Perfect

“You want an insight? I’ll give you an insight,” said a perfect stranger at the children’s ball game. Then he gave me his insight, which proved to be exactly correct.

“People will cheer him when he gets himself up,” the man said.

I had thought that the child’s ankle was probably shattered—that was my insight—that the child would not be able to walk, that he would need to be lifted and carried, that he’d never walk again. I thought, Now he is a cripple for the rest of his life.

“He’s fine,” the man said. “I know he’s fine, because, you see, he’s hiding his head. He’s hiding his face. He’s making such a big deal. I know. Sure, it’s very painful.”

The man had told me that the hardball had hit the child in the ankle. I didn’t know where.

I said, “How do you know? It might be shattered. He’s not moving.”

“Because he missed the ball—” the man said, “be­cause he wants everyone to forget he missed the ball, that’s why he’s making such a big deal.”

If I could have an insight about this man’s insight, I could probably save myself. That’s my insight. I could save my children, my marriage, the world, if I could let enough people know—that there’s a powerful solution in here somewhere—a breakthrough trying to break through.

The stranger was so angry talking to me. I don’t think he believed I was believing him, and I didn’t.

Will you please rise and Shame us not, O Father.