When I resumed my civilian job as an information technology manager after my return from Iraq, I started a new tradition, which I follow devoutly. That tradition is to purchase a Starbucks venti latte every morning on my way into the office. When you frequent a business every single day as a customer, you begin to notice the other regulars. One of them is the man with the broken face.
He is also a devout man, in a way that is very different from my own consistent ritual of purchasing that delicious venti latte. My ritual began because the lattes available in Iraq (they have lattes in Iraq?) was horrible by my standards. All the milk we had available was ultra-pasteurized, and while I drank it, I didn’t necessarily enjoy it as much as good old-fashioned American style milk. It kind of tasted like cardboard to me, so I promised myself I would enjoy my “real” lattes if I ever made it home in one piece. Since I did, I kept my promise to myself.
I don’t have the faintest clue what promise the man with the broken face might have made to himself, but I can certainly make an educated guess based on my observations of his existence on my morning Starbucks runs. First, let me describe him. He is a man about my size. That is to say he is a small man, by American standards. He probably stands about five feet six inches tall and is of normal build for that size. But when you take a moment to look at his features, you realize something is very different. This man has a face that only a mother could love. His eyes are on different planes. One is sunk in deeply and askew. There are also deep and significant craters all over his frontal facial features. There are ridges where none should be, and flat areas where most of us have ridges.
The man with the broken face sits at a table with his golden retriever, reading from a well-worn Bible. His lips move as he mutters passages to himself, and he often pauses in prayer. I do not know what he is praying for, but his dog waits patiently as he goes through his morning meditations.
I often wonder if the man with the broken face has peace in his heart. I ponder to myself; is he praying for a new face or world peace? Is he praying for a lovely wife who will overlook his twisted visage and love him for what lies in his heart, or is he asking God to punish those who cannot help but stare openly at the things that make him obviously different from other humans around him?
I have a crooked chin. I used to worry about it, until I realized that it really didn’t matter. I’m sure people sometimes see me from a profile view and make a mental note that one side of my chin juts slightly lower than the other. It took me years of self-reflection to stop wondering if other people were judging me because my chin is less than perfect. When I see the man with the broken face, I hope he is at peace with his own imperfections. Maybe one day, when I’m running early instead of late, I’ll introduce myself and shake his hand.
It’s easy to sum up a person based on the physical and much harder to take the time to measure a person’s character, but the character is so much more important. As time passes, and we age, our characters are what we will be judged by. People will study Mother Teresa, Mahatma Ghandi and Thomas Jefferson long after they have forgotten about Paris Hilton, the Back Street Boys and Anna Nicole Smith.