Marshall Ramsey

The buildings loomed over the small city park like giant concrete redwoods. It was high-noon and the warm spring sun shined brightly on the yellow plastic playground.  Children’s sing-song voices drowned out the cars and buses passing by.  A man sat in the corner of the park, feeding seed to a half-dozen pigeons.  He quietly watched as the children played.

Every school day he sat on the same bench at the same time.  He followed the same ritual: He’d eat his sandwich. He’d read The Wall Street Journal. He’d feed the pigeons. And then he’d watch the same little girl play on the playground. Her name was Emily. His was Sam. She was 10. He was 70.  She was his grand daughter. And because he was estranged from her father, all he could do was just watch. From a distance. From afar. He was like a modern day Moses — he could enter not the promised land of time with his granddaughter. So he just watched from across the park.

Sam had come back from Vietnam a changed man.  His wife and young son no longer knew the hunched-over bearded man who stepped off the cargo plane. He had been a prisoner of war for five years.  His hair was gray and his mind was broken.

The young son never forgave his father for leaving his mother.  No young son could.  Sam wandered the country seeking help. He found it in the mid 1980’s at the foot of an altar.  A priest had reached out to him and helped him back to his feet. By 1990, his beard was gone and his life was being rebuilt one block at a time.

Across the country, the little boy had grown up into a man.  By 2001, he had a little girl of his own.  While he was raising his daughter, his father became successful in business.  Manhattan became everyone’s home.

So every weekday he sat. Wondering what it would be like if he could speak to Emily.  Wondering what it would be like to meet the son he had never really met. Instead, he just fed the grateful pigeons. He scattered his seed into the wind.

March 12, 2011 began like every other day. Sam sat on his bench, eating his sandwich and feeding his pigeons.  He saw the class come out of the church school, cross the street and enter the park.  And he saw her in her little uniform with her brown hair and brown eyes.  Even from across the park, she was beautiful. She looked just like her grandmother. God he loved her grandmother. She had died five years ago of a broken heart.  Yet another reason why his son would never forgive him.  Another handful of seed. Another flock of grateful birds.

The kids played all kinds of games.  Two little girls were skipping rope.  Three boys threw a ball.  Emily was on the other side of the playground swinging on a swing.  One of the boys missed the ball and it rolled over to where Emily was. She hopped off the swing and ran over to get the ball.  That’s when the man emerged out of the bushes and grabbed her.  No one heard her muffled scream.

No one except Sam.

Something in Sam snapped.  A rage that he had suppressed since the war fired inside him like an atomic explosion. He rushed across the park like a rifle bullet aiming for the man’s head.  People stood in stunned silence as an old man tackled the young man with the struggling little girl.  Forty years of pent-up anger cracked the man’s back as Emily broke free.  Sam’s fist repeated pounded the man’s face. “YOU. WILL. NOT. HARM. MY. GRANDDAUGHTER!!!!!”

The New York Police pulled Sam off before he could kill the attacker.  Sam limped over to a bench and began to openly weep.  All the pain he had felt since the war came pouring out into his wrinkled hands.  A burly Irish cop put his arm around him and said, “You did a good thing today. That man was a known pedophile. You probably saved that little girl’s life.”  Another man sat down on the bench and said, “It’s alright officer, I’ve got him.”

Sam’s son put his arm around his father and said, “Dad?”

Sam looked up, his eyes bloodshot, and asked, “Is she OK?”

Sam’s son, looking into the eyes of the man who he had hated for so many years, said, “Why don’t you ask her for yourself.”  All his anger faded away.

Emily walked over to the bench and said, “Thank you for saving my life, mister.”

Sam had saved his granddaughter Emily. And in the process, Sam saved himself.

Hungry pigeons flew into the sky as the buildings’ shadows cloaked the city. And as the sun began to sink into the western sky, two men and a little girl left the small city park and entered the promised land.

Pam Grant stood in the pouring rain. Her running outfit was cold, wet and clingy. Her shoes and socks were soaked. She could’ve easily gone home and been warm and dry but didn’t.  Pam Grant was there to prove something. To prove her life had changed.  And even though the sky was a dull gray, there was nothing but sunshine in her heart.

She stood at the starting line with a handful of runners.  The starting pistol went off and the mass of humanity lunged forward.  Six point two miles to go.  A 10K. That goal seemed so daunting even a few months ago.  She felt her heart rate increasing.  Her legs began to run in a rhythm.  This was her race. She’d run it at her own pace. She was in it to win it.

Her mind began to drift off as she ran.  She saw herself sitting in  the waiting room in the medical office complex in Jackson, Mississippi.  Around her were old magazines that still had the economy doing well and the Saints losing.  Her heart rate had raced then, too. But not because of exercise. She was scared. And her fear had seized her like a Boa eating a mouse.  She saw the man with the eye patch and the breast cancer survivor waiting for reconstructive surgery.  The nurse seemed to call out every name but hers.  And then she came out again and called, “Pam Grant.”

Her heart nearly beat out of her chest.

Like it was right now. A cold rain continued to pour down on the runners. Pam dodged a pothole and looked at her watch.  She had been running for 10 minutes and had already knocked out the first mile.  Her heart was really racing now.  God, it felt so good to be alive.  The pain in her lungs and legs were God’s reminder of His Grace.  His Grace was the only reason she was alive, that was for sure. “Well,” she thought, “His Grace working through great doctors.”

She had to take off her shirt for the exam and put on the geeky gown.  Her modesty alarms went off. Strange doctor. Strange building. Strange situation.  If she could have crawled into a hole she would have.  She looked down at the table with the paper on it. She HATED sitting on the paper. It always seemed so wasteful.  And on top of that, the A/C was on high. Great.  No clothes on and freezing.  She’s say “Hi” to the doctor in a strange way.

She looked at her watch again.  She had just crossed her second mile.  So far, all systems were go. Her heart rate was exactly where it was supposed to be.  A young girl with braces and a bright green T-shirt handed her some sports drink.  She gulped it, took a cup of water and poured it over her already soaked head.  A wet t-shirt contest. She laughed to herself.  Her modestly had been left on the operating table.

“Let’s take a look at that mole.”  The doctor seemed nice enough. She was sure she was just a number to him, but he had a nice smile.  “Remove the gown.”

“Crap,” she thought. She felt her cheeks flushing.

“Hmm.  Let me look at that under magnification.” Her husband had seen the strange mole. It had grown and she had gotten the first available appointment with her regular doctor. He suggested she go to a dermatologist. Her dermatologist then referred her to this plastic surgeon.  “We’re going to have to biopsy that one. And maybe a couple more.”

The rain came down harder now. Mile three came and went with a couple of major hills. Hills were God’s way of making you tougher.  At least that’s what she told herself.  The last major hill she had climbed was six months ago.  She remembered the phone call.  “Pam, this is Dr. Anderson. I’m sorry but one of those moles we biopsied is malignant melanoma. You have cancer.”

It had all been a blur after that.  Two days later, she had major surgery that included her having her lymph nodes removed. She looked and felt like pirates had attacked her with swords.  She remembered throwing up as she woke up from surgery.  And she remembered her doctor’s words, “It was caught early.  Melanoma is very hard to treat but we caught yours before it had spread.

Thank God she had gotten checked. Thank God she had listened to her husband. And thank God for Dr. Anderson.  Like a crack on the windshield, you want to get melanoma treated before it spreads.  She had lost her best friend to the disease four years ago after she had had her second child.  She knew that she had been hit by a train and walked away with just losing a bumper.

Mile six loomed ahead.  She could see the finish line and felt the satisfaction of her lungs and legs burning in tandem.  She felt her scar tug as she ran.  Her scar. Right under her left breast and it ran to her back.  It was red. It was sore. It was her reminder of how precious life truly is.

As she crossed the finish line, she saw her husband and children holding an umbrella and cheering for her.  And even through she officially came in 105th, she had won.  As she ran over to where they were standing, the rain stopped and a beam of sunlight illuminated her family.  She felt her scar and said, “Thanks be to God.”

Pam Grant was more than just a survivor. She now was truly living.