A Way In

While gesture is not the final word, it is a fine first word.
-- Pádraig Ó Tuama¹

Sometimes, moments in a human life just stay by our side. And so it is with a story that found me a few weeks ago.

In Kazbegi, in the country of Georgia, over a dozen men knelt down on a cold, wet street as a gesture of deep remorse, because their son and relative had tragically taken a life. They stayed on their knees before the victim’s loved ones, hats off and heads bowed. It was an extraordinary collective act of humility, sincerity and respect.

After a time, the bereaved man walked towards the father of the perpetrator and waved for him and for everyone else to stand up. Some of the men were elders and had to be helped to their feet. The men embraced and shook hands; some of them kissed and cried together. Something had landed. If the grieving father had never approached them, it would have been entirely understandable. But he did. There is such a poignant generosity on the part of everybody that participated in that sacred moment. What did that take in both the giving and receiving? And where am I in that spectrum of choices?

Gestures are a language that can speak volumes. When I travel, I find that my hand on my heart is generally recognized as a sign of respect, gratitude, and appreciation. Sometimes it indicates a shared delight in something and at other times, grief; it can build bridges in the simplest but most profound of ways. I have never personally witnessed such a powerful public act of contrition as those men in Georgia. I wonder if we are not gesture-impoverished, especially in the West. The kneeling family’s reverence was both recognized and received. Where on earth did that magnitude of courage and generosity come from, on both sides? Of course a person had still died. A life had still been lost. But it was a beginning … and a way in.

How do we move beyond our mental notions of kindness and compassion, when we are safe and comfortable, to the hard work of healing the unspeakable and seemingly never-to-be-healed or never-to-be-forgiven events in a life? This question is so alive for me right now. When pushed to the frail edge of sorrow, how do we get down on our knees or help someone else up from theirs? How is it even possible to meet each other or sit in the same room (or street) together? What progress can we make in our own lives? And what inheritance will we leave for our children and the seven generations unborn?