This one's for you, John

• Feast countdown = 28
• Cravings = Halloween candy
• Cravings distractions = Taking some "me" time

There's nothing quite like connecting with a stranger.  It energizes you.  It creates an almost euphoric state, where you feel a sudden bond with all those you don't know, and it propels you to reach out again.

While canvassing neighborhoods today to get out the vote for Tuesday, I came upon an elderly gentleman's home in Sikeston, Missouri.  Before knocking on his door, I glanced down at my clipboard to get some quick context -- name, gender, and age, 88 years old.  That'll do.  I then rapped on the door a couple of times with no response, left a door hanger on the front door, and walked down the driveway to visit the next house.  But a faint creak of the front door made me turn back around.

John Wilcox (not his real name) was standing in the doorway, peering out at me.  The next thing I knew, I was chatting with him in his den about the election and the importance of his vote.  If nothing else, the candidate's military background reached him on a personal level, and he jumped at the chance to share his stories with someone.  John had invited me inside to see his "medals from the war"... as he rummaged in the back room, I took a quick look around his modest den and caught glimpses of old family photos (many with a much younger version of John), a painting of his children, a WWII-era helmet and arm band, and military paraphernalia displayed among many dusty trinkets.  It was a tribute to a full, rich life.

John emerged from the back room, limping as he went, and holding a navy blazer studded with at least a dozen honorary medals.  A purple heart caught my eye.  I found myself surprised at the impressive display... I had little idea I was in the presence of a hero when I first looked upon this frail old man.

For an inscrutable amount of time, I listened intently to his snippets of stories as a first aid worker in WWII, hauling young wounded soldiers from the front lines, including the beaches of Normandy on D-Day; the memories that haunted him of having to leave men to die, or holding men while they died in his arms, never to see their mothers again; one of his dearest military buddies to this day who tried to teach him to box but called him "ol' mule legs" for his slow reflexes; and cherishing his friends in Luxembourg at the time who loaded him down with good coffee when he needed it.  The stories wound together in a blur as he wandered from memory to memory, and I couldn't get enough of it.

More than anything that struck me about John, though, was his visible need for company and a kind ear.  He lived alone now, after his wife passed away several years ago, and he mentioned the many friends he grew up with around here who now resided in the nearby cemetery.  One of his sons lived just down the street, so he was in much better care than most, but John still craved a friendly face and said so before I left.  "I wasn't going to vote before... but because you came here to personally talk to me, I'll be there on Tuesday."

Knowing I had many more doors to knock, I reluctantly stuck out my hand to say goodbye, and he asked for a hug.  I felt his tears on my cheek as I gave him a squeeze.  He needed to feel a live connection with someone -- "please keep me in your thoughts and prayers", he implored.  

I left the house in a daze, trying to sort out the encounter in my head and let its significance soak in at the same time.  It's in these fleeting moments that my heart swells for other people -- those I know and those I've never met -- who could use a helping hand.  I like to think that every person I interact with on this level, whether a stranger or a close friend, leaves a mark on me and changes me just a little.  I know John did.