The Man with the Mushy Face

​The man with the mushy face interupts my angry drive. 

It seems I have been on the road forever, a victim of endless work zones and holiday returnees. My journey has taken me twice as long as usual and there are loved ones at home waiting for me. I am definitely not moving slow within.

Then we are at another in a long line of red lights and he is there. Hand-lettered cardboard sign. Wet with the rain. Face swallowing in on itself.

I check my wallet, realize I have no small bills so I put the wallet away. He pauses at my window. Then he passes by, disappointed.

We wait. Oh, she says, from the seat behind me, in a rare show of empathy, what happened to his face?

I have no answers for her. Maybe an accident, I say. Or perhaps he is a veteran and got hurt in a war. I cannot say what happened to his face. But her question makes his more real to me.

I see him returning in my rear view mirror. The light is about to change. I open my wallet, reach out the window with the bill. Surprisingly, no one honks.

Wow, he says through smashed lips, surprised at the larger denomination.

I am too. I gave so little, but more than usual. Yet I received something too. 

One might say I was interupted by ugliness, but that would be untrue. Rather the ugliness in my heart disappeared when I gave in to an opportunity to step outside of my circumstance. Just for a moment.

To the man with the mushy face, I am just another driver at the intersection. 

To me, he is the One with the sign, who interupts my rush hour with the choice to step into Love.

If I will only reach out my hand and give Him what I have to offer.

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