He answered the door with the dog in his arms, a dark, furry, wriggling thing with shining eyes and wagging foxtail.
I typically pay more attention to the dog than the person, at least when the door is answered. It's a strange work, volunteer door-to-door bible education, and in this particular situation we weren't looking for the usual face-to-face, in-depth discussion, we were just handing out invitations to as many doors as possible.
It starts with the hand on the screen doorknob, watching it turn, realizing you are going to have to piece words together, then looking quickly and desperately up the arm to the chest to the head, searching in a frantic half-second for a judge of character among strangers. In the first second when the door is open and the screen is removed, you regard each other's faces the way dogs touch noses at a park: a slight panic, a quick survival instinct, holding each other's defensive gaze in a world where strangers touch strangers in newspaper stories of guns and knives and bombs, in neighborhoods of signs and dogs.
He smiled. He wore a clean white shirt and red plaid pajama pants, almost-matching nondescript socks, more than what most men answer the door wearing. The words I pieced together in my head so frantically at the turn of the doorknob were delayed, not exactly uncomfortably, but in the way some dogs hold noses together longer than others. They have more of each other to smell.
I stared, the air still held in my lungs, still cautious, still careful not to offend, impose, or interrupt more than necessary. Nothing moved. There was a softness to his edges like the air around a child after a nap. I quickly explained my reason for being there, placed the folded paper in his hand as quickly as possible - the hand soft and warm and intentional - and when he spoke he had the kind of voice that makes it easier to exhale, the voice of understanding.
The work is strange because it involves people finding people. It's not a podcast, not a pamphlet in the door or mailbox, not a television show. It's dogs touching noses. It's personal. And, every once in a while, people on porches meet people in doorways and find it easier to breathe, as if the work itself, the reason, were erased, and all that was left was the people and the breathing and the smiling.
He, in his rarely human peaceful softness, sock-footed and dog-holding, wanted to keep talking. It's not difficult to tell when you are wanted around or not. But the work this day was quick, in and out, a paper trading hands and then we're off to the next door. Two seconds of prolonged eye contact, an overly genuine, "Thank you" and "Have a nice day," drawing out the pleasantries in as many words as possible: "Thanks, thank you," "You're welcome, and thank you too," "Alright, you have a nice day," "Thank you, you too."
And then the door was closed and the smile was dangerously difficult to erase as I stumbled off the porch like a very real and typical teenage girl. Very rarely do I ever stumble upon accidental crushes on strangers. Rarely as in never. This is because of a conscious effort not to smile, not to exhale too deeply, not to look for too long or too meaningfully, not to accept compliments. Not to look up.
This lack of silly frivolousness is actually quite silly and frivolous. Sometimes young men in pajamas are soft and make speaking more difficult than usual. It happens. It happens regardless of situation or intention. Carrying a bible makes it no less probable, though probably more embarrassing, which is why I'm blogging the story. The image of a volunteer preacher blushing at a door, stumbling over words, giggling. I mean, come on, it's hilarious, especially since it actually happens.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Smiling sometimes is not a choice, and five soft seconds with a stranger can cure five hard months at once.
I typically pay more attention to the dog than the person, at least when the door is answered. It's a strange work, volunteer door-to-door bible education, and in this particular situation we weren't looking for the usual face-to-face, in-depth discussion, we were just handing out invitations to as many doors as possible.
It starts with the hand on the screen doorknob, watching it turn, realizing you are going to have to piece words together, then looking quickly and desperately up the arm to the chest to the head, searching in a frantic half-second for a judge of character among strangers. In the first second when the door is open and the screen is removed, you regard each other's faces the way dogs touch noses at a park: a slight panic, a quick survival instinct, holding each other's defensive gaze in a world where strangers touch strangers in newspaper stories of guns and knives and bombs, in neighborhoods of signs and dogs.
He smiled. He wore a clean white shirt and red plaid pajama pants, almost-matching nondescript socks, more than what most men answer the door wearing. The words I pieced together in my head so frantically at the turn of the doorknob were delayed, not exactly uncomfortably, but in the way some dogs hold noses together longer than others. They have more of each other to smell.
I stared, the air still held in my lungs, still cautious, still careful not to offend, impose, or interrupt more than necessary. Nothing moved. There was a softness to his edges like the air around a child after a nap. I quickly explained my reason for being there, placed the folded paper in his hand as quickly as possible - the hand soft and warm and intentional - and when he spoke he had the kind of voice that makes it easier to exhale, the voice of understanding.
The work is strange because it involves people finding people. It's not a podcast, not a pamphlet in the door or mailbox, not a television show. It's dogs touching noses. It's personal. And, every once in a while, people on porches meet people in doorways and find it easier to breathe, as if the work itself, the reason, were erased, and all that was left was the people and the breathing and the smiling.
He, in his rarely human peaceful softness, sock-footed and dog-holding, wanted to keep talking. It's not difficult to tell when you are wanted around or not. But the work this day was quick, in and out, a paper trading hands and then we're off to the next door. Two seconds of prolonged eye contact, an overly genuine, "Thank you" and "Have a nice day," drawing out the pleasantries in as many words as possible: "Thanks, thank you," "You're welcome, and thank you too," "Alright, you have a nice day," "Thank you, you too."
And then the door was closed and the smile was dangerously difficult to erase as I stumbled off the porch like a very real and typical teenage girl. Very rarely do I ever stumble upon accidental crushes on strangers. Rarely as in never. This is because of a conscious effort not to smile, not to exhale too deeply, not to look for too long or too meaningfully, not to accept compliments. Not to look up.
This lack of silly frivolousness is actually quite silly and frivolous. Sometimes young men in pajamas are soft and make speaking more difficult than usual. It happens. It happens regardless of situation or intention. Carrying a bible makes it no less probable, though probably more embarrassing, which is why I'm blogging the story. The image of a volunteer preacher blushing at a door, stumbling over words, giggling. I mean, come on, it's hilarious, especially since it actually happens.
MORAL OF THE STORY: Smiling sometimes is not a choice, and five soft seconds with a stranger can cure five hard months at once.
This sounds wonderful and he sounds really attractive and remarkable. Wow ♥
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