Early Saturday afternoon I walked out of the art store and made my way along Peachtree in the clingy Atlanta air. Turning up 8th Street, something caught my mind and held it firmly. An older man, moving at a tender and measured pace, was up a small hill about 15 yards ahead of me.

I observed him from a distance, oddly intrigued, and slowed my stride. As I closed in I could see his hands clasped behind his back, holding three weathered books as though they’d been in his hands for years. I built his history rapidly, imagining him as a scholar in his youth, maybe an instructor at an all-boy preparatory school in the north. I could picture him pacing in a sun filled classroom and imagined the evolution of his family brought him to the south years ago, or maybe a long forgotten lover. I smiled.

Although I was moving at a deliberately sluggish pace, our paths met quickly. I attempted to make additional noises as I neared so as to not startle him, and the closer I came the more aware I was that he is body was anchored. He leaned forward at what I estimate was a nearly 35 degree angle, age had taken hold of his posture. When I took the final strides to pass him on the lumpy southern concrete, he said something in a hushed voice. I paused along side him and leaned to look him in the face, afraid he might be confused or asking for help in a whisper. He looked at me with big blue eyes that were riddled with the rings and milky glaze that age bestows upon them, hidden behind thick lenses and oversized dark plastic frames. He smiled.

With the toothy grin he began. “Oh, hello miss…” in vibrant voice and an accent that wasn’t English and wasn’t “American”. The speech pattern of the properly educated people of the east of the US in the 1950’s - beautiful with its clear annunciation and near musical cadence. He continued on, and thanked me for “snapping him back” because he had just been trying to “bring something back to mind”. A speech, he said. One he wanted to recite, it was from the Franco Prussian War and in his struggle to recollect it, he had lost himself in thought. “I could have walked for hours,” he said “if you hadn’t come along. Who knows where I might have ended up.”

We easily chatted about America and how we’ve perverted the judicial system that the Quakers founded, how we continue to be both the big brother and the bully on the playground with other nations. His contributions were legitimately and deeply founded in real history whereas mine were regurgitated anecdotes and analogies, but he seemed to enjoy them just the same.

All in all, it was only a 10 minute exchange at best that I held with this little old man. His generous smile and boundless spirit contaminated me. I doubt I’ll ever cross his path again, and it was unusually hard to drive away.

Seems there’s a lot of that lately.

The rest of the weekend was grand, most of my mission files now have “accomplished” stamped across them in red ink and all-caps. My exhaustion has not been fed with any satisfaction, but I remain hopeful that one day, I’ll get enough sleep.