The most extraordinary things come out of the most mundane circumstances. One Friday afternoon, a long time ago, I was walking toward my bus stop to catch a ride to work. Christmas was approaching and I had an evening shift of skate sharpening, ski maintenance and bike repairs. This was before mp3 players and smart phones, so as I walked I gazed absently into the distance. When I was still a good distance away from a relatively busy intersection I heard a gentle thud. I looked up to see a semi-truck pulling a flat-bed trailer at normal speed. I assumed the thud had come from the trailer rising and falling slightly after a small bump in the road. That’s when something else caught my eye. Some sort of large round disk was flying through the air. From my angle it looked like it must have been the lid from a steel drum that had been laying loose on this trailer and had caught some air after that bump. As I followed its trajectory, it seemed as though it might soon crash into a car that was waiting to make a right turn. I breathed a sigh of relief as it crashed harmlessly onto the grass.
I assumed the story would end there and I would continue on to catch my bus. When I crossed the road, however, I got a clearer picture of what had happened. There, beside my pedestrian crosswalk was a manhole, at least two feet wide, sitting completely open. That flying disk was obviously the lid that was supposed to be covering this manhole. The hole sat in between two lanes, but still presented a significant safety risk. As I scurried over to the corner where the cover was laying, it dawned on me this situation was made more strange by the fact I was the only one responding. The light had changed twice since the incident (there was too much traffic for me to cross the road safely without electronic signals allowing me) and still nobody else stopped.
I found the manhole cover in two pieces, picked them up and started heading back to where they belonged. It was inch-thick cast iron and each half weighed at least much as the 45 pound barbells that were once familiar to me. I set them down while I waited for the next light to change, and thought that even if nobody else sees the same danger as me, someone could stop to help me carry these things.
I laid them in place and ran off in an unsuccessful attempt to catch my bus. I got to work late and explained myself as quickly as I could because it still wasn’t 5 p.m. and I wanted to make a phone call to report what had happened before the utility workers went home. The receptionist thanked me for my concern but that she had already received a number of calls about that location. “Who called?” I wondered. Who observed the incident was aware of the danger, and thought a phone call was a sufficient response? Did they wait until they got home to make the call, or did they start dialing as they watched me lug that manhole cover across the street?
It’s sometimes a little too easy to do nothing; to drive by and assure ourselves someone else will respond. In this case I was proactive and made my little corner of the world a safer place, but I’m certainly not perfect. I sometimes see people who need money, and I convince myself I need mine more. I sometimes see people who are lonely, and I see my time as too valuable to share with them. I sometimes see people whose life has been disturbed, but I am not willing to sacrifice my own comfort to restore theirs. This shouldn’t be the case.
The busyness and commercialism of Christmas sometimes makes us less hospitable, less generous and less caring. We can change this. Having the Christmas spirit shouldn’t just mean spontaneously singing Christmas carols and drinking holiday themed espressos. Instead we should allow that spirit to make us more aware, not less, of the needs around us. All through December we think about meals we’ll serve, gifts we’ll give and friends we’ll visit. This year, as we share Christmas cheer, let’s extend the circle of care and broaden our understanding of family.
