Cup

You must be willing to drink this cup, we're told, more than once during this week of lamentation; we'll also hear the condemned man cry "Take this cup from me!" But what is my cup? What is the draught I'm asked to drink? Is it new wine, or bitter herbs?

Yesterday, my husband and I made a trip to a marble and stone seller in the northern part of the city to pick out two small pieces for our renovated bathrooms. When we stepped into the showroom, we nearly fell over. Polished rectangles of stone, from all over the world, hung on the walls and on two wall-to-ceiling panels, each piece more beautiful than the next. The colors ranged from white to green to rosy pink to black, with a dazzling array of patterns. We worried that we wouldn't be able to afford any of them, even the small pieces we needed, but saw two we completely loved. The Italian saleswoman introduced us to a man she said would help us. Go with him into the back room, she said, and he'll show you what's available.

We stepped through a door, out of the shiny showroom, and into a huge dusty warehouse filled with slabs of marble and stone in wooden racks. Step very carefully here, he cautioned, as we skirted a piece of bright yellow equipment. And here, watch your step, it's wet...the floor was slimy with stone dust and water. Still, we moved through the warehouse far more quickly than we wanted -- neither of us had ever seen anything like it -- and into a second huge room, this time a work bay with saws and other types of heavy equipment. Small slabs of stone were stacked against the back wall. Here, let's see if we have something that will suit you, he said.

We quickly found a piece of grey-veined carrera that was perfect for the shower sill, and he wrote our name on it with a grease pencil. The other we were looking for was red, we told him, and his face clouded. I don't think I have any small pieces of red marble, he said, leading us over to a very large one, big as a dining room table. We only needed a piece 3 inches by 66, we said, hopefully. How about another stone, he suggested. Granite? Please show us, we asked. He led us again to the back wall, and ran his finger across the first of two tall narrow pieces; his swipe revealed a deep red. We looked at each other. That would be perfect we said. It looked exactly like the sample we had loved in the showroom, which had apparently been granite, not marble. He measured the first: 64 inches, and shook his head. Maybe the one in the back, he said; it was taller, but had a notch at the top so that it was quite narrow. Let's see. He took out his tape again and stretched it; 68 inches. And you needed 3 inches across? Yes...he measured the top. 3 1/2 inches. He smiled and looked at me: perfect! he said. Meant to be! I answered. Yes, meant to be! It's yours. He wrote our name again, and we went out to find out the price from the saleswoman. She calculated, subtracted the contractor's discount: it was a very reasonable figure, and we nodded, that was fine.

From there, my husband dropped me at a metro station; I had one hour before I needed to be at the cathedral to teach two meditation sessions in the afternoon. When I arrived at the McGill station, downtown, I stepped out of the train and started up the steps. Over on the other side of the same stairs, where people were descending, sat a man on the very bottom step. He was slumped to one side, his long white hair unkempt, and in one hand he held a white baseball hat. As I hurried up the stairs I noticed, even at a distance, that something seemed wrong with his eyes. I climbed to the top, and then stopped, turned around, and watched. The commuters streamed by him, not noticing, or perhaps refusing to notice. Then someone stopped and seemed to bend down; no, he was just getting a better grip on the bicycle he was carrying up from the train. The man slumped further against the wall; there was a puddle near his feet that was probably urine. That was the point of decision; I turned around and headed back down the stairs, feeling in my backpack for my purse and in my pockets for any loose change.

The trains had gone; no one else was on the stairs. The man's head was bowed and he didn't look up even when I approached and stood near him. I bent down, and put all my change into the baseball hat which tipped to one side: open, expectant, empty. Bonjour, Monsieur, I said, willing him to look up. Slowly, very slowly, he raised his head, first looking in the cap to see what had changed its weight, and then lifting his eyes toward this stranger who addressed him as "Monsieur." His left eye was completely gone. The skin around his right eye hung in deep folds beneath it, the lower eyelid stretched and turned outward, weeping, a dark red color-- the same deep red as the stone we had just bought. Out of that horrible socket, though, his eye slowly focused on my face as I held onto it with my own gaze. Bonjour, Monsieur, comment ça va, I said softly, and watched the light in his eye brighten ever so slightly. It was as if he -- the man inside this ravaged body -- were swimming up from a great depth, having almost forgotten how. We looked at each other, and something like a smile formed on his face. Merci, he said. Merci. I touched his shoulder, and then I climbed up the stairs, went through the turnstile, walked into the underground mall, went down the escalator and through the foodcourt, weaving diagonally through the maze of tables and chairs, entered the bathroom, went into a stall, and sat down and burst into tears.

Then, after a little while, I left the stall and washed and dried my face, ate a bowl of lentil soup, and went to the cathedral.

Comments

[Rachel Barenblat]

Beth. Oh, Beth. This post. From the lovely descriptions of the marble and the process of finding the piece which was meant to be yours, to your description of this man's spirit swimming up from a great depth when someone was willing to look him in the eye and be present to him. And as Good Friday approaches, too. Oh, my heart.

[Judy Wise]

Thank you, Beth. For experiencing this and writing about it so beautifully and sharing it here. There is still and always hope.

[Loretta]

The Via Dolorosa of your Holy Week. Thank you for taking me there.

[mike]

I'm with Rachel, Judy, and Loretta.

[Jean]

Oh Beth. xxxx

To be a witness and to have the gift of making others see and feel it too - this does matter.

[Vivian]

To be where & who & when you are meant to be! It is everything we dare wish, Beth, and the skill to catch it in words is frosting on the cake!

[Beth]

Thank you all.

[Dale Favier]

(o)

[Martine]

La femme qui sait s'arrêter et qui sait regarder. On a envie de lui dire merci, même si ce mot ne semble pas tout à fait approprié.

[Ray Battams]

Beautiful writing

[Dick]

Many thanks for this, Beth.

[Susan Elbe]

Beth, this is wonderful. I burst into tears as well. Your kindness is what salvation is all about.

[donkimrey]

Very touching. "In that you've done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, you'd done it unto me."

[Marja-Leena]

Beautiful, heart-wrenching writing, Beth. I've come back to read this again and try to find words with which to respond. At first I was experiencing your joy over that amazing stone place and finding the red granite (how I wished I could have been there!). Then the sad sad story of that poor man and your deeply kind reaching out to him brought tears to my eyes. An Easter story indeed, thank you.

[Natalie]

Beth, so sad, not only the one-eyed man, but out of all those rushing people that no one else stopped to connect with him. You did what they all should have done but for whatever reason, they did not. That's what city-living does to the kindness impulse, which I do believe most people naturally have. I have wept in situations like that too.