Dolls’ House of Petronella Oortman, 17th century — Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, The Netherlands © 2005 Craig Dahlberg
My curled fingers held one drinking glass and grasped the rim of another. The other hand clenched a used Kleenex tissue and half a dozen Lego bricks. As I left the living room, I placed the drinking glasses in the kitchen sink. Down the hall in my room, I tossed the Legos into their bin and flicked the sticky Kleenex into my bedroom trashcan.
In our house, we exited a room with religious fervor. My mother’s directive was clear: Never leave a room empty-handed. Her decree had sound roots. Hands, she believed, were God’s perfect tool. Their five-fingered design could manage a vast array of objects. As we devoted our hands in unity of purpose, our family could keep the house tidy.
If Mother suspected a protocol violation, her raised voice echoed, “Your hands aren’t empty, are they?” Alerted, I would lunge for a mislaid comic book or snatch an out-of-place plastic model airplane, jam them into my fists and announce, “Oh, no! My hands are full!” Disregarding the ordinance would earn a volley to “tidy up!”—not only the offending room, but the entire house.
Mom, the original efficiency expert, is gone. Her voice now directs angelic hosts in orderly discharge of their heavenly duties. Even today, upon leaving a room, those long-ago adolescent etched-in habits send my empty hands a-twitching—why are my hands empty?
Now, the prevailing winds of age have re-directed me. I’ve grown fond of a newer, contrarian urge. Instead of my take-it-with-me instincts, I now ask myself: “What can I leave behind?” Let me explain.
A squat, thickset man, stooped, chin implanted into his chest, shuffled into the jammed outpatient surgery waiting room. Each movement declared his obvious pain. The other patients in the room monitored him, hoping he would pass them by.
Groaning and perspiring, he paused, rotated like shawarma on a rotisserie, and lowered himself into the chair next to me. The cushion blurted a flatulent protest. Overflowing the chair, his left shoulder leaned into me, his arm draped across mine. Face down, his head rested upon his hands, which rested on his cane. He panted from the exertion of walking. Both his knees bore the heavy scars of replacement surgery. I felt trapped.
Too quickly contemplating how to break the uneasy silence, I blurted, “Hi, what are you here for?” Good grief! You don’t ask that of a man, hobbled with pain, in a medical waiting room! Just shut up!
Head still lowered and resting on his hands, he groaned, “I’m John. I have, um, degenerative disk disease. Terrible pain. Runs the whole length of my back.” He regained his breath and muttered, “Every day, I’m in agony. The pain never lets me go.” He seemed as relieved as I did at the broken silence. “What about you?” he asked, forgiving of my incursion.
Me? His response set me on my heels. I explained I was not a patient, but was here with my wife. We began comparing medical notes. Gradually, we shifted into another far smoother conversational gear. His face, now off his hands and cane, carried a smile. We shared a chuckle together, and then another. We teased. We taunted. We cajoled. Ignoring unease, we pushed back against our differences, away from our discomfort. We made room for one another.
Soon enough, a nurse whisked John down the hallway in a wheelchair. His empty chair’s vinyl seat cushion re-inflated. Mother would have been proud of his departure’s tidiness; nothing left behind.
Or was there, indeed, something he left behind?
After John left, a profound stillness followed. But in the stillness, there was no emptiness. Something different and fresh lingered—the gifts that John left behind. The gift of a welcoming spirit. A gift of grace. Unexpected joy.
And he left behind a question for me to consider. Which is more important—what we take away with us, or what we leave behind for others?