I remember…

…standing the midst of a multitude. A gathering of people who seemed to be growing larger and larger with each step I took. Moonlight, we walked, only able to see a few feet in front of us. They closed in around. All I can hear is their voices rising, shrouding us in their present needs. The words spoken are unintelligible, yet the tone in which they are relayed, is ever increasing. Louder and louder still, it breaks my concentration. Their needs are heavy. 
 
As our host pushes us onward, there is a subsequent pulling at our garments. I can feel the tugging at my shirt, the grabbing for my attention, yet I am told to move onward. 
 

We cannot stop here.

It lingers in my ears.

 
Voices rise. I cannot think. Their cries break my concentration. Still, I am forced to continue moving forward. Cannot stop here. Keep moving. No, do not stop. The words of my host follow in sequence with those of the onlookers, begging me to stop. Yet he speaks English, they do not. I am inclined to follow his direction. 
 
In the motion and commotion, I feel a hand adhere itself to my shoulder. With it, a still small voice breaks the madness.
 

I have no money to give you.

 
I turn to face, this interrupter. My glance finds a seasoned and weathered individual, frail and tired. Our eyes meet and I can see the scars life has wrought upon his tender frame. It not been kind to him. He looks at me, mouthing words, yet I don't understand. He speaks and I find myself unable to comprehend. I cannot concentrate. It is far too loud. I try to interpret his beckoning plea, but there is a distraction in his stance. I notice a trembling in his body, a shaking in his stature. 
 

Why is he so nervous?

 
It then becomes apparent; it is neither fear nor nervousness. It is not as deep as emotional or psychological pain. These tremors are physical. Each convulsion, solidifies, he has Parkinson's. We could not meet one another in conversation, yet his body language provided the proof of his need. 
 
It is at this moment, something rises up on the inside of me, causing the blood in my veins to rush to my face. Heat surges through the entirety of my frame. I feel alive. He is standing in front of me. Something must be done. I latch onto his raised forearms, and he closes his eyes.
 

You are healed.

 
In that moment, shaking ceases. Tears glistening the moonlight sky. In that moment, his need was met.

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Here I find myself, reminiscencing about a man I meet on the streets of India. It has been a year since I thought about him, and yet, now I cannot think of another story but his.

I never caught his name. I did not understand his language. And I have never seen him after that night. But still, his story lives on. Overcoming language and preconceived notions of directives, a man regained more than healing in that night. His faith bolstered.

And me?

Well, his story intersecting with mine, has changed my life. I am forever changed by our meeting.

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Thanks, Allison, for the challenge yesterday. It was much needed.