In The Cigar Box

Half blinded by the glare on my windshield, I was waiting for the light at 75 th and Prospect to turn green.  On the sidewalk stood an old man, short and a little stooped with three days of stubble on his chin.  He was holding the arm and looking into the face of a tall, stoutly built man.  The big man stared full face into the piercing morning sun and in his left hand clutched the harness of a resting, but watchful, yellow Lab.  I imagine this tall man was blind and out on a training walk – a walk where the Lab was teaching him how to trust his trustworthy dog.  The older fellow kept touching his arm to transmit a sense of security as, step by step, he pushes back the boundaries of his life without sight. My grand-dog, Zip, is a yellow Lab whose name came from the brown streak down his snout that makes it look like his face was zippered together.  He’s just two years old but has become fast friends with my grandsons, loves to run with their dad and c...

On a Wednesday night gripped by icy wet winds, we turned our collars and walked to the church door.   All of the stained glass windows were dark and a lone bulb above the high-arched, oaken doors cast a stark yellowish stain on crumbling concrete steps. “I wonder if the service has been cancelled because of wind chills below zero?”   We had shown up just a couple of weeks earlier for a meeting at the church only to learn that cold, snowy weather led to the cancellation.   We felt like we might have been the only people who failed to get the message.   “You mean like last time?” I asked. With full resolve I grabbed the door handle.   A door that heavy glides more than it swings but it opened.   “There are people here but the sanctuary looks dark,” she whispered – it was as if any sound above a whisper would rend the scrim of solemn serenity and pour cold into this warren of warmth.    Wondering if we were early, or late, I ...