The Familiar Stranger

I stood in the queue for Nando’s last night. After I ordered, I noticed a middle-aged man in the restaurant. This particular man couldn’t have been any older than fifty, and yet his body was curved like a much-older man. His shoulders were tight, his knees looked like they might buckle beneath him. It was clear to me this man was in pain.

As I watched him pick up his ordered food and then slowly, shuffle away, my chest tightened. Tears pooled along the borders of my eyes. 

Then thankfully, my name got called out and rescued me from what could have been a strange event where I was sitting in Nando’s crying for a man whom I did not know.

Why was I so moved by this man? A perfectly reasonable question to ask. 

We were strangers. We exchanged only a few words about mask wearing. Those moments were nothing more than two people doing ordinary things in ordinary places.

Yet, his S shaped body which painfully moved out of the restaurant remain parked in my mind.

I think it was the visibility of his pain. While my wounds remain hidden behind smiles, his suffering could not be hidden. Even without the context of his story, bearing witness to his burdens made mine seem a little less – not on a comparison scale, but in knowing that I was not alone. 

His slow, quiet, gentle shuffle incited me to let down my walls, to welcome peace in the presence of our shared humanity. Because while my body shape may not reveal my wounds, there’s healing in this encounter. 

Pain is an odd thing, and like most experiences that humans have in common, the only way to understand it, is to go through it. (I know, I hate this answer too) 

This experience makes me ask myself the difficult question; what is getting in the way of revealing my hidden wounds?