Becca and I get “blessed” much more frequently than your average couple, and I’m not talking about sneezing here. For some reason, random people go out of their way to give us their metaphysical best. I think the combination of my blindness and Becca’s attentiveness to me must make people think, “Oh, those two need a little something extra.” It’s a heartwarming pattern that has followed us around the globe.
Sometimes these blessings feel like an ambush, coming out of nowhere. For example while strolling through the cobbled streets of Edinburgh, we were stopped cold by a hulking Scotsman wearing flip flops, a plaid kilt, and a tight white tank top. Stepping in front of me, he reached up, thumped me on the chest, and proclaimed, “God bless yeh!” in a rich baritone. Before I could process this interaction and respond, he was gone, off to brighten someone else’s day with his uncompromising fashion sense and hearty good will.
I received another drive-by blessing in Granada, Spain. Becca and I were sitting on a stone bench, enjoying the cool night air after a day of Spanish heat. We were caught up in the scene, lost in the ornate architecture and hypnotic rhythms of handpan, so we failed to notice the approach of a lanky gypsy man.
“Hello, can I talk with you?” He began quietly in an ethnically ambiguous accent.
Without waiting for a reply he squatted on his haunches and surveyed us in silence for a moment. He was enveloped in a mass of black dreadlocks which melded seamlessly into a thick beard. Amid this perfusion, his eyes gleamed. “Would you like to smoke a joint?” he asked politely.
“Oh, no thanks,” we answered, assuming this would be the end of the conversation.
“Ah, that’s ok,” he responded, unperturbed. “I wanted to show you this.”
He stepped closer to me and produced a clay pipe from a fold of his technicolor vest, and taking my hands in his, he guided my fingers over its surface. “I sculpted it from mud from the river,” he explained. It felt like a tangled face with exaggerated features and matted hair, a sort of cubist rendering of its maker perhaps. The man knelt, still holding my hands in his leathery grip. Once his gaze met mine, he said, “You are my brother. I love you.” The calm frankness and warmth in his voice struck me. He gave me a hug, pulling me deep into the thicket of dreads. Then he stood up and shambled off.
ARE YOU SEEING IT TOO????? We stood under this trippy Spanish dome till our necks ached.
Over time, I’ve come to relish these experiences. Being blessed by a stranger can definitely feel a bit awkward, but such spontaneous expressions of kindness leave something beautiful behind. This fact was most tangibly demonstrated to me by an aged Orthodox priest in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. It was Christmas Day, and the church overflowed with worshipers from around the world. Becca and I wandered on the fringes, trying to navigate through the crowd. Noticing our plight, the priest stepped out of an alcove and gestured for us to approach.
“I would like to bless you,” he said solemnly.
We bowed our heads in acceptance, and from his black robe, he took a tiny vile of oil. He whispered something in Greek and made the sign of the cross on our heads with the oil. The fragrance of that blessing stuck with us for days, clinging to our hair and surprising us with an occasional whiff of nard and frankincense. Whenever we recall our time in Bethlehem, we re-experience that aroma.
In my more cynical moods, I find myself in danger of chalking these blessings all up to pity for my disability, but I’d much rather receive them as free gifts, encouraging examples of human goodness given for my benefit. I’ve returned to these memories often, and their sheer serendipity makes me smile. I’m quite curious to see where the next unforeseen blessing comes from.
The Milk Grotto in Bethlehem, Palestine
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