Through A Glass Darkly

...where shadows and salvation share the same parking space

The Florida sun shatters against a thousand windshields, scattering a blinding light in all directions.

I step off the curb and BAM! - a vehicle swings wide around the corner. Engine snarling, bumper at my knees, my hand snaps back to find only an empty belt loop.

Ten years clean, and I'm still reaching for things I'm not allowed to carry.

Just an old man in his F-150, blinded by the same sun. But he sees me. Stops. And now he's waiting for me to cross.

Imagine that. Someone showing me a courtesy, a kindness. And here I am, ready to kill him for it.

I force my shoulders to relax, lips tight, nod a thank you, and get on with myself. But my eyes keep moving, head on a swivel. Scanning around corners, cataloging movements, assessing threats.

Even now, all these years later, I can't turn it off.

The Man in the Mirror

The Apostle Paul wrote of seeing "through a glass, darkly" - δι' ἐσόπτρου ἐν αἰνίγματι in the original Greek.

Paul promised that one day we would see each other face to face, know even as we are known. But for now, we peer through a clouded looking glass, trying to make sense of distorted reflections.

The fluorescent lights inside Home Depot hum with institutional menace. Each aisle stretches away like a cellblock.

I need wood screws, drywall anchors, paint. Normal things. But standing in aisle seven, I catch my reflection fractured across a wall of small, boxed mirrors.

A stranger stares back—older, thinner in places, thicker in others. Stubbled skull, no more ponytail. No ink showing above the collar. Long sleeves, even in this heat.

The mirror doesn't know what I've done.

Ghost Stories

"Poppa, were you really in jail?"

My granddaughter asks this over pancakes. She's eight. Her mother and I agreed, no secrets or lies, but age-appropriate truth when warranted. Still, the question catches me flat.

"Yes, baby. A few times."

"Were you scared?"

Terrified, I want to say. Scared shitless and angry about it every waking minute.

"Sometimes," I say.

"Were there monsters?"

I squeeze syrup onto her plate, watching it pool.

"No monsters. Just people who did bad things." Like me, I don't add.

"Like what?"

Her mom catches my eye across the table. Gives me a small nod.

"Like taking things that weren't theirs. Or hurting people when they were angry."

She considers this, fork halfway to her mouth. "Did you do bad things?"

"Yes."

"But you're good now."

Not a question. A declaration of faith from someone who only knows me in relation to others she loves. Someone who sees only what I let her see.

"I'm trying to be, sweetheart. Every day, I do my best."

She nods, satisfied, returning to her pancakes.

Both Sides of the Glass

Yesterday at Walmart, a man slapped his kid for dropping a box of cereal. Quick, sharp across the back of the head. The sound cut through me like a gunshot.

My body moved before my mind, hand on his wrist, squeezing. Words hissed between clenched teeth: "He’s just a kid."

The look in his eyes—fear giving way to recognition. Not of me specifically, but of what I represented. The capacity for violence we both carried.

I let go. Walked away before security came. Left my cart full of groceries. Sat in my car, hyperventilating, hands gripping the wheel to stop shaking.

Which version of me was that? The one who hurts people? Or the one trying to stop someone from being hurt?

Ordinary Miracles

The cashier at the local grocery store has a small tattoo on her wrist—three birds in flight. She catches me looking as she hands back my change.

"My kids," she says. "One for each."

I nod, notice her name tag: "Darlene - 12 Years of Service."

"Have a blessed day," she tells me, already turning to the next person.

Walking to my truck, I think about her hands, how they've probably changed diapers, wiped tears, signed report cards, clocked in and out of the same job through birthdays and Christmas mornings and sick days.

Helping hands.

Maybe that's what holiness looks like. Not a halo, but the quiet endurance of showing up. Day after day after day.

Second Look

My granddaughter draws pictures of people with brightly colored auras around them. They surround the whole body.

"That's Mommy," she says, pointing to a figure outlined in purple.

"And that's you. Poppa." My outline is green with flecks of something darker.

"What does green mean?" I ask.

"It's just what I see when I look at you," she shrugs. "Everyone has colors."

I think of those cinder-block walls, how they drained color away until everything, food, skin, sky, seemed the same dull shade of nothing.

"Do you see your own colors?"

She looks at me, confused. "Course not, Poppa. Nobody sees their own light."

Unexpected Grace

The woman at the bank has been staring at my application for three minutes. I know what's coming.

"There's a section you didn’t complete." She slides the form back, taps a manicured nail on the line asking about felony convictions.

I check the box. Slide it back. Wait for the look, the subtle shift from neutral to wary that I've seen a hundred times.

Instead, she stamps the form, returns my license, sends me to the teller window without meeting my eyes.

As I turn to leave, she glances up. Nods once. Not friendly, not hostile. Just acknowledgment. One person seeing another.

It stays with me all day, that nod. The smallest possible mercy, offered without ceremony.

Maybe this is what the ancients meant - that we all see according to our own particular shadows.

The ex-con sees a threat in every gesture. The addict sees temptation in every corner.

The faithful see God's hand in random acts.

We're all peering through our own peculiar mirrors, trying to make sense of what's right in front of us.

The Light Fantastic

My neighbor Manuel is washing his car when I get home. Seventies soul music plays from a portable speaker. He waves, sudsy mitt dripping.

"Beer in the cooler if you want one," he calls.

I've lived here six months. Exchanged maybe twenty words with him before today. But I take the beer, lean against his fence while he works.

Precision in his movements. Professional. Buffing wheel on a folding table, tool bag spilling over with polishes, tins of wax, rags of every size and texture.

I ask, "You detail cars for a living?"

"Nah. Oncologist at Tampa General," he smiles.

The disconnect startles me. This man, with his meticulous attention to chrome and tire shine, hands that probably deliver life from death’s grip every day.

"Mind needs simple problems sometimes,” he says. “Imperfections I can actually clean away," he winks.

We drink our beers in silence for a minute, two strangers sharing space, not asking questions. The moment feels almost holy in its ordinariness.

"You got plans tonight?" he eventually asks.

"Taking my wife, daughter, and grandchild to the movies."

He nods. "Good man."

Two words that hit like absolution from a priest who doesn't know my sins.

Who sees only what's in front of him, a neighbor, a father, grandfather… a man drinking an ice-cold beer on a warm, sunny afternoon.

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Special thanks to Photo by Daniel Born on Unsplash for the photo accompanying this essay. - Thank you, Daniel.