Sacred Moments Cannot Be Planned
He waits for me at the back of a shopping center near the closed Salvation Army trucks spilling over with chairs, books, and bedspreads that unlawfully have been left outside by New Year’s declutterers. He was glad that I came.
Tall, dark, elegant in his work clothes, he spends his days waiting beside his office for people like me, his office being the cab of his immense shredding truck. After he motions me where to angle in to park, he helps me remove my trunk-full of black hefty bags filled with years of client notes and financial records. With great dignity, he unties the bags, lifts the contents into a green bin, and places the empties back into my trunk.
Bag after bag we unload and slowly empty. Quietly I say to him, “This is my life’s work.” His smile reveals empathy. As I watch the papers sink into the bin, I silently bless each emptying bag, each client whose identity here is only an initial on a folder.
When we have finished, he hooks the bin onto a hoist and dumps the mountain of papers into the shredder. I ask, “Will they be shredded soon? These are confidential.”
“Oh, yes, right now. My job is to destroy.” He steps into his cab and the truck begins to rumble. “Come and watch.”
He and I turn to a small screen on the side of the shaking truck, where we watch the papers tumble down and quickly fragment. I think of the hundreds of people these represent, the hundreds of hours we spent together, the hundreds of issues we explored, hundreds of dreams shared, hundreds of moments of despair and joy. I think of them with deep love, bordering on grief, and say a prayer for the wholeness of each life. I remember with gratitude the privilege we had to connect in unique and often lasting ways.
With him at my side, I wordlessly bless them again, for in that moment, we are witnessing something akin to cremation, he and I. However, he is no longer “destroyer,” he is priest, and I am mourner, on that concrete holy ground behind the shopping center near the overflowing Salvation Army trucks.
Sacred moments cannot be planned.
Love it. “He is priest and I am mourner…on that concrete holy ground.”
This feels so much like me giving away Frank’s clothes after his death, finding a buyer for 500 vinyl records and soon finding a home at the local community college for his mechanic tools. Indeed sacred moments, can’t be planned. If we’re not paying attention we will miss them.
Thank you for this unplanned sacred moment–reading your artistry. We are blessed to have unnumberred moments. Pray we have eyes to see and ears to hear and hearts to know.
Thank you. Lovely.
Reminds me when I brought all of John’s papers; both personal and professional papers toRedDog. You verbalized the feeling so beautifully! Thank you!
So beautifully articulated, and felt. Teared up reading this, this moment of letting go, this time of shifting perceptions – of ourselves, of others. I love how you honor the work of both of your lifetimes. And love you.