Where the Ragged People Go

First things first ... this whole downsizing and moving thing is much harder than I thought it would be, especially now that I've started looking for an apartment to rent. As much as it pains me to admit it, I think my children are dead-on correct with their new mantra I mentioned in my previous post. I walk into those two-bedroom apartments that are advertised as "spacious" or "open and airy" and I feel like I'm in a box. My heart beats so hard I wonder if it sounds like Jumanji ... my palms itch as though they've been soaked in poison ivy juice ... my stomach feels like someone has unleashed a power tool inside of it ... my head spins even worse than it does when I'm on a plane. I know downsizing and moving is absolutely the right thing for me to do at this point in my life, but man, oh, man, I'm going to have to get rid of a bunch of stuff between now and the first of December.

For all the sucky parts of downsizing, one sort of cool side effect is that I've discovered things that I'd forgotten I even had. Like my Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits CD ... seriously, how in the world have I existed for all these years without the boys who sang me through the angst of my teenage years? Sometimes I wonder just how many hundreds of hours I spent sprawled out on the floor of my mustard yellow bedroom listening to "Bridge Over Troubled Water" and all of their other awesome songs. Though I can't begin to tell you how many hours of my youth were spent in the company of Mr. Simon and Mr. Garfunkel, but I can tell you that my morning and evening commutes this week have been filled to overflowing with the melodic and moving harmony of these two fine gentlemen.

My song of choice today was "The Boxer," and by song of choice I mean the song that I hit repeat on over and over and over again. I know I've heard that song a gazillion times over the years, but today one certain set of lyrics really struck me and I couldn't quite figure out why until this evening as Ollie and I walked home surrounded by the cool dark air of the night.

"In the company of strangers

In the quiet of the railway station 

Running scared

Laying low

Seeking out the poorer quarters 

Where the ragged people go

Looking for the places

Only they would know."

Several years ago, I ran across a short story called "The Ragman" written by Walter Wangerin. Words can't describe the powerful impact the story had on me the first time I read it or the impact it's had on me each time I've read it since. It only took one time of reading the story aloud at various speaking engagements for me to understand that I wasn't the only one who was deeply moved by the tale. I realized tonight on my walk with my beloved little hound that the reason I'd been unable to get the words of the Simon and Garfunkel tune "The Boxer" out of my head today ... "Where the ragged people go looking for the places only they would know" ... was because they reminded me of the story of The Ragman. I read the story again when I got home, and it's seems only fitting to close by sharing it with you. As you read, remember ... we all have rags we need to let go of, friends ... every single one of us has rags we need to exchange for good. Think about that for a while ... think about that for a good long while indeed.

"I saw a strange sight. I stumbled upon a story most strange, like nothing in my life, my street sense, my sly tongue had ever prepared me for. Hush, child. hush now, and I will tell it to you.

Even before the dawn one Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys of our City. He was pulling an old cart filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear tenor voice: 'Rags!' Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music.

'Rags! New rags for old! I take your tired rags! Rags!'

'Now this is a wonder,' I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner city?

I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasn't disappointed. Soon the ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, signing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows made a sad X. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking.

The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.

'Give me your rag,' he said gently. 'and I'll give you another.'

He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift to the giver.

Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he put her stained handkerchief to his own face; and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left without a tear.

'This is a wonder,' I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child who cannot turn away from mystery.

'Rags! Rags! New Rags for old!'

In a little while, when the sky showed grey behind the rooftops and I could see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came upon a girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek.

Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart. 'Give me your rag,' he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, 'and I'll give you mine.'

The child could only gaze at him while he loosened the bandage, removed it, and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it ran a darker, more substantial blood -- his own!

'Rags! Rags! I take old rags!' cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman.

The sun hurt both the sky, now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and more to hurry.

'Are you going to work?' he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head. The Ragman pressed him: 'Do you have a job?' 'Are you crazy?' sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket -- flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket. He had no arm.

'So,' said the Ragman. 'Give me your jacket, and I'll give you mine.'

So much quiet authority in his voice! The one-armed man took off his jacket. So did the Ragman -- and I trembled at what I saw: for the Ragman's arm stayed in its sleeve, and when the other put it on, he had two good arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one.

'Go to work,' he said.

After that he found a drunk, lying unconscious beneath an army blanket, an old man, hunched, wizened, and sick. He took that blanket and wrapped it round himself, but for the drunk he left new clothes. And now I had to run to keep up with the Ragman. Though he was weeping uncontrollably, and bleeding freely at the forehead, pulling his cart with one arm, stumbling for drunkenness, falling again and again, exhausted, old, old, and sick, yet he went with terrible speed. On spider's legs he skittered through the alleys of the City, this mile and the next, until he came to its limits, and then he rushed beyond.

I wept to see the change in this man. I hurt to see his sorrow. And yet I need to see where he was going in such haste, perhaps to know what drove him so. The little old Ragman -- he came to a landfill. He came to the garbage pits. And I waited to help him in what he did but I hung back, hiding. He climbed a hill. With tormented labor he cleared a little space on that hill. Then he signed. He lay down. He pillowed his head on a handkerchief and a jacket. He covered his bones with an army blanket. And he died.

Oh how I cried to witness that death! I slumped in a junked car and wailed and mourned as one who has no hope -- because I had come to love the Ragman. Every other face had faded in the wonder of this man, and I cherished him; but he died. I sobbed myself to sleep.

I did not know -- how could I know? -- that I slept through Friday night and Saturday and its night too.

But then, on Sunday morning, I was wakened by a violence. Light -- pure, hard, demanding light -- slammed against my sour face, and I blinked, and I looked, and I saw the first wonder of all. There was the Ragman, folding the blanket most carefully, a scar on his forehead, but alive! And, besides that, healthy! There was no sign of sorrow or age, and all the rags that he had gathered shined for cleanliness.

Then I lowered my head and, trembling for all that I had seen, I myself walked up to the Ragman. I told him my name with shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him. Then I took off all my clothes in that place, and I said to him with dear yearning in my voice: 'Dress me.'

He dressed me. My Lord, he put new rags on me, and I am a wonder beside him. The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!"