Christ plays in ten thousand places

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces. *

                                                                      Gerard Manley Hopkins

Delmas, our closest town, is no different than most rural South African towns. The majority of shops situated next to the one main street. Until a few years ago no traffic light in sight. After they’ve installed the first in front of the bank, officials were quite patient and tolerant for a month or so. You could not blame the farmers coming in to do their weekly business for driving right across the red light. “What traffic light? Here in Delmas?”

On the other hand it is no one horse town. The economy is vibrant, the farming community active and the streets on a Friday morning quite busy.

It was therefore understandable that the obviously lost Boston terrier running across one of the side streets and aimlessly on the sidewalk was so anxious. The situation she found herself in was way too much for her.

Strange how she crossed our path at that exact moment as we were on our way from the one item to the next on our Delmas to-do-list yesterday morning.

I pulled the car to the side of the road anxious to stop her before reaching the much busier main street where she was heading. At first I thought she didn’t hear me as I gently called after her. But on the second call she turned around in her confusion, crossed the street again and without hesitation jumped into the car through the open door on my side. Right onto my father’s lap. Panting, heart throbbing, tongue hanging out.

She was beautiful. Black and white with a blue collar studded with fake crystals. The plastic tag attached to the collar did not contain any information. Apparently the owner had not yet gotten around replacing the lost piece of paper.

That a strange scared dog, literally landing in my dad’s lap could yield so much information within moments without saying anything:

She was not street smart. Much too scared and confused. She had a protected upbringing.

She was in peak condition. The collar might not have been in the best taste, but that is a fashion statement. In itself it was a further testimony of a dog taken well care of. It also said that her owner was most probably a woman.

She absolutely trusted us. No bad experiences with human beings in her past. With them she felt safe.

Adding all these elements up we came to the conclusion that somewhere in the course of the day someone was about to discover an open gate and a very concerned owner would be looking for her dog.

What were we to do with her? There was no way we could leave her there, hoping that she would find her way back. She couldn’t. It was very difficult to determine the direction from where she came. We drove up and down a few of the side streets to see whether there wasn’t anybody looking for a lost dog. After finding no indications in that regard I drove to the nearby vet, told the story and left my details in case anybody came looking for her. In the meantime we would keep her with us. The very friendly receptionist also suggested that I post notices at the supermarket.

I undertook to do that but I first had to get to the bank, the pharmacy and the green grocer before I could do the groceries and the putting up of posts. All the while, as we worked through our stops, my dad sat patiently with the little lady in the car. She first made herself comfortable on his lap and later fell asleep at his feet.

With the notices that I’ve written literally in my hands, about to put them up at the supermarket, before leaving town and heading back to the farm, the vet’s office called. The frantic owner indeed came looking for her. Are we still in town? Can we meet her there at the vet? And by the way, our foundling’s name is Cicara.

Within minutes we were at the offices. From way off we could see the young woman in her very early twenties standing next to the car at the side of the road, looking, waiting. Before we came to a complete standstill she was already at my door looking into the car. Close up we saw all the tattoos on her arms. It was difficult to find a clear spot on her face among all the piercings – through her eye brows, her ears, her nose, her lips. But our Cicara had no problem recognizing the familiar face hidden under all that metal.  As I handed her over she ran a loving tongue over what must have tasted like a knight’s armor. Her owner, in tears, could not thank us enough.

My dad and I drove home mostly in silence.

What is it with me and tattoo Fridays? (See the post Beautiful) Only later did I manage to open this particular package more fully. So this is what Christ through the features of men’s faces looks like. The eyes through which we had to see that, we picked up in a Delmas street to drive around with for a morning.

George

* We’ve posted this poem before under As Kingfishers Catch Fire.