Second Chances

He shuffled along the street, the leaves and the garbage keeping him company as the cold winds swarmed around him. Snow nestled the curbs. A single piece of paper with a crest on it caught his eye. At some point in his life architecture had been a passion, and insignias, shields and crests had been the pièce de résistance of buildings and times gone past. Hidden treasures of intricacy; an artists or tradesman’s one opportunity to create something everlasting, something of meaning, something of beauty. Symbols of power, of growth, of stability and of lineage; if a building had a crest, gargoyles and ornate entrances; it was a building worth studying, worth appreciating with time and reflection.

To look at him, one could never know the complexity of this man’s thoughts. One would never have guessed the depth of knowledge or passion of his man; nor the breadth of his experiences before the street. What was evident was this man was struggling and beyond that no one cared to look.

He picked up the paper and turned it over; a church bulletin. A soggy flyer, propaganda, directions for the sheep. Gum neatly placed in one corner, doodles in open spaces and multiple creases as someone referenced the hymn book numbers, or compilation of sheet music, at the appropriate time before being shoved into the back pocket. The Lord’s Prayer. The piece of paper in his hand represented an hour of someone’s time now cast aside. A pastor’s week of work now cast aside. For a hundred others he wondered what it represented. For this man it was symbolic of a life cast aside.