The Crooked Arm Man | ORIGINAL Spoken Word | Prose

There's only one vowel different in love and live. There is only one man between life and death.

Written somewhere around 2006. Minor edits were made for the purpose of posting up as a spoken word prose.

Picture: San Juan Capistrano Spanish Mission, San Juan Capistrano, California, Summer 2017

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Words:

I got lost today while riding my bike around.
I ended up in the park at the edge of town.
Only one old man was left sitting on a bench,
even though it was humid, dusk, getting dark.

I chained my bike to a rack and walked the path a while,
hands in pockets, feet shuffling, lost in thought
and passed by where the old man sat, also lost in thought.
He was well-dressed with the crooked arm bent toward his chest,
as he gazed out at nothing, seeing what was not there.

I kept on walking and my thoughts kept on reeling,
but the image of this crooked arm man would not leave my mind.
So, I took a risk, and with my heart aflutter,
I went over to the crooked arm man and asked, "Are you alright?"
Surprisingly, he looked up at me as if I was a long-lost friend.

He talked with me while and walked with me on the path a while,
said he’d been living alone at this end of town,
in a run-down house just across the road.
It had a small steeple on the roof over the door.
He said it used to be such a pretty little place.

He said he came to the park every day and counted the clouds,
listened to the birds, and watched busy people live their hurried lives.
No one stopped to speak to him or ask if he was alright.
His eyes got teary as he told me of his wife that died a few years back,
and of his children that never came to see him.
He told me of the life they used to live that was hurry here and hurry there,
Never stopping, always going.
No time for peace, no space for quiet.

He told stories from war, of how he got his crooked arm.
He told me the places he’d been and the dreams in his heart.
Most of all he told me how much God had given him
even in his most troubled of days and lowest places in life.

I told how boring my life was compared to all that he had seen and done.
But he put that crooked arm hand on my shoulder,
and with light upon his face and a gleam in his eyes said:
"There is more to life than what you see and do.
I sit here every day, watching people young and old choose lives that satisfy their wants,
never pausing to think their lives are meant for more."
He pointed to my chest, and then to the sky, and finally to the path in front of the bench where we sat,
"Live for Him and love like Him and the rest will follow."

I knew what he was talking about for I also had faith,
but obviously not as much as this man seemed to.
I walked him home that first night with so many questions reeling in my mind.
So much doubt about how God can be in a life as messy as mine.
I saw him every day after that, at the park in the very spot where we first met.
We played chess on the bench or walked the path until he grew tired.
We counted the clouds, listened to the birds, and watched busy people live their hurried lives.
In those last hours of his life the Crooked Arm Man taught a lost friend how to find peace where might have been chaos,
and quiet where might have been noise.
We talked about living and the things going on in our lives,
of the plans we had and prayed over the plans God might have for us.

Most of all I learned that seeing is not always believing,
and first impressions are not always right,
Expectations based on misjudgments can drive a wedge between amicable hearts,
leaving an old crooked arm man seemingly lost and contrite.
Now, before I start the day, I take a moment to thank God for all I have,
And during times when we used to meet in the darkening hours of twilight,
I stop at that bench and say a prayer for a man that showed me another,
one who lived a more desperate and solemn but holier life
than either of us have known or ever will live.

I realize now who the crooked arm man really was.
Even in the dark his face shone with love and compassion.
He was always patient, never angry, always kind,
even when I was mad at the world, at my mess, and less than willing to talk.
Now I try my best to follow his example and remember his advice.
Some days I fail miserably and other days are easier,
as I aim to be more patient, slower to anger, always striving to be more kind,
all because of that old crooked arm man.

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