He was older than how he spoke.  I suppose it was the way God had left him here to share his time with us.  Once I had spent part of an afternoon with him, and finding him now, standing up against the corner of a wall, I made my way over to say hello.

“Do you remember me?  We worked together last fall.”

“Yea.  You’re that nice guy that’s easy to talk to.”

Unprepared for that, I rolled out the standard, self-deprecating humor.  “You must have me confused with someone else.” I smiled and look up in time to see him lose his.  He thought he did.

As his eyes turn down to his feet, I understood the dignity I had denied him by refusing the kindness he offered.  It felt shameful.  I tried again.

“It was a poor joke.  I meant that I don’t think most people would describe me that way.”  And his face lit up again, and we were off in conversation, from trains to baby calves and any place he wanted to venture between.  Before long it was time for him to go.

“You are welcomed to help us anytime, you know?”

In him I could find no malice, no reservation to share what made him happy with others, nor any inkling of fear about the dark recesses of our hearts.  It was easy.  As he left, I suppose a little shame lingered at how I, like most of us perhaps, work against myself to make it hard.

Maybe someday we will round the corner.