THE
BELOVED RAGMAN
I came across an intriguing inspirational
story by Walter Wangerin, Jr. and felt compelled to share it with you. Here it goes:
Before dawn one
Friday morning, I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys
of our city. He was pulling an old cart
filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear, tenor
voice: “Rags! Rags! New rags for old! I’ll take your tired old rags! Rags!”
“Now this is a
wonder,” I thought to myself, for this man stood six-feet-four, his arms were
like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be
a ragman in the inner city? My curiosity
drove me to follow him, and I wasn’t disappointed.
Soon the Ragman
saw a woman sitting on her porch. She
was sobbing into a handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows met; her shoulders
shook; her heart was breaking.
The Ragman
stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to
the woman, stepping around tin cans, abandoned toys, and discarded diapers. “Give me your rag,” he offered ever so
gently, “and I’ll give you another.”
He slipped the
handkerchief from her eyes. She looked
up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked and glanced from the gift to the
giver.
Then, as he
began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing. He put her stained handkerchief to his own
face and began to weep, sobbing as grievously as she had done, his shoulders
and body shaking. Yet the woman was left without a tear.
“This IS a
wonder,” I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child
who cannot turn away from mystery.
“Rags! Rags! New
rags for old!”
In a little
while, the sky showed grey behind the rooftops and I could see shredded
curtains hanging out dark windows. The
Ragman came upon a girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty
and hopeless. Blood soaked her bandage
and a single line of blood ran down her cheek.
The tall Ragman
looked upon this child with pity, and took a lovely yellow bonnet from his
cart. “Give me your rag,” he said,
tracing his own line on her cheek, “and I’ll give you mine.”
The child could
only gaze at him while he loosened her bandage, removed it, and tied it to his
own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for along with the
bandage came the wound! And from his
brow substantial blood started to flow!
“Rags! Rags! I
take old rags!” cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman.
The sun now
high in the sky, and the Ragman seemed more and more in a hurry. “Are you going to work?” he asked a man who
leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head. The Ragman pressed him: “Do you have a job?”
“Are you
crazy?” sneered the stranger. He pulled
away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket. It was flat and the cuff was stuffed into the
pocket. The man had no arm.
“So,” invited
the Ragman, “give me your jacket, and I’ll give you mine.” There was such quiet authority in his voice!
The one-armed
man immediately removed his jacket. So
did the Ragman – and I trembled at what I saw – for the Ragman’s arm stayed in his
jacket sleeve, and when the stranger donned the jacket, he now had two good
arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one. “Go to work,” he whispered lovingly.
After that he
found a drunken homeless man, lying unconscious beneath an army blanket, hunched
over, worn out and sickly. He took the old
man’s blanket and wrapped it round himself, and left the drunk with new
clothes.
By now I had to
run to keep up with the Ragman. Though
he was weeping uncontrollably, bleeding profusely at the forehead, pulling his
cart with one arm, stumbling with drunkenness, falling again and again, exhausted,
old and sick, yet he persevered with determined speed. He skittered through the poorest byways and
alleys of my city, this mile and the next, until he came to its limits, and
then he rushed beyond.
I wept to see
the change in this man. It hurt me to
see his sorrow. And yet I needed to see
where he was going in such haste, so that I might somehow know what drove him
so.
Eventually, the
little old Ragman came to a landfill, the garbage pits. I wanted to help him, but I hung back, hiding
in the shadows. He climbed up a hill and with tormented labor, cleared a small
space on that hill. Then he sighed and laid
down. He pillowed his head on an old
worn out jacket. He covered his bones
with a frayed army blanket. And he died.
How I cried to
witness his death! I slumped in a junked
car and wailed and mourned as one who has no hope, because somehow I had come
to love the Ragman. Every sad face I had
seen had faded in the wonder of this precious man, and I cherished him. But he had died, and I sobbed myself to
sleep.
I did not
know. How could I know? So great was my grief that I slept through
Friday and Saturday too.
But early
Sunday morning, I was awakened by an earth shattering noise. It was accompanied by radiant light, pure,
bright and wondrous light, which shimmered slowly over my face. I blinked, I looked, and I beheld the greatest
miracle of all. There was the Ragman, carefully
folding his tattered blanket, with scars on his body, but now healthy and more
than alive! There was no sign of sorrow or
pain, and all the rags he had gathered on Friday now glowed with the brilliance
of a dawning day.
I lowered my
head and trembled for all that I had seen, and haltingly walked over to the
Ragman. I told him my name and shared my
shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him.
Then I took off my prideful garments in that hallowed place, and with a deep
yearning that sprang from my soul, I whispered to him, “Dress me.”
The Ragman dressed
me; he completed me; and I bowed at his feet with unspeakable joy. The Ragman…the Ragman…THE CHRIST!
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