Pain in the Asphalt

A personal essay by Katey Workman

Discovery of my own selfish Christianity

Mom sent a picture of a sign in a park that issued the following warning: "DO NOT LET YOUR DOG ON HOT  ASPHALT. IF IT'S TOO HOT FOR YOU IT'S TOO HOT FOR THEM". It detailed the severity in temperature difference between air and asphalt: 77° F outside equals 125° F on the asphalt, 87°F equals 143°F, and so on. The warning was intended, of course, for dog owners who care about the well-being of their pets, and was posted, no doubt, by those selfless pet-o-philes who care as much (if not more) about your Fido than you do. While I am neither dog-owner nor dog-lover, I wish I'd seen the sign myself before embarking on a mid-afternoon walk. 

Do you think you could come?

I had laid my plans for today already. Mounds of class assignments had reached an eyebrow-raising height and it had taken all my freshly won self-restraint to refuse fun things before first getting my work done. After all, how could I dependably spout my new favorite motto (that I had learned just the day before) "work first, then play," if I was to crack only on day 2? No, I needed to focus. 

But, Tom had been bewilderingly despondent lately. And calling myself a Christian after denying him succor in his hour of need didn’t seem in-line either. So, I accepted my friend’s nudge to accompany her on her mission to comfort our depressed neighbor. The solution? A walk.

Though Matthew’s biblical foreshadowing should’ve helped me anticipate it (and whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain), I foolishly thought our jaunt would be a short one. Twice around the block at most. Shoes of any kind seemed superfluous for so short an excursion, so I did without.  

You sure you don’t want your shoes?

No, I insisted. My feet are tough.

. . . 

We embarked, the three of us— Tom, my friend and I. The summer afternoon was still once we had passed the clamoring streets brimmed with young zippy-car drivers. We arrived at a trail. The river running along-side did so lazily, the hot sun zapping its energy.  Joggers and fellow walkers peppered the wide sidewalk that hugged the riverside— separated from the water only by eager tree-lings. Some traveled in couples, some alone. Some with haste, some moseying. Though chipper leaves did their best to shade, streams of barely-after-noon sun rays burst through tree screens like the faucet turned on high. The light danced on the black pavement as the gentle breezes excited young branches and they began to swing and sway.

The black top absorbed this all and said nothing.

You sure you’re okay?

 I didn’t want to be the wimp that called this charity quest off early, how much farther could we possibly be going anyway?

No, I’m great! No worries.

We walked. As my companions confided, warm August minutes passed. The more time passed, the more my gait morphed into whatever it is you call the precarious lumbering of stilted parade clowns (high-knees, hopping, arms whirling) as I made my way to the side of the path onto the temperature-neutral grass. I could see blisters the size of jam jar lids already forming. My feet were being seared on low as the impressionable pavement radiated those sun rays right back. Heat emanated at scorch-level, something the cushy shoe-donners didn’t trouble themselves to know. No, they satisfied themselves every ¾ mile or so by asking the rhetorical question, Are you okay? to which my response was, obviously, Yes.

           

Time passed, and I became exasperated and irritated with my friends, and my predicament. I felt stuck, my feet felt on fire. But Tom was still needing therapy so we continued—Tom, my friend the good Samaritan, and me the suffering individual longing to be left on the roadside. They chatted, I hung back.

. . .

Another half-hearted chuckle sounded from my friends in front, and it occurred to me that perhaps my frustration was misplaced. Tom’s laughter seemed forced—like he was trying to jumpstart his emotions from whatever funk they were in. Suddenly I could picture the last couple weeks—his dejected posture, his hopeless breathing, his shuffling footsteps and my, “of course, Tom, we’ll hang out soon…” My preoccupation with homework with parties with personal concerns, had all but blinded me to his very real, if mute, cries of pain. He was on the proverbial edge and if not for another friend, I’d have missed it entirely.

But after 2.5 miserable miles in one direction I’d reached my limit—“I’ve got a lot to do, I should probably go back”. Sure! They said with ease. Sure? SURE? That was it? They weren’t upset? Frustrated? Disappointed? It was that easy? What had I been waiting for! Why had it taken me so long to be honest with myself and them, and say simply, No I’m not okay, let’s turn back.  Why did I wait until the blisters were full before even deciding to turn around and head home?

The temptation is to now conclude with a cozy Christian moral—to say I kept walking out of love. It wouldn’t be a lie either. But through the throbs of the singed soles of my feet I found it hard to truly think of my friend. He was hurting but now so was I. No, my primary concern at the end of the walk was not Tom or how he was feeling. I was thinking of how cold bath water can be straight out of the tap and why didn’t we refill the ice cube tray last week and where did I put that tube of burn ointment and is it better to break a blister or leave it alone?

 Let he that is without sin among you cast the first stone.