One evening last week, when the stars were beginning to glimmer overhead and the frogs were excitedly croaking about the appearance of the moon, I emerged from my hole in the library desperately in need of a change of venue for studying. You see, sometimes, the austere towers of musty books and the hushed solemnity of the place get a little…nerve wracking. And this was one of those nights.

Thus it was that I found myself lovingly tucking my textbooks into the back seat of my car, like so many sleeping children. And thus it was that I found myself, sometime later, sitting on a park bench beside a stone table in the quaint, pedestrian section of Lynchburg’s downtown, reading about the marvels of human procreation and studying the developmental process of the embryo.

I hadn’t been there very long when a rather shaggy looking elderly gentleman with one whole tooth and one tooth that was merely pretending to be a half came sauntering up to the table where I was situated.

I glanced up briefly to see just what sort of a person it was who had graced my table with his presence…which he interpreted to be an invitation. So he plopped himself down across the table from me, and began, in a very good-natured sort of way, to tell me about himself.

I laughed quietly to myself as I listened, marveling over the fact that humanity is so delightfully quirky at times—and also quietly wondering if there’s a scientific reason that I seem to meet an extraordinarily high percentage of humanity’s quirkiest cases.

He informed me that he was sixty-three years old, and that his name was Gregg, and that he lived in a camper down by the river. He was feeling particularly proud of himself that night, because he had just finished fishing in the dumpster and had found a birthday gift for one of his friends—he told me happily that he is “very good” to his friends. I told him that he really didn’t look a day over sixty-two, and that he did, indeed, appear to be a most thoughtful friend.

He told me that he loves to meet people around town, and makes it a habit to speak to anyone and everyone (obviously)—but that he finds people become progressively less-friendly the longer they’re married. I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that, so I just smiled and kept silent, which he didn’t seem to mind.

We sat like that for probably ten minutes, with him talking, and me just smiling and nodding, and making random side comments if he seemed to expect them. One of my friends called just then, and asked if we could walk together, to which I said yes. I told Gregg politely that I was leaving, but his face looked almost wistful as I rose to go, and my conscience smote me.

Thea, here is a living, breathing, human soul…one who is longing to be loved, valued, respected, nurtured—just like everybody else on the planet. And probably all his life, people have come into his life and left again…just like you’re doing now. And he’s dirty, and smelly, and greasy, and unattractive, and so he’s ignored, and treated as if he’s not valuable, not desirable…not human.

I stood there for a split second as these things went through my mind.

I bet no one ever touches him.

I couldn’t give him a home. I couldn’t get him a job. I couldn’t undo all of the hurts in his past that had been perpetrated over the past sixty-three years. But I could touch him…and let him know that I viewed him as a fellow human, a man worthy of respect, a man with intrinsic worth and dignity.

I placed my hand on his arm, and smiled. “Greg, it was nice to meet you tonight. I appreciate your time. And your friends are lucky to have someone like you who looks out for them.”

His face lit up.

“You remembered my name!” he exclaimed. And then he reached up both arms to hug me.

I kinda smelled like a homeless person for the rest of the night…but somehow, it didn’t really matter.

You know how sometimes you feel completely overwhelmed thinking that there just isn’t enough time in a day to get everything done that you have to do? And you start to mildly freak out in a major way, only very quietly, on the inside, where no one can see?

Yeah. Story of my life for the past…semester. But what I realized is that…it seems like, the more you have to do, the more you get done. So maybe what I really need to do is…add more to my to-do list.

So I think I’m going to go and get two full-time jobs. And maybe a part-time one too. And then I’ll be a full-time full-time part-time employee who’s also a full-time student. So hopefully, I’ll get a lot more done. Which would be awesome. Then I would feel like the silent freak-out parties in my head weren’t such a waste of time.

Yeah. And the cool thing is, the more coffee I drink, the more this whole idea makes sense. Coffee is this wonderful, mind-clearing substance that gives you marvelous new perspective on life. Super duper thankful to What’s-His-Face for deciding it was non-toxic and therefore could be consumed adults too (since children were probably drinking it for years before their parents caught on).

This semester has been so ridiculously busy that it’s difficult at times to find the time for extras such as blogging—or phone conversations, or email, or facebook, or movies, or anything else, for that matter. (I really do love my life—I just wish days were longer and that sleeping and eating were unnecessary).

I had the opportunity to spend my weekend in the labor and delivery unit at the hospital, and I have to say that…no matter how many times you see it? The miracle of birth is still…miraculous. Messy, but miraculous. It gives me chills every time.

Today was the first time I’d been able to stand-by in the operating room and witness a Caesarean. The patient was the sweetest little thing ever—she and her husband were both so incredibly gracious and understanding throughout the whole process.

Surgical procedures are fascinating to watch (if you’re not one of those people who have an inconvenient fainting tendency at the sight of blood). Honestly, though, my favorite part of every birth experience is that magical moment when the parents get to meet their new little one for the first time.

In the operating room, it’s a little different because of all the surgery-related chaos that surrounds the birthing experience, but I remember looking up from the table at one point, and glancing over, and seeing that the dad had wandered over to the warming table where his new baby girl was lying.

The neonatal team had suctioned her and rubbed her down, and she was just minding her own business over there while everybody else was preoccupied with repairing the damage done to her mom…

She was a beautiful baby. Stunning, for a newborn. And as I watched her dad standing there, gazing down at her like she was the most incredible thing he’d ever seen, I felt a lump forming in my throat.

There’s nothing quite like the look that a new dad gives to his first baby girl. It’s a look that carries all of the fatherly pride with which he looks at his first son, but it’s mingled with a different kind of protective tenderness and awe—as if he understands, even as he sees her that first time, that he’s always going to need to protect her in different ways than he does his sons.

The father today stood there for a long moment, just looking at her…drinking her in. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears, and he kept having to look away to keep from crying. You could see the emotions chasing each other across his face…a sense of wonder, and fatherly pride…his yearning to touch her, to cradle her, to shield her from everything that will ever hurt her for as long as he possibly can…his compassion…his desire to be her knight, her guardian, her protector, her hero, and her mentor…his incredible love for her, in her state of helpless dependency.

I had to look away myself to keep from crying. There are some things which are so incredibly beautiful that it’s almost painful to witness…in a good way.

Thank you, Dad, for being my knight, my guardian, my protector, my hero, and my mentor. I love you.