"The Truth When In Harm's Way..."

Originally published on  

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“I’m sharing this for a friend’s sake.”

I like to believe that I’ve always tried hard to be a “good” man.  I tend to think of myself as an empathetic and a very caring person.  I often made sacrifices for others because I’ve always felt that being blessed with much, which I have been, demands that you bless others with your strength, talents, and love.  And so it was that while I was trying to help someone, I learned some powerful lessons about gratuitous evil, watchfulness, mortality, and the “Love of God.”

It was a very cold and frosty winter morning, one January, about 15 years ago.  I was in my late twenties then.  I had moved into my own home, not very far from my mother and the home I grew up in.  Although, my older brother still lived at home with my mother, whenever it would snow, I’d shovel the driveway and walk at my mother’s house as well as at my own.  And on that winter morning, I awoke to nearly a foot of fresh snow on the ground.  As I stepped out of my own front door, the wind whipping against my face brought an instant chill and shivers to my body.  But I always loved mornings like that.  As I walked through the snow, I loved the sight of everything covered so perfectly with a blanket of white fluffiness.  I loved to look behind me and see my own footprints as the only thing disturbing the perfection of the velvet coating of snow.  So at about 5 a.m., well before the sunrise, I’d set off on foot for my mother’s with my shovel in hand.

As peculiar as it might sound, I loved to shovel snow.  I would shovel like a madman; snow would fly in every direction.  There somehow seemed to be great joy for me in clearing the walks and seeing the mounds of snow grow.  This particular morning was no exception, I was happy indeed and when I was done with Mother’s snow, I did what I had been doing for many years, I walked across the street and shoveled the snow for Mother’s elderly neighbors, Mr. & Mrs. Ford.  For probably 4 or 5 years at that time, whenever I shoveled my mother’s snow, I’d shovel the Ford’s walks and driveway too.  I always felt good doing this for them.  When I first started doing it, Mr. Ford offered me money, but as I refused it, I took a moment to tell him why I was doing it.

I told Mr. Ford that when I was a boy, I used to watch him and his wife and their two daughters.  I told him of how it seemed to me that they all always loved each other very much.  They seemed to be the “perfect family;” I had in fact never heard a cross word exchanged between any of them, which was not true in my own family.   I said, “You’ve always been a great example to me of a good and honorable man.”  I told him if he’d let me shovel his snow for him, I was sure it would help me earn my place in Heaven.  You see, Mr. Ford was quite elderly and was barely able to move along with the assistance of a walker at that time.  In his usual, quiet way, he smiled and placed a weak and trembling hand on my young shoulder and said, “Thank you.”  From that day forward, we were good and close friends.

As I’d be shoveling in the wee hours of the morning, it was extremely rare to see anyone on the street, but whenever I did, I’d be mindful of them and keep a wary eye on them until they passed.  As usual, on this morning, I’d shoveled my mother’s walks and I was across the street shoveling the Ford’s.  I was working my way up the Ford’s driveway, when out of the corner of my eye; I caught a glimpse of two young men coming up the street in the first rays of the morning sun.  Remembering to be mindful of strangers, I turned and shoveled in the other direction so that I could keep my eye on them as they passed.

Since Mother had raised us all to be polite and civil to everyone, as these two young men approached, I stopped shoveling to say, “Good Morning!”  To my surprise, they replied “Good Morning” too and with that, I let my guard down and turned around to shovel in the other direction.  No sooner than I had turned around, I heard their running footsteps coming in my direction.  I quickly turned back, but all I caught sight of was the butt end of a large revolver coming at me.  Before I could react, the one young man had hit me in the temple the butt of his gun and I fell back into a pile of snow.

The young man with the gun was sitting on my chest while holding the gun to my head saying, “Gimme all your money, or I’ll blow your f***ing head off.  The other young man was standing over me at my side and as I said, “I don’t have any money…” he began kicking me in the ribs while the other fellow pressed the gun into my temple and cocked the trigger.  In that moment, I thought surely I was on my way to Heaven.  I pleaded with them not to kill me, as the fellow standing over me kicked me more and more ferociously.  The young man with the gun kept insisting I had money and said he was going to count to five and then blow my brains out.  I told him I’d left my wallet at home that morning, which is what I always did when I went to shovel snow; but he started counting anyway.

The other young man was urging his companion on, saying, “Cap his a**! Cap his a**!” while the gunman, still sitting on my chest was digging through my pockets while jamming the gun into the side of my head counting: “One, two, three, four, five...”  Just as he got to five, I closed my eyes tightly and clenched my teeth expecting I would die in the next second.  I remember thinking to myself, “God? Is this really it?”

When I next opened my eyes a minute or so later, I honestly didn’t know if I was dead or alive.  I was lying in the snow, but I felt warm and kind of like I was floating.  I was looking up at a sky full of fluffy white clouds tinged with shades of azure blue, gold, and crimson haze.  I remember thinking, “I’m in Heaven…!”  But then as quickly as I thought that, I heard in the distance, “Chrissy, Chrissy, are you alright?” When I sat up I could see over the heaped snow, my friend, Mr. Ford in his front door frantically calling out to me.  Suddenly, I remembered everything that had happened up to the gunman reaching “five” in his count.  I felt all over my head and chest to see if I’d been shot.  I looked at the snow, there was no blood.  When I went to stand up, my legs wouldn’t hold me up.  I fell back down and then I felt cold and I felt the pain of my bruised ribs and the throbbing of a huge knot on the side of my head.

I tried to stand again, and this time I made it to my feet.  By this time, Mrs. Ford was also at the doorway in her robe.  She was almost hysterical.  I staggered to the porch and sat on the stoop as Mrs. Ford cried and her husband tried to console her.  Mr. Ford asked me if I was alright again, and this time I said, “Yeah, I think I’m okay…?”  Mrs. Ford came back to the door with the phone in her hand; she was calling “911.”  I told her not to call, I was fine…  And with that, I headed for my mother’s house on dizzy, wobbly feet.  By the time I got to Mother’s, she was standing in her door, having been called by Mrs. Ford and told of what had just happened. 

Mother was frantic with worry over me.  I had a huge knot on the side of my head and she insisted that I needed to go to the hospital as she dialed “911.”  It may be hard to believe, but of all the “911” operators that could have answered Mother’s call, the one who did that early morning, was the Ford’s oldest daughter, Deborah, who’d worked for the police department in that capacity for many years.  As I listened in awe to Mother telling her what had happened and was overhearing Deborah’s shocked response, I stood up and took the phone from Mother.  I told the Ford’s daughter that I was okay, and that I was going to work, not to send police or ambulance.  She asked to speak back to Mother and I handed Mom the phone.  I was still pretty dizzy, so I sat back down on the stairs.  Moments later I heard the ambulance pulling up in front of the house.  Then the police arrived.

Although my head hurt badly, my pride was hurt worse.  I was embarrassed and ashamed that I’d let myself become a victim.  I was angry at those two young men, they’d taken so much more than the $3 watch and raggedy U.S. Navy gloves I’d been wearing; it seemed as if they’d taken my manhood away.  The police officers kept saying how smart I was that I didn’t fight them… The truth was I would have if I could’ve, I’d have fought them tooth and nail if they hadn’t got the best of me from the beginning.  As the paramedics looked me over, saying I could have a closed head injury in addition to the huge contusion on the side of my head, they said I should let them take me to the hospital.   But having answered the police officers questions, I told the paramedics they could go, I was not going to any hospital; I was going to work.  I kissed my mother and wearily walked out the door on uncertain feet.

It was still early morning, not quite 8 a.m.; the sun was now shining brightly and it was a “pretty” morning, but everything looked ugly to me.  I’d been through a few things in my life up to that point, and I knew what fear felt like; it felt like this.  It was only a short three block walk home from my mother’s house, but every alleyway I crossed and every shadowy driveway seemed as if it could be harboring some hidden danger.  I no longer felt brave or safe.  My confidence in my ability to “protect myself” was shattered in those couple of minutes earlier that morning.  When I got home, as I turned the deadbolt on my front door, although I didn’t feel safe, I felt relieved.  When I got to the closet, I looked at myself in the mirror… I looked frail, pale, and scared; I didn’t like that look.  I threw my coat down on the floor of the closet and slammed the door as hard as I could.

I still intended to go on to work.  I showered and shaved, stared in the mirror at the big knot on my head, got dressed and came back downstairs.  With some hesitation, I picked my coat up from the closet floor, put it on and walked to my front door.  I reached for the latch, but I was afraid to turn it.  I went back to my living room and sat in my favorite chair looking out the window.  I was scared to leave the house.  I went over and over in my mind how irrational my fear was, how unlikely it would be for anything to happen to me between my front door and my car.  After a few minutes, I got up and went to the door again… Again, I couldn’t bring myself to open it.  Something had changed, I was afraid.  As I realized just how afraid I was, and as my hands trembled, I felt my eyes fill with tears.  I didn’t know what to do.  I fell on my knees and prayed.  It didn’t make me feel any better.  I got up, called my job and explained to them that I was ill.  Then I went to bed and just laid there listening to the traffic passing in the street.

After a while I got up again to call my mother and let her know I’d stayed home from work, but was okay.  She was glad to hear my voice, but somehow and for some reason, I didn’t want her to hear mine.  I was ashamed of what had happened to me and I thought it made me less of a man.  I went back to bed and slept sporadically and fitfully through the afternoon.  I seemed to stir with every little noise that I heard in the house.  I nearly jumped out of my skin when the mail arrived and the flap on the mail slot slammed shut.  I was shocked that I was so afraid, even in the supposed safety of my own home.  I thought long and hard that evening about how I was going to steel myself to go out the next day.

In the morning, the alarm went off at five just as it always did, but I was already wide awake and had been for most of the night.  I just laid there and listened to the alarm ring for 10 minutes until it stopped on its own.  I didn’t want to get up; I didn’t want to get out from under the safety of the covers.  I didn’t want to do anything.  Two hours passed and then I finally got up and got dressed.  I went downstairs and stood by the door.  Although I was still afraid, I took a deep breath and turned the latch, pulling the door open.  I stepped out into a brightly lit morning, looking over my shoulders and all around me all the way down to my car.  When I reached the parking lot at work, I was just as cautious; I even drove around the lot scrutinizing everything and everyone before parking and getting out of the car.

I was working as a pastry chef and although I worked in an area by myself, other employees often came into and passed through my area.  Every time one of the doors opened, it startled me.  After a while, I noticed that when that happened, if I had a tool in my hand, my grip tightened and I was ready to fight or run.  I realized how irrational my fear was, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.  Later that day, my boss, the executive chef, came in and he stopped and asked me what had happened to me the day before, pointing to the large swollen bruise on my head.  I didn’t want to tell him the truth, so I said, “I slipped on the stairs and fell…” I could see in his eyes that he knew it was a lie, but he smiled and said, “Be careful, we need you…” in his heavy German accent.

My boss had always been “touchy-feely, in the way many Europeans tend to be.”  He’d often reach out and touch your arm for emphasis when he’d be talking with you.  He also liked to pat you on the back to signify you’d done a good job on something.  That day, as he said to me, “Be careful…” he reached out to touch me on the arm as he often did.  But that day, I quickly moved back out of his reach, while uneasily saying, “Okay, Chef, I will…”  His thick eyebrows rose as he watched me almost run from him, but he walked away and left me to my work. 

I went back to my workbench and I was about to roll out some pastry when I realized beads of sweat were rolling down my face and my hands were wet with perspiration too.  As I reached for the rolling pin and saw how my hands were trembling; I realized I was having a panic attack.  I didn’t want anyone to see me, but I was scared to leave the safety of my work area too.  I hid in the walk in freezer for about 3 minutes.  When I came out, even I didn’t know if I was shivering from the cold, or still trembling from fear.  I finished my work as quickly as I could that day.  I didn’t stop for lunch or breaks, I just wanted to finish and go home.  When I left that day, I cautiously opened the door to the parking lot, quickly scanned the area and then walked quickly, almost running to my car. 

All I could think about on my 30 minute drive home was, “How can I function like this…?”  I was ashamed that I felt so afraid and fearful.  I questioned my own manhood and even if God loved me.  The more I thought about it, the more I felt weak and powerless.  I certainly had self-esteem issues before hand, but now they were much worse.  When I got home, and got behind my front door, I cried again as I fell to my knees and prayed for God to help me understand why that had happened to me.  I was on my knees for maybe 15 or 20 minutes when I was startled by the doorbell.  I wearily walked to the door and peaked through the curtain to see standing with his walker on my icy porch, my old friend, Mr. Ford.  I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and opened the door for him.  He smiled and said, “How are you doing, Chrissy…?”  I’d always hated that he shortened my name to “Chrissy,” but that afternoon, in his kind elderly voice, it gave me a warm, safe feeling to hear it.

It took him nearly 5 minutes just to get over the threshold and into the vestibule.  I wondered to myself how long it had taken him to walk from his car at the street to my door and up the icy stairs.  It had been months since I’d seen him drive himself anywhere.  I helped him to the best chair in my living room.  I lit the fireplace and as I did, he said he’d come to talk to me about what had happened.  As I sat beside him, he said, “Do you know why you survived yesterday?”  I said, “I guess I was lucky…”  He said, “No, you weren’t lucky, you were blessed…” as he reached over and laid his hand on my leg.  When he touched me, it didn’t scare me, I didn’t feel nervous; I felt at ease, I felt the warmth of his spirit.  Though I tried not to, one or two tears rolled freely from my eyes as I leaned into my old friends arms.

As Mr. Ford held me and patted my shoulder, he said, “Chrissy, when I saw those animals over you, I knew I couldn’t help you, so I prayed, I asked God to protect you, even as they were kicking and hitting you.” “And do you know what, Chrissy? God told me He was already with you.”  I raised my head from his shoulder and I looked into his eyes and I could see in his countenance that he meant what he’d just said.  Then he said to me, “When I saw that bastard cock that gun, I wasn’t afraid for you, I knew God would protect you.” “And when he hit you again, and you passed out, he got off you and they ran away, I knew it was God’s hand, Chrissy.”  “God rescued you, son!”  And just then, I knew he was right, and suddenly my spirit seemed lighter.  Mr. Ford said, “Don’t be afraid, Chrissy…”  Then Mr. Ford motioned for me to move his walker closer and when I did he struggled to his feet and said he was going home. 

I helped Mr. Ford out the door and down the stairs and as I watched him make his way to his car in the street, I wondered how he’d made it all the way to my house that day.  I ran down my walk and told him I was going follow him home and help him get into his house.  He told me, he didn’t need that help.  He said, “God will get me there…” just as the first few snow flakes of an approaching storm began to swirl and fall around us.  As I stood there watching my friend, Mr. Ford struggle to get into his car, I had to admire his bravery and the faith that inspired it.  When he finally got settled in the driver’s seat, he rolled down the window and said, “Snow’s coming, Chrissy, see you in the morning…?”  I said, “I’ll be there” and he drove away.

The next morning, there was a fresh coating of snow to be shoveled from the walks.  I got up and said my prayers, pulled on my coat, gloves and hat and went to the door.  As I opened the door, I said to myself, “I can do this… Some people are evil, but God is good and He loves me.”  With that, I stepped out into the new snow, shovel in hand, and although I was nervous and still very wary, I set off for my mother’s house.  As I shoveled Mother’s snow, I could see her looking down on me from the window and when I got to Mr. Ford’s house, he was watching for me too. 

As I got back home to get ready for work, I was happy that I’d gotten through that first new morning.  Although I’d be nervous and jumpy for weeks to come, with each passing day it got a little easier to face the world.  After a while I wasn’t fearful of strangers any more… It wasn’t the world that had changed, it was me.  I’d learned some powerful lessons that have served me to this day.  I learned that it was important to be watchful, but I also learned that it was just as important to trust…  I knew God loved me.

To My Dear Friend,

This is my story; this is what happened to me.  I hope knowing that I got past it and that yes, things got to be okay again, will help you to know too, “God loves you…”

 

*****

Epilogue

My dear friend for whom this was written had been attacked and robbed on the street and was struggling with overcoming new found fears.  I shared my experience that he might know that he too would be alright with the passage of time.  He has since found a pleasant tide of life that at the time he thought he'd never know. He has married the love of his life and he and his husband live in Washington, D.C.

My beloved old friend Mr. Ford passed away a few years after this incident and I mourned his loss greatly. I shoveled my friends snow for many years after this until Deborah's son was old enough to take over. Mrs. Ford, his beloved wife of more than 60 years died earlier this spring and now whenever I am near, I stop by their graves to thank them for the lessons that they helped teach me about life, service, friendship and "The Love of God."

MJ "Mack" Simon-Saunders

November, 20, 2014:



I learned today that my dear friend for whom this was originally written died in hospital yesterday... And although it was sad to learn that he was no longer with us, I was also happy, for in reading the announcement his husband posted on Facebook, it was clear that he was loved and that is all that truly matters in this life. 

"Fear Eats the Soul"

* Originally published February 2007