The Weight of Small Things
How a ragged giraffe and a roadside kindness changed a life
The woman found more than solace in the little church at the edge of town. She found a community of people from all walks of life who accepted her as she was.
It was in this church, in the adjacent meeting hall, where she sat weekly with other broken souls, sharing stories and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. There were tears and laughter and blessed moments when the past’s pain dissolved and the elusive thing everyone longed for came into exquisite focus.
Hope.
This is what every addict in recovery envisions, pursues, and clings to. Because they know staying afloat can be unpredictable and erratic. Some days the waters are a glass-smooth lake to drift upon in serene repose. Other days the waters churn into turbulent rapids, and it takes every ounce of strength not to be flung from one’s raft into the strainers, pillows, undercuts, and hydraulic holes that swallow swimmers lost in the grand rapids of life.
An old woman in the group often spoke of angels and divine wings lifting her out of despair to somewhere full of forgiveness and renewal. Hope is the thing with feathers, she whispered again and again, and everyone in the group smiled and nodded.
But then the sad stories would come, and despite the intent of wounded souls to unburden themselves, the result was like dark clouds diminishing any rays of hope.
The old cowboy with white hair and sad, watery eyes told the circle about his beloved Texaco and how, in a drunken stupor, he galloped that loyal quarter horse in the dead of night through desert brush and thick dust into the blinding path of a speeding Peterbilt.
A young housewife spoke of better days baking for her husband and twin daughters before she began stealing her ailing mother’s oxycodone tablets and descending into an addiction so severe she spent three days unconscious in the ER. There was rehab, relapse, rehab, relapse. Then, her husband left her for some young tart at the gym, and her daughters don’t speak to her anymore.
So much for hope.
After the cowboy and housewife spoke, the woman refrained from sharing her stories of blackouts and abuse, of domestic violence that ended in handcuffs and tears, of child welfare officials whisking away her frightened boy in soiled pajamas.
The boy left his toy giraffe behind, and she held it to her chest and cried all night. Its once-bright fabric had dulled, but both button eyes still shone.
Why unearth such nightmares? Why add to the sadness? Such disinterments of memory only deepened her melancholy. After the cowboy’s shattered equine and the housewife’s demise, best to leave it be.
The meeting ended.
There were hugs amidst empty Styrofoam coffee cups, folding chairs, and cigarette butts. The kind priest went around with a large plastic bag picking up. God bless and see you next week, he said to everyone.
Some meetings uplifted the woman, others depressed her, but she kept coming back. Today’s meeting was a bit of both. She floated somewhere between the placid lake and the swirling eddies.
Despite dark clouds, a few rays of hope found her.
She left clutching her little boy’s toy giraffe that lived always in her purse. The giraffe gave her strength and purpose. A reminder of her true north, her little boy waiting for his mama.
The lady judge with condemning blue eyes told her that sobriety was the key to regaining custody. Something in the judge’s eyes spoke more of doubt than encouragement, and it was this too, besides her son, that deepened her resolve. Strength can be drawn from proving doubters wrong.
She slid into her little used car, said a quick prayer, and turned the ignition. The engine caught on the third attempt.
The day was clear and she was anxious to get back to the end-room apartment she was renting in this forgotten town, far from the city where her life unraveled. This was by design. The old friends in the city only led to the old ways, and if that happened then the judge, her ex, and all the doubters would win.
And she’d never see her boy again.
She passed a slow station wagon on the right and accelerated. Thoughts of tea and a hot bath made her anxious to get home.
Then amber lights flashed in her rearview, followed by brief siren chirps. It was a patrol car. A cop pulling her over. Her heart began to race. An avalanche of past arrests and bad memories crushed her spirit and spun her into a bundle of raw nerves.
She pulled onto a quiet side street and gripped the wheel.
A muscular cop approached her window and tapped gently. She lowered it a crack. He said he pulled her over for speeding.
Without thought she mouthed off.
Why you harassing me? What did I do wrong? I’ve had bad experiences with cops. She spoke quickly, defensively. The cop listened patiently, explained again, and asked for her license and registration.
When he returned she was still bristling.
Why are you being rude to me? he asked. I’m just doing my job.
She spoke about being clean and sober now. About the abusive relationship she fled. About the bad memories that haunted her.
And then he handed her a written warning instead of a ticket. Something in him must have sensed this woman, on this day, needed a break. She needed a boost.
She needed hope.
She seemed unsteady. He asked if she was good. She said no. He asked if he could do anything. She shook her head.
And then she began to weep.
The cop asked if she wanted a hug. To her surprise she said yes. Come here, he said gently. She slid from her car into his burly, tattooed arms. She could not believe she was embracing a cop. But there they stood, holding each other on the side of that small-town road for a long time.
Hope is the thing with feathers drifted into her thoughts and she laughed.
What’s so funny? the cop asked.
Nothing. It’s just...you don’t have wings, but in a way you’ve got feathers, she said.
He looked at her quizzically, then laughed.
They would laugh again, the two of them, after that car stop.
Months later, when the woman introduced her little boy to the officer who had saved her life, the boy held up his stuffed giraffe and said, Thank you for helping my mama. The cop started to tear up. The woman said, See? Now you know how I felt.
And they laughed.
She would tell this story many times to inspire the broken souls sitting in the church meeting hall with their coffee and cigarettes and tattered dreams and fragile hope.
Hope is the thing with feathers. We may not see them. Angels and their radiant wings are not always visible. But we can feel their grace.
And sometimes hope is not a wing at all, but a ragged giraffe in the hands of a boy who got his mama back.
(Watch the news segment below that inspired this short story)
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