moved

I wasn't expecting today to be a monumental day.  I suppose I never see them coming. But when I woke up this morning, stumbled to the bathroom, and started brushing my teeth, I didn't foresee how much I would be moved these past twelve hours.

I attended our homecoming chapel this morning - my choir was preforming a piece.  I was upset that I wasn't able to go get breakfast between classes, and sat, slumped, in my pew on the balcony.  The alumni of the year was introduced with a cinematographyically impressive video. I watched, mildly interested. I wasn't expecting the words I grew up in an alcoholic home to fly out of her mouth halfway through the video. I felt my breath catch.  Every nerve shot a sensation throughout my body.  When tears ran down her face during her speech, my heart lurched and ached for her.  My beautiful woman, I know your pain.  I saw her later in the cafeteria.  I wanted to go up and talk to her.  I wish I had.

In my survey of music literature class today, we discussed Beethoven.   Here was a man beaten by his father in his childhood.  Beaten for making beautiful music.  Beaten by this brute, a raging alcoholic.  And suffered the rest of his life for it.  Never letting himself love, never letting himself forget.  My beautiful man, I know your pain.  I wanted to talk to him.  I wish I could.

Tonight, I brought my volunteers to Union Gospel Mission Men's Shelter - something I do weekly.  We sat down in a small, warm room, with my site partner and a guest from the shelter.  My site partner said his hellos, and proceeded to introduce this guest: a Montana-man, who had the appearance of a philosopher, round glasses perched on his face, scarf draped over his shoulders, and shoulder-length grey hair tousled about.  He told us he was a diagnosed schizophrenic, recovered drug addict, in the program for alcoholism, homeless, and was beaten by his father.  His voice began to break and tears streamed down his face when he told us of his first memory of his father beating him.  He made eye-contact with me as he spoke of how he forgave his father.  I felt his words penetrate into my gut.  I could feel myself gulping for air - reluctant to have to breathe in the first place. I didn't want to miss a word out of this man's mouth. My hands were white from clenching as he told more stories of his childhood.  I had an urge to put my hands on his shoulder and whisper in his ear it will be okay. I had an urge to go up and talk to him afterward.  I didn't.  I had two other opportunities.  I didn't follow through.  My beautiful man, I know your pain.  I wanted to talk to him.  I hope I will someday.
I have been moved more than I can describe.  My mind is racing, my soul is aching, and my heart is filled with - what?  What am I feeling? Love? Community? God?  Most likely all three. And yet, I didn't talk to any one of these three people today.  So why do I feel so moved?

Because they are out there.  Because I am not alone.  And one day, I will talk to the man at the shelter, and I may one day talk to the woman who is alumni of the year.  But, for now, I am going to sit here, on my bed, and listen to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.