If you are charmed by the aroma of pine trees and find magic in the sway of long needle branches, the place for you is White Pines State Park. The timber lined drive is itself worth the trip.

But the real draw to this 385 acre Illinois park is the log cabin dining room.  Built by the Civilian Conservation Corps in the 1930s, its massive timbers, dark with age, offer a gracious backdrop for lunch.

Having placed our food orders, my wife and I sat back in our chairs and took in the ambience.  That's when my eyes came to rest on the two-some at the corner table.  The woman was well into her sixties, maybe early seventies.  Her companion, though an adult, was considerably younger.

As he spoke, he gestured oddly--almost wildly--his hands bent at a severe angle, his legs thrashing now and again.   It was as if a computer glitch had disconnected a proper sense of motion from the man's brain.   (Cerebral palsy will do that, my wife quietly observed).

When the couple’s lunch arrived, the woman cut up his portion into tiny bites, speaking kindly to him.  As this guy turned his head, I saw him chewing—violently--face contorted.  Frankly, it was downright unappetizing.

I began asking myself who was this man?  What was his story?  And more importantly, who was this woman extending such patience and care?  His mother?  His aunt?

He mashed up food, grinding with a ferocious intensity—then sneezed.  She wiped his mouth graciously, continuing to speak softly while touching his wrist lovingly. It was tempting to try and eavesdrop on their conversation, but there was far too much noise in the log cabin to make out anything of their exchange.

Nevertheless, as I watched this beautiful ugly scene (for it was both), I heard another voice—an ancient one: “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.”