Time For Another Dispatch

Dispatches from the Field & Other Stories from the Margins:

The Man & The Mop

You can grow to love the sounds of a place. Ours was a building of endearing flaws. Like the tell-tale squeak of a neighbor's door, the reassuring clank of the radiators waking up on a cold morning, and the deep, steady groan of the stairs that had held generations, nearly one hundred years' worth, of footsteps. Add to that the shuffle of three hundred tired pairs of shoes and the smell of warm caffeinated beverages drifting from the break room, and you had the music of a shelter trying to keep itself upright.

My third shift staffer had called off at the last minute, so I worked the night shift. It was the weekend, and the custodians wouldn't get back in until Monday morning. Unfortunately, the lobby floor already looked like a muddy mess that needed to be cleaned immediately. So, with a mop in hand, I got down to the business of fulfilling the "Other jobs as needed" portion of my job description. It was during this time that I first noticed him. He was slouched against the wall, a mop bucket at his side like a faithful dog. His coat had more colors than it was supposed to, none of them good, and his shoes looked like they’d walked through a decade without stopping. I tapped the bucket with my mop handle and said, “Hey, that’s mine.”

He opened one eye, smiled just enough to prove he remembered how, and answered, “I’m guarding it for you.”

That was the start. Over the weeks, he’d find me in the hallways, leaning on the mop handle as if it were a pulpit. He told stories of old jobs, factory work, warehouse shifts, delivery routes, a résumé written in sweat and broken clocks. His laugh was a low rumble, rare but real, like a truck starting up after too long in the cold.

Then one night, he wasn’t there. I asked around, and someone said the hospital had taken him. He was drinking too much, had too little food, and the body finally called it quits. He didn’t come back, and the mop bucket was returned to the supply closet. But, I'll tell you the truth, I couldn’t use it after that without thinking of him sitting there, calling himself its guardian.

It struck me later that maybe that’s what most of us really want: a thing to guard, Something to take care of, even if it is small. Like a mop bucket, a set of keys, a story no one can take. Something that proves we’re still here and the dark hasn’t won yet.

And isn’t that what makes life bearable? Not the grand victories or the shiny trophies but the quiet faithfulness of keeping watch over something that matters to us. Maybe it’s your kids asleep in their beds, or a garden stubbornly growing in a cracked backyard, or the words of a prayer whispered so often they’ve worn grooves in your heart.

The world won’t hand you medals for these things. It won’t put your picture in the paper for guarding a mop bucket or checking in on a neighbor or holding your marriage together one more day. But these are the small, holy acts that steady the floor beneath us.

So tonight, as you set down whatever you’ve been carrying, take a look around. See what’s yours to guard. It might not look like much to anyone else, but to God, and to the people who love you, it is precious. Guard it well, and in guarding, you will discover you are guarded too.

Well, that’s today’s dispatch. From the dusty corners and the quiet places, keep the faith, friends, and pass it on.