Sometimes I take a different way to work, depending on traffic. I refer to it as “the back way.” It takes longer to get to work this way, but at least the traffic is moving. I take this way to avoid the freeway when an accident or, actually, any incident, can result in the freeway turning into a parking lot.

As I begin to get closer to downtown, I see an old man sitting on a bench. Oh, I’ve seen him there before a few times when I’ve taken this route to work. I even have come to refer to him as “the old man on the bench.” He looks the same every time I see him. He appears to be in his late 80s, maybe older. He wears a scraggly coat (regardless of the season); he wears baggy brown pants and old black shoes. His white hair’s a little messy. I find myself thinking of a song when I see him. It’s sung by Simon & Garfunkel — Old Friends. The words in the song that seem to fit are “Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph. Old friends, preserve your memories. They’re all that’s left of you.”

I can’t tell you why I’m drawn to think of him when I drive by. Maybe it’s because he seems so alone while he sits on that bench. Maybe because it makes me a little sad. I will admit to wondering about his life: Why does he appear to be so alone? Then again, he may already be perfectly content with his life. Perhaps he goes to this bench in need of a morning break. Within a few minutes, the light changes, and I finish my commute to work. He becomes a brief memory again.

Except for today.

Today I noticed something different. It appeared as if he were holding on tightly to something in his hand. I was able to get a closer look while I sat at the red light.  

He was gripping a white rosary. I noticed his fingers moving on the beads. He was obviously praying the Rosary.

As I was driving to work, I began wondering what he was praying for — or whom. Then it hit me: What a tremendous gift the Rosary can be, no matter where we are in our lives. Whatever things that happened in his life either before or since, he has the Rosary to give him solace.

There is a nursing home close to where that bench sits. Perhaps he lives there, and this is the private place he goes to pray.

In any case, I found myself praying that God will take particular notice of his prayers. I hope his life continues to have meaning for him. I hope wherever he lives, someone cares about him. Mainly, I hope that when he leaves this world and sees God, he is surrounded with love.

 Catherine Mendenhall-Baugh writes from Hillsboro, Oregon.