The light on a Sunday morning is always cool and soft. Indirect, from the north and west windows of the Meetinghouse.

It bathed the circle of chairs: Howard, his walker planted squarely in front of him. Gina, chic and trim and tan. Rose, her thin cardigan showing vertebrae beneath her shoulder blade, the S of scoliosis stamped on her spine. Rick, jiggling one leg—a runner’s body protesting inaction. Dozens of Friends more.

This meeting was a quiet one. No ministry was offered. Just chairs creaking, a sigh, a few snores, a phone hastily shushed. And then, after most of the hour had passed, the hush of real stillness: a “gathered” meeting resting in communion. A few minutes later, hands were held, greetings given. Eyes shone with soft light before the circle broke. I left before pot luck in a bubble of peace and love.

Outdoors: the glare of noon on concrete, asphalt, stucco. Broken glass in the alley behind the diner. Drifts of dirt and October leaves in the gutters, a Budweiser bottle, some dingy rags. This isn’t exactly a skanky part of town, but that’s the faintest praise I can damn it with. In Chicago the scene might have passed for noir. Under bright desert sun it was just faded—a B-movie western. Sunglasses on, window open, I eased around potholes in the alley to the street.


Across the way an SUV with Kansas plates was parked with its side and rear doors open. Two men sat inside. A third was outside rummaging through suitcases and coolers in the back, while a fourth looked on from the shadows. A gallon jug, a backpack or two, and a gas can sat on the sidewalk.

A gas can. To be out of gas and stranded on a Sunday, even in the era of cell phones—that’s no fun. I spared a sympathetic thought as I prepared to drive past. Then I heard the voice in my head:

“So, kid, what do you think all that peace and love are for?”

To be honest, I don’t normally think they’re for helping four strange men when I’m on my own. But the nudge was there. It poked me in my complacency, hard. What are all that peace and love for? I took a deep breath, stopped, and got out of the car.

“Can I help you with anything? I hate being stranded.”

After a surprised minute, one of the passengers said, “Hey, thanks, but we’re OK. This guy could use a ride, though.”

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Ride? We’d gone from a wink to a wedding in 5 seconds flat. I hadn’t planned on giving anyone a ride. I’m not sure what I had planned on. Filling the gas can, maybe, or picking up sandwiches and sodas while they waited for Triple A. Disembodied, feel-good help. Not help in close proximity to an actual stranger in my actual car.

“We’re getting out our extra water and some clothes for him, and we’ve given him some cash.”

The man in the shadows stepped into the light. I don’t remember details of his appearance—not the color of his clothes or his hair; his age. Just the dingy gray aura of the streets, as if dust and rags had come to life. He was smaller than me, bent, trembling. He looked at me with pale eyes that faced different directions.

“He needs to go to Fourth and Menaul. We’d give him a ride, but we’re headed the other way.”

This wasn’t what I’d bargained for. But the man didn’t seem drunk or drugged, just weak and shaky, perhaps ill. If he did threaten me, I could mosey away to safety.

“Would you mind putting out your cigarette?” I asked. It was a test question: was he aggressive? willing to accommodate?

“No problem,” he said. I offered him a ride.

The men in the SUV stowed their gear, shut their doors, and took off. “Have a blessed day,” they called, waving, as they turned up Fourth Street—toward Menaul.

I turned extra-polite, distant, in the ridiculous way of “good girls” who trust their manners to protect them. I opened the passenger door and rolled down the manual window while the man stubbed out his cigarette. He eased slowly (painfully?) into the seat.

As I opened my own door a cop car pulled up. Another uncertainty. Would this be a cop who thinks anyone not sitting with both hands flat on a table is committing a crime? Or a cop who wants to ensure everyone is safe and well? He got out of his car: a Safe and Well cop, the cavalry. Officer Friendly, with an easy bearing, easy voice, easy smile.

“Hey, Ben, how’s it going?”

(Ben. I hadn’t asked his name. I hadn’t offered him mine.)

“Are you headed home from work? Can I give you a ride? We could let this lady go about her day.”

After a minute Ben sighed and struggled out of my car again, with the deep patience of someone used to being other people’s parcel. I knew then that I had not done this well.

“How was work this morning?”

“Waste of time,” said Ben.

The cop laughed as they drove off, and I, the would-be rescuer, had been rescued.


Five minutes of my life—not much time, but they coughed up a heap of perplexity. I drove home unsettled, wondering, analyzing, exploring. What risk had I just taken? What risk had I not?

Nothing had actually pushed my fear buttons. I had assessed the situation as well as I could and had not sensed a particular danger—just the general, potential danger of the unknown. Surprise had led me to treat Ben in a way I wish I hadn’t—as an object of mixed fear and charity. When surprise ebbed I would no doubt have seen his humanity and been human to him in return. My history tells me that, so while I regret my slowness I don’t castigate myself for it. I can even tell myself that the cop was better able to see to Ben’s needs.

What unsettled me was the nature of the surprise: the visceral realization that peace and love are not feelings. They are actions that bring risks and have consequences. They may germinate in soft, indirect light, but they do not grow up to matter in niceness. They mature in noonday glare, on concrete and pavement, where the rubber meets the road. They exist physically, body to body, face to face, between people with curved spines and runners’ calves and chronic illnesses and misaligned eyes. They are enacted amid uncertainty, confusion, and mess. And I’ve never been good at those.

I wish I had taken the risk well: that I had counted the cost before offering help and then offered it with a whole heart.

“So, kid, what do you think all that peace and love are for?”

What good is it, to run a risk halfway? Is safety always the most important thing?

What risks am I willing to run for kindness?


(Names have been changed to protect privacy.)

7 thoughts on “Meeting

  1. Stacy, You’ve captured this dilemma so well — where to draw the line between being open and generous and taking stupid risks. In rural Maine, where I live, it is a bit easier to be open and trusting and I try to lean toward that side of the dilemma. I often think about a shopkeeper that I bought a television from many years ago. When I paid with a check, I asked him what kind of ID he wanted to see. “I don’t need to see ID,” he said. “Once you ask for ID, you’ve made a decision not to trust people, and I don’t want to live that way.” I don’t want to live that way, either.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Jean, I really found myself thinking of the nature of that dilemma. How much of what seems like stupid risk is mostly fear of the unknown and distrust? When I worked at the church I met plenty of street people whom I got to know as likeable people, but I could see others responding to them with fear, because “street people are dangerous.” (That’s the same attitude I fell for on the actual street.) I guess what I’m saying is that I don’t think broad, cultural fears are very helpful—that attitude of mistrust you describe. By dehumanizing others they can even create a risky situation when there wasn’t one. Genuine dangers, on the other hand—the real red flags—I think your body lets you know about them in no uncertain terms.


  2. As someone who considers letting another car pull out in front of mine as my good deed for the day, I’m shamed that it wouldn’t have occurred to me to stop and offer help – especially to four blokes in downtown ABQ. On foot, I’m inclined to offer assistance but not from within the removed bubble of my car. I’m going to try change that. “From a wink to a wedding” is a great line. D

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Honestly, it generally doesn’t occur to me to stop, either. I have always had great faith in unknown, competent “others” to do stuff like that. I have been aware since before the election, though, of a sense of urgency to be kind.

      You do stand fallen sheep right side up, and if that isn’t noble behavior, I don’t know what is. xS

      Liked by 1 person

  3. I stopped by to catch up as I have been absent from blogging and FB, and oh what a beautiful message… is a sad thing when we do have to consider our safety first…..your words struck me strong though:

    ‘the visceral realization that peace and love are not feelings. They are actions that bring risks and have consequences.’

    Since the election I am choosing to be be more aware of my being kind. Making it a conscious choice that many times falls short for me….missing those opportunities…I think now we have to take a risk to be kind as you did or surely we will lose ourselves….as you said what is all this peace and love for if not to share openly.

    Wishing you a wonderful holiday!

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Donna, it was lovely to hear from you—you have been missed! One of the things I’ve been reading about is “structural good” and “structural evil”—laws and policies that enshrine kindness or oppression and make them bigger than individual choices, like the Jim Crow laws. Even if individual white Southerners treated individual African-Americans fairly, the policies created systematic unfairness that was hard for individuals to counteract. I think in the days ahead we will have plenty of opportunity to work for kindness in policy as well as in person!
      I hope your shoulder is healing and that you enjoyed your holidays!


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