Finding love where none is known to exist

This Friday afternoon past, I was stopped by a fellow in Allan Gardens (the east end of downtown Toronto, for those who may not be aware) when he noticed me picking up garbage in the park. "Why are you wasting your time doing that?" he asked. "You'll barely make a dent all by yourself. Don't worry about the [cigarette] filters and garbage: go to school and become a doctor." I mentioned I only wanted to contribute to the well-being of the community in whatever small way I could. "If you want to do this as a hobby, that's fine, but don't waste so much time on it," was his reply. We sat down and talked for a while. He told me of his youth in Kenya, and his time in Norway, and how he now makes his living as a custodian in a school. "When I was young, I never paid attention in school, and now I'm back, cleaning the shit in the toilets," he chortled. Despite his earlier sentiments, he did praise me for my kindness, and we continued chatting about this and that. There was one message he wished to convey, which he did time and time again during our encounter:

"More peace, more love, more unity!"

I must say, this is one of the pleasant by-products of getting out of my house and doing a little something for the community in which I live. About four weeks earlier, in the same park, while performing the same task, I was met by a gentleman in a wheelchair who asked if I could help him to the church. I wheeled him along the sidewalk, then around the back of the church to its side elevator, where one of the staff admitted him. Little did I know that, some time later, this man would meet me again in the park. We spent about a good half hour to an hour together as I wheeled him around the park. He spoke of his past job painting the insides of tanks and smokestacks, and of how eager he was to return to work once his legs were pain-free. There was one thing he said that stands out in my mind:

"I was told if someone has done something kind for you and you can't pay that person back, say a prayer for her/him."

Returning to this Friday past, as I entered the subway station to catch the train to meet some friends for dinner, I came across a gentleman seated at the bottom of the stairs, holding a cap in which to collect spare change from commuters. I reached into my pocket to see what coins I had, but decided instead to pull a five-dollar-bill from my wallet and hand it to him. "Thank you very much," he said as he looked reverently into my eyes, to which I returned a smile and nod. As I was making my way to the gate, I heard his voice call toward me, so I turned and saw him waving me over. I wasn't sure what he wanted to say to me, so I sat beside him and listened as he told me it was his fifty-first birthday. My heart sank: this is no way to commemorate a birthday, I thought. He went on to tell me how he could not find work in his hometown, as one of the factories closed and the other two had either fallen on hard times or, for some other reason, were not seeking new hires, thus prompting a trip to the big city to try his chances. Suffice to say, his experience here has not been a very pleasant one - he had been awake for almost a day and a half, and when he drifted off to sleep on a park bench, he was startled by police officers, who proceeded to handcuff him after bearing witness to the grumpy reaction one would normally expect from someone after being so rudely awaken - though that morning, someone was kind enough to buy him breakfast. He then mentioned he was saving some money to gain admission into the steam baths, for he would be afforded a warm bath, a shave and a night's rest. Finally, we parted ways, but before doing so, he left me with this:

"I hope to see you in Heaven one day."

These are the people we normally leave for dead. They are what we call "bums", "losers", "leeches" and the like. Time and again, we hear how they burden our society by asking us decent, hard-working folk for "handouts", rather than pull themselves up by the proverbial bootstraps.

I'll stop myself now before emarking on another of my sanctimonious diatribes. My point is, these so-called "losers" offered me some of the kindest words I have ever received in my time on this planet, and I did barely a thing for them. They left me speechless - paralyzed, even - for I was so grateful for their love, but felt unworthy of it, as I have not done nearly enough to deserve it.

If, indeed, there is such a place as Heaven, I hope there are seats awaiting these people, and all others, in the words of Anaïs Nin, "whose hearts have been hardened by misfortune", for it is they who need Heaven most of all.