A Second Look.

It’s almost like a wrestling match.

 

Both opponents know what they stand for, fighting tooth and nail to bring the other down. But while both slug it out in ugly contention on stage, it is neither of them, but our very own conscience, that gets battered.

 

At times like these, we wished we could surrender, and pass up making a decision.

 

We all know the feeling of walking past poverty. Even among missionaries, there is no single stand taken: While some choose to survey each situation on a case-by-case basis before making a decision, others who firmly believe in not propagating syndicate begging will withold their giving, however heart-wrenching it may be. Still, there are others who, like us, keep a stash of food with us wherever we go, to give food instead of money when faced with a plea.

 

At times like these, the wrestlers push at each other fiercely, to take the other down with a final bash. A million reasons jostle themselves like angry spectators to the forefront of your mind to justify your stand. You try to displace the agonizing discomfort with a distraction or change in conversation, but then your mind jams. Your conscience simmers with guilt, before scalding your heart with bitterness.

 

Eventually, one wrestler wins. Who wins, I am learning, often depends on whether one took the second look.

 

When I saw him from the corner of my eye, I walked past. After all, my husband and I were both on a short break visiting the Nile for my birthday- it was meant to be a relaxed, private time planned by him for the two of us. Poverty, begging, and swindling were not things we wanted to deal with on a getaway.

 

In Africa, where throngs of beggars can fill the street-sides and children, void of innocence in their eyes, rehearse patronizing lines meant to invoke pity, one often finds oneself in a vexing situation. One can decide in one’s heart not to give because one believes they’re from a syndicate, but the plea never disappears- it only dissolves in one’s heart, leaving a sour effervescence of anguish and sometimes, guilt.

 

“Don’t look back,” I told myself. “You’re on a break your husband planned for you. It’s a jolly time- now don’t spoil it. There’re so many of them, just walk on.”

 

But it was Cliff who caught me stealing a half-glance over my shoulder, after walking some 10 metres away from him.

 

“Wanna buy something from him?” he asked all-knowingly, reading my mind like an open book.

 

“He’s selling something?” I asked, surprised.

 

“Yea, he is. Wanna see?”

 

My initial inner tussle had disallowed me from seeing him for who he was. But now, in full view, there he was- a shrunken grandfather huddled into an old wheelchair, with tiny polio-stricken legs tucked into himself like folded origami.

 

“Oli otya, ssebo (How are you, sir?)” I smile at him, looking into glimmering eyes, emptied of conniving.

 

“Jendi, nnyabo (I’m good, madam).” He laughs, as a mzungu (foreigner) like myself chats him up in Luganda, the local dialect. “Jabele. (Cheers to you).”

 

“Jabeleko, ssebo. (Cheers back to you, sir)” I reply. “Centemeka? (How much is this?)”

 

There is a certain dignity in his voice, a rare, quiet self-respect of some sort.

 

“These are banana fibre balls,” he explains.

 

“Bili (Two).” I reply. “We’ll take two.”

 

“Okay and wait…” He reaches into an old wooden box he places beneath his feet, passing a sheet of paper to us, on which was neatly printed:

 

All at once, when I looked at him, I no longer saw an old, shrivelled man begging by the roadside, colored by my own perspectives of suspicion, doubt and resignation. As I stooped down to chat with him at eye-level, I saw a self-respecting grandfather who understood his worth not as the world valued him, but as how God saw him.

 

Polio took away his ability to stand physically, but it did not take away his ability to stand for himself.

 

There are times, where for whatever reason, we choose to walk away. Had I walked on, all I would have had was a memory of a decrepit beggar, dismissed by my own hastiness.

 

Because of a second look, and a loving husband’s invite to display compassion and grace at all times (whether in a rush or not, or on holiday or not), I had the privilege to hold the hand of a rare, venerable man, who showed me the meaning of what it means to live a meaningful, respectable life, whatever our age or circumstance.

 

In an environment where we frequently encounter a deeply-etched “handout” mentality from able people, this elderly man was a role model and example to many, myself included.

 

That day, I learnt, how important a second look can be.

 

A second look can change everything you ever thought about the person you simply walked by.

 

A second look gives you a second chance to reconsider your hasty decision, and recalibrates how you decide when to stop for someone in need. It gives you the opportunity to redefine who you are, based on how you choose to act.

 

A second look, can re-open your eyes to what you were first veiled to. It can give you the chance not only to impart love, but to learn grace, not only to give compassion, but to receive humility.

 

The question is- will we, or will we walk on?

 

The next time we see somebody in need, will we take the chance to take a second look?

 

It just might touch somebody’s life, and yours too.

 

“Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes;

and immediately they regained their sight and followed Him.”

– Matthew 20:34