscarf

I was taken by surprise.

There she sat on the left near the center aisle three rows in front of me, her husband on the left, a daughter on the right. She was wearing a brown blouse but it was the mark of her despair which caught my eye. The Head Scarf. Those were on my head ... was it two years ago?

I remembered once again the agony of my predicament, the Despair that once was me. And as I stared vacantly at her, remembering all that had transpired, her husband turned around and caught me. In a flash, I remembered how uncomfortable I felt when folks stared at me. I remembered the man at the restaurant who stared.  I remembered the girl in the Courier van who nudged at the girl sitting next to her, and the curiosity in their eyes as both stared at me. It was a wretched feeling. I remembered them all, yet in the Here and Now of time, yours truly stood  convicted of same.

I felt a compulsion to talk to her, to comfort her, to assure her that not all is lost. I felt an urgency to tell her that "All Things Happened For A Reason", that Providence allowed adversities to mould our faith.

And as the singer on the stage sang songs I did not know, I stole glances at her, wondering if I should approach her and what kind words I could possibly utter to uplift her. I wondered how she would react? Would she be grieved by my forthrightness? Would my words, however well intended throw her into the Depths of Despair.... for remembering ... as I did ... I had preferred the supportive silence of Compassion to the invasive encroachment of Concern.

Wasn't that why I started this blog in the first place? So I can wallow in self-pity all by myself without contrite?

As the lady up on stage started praying in tongues, I whispered a silent request. If it be God's will that our paths cross this day then let the moment come to pass.

After the tithe were collected, I stole another look at her. My moment never came. She was surrounded by well-wishers and the awkwardness of the prospect kept me in my seat. I saw an elderly woman walked towards her, with a jocular spring in her steps, her thumbs up in a gesture of victory, it's meaning not entirely lost on me.

Her courage was commendable. I remembered how I stayed away from public scrutiny, how I hid myself, not wishing to face concerned friends and relatives, wanting only to be left alone... to brood.

And in this frame of mind I remembered the time my brother-in-law suffered from colon cancer. I visited him one weekend and asked if he was better. What else could one say for crying out loud? In a fit of desperate anguish, he yelled at me.

"Why do people keep asking if I'm better? How can I be better? Can you see that I am better?"

He was right. I understood how it felt to have the multitude of concerned faces asking if you were better and patching the punctuated silence with inappropriate balderdash.

As the deadly dull sermon came to a happy end, I sneaked another look at She-With-The-Headscarf. She sat upon her chair, eyes downcast despondently in a posture that once was mine..

Our path shall not cross this day and as I stood up to leave, I whispered across the hall. "Hang on there, Sister.  This too shall pass...."