The Bigger Picture
Richard stands tall between the cots, the ‘sleeping’ eavesdroppers only two feet away on all sides. I tell him, “You have that smooth jazz voice. You should be on the radio.”
He nods. “You’re not the first person to tell me this, but God has another plan for me.”
“I’ve been wondering what God’s plan for me is, Richard. Tell me about yours.”
He considers me for about fifteen seconds, peering down with eyes half closed, Morgan Freeman freckles dotting his face. “Well,” he announces, “I have to tell you a little about myself in order for you to understand the full context of how this will happen. Then the pieces will fall into place, so you can see the big picture. You see, some people only see the little picture, but they forget to look around the edges.” He moves his hands to indicate a bigger and bigger rectangle until his long arms are stretched as wide as he can make them.
I think about mentioning he could have been a basketball player with such long arms, but that is beside the point of this story, wherever it’s going.
He tells me, “You see what I mean? People got to understand the bigger picture, or they can’t understand anything. Not a single thing.”
Richard glances around the room and leans close enough to say softly in my ear, “I have 8.7 million dollars tied up in probate.” He stands tall to let that sink in. “My sister-in-law doesn’t want me to get that money. I’ve been in court six times, with the county, and the mayor. They keep saying they’re working on it. Well, they’ve been working on it for six years now. I went to House of Peace to see if they could help. Twice. They said they can’t do anything for me, and told me not to come back. Can you believe that?”
I shake my head, no, because it’s the truth that I can’t believe that. Not the part about House of Peace, but that bit about the mayor points the way this story is going.
“I told them, I’m a citizen. They can’t treat citizens like that.”
This is the kind of story I don’t want to defy. This is real to Richard. He deserves a respectful listener. When I hear stories like this, I never try to point out what is implausible. I just listen. What purpose does it serve to try to set the record straight?
I say, “Well, I hope that when you get that money, you’ll make a donation to St. Ben’s.”
“Of course I will.” He waves one hand dismissively. “But that’s nothing. That’s just a tiny part of God’s plan for me. You see, I’m going to Ironwood Michigan. Don’t you just love the way that sounds? He places a palm over his heart, draws out the syllables rapturously and repeats, “Ironwood Michigan.”
“Have you ever been to Ironwood?”
He winces. “Just once. They put me in this dark little hotel room with no windows, or the windows were covered over. I told him I would help him fix the place up if he’d let me stay, but he wouldn’t let me, so that’s why I have to go back. I’m gonna take my 8.7 million dollars—well after I donate maybe about a million to this place—so that’s what? 7.7 million? Yeah, and I’m going to Ironwood Michigan (he draws out the name again, as if he’s listening to a the loveliest of symphonies) to help those people.
I don’t ask who they, him, or those people are.
“God wants me to build a shelter to help all those people.”
I ask, “Are there a lot of homeless people in Ironwood Michigan?”
“Not so much. But somebody’s got to help those people. You know, the ones using that drug that turns their teeth all brown until they fall out.”
“Meth?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Meth. That’s a wicked drug. Once you try it, there’s no getting off, that’s what I know.”
I wait for him to tell me the rest of God’s plans in Ironwood Michigan.
“I’m gonna build a four story see-though shelter, a huge place where you can see things for miles around. Then I’ll have all those people come in, so they’ll have a safe place. And I’ll have nurses and social workers and counselors living there, too, so they can get all the help they need.”
I hear his kind heart coming through, perhaps even a dream he has for himself.
“And guess who’s gonna live on the top floor! The whole top floor. Guess.”
I ponder this and venture, “Barak Obama?”
“Barak Obama? He’s way too busy for that. I mean Oprah Winfrey! Once she gets there, all kinds of people will come!”
“She is a popular person. And she does a lot of good in the world.”
Richard once again considers me, a fist under his chin. “I could use somebody like you. I can see you’re smart. I’ll need someone to take care of the schedules, and accounts, and to check people in. You’d be perfect for the job, Jonnie.”
“Well, that’s a really nice offer, Richard, but I’m retired. I’m not planning on working anymore.”
“Oh, you’ll want this job. Just picture it. A four story see-through building on the top of Mount Zion in Ironwood Michigan.”
Richard stands tall between the cots, the ‘sleeping’ eavesdroppers only two feet away on all sides. I tell him, “You have that smooth jazz voice. You should be on the radio.”
He nods. “You’re not the first person to tell me this, but God has another plan for me.”
“I’ve been wondering what God’s plan for me is, Richard. Tell me about yours.”
He considers me for about fifteen seconds, peering down with eyes half closed, Morgan Freeman freckles dotting his face. “Well,” he announces, “I have to tell you a little about myself in order for you to understand the full context of how this will happen. Then the pieces will fall into place, so you can see the big picture. You see, some people only see the little picture, but they forget to look around the edges.” He moves his hands to indicate a bigger and bigger rectangle until his long arms are stretched as wide as he can make them.
I think about mentioning he could have been a basketball player with such long arms, but that is beside the point of this story, wherever it’s going.
He tells me, “You see what I mean? People got to understand the bigger picture, or they can’t understand anything. Not a single thing.”
Richard glances around the room and leans close enough to say softly in my ear, “I have 8.7 million dollars tied up in probate.” He stands tall to let that sink in. “My sister-in-law doesn’t want me to get that money. I’ve been in court six times, with the county, and the mayor. They keep saying they’re working on it. Well, they’ve been working on it for six years now. I went to House of Peace to see if they could help. Twice. They said they can’t do anything for me, and told me not to come back. Can you believe that?”
I shake my head, no, because it’s the truth that I can’t believe that. Not the part about House of Peace, but that bit about the mayor points the way this story is going.
“I told them, I’m a citizen. They can’t treat citizens like that.”
This is the kind of story I don’t want to defy. This is real to Richard. He deserves a respectful listener. When I hear stories like this, I never try to point out what is implausible. I just listen. What purpose does it serve to try to set the record straight?
I say, “Well, I hope that when you get that money, you’ll make a donation to St. Ben’s.”
“Of course I will.” He waves one hand dismissively. “But that’s nothing. That’s just a tiny part of God’s plan for me. You see, I’m going to Ironwood Michigan. Don’t you just love the way that sounds? He places a palm over his heart, draws out the syllables rapturously and repeats, “Ironwood Michigan.”
“Have you ever been to Ironwood?”
He winces. “Just once. They put me in this dark little hotel room with no windows, or the windows were covered over. I told him I would help him fix the place up if he’d let me stay, but he wouldn’t let me, so that’s why I have to go back. I’m gonna take my 8.7 million dollars—well after I donate maybe about a million to this place—so that’s what? 7.7 million? Yeah, and I’m going to Ironwood Michigan (he draws out the name again, as if he’s listening to a the loveliest of symphonies) to help those people.
I don’t ask who they, him, or those people are.
“God wants me to build a shelter to help all those people.”
I ask, “Are there a lot of homeless people in Ironwood Michigan?”
“Not so much. But somebody’s got to help those people. You know, the ones using that drug that turns their teeth all brown until they fall out.”
“Meth?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Meth. That’s a wicked drug. Once you try it, there’s no getting off, that’s what I know.”
I wait for him to tell me the rest of God’s plans in Ironwood Michigan.
“I’m gonna build a four story see-though shelter, a huge place where you can see things for miles around. Then I’ll have all those people come in, so they’ll have a safe place. And I’ll have nurses and social workers and counselors living there, too, so they can get all the help they need.”
I hear his kind heart coming through, perhaps even a dream he has for himself.
“And guess who’s gonna live on the top floor! The whole top floor. Guess.”
I ponder this and venture, “Barak Obama?”
“Barak Obama? He’s way too busy for that. I mean Oprah Winfrey! Once she gets there, all kinds of people will come!”
“She is a popular person. And she does a lot of good in the world.”
Richard once again considers me, a fist under his chin. “I could use somebody like you. I can see you’re smart. I’ll need someone to take care of the schedules, and accounts, and to check people in. You’d be perfect for the job, Jonnie.”
“Well, that’s a really nice offer, Richard, but I’m retired. I’m not planning on working anymore.”
“Oh, you’ll want this job. Just picture it. A four story see-through building on the top of Mount Zion in Ironwood Michigan.”