From the street the boy can't see his face but he knows he is there, looking down at him. He gazes at the dew-coated window, as a narrow stream of water trickles down in crooked root-like form onto the sill…
He loved that window. Every day the boy stopped at the same corner on his way to school and looked up. Every day the old man looked out onto the street, smiling but saying nothing. There was always something magnificent about the exchange between the old man and the little boy. As the boy got to the intersection he'd take his bag off his shoulder and lift his eyes upward to the window in wide-eyed expectancy and like clockwork the curtain would sweep to the left and the old man's face would appear, the little boy's look reciprocated in mutual affection.
For minutes on end they'd stare at each other, not flinching, breathing peacefully. Both seemed content. Then a shiny red bus would screech to a halt, cutting off the exchange and the boy would get on, offering the old man a parting glance through every window on the bus from the front to the back, where the boy would finally sit down as the bus left the curb.
Today the boy has panic in his face. His eyes scream uncertainty; his posture, betrayal. Where is the man's face that he so longs to see? He bends and stretches, side to side and up on tiptoes to get a different perspective… Nothing. But it doesn't mean the man isn't there. The old man looks down, his face hidden in the glary reflection, but he sees the boy. After what seems like an eternity the boy crosses the street and stands underneath the window. Faintly he sees the familiar blue eyes staring down at him. Somehow they comfort him.
For the first time the boy waves to the man. He raises his hand and puts it down by his side again, a vulnerable and joyous fleeting of energy bursts up inside of him at the stepping up of the relationship. The old man watches as the boy crosses the road back to the other side just in time for the bus to pull up. He watches the boy as he finds his seat. Their eyes lock on one another as the bus leaves the curb, an uneasy tension in the boy's stare.
The next day is different. As the boy stands across the street he keeps his eyes street level, head phones in his ears, looking at the passing cars, people moving around frantically. The old man stands at the window just as he always does, looking down at the boy, anticipating his looking back at him, but it doesn't come. A tear runs down the old man's face as the bus separates the boy from his vision. The boy moves swiftly to the back of the bus as it leaves the curb, no looking out the window, no looking back, no wave. The old man stares out the window in astonishment, a furrow appearing in the old man's forehead as he holds back the tears. His eyes glisten.
The boy never looked up at the window again. Every day the old man stood and watched as the boy grew older. Longish brown, curly hair cut short. Skinny arms filled out. The school uniform replaced gradually by more casual garb, backpack and then a tailored suit and white shirt, the backpack a constant through the years. Before long a handsome man stood where a young boy once had.
Intriguing
One morning as the old man stood at the window he noticed something that intrigued him. A man in an expensive suit walked to the bus stop with a small boy walking next to him. The boy looked familiar, curly brown hair, round face and deep, innocent brown eyes that curiously roamed the street, his hand held tightly by the man in the suit. The young boy wore a uniform that the old man had seen before, tie done in exactly the same fashion as the man in the suit.
The old man stared in amazement, his eyes glistening as they once had before, this time tears of joy the cause. The small boy looked up at the window where the old man stood. Their eyes locked. It was too much for the old man and he broke down, sobbing. 'Why is he crying?' the boy asked, tugging his father's arm.
The man looked up at the window across the street for the first time in twenty years. A peaceful amazement crept across the man's face as he remembered his youth. The red bus pulled up to the curb. As the young boy walked to the back of the bus, his father behind him, hurrying him along down the aisle, he waved a small hand in the old man's direction. 'Bye bye old man', said the boy softly. The man in the suit glanced up at the window. The old man saw the quick look.
That day was strange for the man. All day at work he thought about the old man in the window. How quickly time passes by, he thought to himself. So much had happened. Now a highly acclaimed consultant working in the city, the man had the world at his feet and yet it had been a whirlwind, growing up never really knowing his father, hardly ever seeing his mother. He thought about his son and the passive exchange he'd witnessed that morning. He knew exactly what his son had been wondering, because he'd wondered to himself the very same thing when he was a boy. 'Who was the old man at the window? How long did he stand there, just watching?' He hadn't aged a day, the man thought to himself.
The sky was grey as it heaved with massive clouds. Thick moisture in the air and spitting rain, father and son stood at the bus stop. The boy squinted up at the window but could not make out the man he saw standing there every day.
As the bus came into view the man took out his wallet. 'Here's the bus son,' he said as he turned around to where his son had been standing, but he wasn't there. The bus sounded its horn and applied the brakes hard, skidding in the wet, a sickening sound for the man. He turned round fast, his body tense with anxiety as he peered out on the street where his son stood, frozen, watching the bus moving towards him. He darted for the road, but already further from the boy than the bus was, he yelled in desperation, 'Julian!' The bus came to a stop just past short of the bus stop. His father, exasperated, stood motionless.
Special
'Dad!' came a voice. The man turned around, his heart suddenly light. His son stood there breathless, the right side of his body wet and dirty from the road. His father rushed forward and embraced him tightly. 'He pushed me out of the way Dad,' the boy murmured. The father looked at the man standing on the sidewalk. He was wet too, and grazed, dirt and gravel sticking to his bloody arm. His trousers were saturated. The boy's father extended an arm to shake the man's hand. He recognised instantly those soft blue eyes and wrinkled leather face. The old man's eyes glistened. 'Thank you!' cried the young man and grabbed the old man in a tight embrace, sobbing. 'Thank you!' he said again.
'Bless you my son,' the old man smiled and before the young man could say anything elsethe old man had crossed the street and was walking briskly towards the corner where he lived.
'Wait!' yelled the young boy after him. 'Wait up!'
..........
What happens next is up to you. You see in my life an old man watched me grow up. Throughout my childhood I'd cast an eye his way, and though I knew not who he was or why he was always there, watching, I appreciated it. Over time though something changed in our relationship. The world can take us captive you see; it can draw us in. We lose sight of some things as our focus shifts. Sometimes there is a very deliberate effort on our part to look away from one who has previously provided protection and love.
God is omniscient. He sees you. Even when you grow weary of looking out for Him, he still watches and his heart pines for all of humanity. The story highlights that point in life when God comes rushing in, when you are at the end of yourself, when all hope is lost, suddenly, a glimmer of God. The old man crosses the street, not one to intrude, but is now the time you invite him in?
Pride presents an obstacle. The fact that you've turned away for a time; you want to start over but it's embarrassing to admit you've strayed from the path. Regardless of how you feel think about this. God saw you all those years, every day he saw you. He saw you resist the urge to look Heavenward. He saw you clamber aboard normality, mediocrity and the passage of time. Yet when the chips were down there He was, once again by your side. It's reason enough to conclude he wants in. But He won't intrude. It's your call.
David Luschwitz is a teacher in Hurstville, Sydney. Currently he is enjoying studying the dynamics of 'Relationships in Education.'
David Luschwitz's previous articles may be viewed at www.pressserviceinternational.org/david-luschwitz.html