The Strangest of Faces in the Strangest of Places

The young boy studied high white ridges overlooking rust orange valleys alll whipped into incandescent fury by the harsh rushing Wyoming wind and a caring touch here and there. The silver slivers slicing the tiny dome mirrored those of the infinite dome of a moonless sky overhead. A crimson ember pushed its way through the charred end of the poker-stick. Everything else was dark- dark as only the pure wilderness can be- and frigid, but in this spot there was light- and Life.

His hands had not built this fire. They were soft, and would blister if they came too close or stayed too long. It was unlikely they could build one at all let alone one so hot it was white on the edges. For this his hands would need to wear years of blisters as callouses and the experience gained from the pain: When to be strong and when to be tender, How to use the wind to excite a flame rather than snuff it, How much fuel would make a bright flame and how much would smother it. All this only to maintain it. Starting one took a small miracle. He had been to to touch it only if he had to, and, though a neat stack of dry sticks waited, he was afraid.

A grown person's touch was needed, but his father's deft hands had ventured off. They had lovingly nurtured spark to ember, ember to smoke, smoke to flame, flame to blaze, and blaze to the glowing heap of coals that was now before the boy. More substantial dry timber was needed. It would not be so quickly devoured by the ravenous red tongues which raced skyward.

Utterly alone, the boy crowded the mound, clinging to its warmth. The light was long gone. His only companions were the crackle, hiss, and occasional pop of the fire. When the wind ceased howling, he was forced to endure shrill shrieking silence. It was a quietude commensurate with the darkness- so total that a young mind could conjure unspeakable horrors. Ghosts and the iridescent eyes of wild beasts crept ever closer on all sides. His small hands shone pale in the glow. He considered throwing every scrap of combustible material he could grasp onto the shrinking mound and trembled slightly from fear.

Silently, as if sensing desperation granite hands appeared. They began to fuss with the dormant flame willing it back to existence. They were mechanic's hands. The palms and fingertips were hard. Scars cut the backs. Sinew and viens jutted out. Thier fingernails were kept long to pry at small stubborn parts. They moved rapidly, adroitly, an ceaselessly. The confidence in thier movement showed no evidence that they had ever stopped once to tremble.

Unseed lips fanned the coals causing them to singe the bottoms of the meticulously stacked branches. The hands that had poked and prodded cinders moments before now gave only slight encouraging adjustments. Finally- Fire! At once the blackened wood burst with heat and light. Little tongues scrambled skyward. The heat of the flames sent sparks sailing into the pitch-black void above. Only then, satisfied for the moment, did the old hands rest.

Silence is a morale killer in times of desperation. Among more seasoned men the ancient art of banter would dominate conversation in these situations. There would be no banter tonight. An immense experiential rift lay between these two victims of circumstance, but the night was thiers, and (hopefully) thiers alone to share. Though they were father and son, the strange new environment had made them strangers to eachother. The father could see his son's shaken confidence and knew his voice was needed desperately. It was story time.

The father's pensive mind delayed his tongue. How could he tell of that night? What details would be inexplicable to his boy? He could tell the boy's sanity was hanging by a thread already. He thought it would be best to leave the big questions for tomorrow- for the daylight. There was much about the event he would attempt to relate to his son that would continue to puzzle him for the remainder of his life. The strange man he had met many years ago was by his nearest reckoning his guardian angel. Neal was not of this realm, and that was the only thing he was certain of. As elusive as it was, this was his favorite story.

It was important for him to express his belief in the potential for kindness in all people. He felt he had recieved an enormous gift from Neal that night. He had. Neal saw goodness and kindness in him when he was unable to see them in himself. Neal had chosen to love him when he did not love himself. It was at a time when he felt no particular reason to be alive at all. This gift had saved him, and he knew it could save others too. In that brief moment he was able to see the unrelenting love of his creator unfurled. He would be his son's light and life tonight through the magic of fire, and he would try to pass this gift of love on to another.

He sighed deeply, drew another deep breath, and speaking hoarsely and somewhat hushed asked,"Son, do you know the true nature of giving?" By now his son was skaking somewhat less violently than before, but he only managed to gasp,"It's cold Dad." His father wanted to distract his son from the discomfort. Although this was a new sensation, his life was in no danger. He said,"I know, Son. It will pass. All things will." His father's unfaltering voice reassured the boy. He believed his father's father's words to be true.

He bgan again,"Wise people that a true gift is given with no expectation that it may be returned." His son caughed,"Oh yes, I have heard you say that." Father continued,"Now I will tell you of the greatest gift I was ever given- besides you that is. What do you know of angels?" His son knew the answer to this question ver well. In voice still choppy from shivering, but full of conviction, he said,"They are God's helpers. They fly on silver wings and have halos, but they look like us. They live in heaven." Although one had never appeared to him in that way, he replied,"True,but to walk with humans they must wear costumes."

His son was excited now and nearly burst,"Have you ever seen one, Dad?! What do they look like?!" He replied calmly with slight amusment in his voice,"You never can tell son. They take the form they need to do thier jobs, but most often they come from the most unexpected places." His son could not contain his excitement now,"But have you ever seen one?!" His father continued,"Yes son I have, and I will tell you all about him, but I won't finish tonight if you keep asking so many questions. I will explain everything I know." His son wanted to hear so badldy that he did not say another word.

His name was Neal, and he was a hobo. By the grace of God we crossed paths on a night much like this downtown in Bozeman, Montana. I had just fallen in love with Lucy. A couple of weeks later I was sent flying. I was in a bad way after, and wanted to spend all my time with Lucy. For a while, she had all of the love of the world to give me.

I was high for the love of Lucy, and i had her and ten of my best friends with me to brave the cold. I made a new friend that night: Neal. I willl never be able to prove he was ever even there. Nobody saw him, but me. Although I could not see them, he must have had wings, because he came and went without a sound. He took the form of a hobo riding a bicycle with a milk crate attached to the handlebars. Before I could even react, he had my right hand clasped firmly in both of his. It had started as a simple handshake, but now we could see eachother's souls. Though he had no house, he was clean.

A grey hoodie, blue jeans, and black sneakers were his modest garb. His ancient face was red granite carved by countles rivulets from eons of freezing rain, stinging snow, and blazing sun. He had silver hair shaggy, but straight and sparse stubble of the same brilliance which both shone in the glare from the streetlight. My body was a wreck. I wore a brace from ankle to crotch on my right leg, and was off crutches agains doctor's orders. A tattered scrap of white t-shirt was wrapped around my forehead to keep my long curly brown hair from matting to my road-rashed face. We did not see eachother for our broken and weathered bodies, but rather our souls soaring high and bight and pure, unspoiled by the endless pitfalls of existence on an unkind Earth.

I had painted a third-eye in red and blue on the tattered headband I wore. Neal had approached me because of this to tell me appreciated the symbolism. He asked what had happened to me. I gestured to the street and said,"Cars, who needs them." With a deep soft laugh, he affirmed,"Nobody really needs them." He asked me where I lived. I could not think of a good answer to this so I guestured broadly saying,"Everywhere." Then we both shared the deep soft laugh. Then he asked me if I knew where his bathroom was. I was not sure where he was going with this, but was curious how he was staying so clean on the cold streets. "Wherever you want I guess." I said. We were both in hysterics at this.

"Seriously," he told me "It is the Bozeman Hot Springs. It only costs $5." This entire time he had never eased his grip, or averted his gaze. Niether had I. An eternity had already passed. I was going to hear everything he had to say. I was powerless and somewhat frightened at this point, but his next words would ease my pain. They would save my life for the second time in less than a week. He was the right person at the right time to change the course of my life forever. What he said brought tears to my eyes.

"You have a big heart. Don't let the world take it from you. It will try."

As suddenly as he had captured me, he released me. He bicycle tires for wings and dissapeared just as silently as he had arrived in a swirl of snow. Only I had seen him. My friends asked where I had gone. They had been admiring a mural which depicted the settlement of the West around the corner of the building I had stopped in front of. I tried to explain, but could not find the right words. Neal's were still burning in my mind. I had not believed in the goodness inside me before.In the ambulance ride I had believed I was dead, and going to a bad place. When I realized I was alive still, I felt that I did not deserve Life. I wished someone else had been spared instead.

I had been dead my whole life before meeting Neal. The kindness of a stranger had saved my life, or at least given me a new perspective that made it worth living. I was on the wrong path before. His words were not an affirmation, but a challenge. They were a challenge to become the light in the life of others. I had lost my light. I have to be a better person each and every day so that one day Neal's words will be true. My only hope is to one day say,"The world has not changed me for the worse. I have changed it for the better." Son, don't ever doubt that you can change the world. With the smallest of actions or inactions you can. Choose kindness always.

A glimmer of light came to the horizon. The boy breathed a deep sigh of relief and saw it hanging in the air. The light would bring warmth. The warmth would sustain life, and there was much more life for him to live.