The Difficult Thing

The difficult thing about getting older isn’t so much about my body deteriorating, though goodness knows it is, and at a fairly alarming rate since I hit my sixties. There are lots of challenges, of course, like staying useful, and staying hopeful, and such like that. But no, the difficult thing is that I’ve known so many people in my life, some close, many just acquaintances, some barely so. Some in school, some in the Navy, some as a teacher and professor, some in ministry. People literally all over the world. That’s a lot of faces—thousands for sure, maybe tens of thousands. So, the difficult thing is that almost everybody I see or meet reminds me of somebody else.

My neighbor has a different problem—she can’t recognize people’s faces at all. It’s a condition called prosopagnosia. My difficult thing is the opposite. I see someone in the airport and I think, “That looks just like…” And that’s where the fruitless search begins. Someone from high school? College? First career? Second career? One of my students? And that’s also why social media is so confusing, because it’s just like my brain: everybody from my life all mashed together, without distinction. It doesn’t help if I remember them young, because now they’re not. Even the dead ones are still there, just like in my memory. I get an annual reminder from Facebook about a former colleague’s birthday. He’s been dead for over ten years.

Of course, the inverse problem can also be true. I was riding with my wife in a neighbor’s car. Before I could stop her, she asked when my neighbor’s mother had passed away. She was kindly reminded by the neighbor that just the previous week she had helped fix the blinds in her mother’s room at the retirement center. My wife was mortified, and me along with her. That’s something else you get used to in your sixties, besides the aches and pains—the humiliation, caused by saying the wrong thing on account of the difficult thing, as well as other things.

I’m an introvert, but I love people. I really do. I seek to connect with them in the way that will be most meaningful for them. That’s why I’ve always been a good gift giver. I remember little things about people—things they like, things they collect, little wishes, and so forth. That’s fun for me. At least it used to be. But giving someone a gift and having them look blankly at it, then at me, searching for the connection—well, that’s no fun.

So, when my world traveler companion opened the gift and saw what it was, I got one of those looks. Searching, searching, but finding nothing. It was a really nice coffee mug from Starbucks that said “London” on it.

“I’ve never been to London,” she said.

Blank stare.

“Never?” I asked.

“Never,” she replied.

“Do you like Starbucks?”

“You must’ve been thinking of someone else.”

“Yes, must have been.”

But I wasn’t. Or was I? Who did she remind me of?

I studied her for a moment and then asked, “Did I draw your portrait once?”

I might get confused between individuals, but I could always remember things like eyes and hair and hands. She had hair that could be a study for art students learning to draw hair. I judged by her hands she was in her thirties (many things can be made to look younger; hands don’t lie). But her hair seemed much younger: an ombré, white with black undertones, thick and straight, reaching halfway down her back. It didn’t seem to me I knew anyone else with hair like that. But maybe I did.

“You never drew my portrait,” she said.

Searching, searching.

“How long have we known each other?” I asked.

“We just met. You said I reminded you of someone. Then you gave me the gift.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, “this is mortifying.”

Her eyes met mine, and then softened. In that moment, it seemed that she, at least, was no longer searching, that she had found what she was looking for. That made one of us.

“Sit next to me,” she said. “I want to tell you something.”

I sat down in the uncomfortable airport chair.

“I lost my father when I was very young,” she began. “He didn’t die, he just faded away, into work and alcohol. He hasn’t been part of my life since before I left home. I guess it’s to be expected, but I’ve painted all older men with the same brushstrokes as my father—uncaring, disengaged, incapable of even the smallest kindness.”

“Do you paint?” I asked.

“No, why do you ask?”

“You mentioned brushstrokes.”

“It’s just a figure of speech. Anyway, suddenly, today, you walked up to me, a complete stranger, and gave me a gift.”

“Yes, but it appears I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought I knew you. It was a case of mistaken identity.”

“Not at all. I think we’ve known each other a long time, ever since I asked God to be my Father. He promised me that not only would he take care of me, but he would give me a father on earth as well. It’s been a long wait, but here you are.”

“You’ve been waiting for me?”

“When you gave me the gift, you did it intentionally, because of something you believed about me, that I love London, and Starbucks. You thought you knew me, and that you’d even drawn my face. The thoughtfulness, the kindness you showed me—those were all prayers of mine for whoever would love me as a father. It’s what I’ve been missing most of my life.”

I hesitated for a moment, then said, “You’ve made me remember something.”

“What’s that?”

“I lost my daughter ten years ago in a car accident. She was about your age.”

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry.”

“I realize now that you remind me of her. She loved London, and Starbucks. When we would travel together, if we were in an airport, I’d go to the gift shop and get her a mug from wherever we were. It always meant so much to her.”

“And now your gift means so much to me. I’m no longer confused about why you gave it to me or who you thought I was. I’m honored you would think of me in the same way as your daughter.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Can I take your picture? I’d like to draw you and give you the portrait as a gift, an intentional gift, for you this time. It will also help me remember who you are in the sea of faces in my mind.”

Tears formed in her eyes.

She dabbed them away with a tissue and said, “I’d love that.”

I took her picture, we exchanged phone numbers and addresses, and then went on to our different flights. All the way back home, I just kept looking at her picture. She had that same soft look in her eyes. Like water into wine, the difficult thing had been turned into love.

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