Stanley. That was the only name I knew him by; and, only as I open the windows of memory do I even recall that name.  The shutters of life close tighter as the years go by, keeping out the sunshine of the past which still lies at time’s door.  So, lest I become a shut-in and allow the house of old age to bar that door, I often awaken the memory of Stanley and others of influence in my younger life.

Remember the old saying “beauty is only skin deep, but ugly is to the bone?” Well, to the eye, Stanley was bone-ugly.  He was, through no fault of his own, a malformed monstrosity who would have made the Hunchback of Notre Dame or Mr. Hyde look like leading men in the movies.  I can still see him riding up to his magazine stand on his bicycle (which was also my mode of travel) sixty years ago.  He would lean his bike against the side of the clapboard building and would then turn the key of the padlock and slowly raise the flap which had concealed his business.  The covers of popular paper-back publications of the day would greet me and Stanley would give a snaggle-toothed grin and say, “I’m still going.”  He would begin to recite a poem.  Without the normal articulation, Stanley was nevertheless able to express himself to me: “When your fondest hopes lie shattered, and you feel you’re badly battered, keep a going.”  Then he’d always conclude by informing the listener, “I read that in a book.”

Stanley’s magazine stand housed my favorite books, comic books that is; and I was one of his best customers.  All the guys at school knew Stanley and there were several stories about how he came to look so hideous, but no one rally knew the answer except Stanley himself (and he never spoke about it).  I spent a lot of time with him, for two reasons.  First and foremost, he was as kind as he was ugly.  He was my friend.  I helped him arrange the magazines and brought him hamburgers for lunch, even on rainy days.  Water would drip from the brim of his crumpled old hat, but he would grin and affirm, “I’m still going.”

The other reason that I chose Stanley’s company was that I admired his courage.  He could have appealed for some kind of state aid.  He certainly qualified as a disabled person.  Yet, Stanley willed his crippled legs and feet to pump that old bicycle to his beloved stand each and every day.  Oh, the hours we spent talking about comic book heroes.  Sometimes Stanley would talk about things “he read in a book” that were (and still are I might add) over my head.  He liked to confuse me with his knowledge of Greek myths, asking me questions about Hermes and Zeus for instance.

Once I asked Stanley a personal question: “How old are you, Stanley?”  To which he asked me: “Did you know that Alexander the Great conquered the world when he was only twenty-three?”  I had no idea who Alexander the Great was then.  The only Alexander I knew was in the Dogwood comic strip!  When I admitted my ignorance of world history, he added: “And Jesus overcame the world when He was thirty-three.  I was born again when He died for me, so how old would I be?”  That remained a puzzle to me until some thirty-five years later.

Oh, there were kids now and then who would come by the stand to make fun of Stanley.  One time a fat, red-headed youth started to giggle as Stanley was eating his hamburger.  I was about to bodily evict fatso; but Stanley gave the boy a free comic book.

As he was leaving, Stanley said: “Don’t blame him.  A monkey was cracking nuts with a rock.  He saw a man laugh at him every time he missed hitting a nut.  The monkey got mad and hit his tail by mistake, gave a yell and threw the rock at the man.  It wasn’t the man’s fault.”

He paused a few seconds and concluded with “I read that in a book.”

The school bus made a daily stop during the week at Stanley's corner. Amidst the jeering voices coming from the bus, Stanley would hobble out and distribute funny books to the driver and wave to the wretched children as the bus pulled away.  It seemed like if you wanted a favor from Stanley, all you had to do was have him “turn the other cheek.”  I marveled at the way Stanley could remain a peaceable man.

One day he pulled a pocket-sized book from his coat and, flipping through the dog-eared pages, he said he wanted to show me something.  To my shock and surprise, he proceeded to tear out a page and rip it into shreds. Then, with great effort, his deformed fingers began to restore the torn pieces to their proper place.  He asked me to tape each piece together for him as he lined up the ragged edges.  I couldn’t get over how quickly he put the page back in order.

After taping the page back and inserting it back into the little book, I asked: “How did you do that, Stanley ?”

He answered with his familiar triumphant smile, “There’s a man in the book.”

“A man” I inquired.

With his finger he traced a faded, penciled-in name that stretched over the entire scripture page, JESUS!  Stanley had written that name on each and every page.  He called his prized possession  “The Jesus Book.”  We call it the New Testament.

Stanley quoted the passage about a man that had been sick for 38 years, until Jesus found him lying by a pool of water waiting to be healed.  Jesus asked him if he wanted to be made well; and then told him to get up and walk.  Right away, he did!

“But Jesus didn’t heal you, Stanley,” I protested.

To which Stanley answered; “Oh yes. He healed me inside. He has made everything beautiful in His time.”

It was true. Beneath his physical deformities, Stanley was a beautiful man inside. God made him beautiful within, in His own time. "He read it in a book,” he’d say, and words had stirred the page. His ugliness did not a prison make, for Jesus kept him from that cage.

Whatever became of my friend? I do not know. What I do know is that Jesus made over a marred man into His own image.

Stanley told me of a legend about a path that was continually trod upon by brutal men. The pathway exclaimed: “I am trodden on every day, and I only grow harder.” Stanley was walked on and bruised because he wasn’t pleasing to the eye; but he never grew harder…he became sweeter. His footsteps bore testimony that “beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, who bring glad tidings of good things.”

I read that in The Book. And, as Stanley would say, “I’m still going!”


By: D.A.Park
May 2007
doublecstar@verizon.net
http://www.aliasgabbyhayes.com