The Worth Of Knowing

I wiped my feet on the doormat as I waited for the large door in front of me to open. I hoped someone was home. Water droplets were running down my face and my clothes clung to me like a heavy, wet blanket. It was stupid to go for such a long walk today, but I hadn’t checked the weather and needed to get out.

The door opened. A man wearing a white t-shirt opened the door. His hair was silver and his smile was enclosed by valleys the shape of parenthesis. He couldn’t be older than 70, I thought, at least if my memory was correct.

“Mr. Grable, I’m sorry but I was walking on the trail that goes by here and it started to storm …” my voice trailed off as he opened the door wider and I stepped inside.

“That’s quite alright, Megan. I was wondering if I would see you this week” he said still smiling. When I looked up at him surprised he added, “Your parents and I still talk.”

A lot of good that does, I thought, but said, “Oh, right. I’m home for a week.” I didn’t really want to talk about my current life situation, but walking a mile in a thunderstorm didn’t seem appealing either so I pointed to the entryway bench, “Could I just sit here for a few minutes while the storm passes?”

“Oh, don’t sit there, come into the living room. Make yourself at home.”

My jaw tightened. Why do people always have to pretend to be so hospitable? It just gives me the annoying job of declining their offer with a half-a** reason.

I looked down at my clothes and sneakers. At least this time I had a good reason, “No, I’m fine. I wouldn’t want to get your floor dirty.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said kindly, “these floors are meant to be walked on.”

“No, really I’m fine,” I said pulling out my phone, “I’ll just be here a few minutes.”

He looked at me a moment or two, his dark eyes thoughtful, “Okay, but I’m getting you something warm to drink. Your clothes are soaked.”

I sighed as he walked toward the kitchen and I sat precariously at the edge of the bench.

He came back a few minutes later with a cup of hot tea in his hand. “I looked at the radar – the storm’s supposed to be over in an hour or so,” he said as he handed the mug to me, “You’re more than welcome to stay,” and when he saw the expression on my face he added, “Or I can drive you home.”

“Ummm,” I said and sipped the warm tea. I shivered as it ran down my throat. I can overextend my welcome here and talk to Mr. Gable for an hour, I thought, or make him go out in that and go back to … , “I’ll stay if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course!” he said reassuringly as he led the way to the living room. I took my shoes caked with mud, off by the bench and followed him. One step into the living room, however, and I stopped.

The couch and chair were both shades of white.

The only other time I felt more dirty and out of place was the Sunday I ventured into church after that week.

“Umm I’m I don’t this is going to work,” I laughed.

He looked at me seriously, “How do you mean?”

Maybe he’s older than he looks, I thought. Maybe it’s early onset dementia or something.

“I’m filthy,” I said both amused and annoyed at the situation.

His eyes looked into mine. Why did he have to do that?

“No, you’re Megan,” he said quietly while still looking directly at me, “Your clothes are filthy.”

I bit my lip. This was absurd. Why wouldn’t he let me be wet and miserable? Why wouldn’t he let my parents be miserable? What was that in his eyes? Pity? Sadness? I wanted to run out into the storm in anger, but couldn’t move.

“I’m not sure that makes much of a difference,” I said incredulously.

“Oh, it does,” he said confidently. “My daughter left some of her clothes here if you want to change into those – they’re in the second bedroom upstairs.”

“No,” I said shortly while shaking my head this time unable to think of a reason to push away his kindness.

“Then I’ll run and get a towel for you to sit on. You know you’re welcome here, Megan.”

I don’t know why this was the last straw for me – maybe the way my clothes still stuck to my skin or how home was more bitter than sweet or because I didn’t know what to do with honest kindness, but I yelled at him, “Stop! You really don’t need to do this. You really don’t need to help me or my family. You don’t know them and you definitely don’t know me – we can ruin a lot more than your white sofa. Who in their right mind buys a white sofa anyway?! How do you even maintain that?”

I turned and sulked toward the bench with my chin deep in the fold of my wet hoodie. With downcast eyes I reached for my soggy sneakers and saw his stupid white sock-wearing-feet standing by them.

“I know I don’t need to help your parents or you,” he said, “I just want to show them some kindness … some unconditional love. I don’t think they’ve seen much of that.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ll start the car,” he said as he slipped on his rain boots and opened the large door.

“I don’t want to go,” a voice that sounded like mine said.

Mr. Grable turned around. He looked at me again. I expected anger or annoyance or at the very least confusion. But there was only understanding in his glistening eyes.

Without saying a word he slipped his feet out of his rain boots and brought a chair from the kitchen to the entryway and sat down across from me.

Maybe God’s love is like that. A little absurd. A little enraging. A little more than we feel comfortable with. It brings up a chair and meets us where we’re at.

We sat there until the storm passed and then some. I talked and cried some. He listened and said nothing but good, kind things that made me want to yell again. When it was time to leave I got up in a bit of a stupor, like my system was not used to this level of acceptance.

He opened the large door for me and said, “Come again, Megan.”

“Okay,” I nodded and walked out onto the wet grass.

[part two can be read here]