A Twist To An Old Story
The world is full of stories, some very happy and some very
sad,
The following one of the latter, 'cause many, a sad life have
had.
And this tale of mine no exception, though here, the characters aren’t
real,
Such simply designed to convey a message which reading will reveal.
He was lying close to the road, the victim of a nasty attack,
And thus now dishevelled, looking somewhat like a drunk, and on his back.
He’d been lying there all throughout the night, his clothing splattered with mud,
And hidden from one’s gaze were callous wounds, bruises, patches of dried blood.
Those who'd carried out the attack had long gone, leaving the man for dead,
They hardly concerned about the outcome, and even asleep in bed.
But not so the poor victim who'd fallen to the ground unconscious, and
Was now exposed to the cool night air and faster flowing hourglass sand.
A surly businessman passed by, wealth apparent, brown brief-case in hand,
But he hadn’t time for stopping, and drunkards he simply couldn’t stand.
Thus with his nose in the air and his gaze fixed ahead, he hurried by,
And he wouldn’t have even slowed his stride had he heard an anxious cry.
No, he’d better things to do than wasting time on what he called losers,
And he muttered something very unkind about vagrants and boozers.
He double checked his bulging wallet and tightened his grip on his case,
A most contemptuous look written all over his judgmental face.
Well, as time progressed, the sodden, fallen victim caught another’s eye,
That of a haughty religious man of some note who also chanced by.
He slowed somewhat at the wretched sight, though clearly most reluctantly,
And he peering from a safe distance, then more closely, though fleetingly.
Seemingly satisfied, he quickly stepped back, shaking his furrowed head,
Then glanced in each direction, tapped at his wristwatch, and then also fled.
And as he hurried from the scene, he mumbled some kind of pious prayer,
That a loving God wouldn’t endorse, and quite frankly, not want to hear.
It’s funny how those with the means, and from whom one would expect better,
Are oft the last to step up, as if they’ve a gunky carburettor.
In other words, their sad heart-cum-motor not performing correctly,
Hence an older, better looked after motor passing them easily.
Enter a rusty old pickup truck using the same deserted street,
With a rather weary night-shift cleaner sitting in the driver’s seat.
Turning the steering wheel, he nosed the patchy bonnet towards that place
Where his squinting eyes had seen a dew laden body, a human face.
Hurrying from the old pickup, he drew near the fallen, aging man,
And an attempt to revive him quickly and seriously began.
Via his brawny strength and with compassion fuelling each tender heartbeat,
He lifted and carried him and placed him on the old truck’s tattered seat.
And soon the rusty old pickup trundled down a humble gravel drive,
That like the old wooden house there, years of neglect had sought to survive.
And there the kind rescuer attended to the beaten, aching man,
Nursing him in a manner that only compassion and mercy can,
His face somewhat disfigured by the beating — oh, the cruelty of man!
Nothing was too much trouble, nor was there any issue with money,
Not that the kind, caring Samaritan was by any means wealthy.
Far from it, in fact, things not having gone well, and regret constant too,
Mistakes having been made, and one in particular he’d come to rue.
But tender was his heart, hence his helping and caring for the victim,
And he knowing that but for the grace of God it could well have been him,
As with any of us, for life's oft random, and many short on luck,
So God bless the one who doesn’t hesitate to help when someone’s stuck.
Well, as the man regained his health, he haltingly shared a teary tale,
Of how he had searched for years for his son, but sadly, to no avail.
He told of how his wife had died, how he badly missed his dear sweet Joan,
And of how his heart had broken, and of many years he’d spent alone.
“If only she had seen him before she passed away,” the old man cried,
“For she would’ve gladly embraced him, my wife never being one to chide.
He had angrily departed, you see, swearing he’d never return,
But our love for our dear son never waned, and hope continued to burn.
He had simply misunderstood things, and we needed time to explain;
Oh, if only he had turned and waited, it would’ve saved all this pain.
But he’d “heard enough,” he said, and he grabbed his bag and rushed out the door,
Taking our happiness, for as far as our hearts went, oh, how such tore.”
You know,
It’s so sad that so much pain is caused by what could easily be fixed,
But people in their moment of anger don’t think of what could come next.
But come it does, relative molehills becoming mountains, volcanoes,
From which an all engulfing, destructive and far-reaching lava flows.
Tearfully, the old man continued on, and the words he spoke conveyed
A deep and enduring love for his son, a loss that heavily weighed.
And as he reminisced ’bout his missing son with such fondness and thought,
His rescuer’s chest heaved, as he also, tears of such sadness had fought.
Via vision now dimming with age, the old man peered at whom he spoke to,
Glowingly giving a snapshot of a son who was long overdue.
“It’s been many years now,” he choked, “but I’m sure that my son’s just the same,
Because he had a good heart, you see — and just like you, was so humane,”
And midst more tears, the grief-stricken man unconsciously said his son's name.
“Stop!” his rescuer cried, “I’ve heard enough, 'cause that son is me, is me,”
And tears of deep remorse streamed down his ruddy cheeks uncontrollably.
“You’ve finally found your son, but oh dear, he’s so far from what you said,
So please forgive me, father, please forgive me, I’m so sorry I fled.
Yes, I’m just as bad as those others who cruelly left you near that road,
And all throughout the years, father, you have carried this terrible load.
Therefore, I’m not worthy to be your child, and nor the son of your wife,
For I’ve been a fool, caused so much unhappiness and wasted my life.”
But springs of joy flooded the father’s tired heart, it now wildly beating,
And he reached up to grasp his dear son, their reddened, tear-filled eyes greeting.
Stunned, yet joyously elated, the father embraced his long lost son,
And as he did, he cried, “No, leave it behind, son, what is done is done.
Yes, we’re together now, son, and that is how I would like it to stay,
For it’s your kind heart that brought us together — yes, that’s my son, I say.
Sure we’ve some things to discuss, resolve, but together we’ll be able,"
And with that said, he then ushered his son to an old battered table.
And there at that sunbathed table, and after so many years apart,
The father and son reconnected via a beautiful heart to heart.
And also there, the sad misunderstanding that had seen his son go,
Was finally laid to rest, resolved, but not all the pain inside though.
You see, a mother had died not seeing her son, and those wasted years,
A father’s frantic search, that random mugging, those sleepless nights and tears.
Yes, because forgiveness is one thing, and reconciliation too,
But the past cannot be erased, and therefore, consequences ensue.
Now here I’d like to end with another little story of its own,
One that I believe will flesh things out and more in on the same point hone.
And the reason why is, because this point is such a critical one,
Lest you pointlessly bring on yourself and others much pain like that son.
So here’s that wee story then:
“Son,” another loving father once said, “Fetch a hammer, nail and wood,”
“Sure, Dad,” the young lad responded who was a few years off adulthood.
And soon that son returned with everything that he had been asked to get,
Whereupon wisdom via a certain illustration that young mind met.
“Thank you, son. Now I would like you to hammer the nail into the wood,”
And as requested, the youngster hammered away as hard as he could.
“Okay, now pull the nail back out of the wood,” his father instructed,
And as his son so prised, a lot of huffing and puffing erupted.
Well, the nail did come out, but once it was out, a deep hole could be seen,
And there they both stood, father and son, quietly surveying the scene.
“Now, son, remove that nasty hole too,” but the son knew that he couldn’t,
And then the point dawned on him: If you don’t want holes, hammer you shouldn’t.
For though the nasty nail was out, the hole remained there, and so it goes
That though we are very sorry, we reap what we sow, for pain still flows.
Yes, because forgiveness is one thing, and reconciliation too,
But hearts and minds are left scarred, and therefore, the past we are bound to rue.
Most of us like happy endings, but midst joy, there can also be tears,
For though we may kiss and make up, a degree of pain still interferes,
Because when a nail’s hammered in, it makes a hole, and holes can seep pain,
And why when it comes to such hammering, the best thing is to refrain.
Yes, mistakes are often mistakes that remind, they thus looking at us,
Though acceptance is our best friend, it further folly to moan and cuss.
And that pain that others are feeling so easily ours, so take care,
And always look after other folk, not walk on by or simply peer.
By Lance Landall
Footnote:
The man's injuries being within the capabilities of his rescuer; a hospital being too far away,
hospital treatment unaffordable, or some other reason.
