We often fail to recognize opportunities when they are presented to us. How many times have you said to yourself, "I should have said ..."? This is frustrating, but when the opportunity missed is one in which the Gospel could have been presented the situation is not only frustrating, but tragic.
THE ELEVATOR
Hospital
elevators are lonely, anonymous places. People don’t really see each other
there.
When
I got on the elevator on the eleventh floor, I immediately saw the massively
obese white man with a stubbly three-day old beard. His knit shirt fit very snugly and his vulgarly exposed navel
was an enormous gaping cavern in which a small dog could have hidden. He was a
nascent heart attack.
I
tried not to stare, but his labored breathing wouldn’t let me ignore him. He had the pained wheeze that extremely
fat people get, as if just standing up was a struggle. He sounded as if it would kill him on
the spot if he ever were forced to run.
“What
floor?”
I
said, “One.”
The
fat man’s stubby finger pressed the button.
“Six.”
I
turned around; the voice had come from behind me.
The
well-groomed black man was tall and handsome. I hadn’t noticed him as I entered
the cabin ... perhaps because of the fat man.
“Six.”
The
fat man didn’t move.
“Six.”
Nothing.
“Six.”
I
realized what was going on and, in a flash of anger, my hand flitted over to
the button panel and pressed number six.
I thought about confronting the fat man, but I hesitated. I knew he wouldn’t care what I said and
I wondered if the black man would be embarrassed.
When
we got off the elevator, the fat man waddled off to work on his heart
attack. The black man never said
anything. He quietly got off the
elevator and vanished into anonymity. I went to my car, unhappy with myself.
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