The bus was busy on our way to Bromley for the late night window shopping we were planning on. It was dark but only 5 o’clock.
Hubs and I managed to sit together behind a scruffy looking man whose ministrations to his face and hands drew my attention.
He was covered in blood. I didn’t see any evidence of further flow and his tissue was wadded up in a mess of red in his hands nervously fidgeting in his lap. As he dabbed and wiped he kept looking back at us. My eyes were riveted to the bloody spectacle. I had to move.
I shuddered. I thought of offering him a handy wipe, a packet of which I had in my bag, but before I had thought twice about it the bus stopped and I found myself on my feet, with other alighting passengers and moving to the rear of the bus to sit a couple of rows behind hubs who had followed me.
At the next stop the man moved from his front seat to the doors in the middle of the bus. His bloody hand clasped the railing to steady himself as the bus swerved and jolted through the streets. The bell rang, the doors opened, he wobbled forward but remained on the bus, his eyes straying in my direction.
The lady next to me asked me to let her pass so she could get off. I stood, a man behind me rose and left too. I sank into his seat further back in the bus.
The bloody man moved up the steps towards me and sat down in front of me, next to a young woman. He turned around to peer, his caked face impassive, his eyes empty, his long grey hair in a ponytail. Blood had run down the front of his jumper.
Once again I thought to offer him a wet wipe but was surrounded by so many homeward bound folk I neither wanted to draw unwelcome attention to myself, or to the man.
I was making excuses.
At our stop he got off in front of us; I expected him to be waiting for me, to accost me for moving away from him in the first place. Fortunately he stumbled off in the opposite direction.
Hubs said he’d had a nosebleed, our son tends to suffer from these. I hadn’t thought of that.
I did not know what had happened to the man. He could have been in a brawl or run into something, fallen or had an object hurled at him or simply had a spontaneous nosebleed, like our son. All I knew was I had tried to ignore him. My stomach heaved, my packet of wet wipes remained intact at the bottom of my bag.
On Sunday at church the Gospel (Matthew 25: 35-end) read,
“Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to the one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”
An accusation. A condemnation. I had been caught!
I prayed I’d be given another chance to take care of my Lord in the guise of, “one of the least of these.”
Several months ago I’d ignored the impulse to get a blanket for a homeless young man resigned to spending the night in our churchyard; only yesterday I’d resisted the urge to offer a wet wipe and a smile to the man on the bus.
I prayed again for another chance;
And laughed out loud, when, on our way home through the gravestones a familiar sight met my eyes.
The large, old, lady tramp was having a coughing fit, hawking and spitting from a bench among the crypts. In shorts and a cardigan with her coat beside her, she was perspiring freely. She obviously needed none of the warm attire I had to offer.
I gave her a smile instead.
She scowled at me across the tombstones.
Thanks Lord, I deserved that!
Well hello there! My name is Vivienne McNeny.
I am an empty nester exploring life as a Boomer…you could say I'm happily Boomering along!
As a homeschooling Mum I have finally quit the job of role model and mentor to my four children. I do what I want to do, eat when I feel like it, enjoy life with my blue eyed cowboy and clean my house once a month or so whether it needs it or not!
In true English form I write about the emergence of my true identity now that I can no longer hide behind my children as their Mum.
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