Month: October 2024

Who Does That Sort of Thing?

Railway Tracks © 2010 Craig Dahlberg

She had been lying in wait for me. Lurching from her seat half a train car away, an elderly woman flailed her arms to get my attention. This was not typical behavior in my adopted German homeland.

“Junger Mann, junger Mann, ich habe ein Geschenk für dich!” My brain’s translation center kicked into high gear—Young man, young man, I have a present for you. She waved an object above her silver hair. What? This woman had a gift for me, an eleven-year-old kid she doesn’t even know?

Trying to ignore her, I stared out the commuter train window. Then I heard her second summons. As I cautiously peered her way, she waved a brown leather satchel over her head. Pointing first to the satchel, then to me, back and forth in pantomime, her arms beckoned with the precision of a German cuckoo clock.

Working her way through the train car, she finally reached me, eager and wide-eyed, like a fish jerked from the water. In her hands was a brand-new old-school style backpack, hard leather with rounded ends.

Apparently, this was not the first time she had spotted me. As an American student living in Germany, my too-short Levis sprouted white socks and tennies. I carried my schoolbooks the American cool-kid way, the stack of books and notebooks braced on my left hip. Looseleaf papers belched from wounded binders. Respectful German children carried their schoolbooks in tidy backpacks worthy of teachers‘ inspections. Not me, a proud über-cool Amerikaner. It was hard to miss me.

She must have thought, Next time I see him, I’ll give him a new backpack…this impoverished junger Mann needs one!

Embarrassed by the kindness, I sputtered a weak “Vielen Dank,“ (“Thank you”) in rudimentary German. I exited the train one stop early, choosing to walk the rest of the way.

I can only guess how many train excursions she must have taken, each time carrying the backpack with her, hoping to spot me again. Selfless and caring toward someone she didn’t even know.

Perhaps she had been there all along. How long had she been waiting for me?

My brain fumbled. “Who does that sort of thing?” 

How do you thank someone for a random act of compassion when she leaves no address, no phone number?

Our instincts for reciprocity urge us to repay acts of kindness. Or we may concoct a “pay it forward” plan.

But I learned three things about the spirit of generosity from my Commuter-Train-Riding Backpack-carrying friend. She caught something better, something higher:

1.    Listen for the Whisper of Opportunity. After a mighty wind, an earthquake, and fire, God spoke to the prophet Elijah in a whisper. A micro-Voice, the Spirit, reaches into our souls. Like a pilot light, it is ever ready to ignite. A gentle sound or a fleeting image might grip our attention; we spot the need. Ignore lethargy and embarrassment. Respond; the wild and mysterious chase is on.

2.    Wait for the Message. What is that gentle voice telling us to do? Follow its bread crumbs through the forest. How should we meet the need? Like the Nike basketball slogan, “Just do it.” Does the solution appear impractical, untimely, or awkward? Just do it. That courageous Backpack Lady on a mission “just did it.”

3.    Resist Recognition. Afterwards—be unobtrusive, silent as slipping an overdue bill into a mail slot. Don’t talk about the secret mission. Just listen. The next whisper may already be on its way.

It has now been many decades since I encountered that lady on the train. Yet whenever I hear the clickity-clack of train tracks, I see a compassionate shotgun-riding, backpack-toting, silver-haired angel waving a book bag over her head.

And still I wonder, “Who does that sort of thing?” But then I face the real question: How can I be more like her?

Picture in a Frame

Dad, Framing a Picture — Claremont, California © 2023 Craig Dahlberg

When my dad disappeared like a genie during a stroll, it was odd, a bit scary. Was it a seizure? Sudden Alzheimer’s onset? I fault doggie Schmutz for my own occasional erratic strolling habits, but this was different.

Dad’s uncommon behavior persisted. He appeared berserk, off the rails. Over time, I got used to Dad’s unprovoked rabbit trails, unanticipated pirouettes and time-out breaks. But it was still freaky.

During these impulses, Dad, a true artist, would place his hands directly in front of his face, then, with index fingers and thumbs extended and touching, he positioned them to create a little ad hoc “finger frame.” Eyes squinted and head cocked, the squared-off space between his fingers became his imaginary canvas. All distractions outside the frame simply fell away. Dad was framing beauty, creating his private miniature masterpiece.

Mona Lisa has displayed her inscrutable smile since 1503. We all admire Leonardo da Vinci’s extraordinary portrait. But no one mentions her frame, which has been replaced many times. One recent frame was discarded after insects were found living in it. Imagine vermin devouring Mona Lisa’s frame, her winsome smile transformed into a grimace.

Frames are often humble creations. They point toward something greater—the image itself. As they guide our attention toward the thing of value, frames seem to disappear.

We refer to the authors of the Declaration of Independence as its “framers.” They point to the “self-evident truths,” realities that preexisted the authors and endured beyond them. The authors were not the creators of the truths; they simply framed and enshrined them.

Editors work hard to frame an author’s work. They iron the text’s wrinkles and erase distracting rabbit trails. They tug at words and paragraphs until the work speaks, straight and clear.

In most homes, frames showcase pictures of beloved family and friends. Here, a cherished parent or grandparent. There, framed portraits of children and a dear companion. Faced with disaster, we would likely first grab these priceless mementoes.

Music also frames. It sails freely through time and dimensions. Music celebrates loved ones and consequential events. Like our lives, music has a beginning, a middle and an end, helping to frame significant episodes or emotions. One example is Rod Stewart’s rendition of “Picture in a Frame” (written by Kathleen Brennan and Tom Waits):

The sun come up, it was blue and gold
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

Now I come calling in my Sunday best
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

I’m gonna love you till the wheels come off
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

I love you, baby, and I always will
Ever since I put your picture in a frame

Like a picture and a frame, melody and lyrics reach deeply into our hearts.

A frame honors what we cherish.

It might be a refreshed appreciation of nature or a rare composition within the bead of an artist’s eye. What we frame might be an eternal truth, a story worth telling, or a rare and cherished love.

Imagine our lives as a series of pictures, still life tableaus of the people and events that have molded us into who we are becoming. One beside the other, they depict our life story, the joys, challenges, loves, and disappointments, scenes on display.

There, that portrait of our beloved companion—it needs a wide, generous frame.

Next—ah, that disappointment that we felt so deeply, and what we learned from it! For that, an elegant, but simple frame will do.

For the deep grooves left us by the loved ones gone astray, and the joy upon their return—give that frame deeply engraved contours, like the ones etched into our heart.

With the proper framing of a canvas, all else falls away.

The content of those tableaus does not always fall within our choosing. Still, we own the framing rights to them. What shall we choose?