Daria Doering

“Plop, plop, plop,” my feet pounded into the sidewalk, as I uncomfortably started my two-mile run.  That morning I’d woken up with a cold, and called in sick to my teaching job.  It was a mild illness, but I felt sick at heart as well as in body, and thought some recovery time would do me good.

However I’d just ended up crying all day.  Worries about money, worries about having to work so many hours rather than spending time with my three children, resentment over the house always being a mess, and my having no time to clean it up, my husband being gone for three days at a training, the bathroom floor of our ancient house caving in … The list of discomforting thoughts seemed endless, and just never went away any more.

I felt so distraught that I ended up sobbing and yelling my frustrations to an empty house.  Initially I felt foolish, but I reminded myself that the neighbors couldn’t hear me, and just vented.  Maybe that was a healthy thing.  I felt in such a sorry state that for once I was glad my husband was out of town.  Nobody deserved to be with someone as deranged as me.  I prayed to God to send me deliverance, or some advice, or some solace, or something …

Finally I decided to go for a jog.  Some times running both works off my anxiety, and makes me feel more confident.  If I can run two miles, maybe I can succeed at something else.  But I was also battling midlife and the midline bulge, and jogging wasn’t as easy as it used to be, with my carrying extra weight.  However, I’d noticed that often if I forced myself to keep running, I’d feel better in time.

Along I ran, thinking more bleak thoughts about getting old, getting fat, and losing my energy.  But I persevered, away from my neighborhood and into the uptown area, past restaurants and shops.  Finally I reached the stoplight where I would turn around, and jog home along the other side of the same streets.

As I stood at the light, I heard a loud, “Miss, can you help me cross the street?”  As I called out, “Sure,” I turned and looked more closely at the old lady behind me.  She was white-haired, her face blotched with red patches.  She hunched over a cane, the type that has four feet on the bottom, and adds some extra stability.  I wondered if she would take my arm, but she reached out and held my hand very firmly.

When the light changed we started slowly across the street.  “I’m okay once I’m out of the street,” the woman volunteered.  However I wondered about that, as she could barely walk.

“Are you going home, or going shopping?” I asked, fishing for a little information about this pathetic woman.

“I’m going home, on the bus,” she said, gesturing at a bus stop on the corner.  I wondered how she would board the bus, but figured this resourceful woman would manage somehow.

Before we parted, she thanked me again, and I reassured her that it was smart to ask for a partner in crossing streets.

I jogged away, and was surprised to find that my feet felt very light.  I was gliding along easily, and felt great.  I knew it was due to helping this woman; or rather her having the courage to ask a stranger for help, in such a basic life activity as crossing the street.

I still felt the imprint and strength of her grasp on my hand.  I felt she had saved me.  I marveled at how you never know where God’s helping hand will come from.

After a minute I thought to myself – I really should go back and tell her how much she helped me. So after a block I circled back, and found her still sitting on the bus bench.

There were tears in my eyes as I told her, “I just had to thank you for asking my assistance in crossing the street.  My husband is out of town, and holding someone’s hand made me feel so much better.”  We smiled, and away I glided again, energized by the courage of someone reaching out.