I fought back tears as I watched him in the restaurant. The man couldn’t have been any older than fifty or sixty at most, and yet his body curved like a much-older man. His back was stooped over, his shoulders tight, his knees looked like they might buckle beneath him. It appeared as if even standing caused him pain.

As I watched him pick up his food slowly and shuffle away, my chest tightened. Tears pooled along the borders of my eyes.

I grabbed my own takeout order and left the restaurant, wondering “Why am I so moved by this man?”

We were strangers. We exchanged only a few words, all of which were about waiting for our burgers and fries. Those moments were nothing more than two people doing ordinary things in ordinary places.

And yet, his S-shaped body shuffling out the restaurant remained seared in my mind.

I think it was the visibility of his pain. While my wounds often hide behind smiles, his discomfort could not be hidden. Even without the context of his story, bearing witness to his burden made mine seem a little less—not in comparison or scale, but in knowing I was not alone. His slow, quiet shuffle invited me to let down my walls, to welcome peace in the presence of our shared humanity.

We live in a large enough city that I am unlikely to see this man again. But that night was a reminder of how interconnected we are—how even small, ordinary intersections can be an invitation into more of God, into a less-guarded way of being in the world.

Because while my body may not reveal my wounds, there’s healing in the revelation. Our common ground leads us to uncommon hope.

***

REFLECT:
What is getting in the way of revealing your hidden wounds?

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feature image: Mikael Kristenson via unsplash