He was a successful man. It seemed.

Had his own business. Was putting his third child through college.

He was respected in the community.

A good man to talk to when you had a decision to make.

And sometimes funny. Not everybody saw that. But he could make a person laugh.

He served on a number of boards; important boards. Not because it was prestigious but because one person could make a difference there, could help.

But he was dying inside.

Drowning.

He hadn’t come up for the third time, but that time was due.

It was late in the evening and he sat at his desk, long past the hour of closing. Waiting. Someone who owed him money was supposed to stop by. He was starting to think they weren’t coming and he wondered why he extended credit so often, when it didn’t always work out.

Looking around at the plaques on his walls, at the certificates and licenses, he shook his head. Those pronouncements on the wall were all made of paper, documents that represented a claim that he’d done something, given something, accomplished something, that he meant something. To him, however, they were about the past. What was he doing now? What was he giving? Accomplishing? What was the meaning of his days?

He held the past lightly. He couldn’t see the scenes behind the paper. He didn’t recall, if he even knew, the various people of different ages that had profited in ways greater than money from his activities. He only saw the paper. But the paper held the memories and the people who’d benefited, and their memories held the scenes.

He lived in a small town of no real consequence to the rest of the world, with people of no fame beyond the city limits.

Anything ever given is like tossing a stone in an ocean; the length and breadth of the ripples can only be imagined. He had never tried to trace the length and breadth of the ripples from his deeds.

And from the outside looking in, no one knew of the places in him still to be traveled, the kindnesses still to be expressed, the strength yet to be shown. The dreams yet to be lived.

All the awards on the walls of his office were but shadows of his gifts still to be given.

He pushed aside the papers before him and stretched. Then yawned.

Time to pack it in.

The phone rang.

It was a colleague, asking for advice. He gave it. He took the time to consider a dilemma and offered his own perspective. The words seemed to help. He was thanked. He hung up the phone.

He stood and walked to the coat rack, picking up his jacket.

And then the door opened. Someone entered, huffing and puffing and sorry to be late. Wrote him a check; it wasn’t the right amount but it was close.

He took the check. Shook hands. Locked the door behind his visitor.

Then, just before heading home, he called there – anybody need anything? His wife said their teenaged son was suffering from a cold and she asked her husband if he’d pick up some medicine.

At the corner drug store, he ran into a friend. How’s it going? Well, the friend was not doing too well. They talked a few minutes. He offered some solutions. The friend seemed relieved and gave him a smile as he left the store.

He arrived home to a quiet house, handed his wife the medicine and then headed to the bedroom. There he turned on the television and stood before the flickering pictures, seeing nothing. He turned off the television and picked up a book.

Another day ending.

He’d done most of the things he set out to do that day and had given what he thought he should give.

But he couldn’t figure out exactly what he’d received.

And no one heard his cry.

It seemed.

But there are ears to the night.

There is a power that hovers closely and at a distance, which specializes in hearing the unspoken words, in answering the unformed questions, in examining the unspeakable beliefs.

Throughout that night, in dreams, there were visitations. Seeds were planted. Plans were made. And agreements. Painful ideas were gently pulled away from the core of his psyche. Ugly feelings were cleansed with caring. Frightening convictions were warmed, then loosened and then peeled away. Dying hopes were revived and then strengthened.

He slept. And he dreamed.

And in his office, all the awards and commendations and licenses were covered with more than words and seals. They breathed the reality of his life, the solidness of his gifts, and they clouded the air with a perfume of success.

The chair behind his desk took on a mantle of serenity. And nothing on its surface could again be touched without coming in contact with joy.

The drowning man would not raise his hand, so the river was made to run dry.

The grounded dreams of his soul were given wings.

And because he held onto his soul, he was attached to those wings.

Did he know how this came to be?

Soaring above his pain, recognizing the beauty of his life, he looked down and he observed what had been and perceived what could be.

He would know.

But for that night, he was just a man surrendering to sleep and willing to face another day.

© 2004, Darlene Bridge Lofgren