Ben Petersen '13 (right) and Becca Rybaltowski '11, '12 (left) at an immigration rally |
It had been a long day and I was happy to leave
the loud, crowded lobby, eager to escape the chaos of lines and paperwork and
impatient people. I stepped out of the Mexican Consulate onto E 39th St. and into
yet another chaotic world: rush hour. My feet hurt and my back ached from
carrying my bag all day but I hurried on, down bustling Park Avenue and into the mass of commuters.
My first few days I walked through this, nodding
at passersby, enjoying the moment and refusing to rush. But that day I walked as
a part of it all; pushing past people on their cell phones, stepping around
tourists with kids, barely stopping at lights, if at all. I rushed with this
mass through the twists and turns of Grand Central Station, desperately trying
to reach my line before the person beside me. The 7 came with a screech and a
whoosh as the doors opened and the air conditioning spilled out into the hot
tunnel. I stepped in and sat immediately, relieved to get off my feet, as
others streamed past, packing into the car. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and
settled in for the ride home.
At Vernon Blvd I was disturbed by a commotion. The doors were ringing, unable to close as an
old homeless man crept onto the train. Hunched with age he grunted and pushed his
shoulder into people forcing them to move. People recoiled from his touch and quickly
cleared a way. A young man in dress pants got up quickly and crossed to the
other side of the car as the old man shuffled on and sat beside me. His skin
was old and gray, his face ugly, sagging with wrinkles. His arms bore open
sores and bandages. He smelled of urine and his button down shirt hung off his bare
shoulder. He held an old Dunkin Donuts cup, jingling the few small coins in its
bottom, and mumbled unintelligibly to the captive audience stuck in the car
around him. In the other hand, he clutched a torn plastic bag, presumably all
his current belongings. I inched away uncomfortably; being careful our arms
didn’t touch, scanning the car for an opening to escape to.
Sitting, I could only see the waists and shoes
of those around me. Business shoes and slacks headed home, skinny jeans and
converse rushing to the nearest dive bar, pastel shorts and Sperrys on their
way to the US Open; all of us packed together as we rushed somewhere else. But
within this cramped mass there was a space, as people shifted and shuffled,
away from the homeless man. Eyes met across the car, brows raised and noses
wrinkled. I looked pleadingly to a Korean girl in front of me, hoping she would
make space for me to get up. Then, at Court Square, a seat opened up across the
car, thank God! The Korean girl lifted up her elbow and nodded her head at the
seat. I put my foot out and leaned forward to get up and take it, but then, sat
back down heavily.
The words “whatever you do for one of the least
of these…” flashed through my mind. The Korean girl stared at me, confused, as
another woman filled the empty seat. I shrugged my shoulders, paused, and then
smiled. “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you
did for me also,” I mouthed these words to myself as I thought and received
even more stares from the commuters around me. I thought of how foolish I had
been and immediately began to pray. I relaxed and took the full seat, letting
our knees touch and elbows brush. He shifted away and grunted but I said, “It’s
alright man,” and smiled. Two stops later a teen hurrying out of the doors
knocked the old man’s bag to the floor. I bent, picked it up and handed it back
to him, cringing as his dirty hands touched my own. He nodded at me, grateful
yet puzzled, and continued mumbling.
Ben Petersen '13 |
And that was it. I didn’t continue to talk to
him. I didn’t share the gospel with him or give him my spare change. I was just
there. I treated him like a human being. As a human being. I wasn’t on my way
home, I was there, on 7 train, sitting beside him. Maybe I should have said more. Maybe I should
have given him some food or helped him retie his bag. But who knows.
What I
do know is that this moment, and this man, forced me to look at myself. It
forced me to see that little things matter; that this one little act, though
perhaps small to the man, or weird to the people on the train, mattered to me,
and mattered to my Maker. Compared to that, what else matters?
Ben Petersen - Catholic Migration Services - New York, NY