“There comes a point where we need to stop just pulling people out of the river. We need to go upstream and find out why they’re falling in.” – Desmond Tutu
This past weekend my kids and I had a day where we did so many of our favorite things – saw friends, played games, sang, and hung out together. So at bedtime, we were talking about what a good day it was.
Then six-year-old Mr. D piped in, “But not for the man. He didn’t have a good day.”
Oh yes – the man. Mr. D and I had dropped Miss O off at her musical rehearsal and then were driving up the hill near our house at 10am on a Saturday morning. We were going to the grocery store for some snacks to eat on our way to baseball. We passed a man that was on his hands and knees on the little section of grass between the curb and the sidewalk.
That didn’t look right. So I backed down the hill and stopped next to him. As I got out of the car, a woman who was talking on her phone walked up. She had called 9-1-1. Between her conversation with them and some comments she directed to me, I got a sense of what had happened.
This 60-something man had been looking unsteady at the top of the hill. The woman and at least one other person had offered to help and he’d refused. He’d started down the hill, lost his balance and then face-planted somewhere near the bottom.
I gave him some napkins from my car to put on his face where it was bleeding. Mr. D picked up the pieces of his glasses. The woman was continuing her conversation with 9-1-1 but the man refused medical assistance. As she answered their questions, she sounded kinda snarky. Almost like she was put out that he got hurt after refusing her help.
I got out a collapsible chair from the back of our car and set it up. The man, whose name we found out was Mike, was able to get off the ground and sit in the chair. Mr. D found a bottle of water and we poured it over his bloody hands.
It turned out he lived a few blocks from where we discovered him. He dropped his shopping bag when he fell. The only thing in it was a now-smashed pint of gin whose contents had emptied on the sidewalk. Since he’d refused help from the authorities, I offered him a ride home. He didn’t want that either.
He stood up, I folded up the chair, the woman ended her call with 9-1-1 and we all went our separate ways. As we started driving again, Mr. D said, “that was scary.” When I asked what part, he responded, “All the blood.”
So at the end of the day, Mr. D was right – Mike probably didn’t have a good day. But I couldn’t help but think that scene was an allegory of what it means to be in community. I’d argue that it’s likely we all have been in each of the three roles at some point in our lives: the person turning down assistance even when we are feeling unsteady, the judgmental helper who is willing to step in but not without adding commentary, and the person who offers a chair. I know I have been all three.
And maybe the point is just to keep trying to improving the way we play our parts by accepting help, not being judgmental, and offering comfort in the effort to work toward some version of a future where no one falls down any more.
(featured photo is from Pexels)
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