I'm holding Che, our five month old daughter, in the front yard on an idyllic island afternoon when his car pull slows to a halt and he asks.
My initial reaction consist of a verb followed by a pronoun.
The pronoun is "YOU!"
I refrain from verbalizing my initial reaction, stoll to his open window and introduce Clare Hope Elliott.
The old man's red face is scaly as flakes of skin fall on his shirt as he burst into tears.
Instinctively I jerk Che back.
"May I hold her?" he cries.
Sticking my arms towards him, he place his cheek next to hers and she coos.
"She kissed me," he screams ... then burst into tears again.
"What is it?" I ask hugging my daughter tight.
"I don't know," he sobs. "I do know," he continues pushing himself. "I'm sick. I'm selling my house. We're moving ... I've been here my whole life ... but we can't afford it anymore ... selling everything ... leaving the only place I've ever known ... my wife ..." and his head collapses onto the steering wheel.
Che recently discovered she has a voice and loves to gurgle, a warm, wet, sloppy release of happiness from deep inside, and take this moment to do so.
His head snaps to attention.
"Your granddaughter's beautiful!" he says wiping tears from his red face causing more flakes to shower his dark blue shirt.
"She is," I sigh.
"Will you pray with me?" he ask, appearing more seven than seventy.
With one hand I hold Che and the other I hold his and in the middle of the street on a warm spring day, I invite God into the unfolding mess.
His phone rings and keeping his eyes closed, he tightens his grip on mine saying, "I ain't answering!" so I finish the prayer.
"Thank you," he sobs.
"Yeah," I answer.
Che gurgles again.
"She's beautiful," he sobs away.
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