The Old Fisherman
Our house was directly across the street from the clinic
entrance of John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived
downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to out patients at
the clinic.
One summer evening as I was fixing supper, there was a knock
at the door. I opened it to see a truly awful looking man.
"Why, he's hardly taller than my eight-year-old," I thought
as I stared at the stooped, shrivelled body.
But the appalling thing was his face -- lopsided from
swelling, red and raw. Yet his voice was pleasant as he
said, "Good evening. I've come to see if you've a room for
just one night. I came for a treatment this morning from the
eastern shore, and there's no bus till morning." He told me
he'd been hunting for a room since noon but with no success,
no one seemed to have a room. "I guess it's my face... I
know it looks terrible, but my doctor says I will be cured
with a few more treatments . . ." For a moment I hesitated,
but his next words convinced me: "I could sleep in this
rocking chair on the porch. My bus leaves early in the
morning." I told him we would find him a bed, but he decided
to rest on the porch. I went inside and finished getting
supper.
When we were ready, I asked the old man if he would join us.
"No thank you. I have plenty." And he held up a brown paper
bag. When I had finished the dishes, I went out on the porch
to talk with him a few minutes. It didn't take long time to
see that this old man had an oversized heart crowded into
that tiny body. He told me he fished for a living to support
his daughter, her five children, and her husband, who was
hopelessly crippled from a back injury.
He didn't tell it by way of complaint; in fact, every other
sentence was preface with a thanks to God for a blessing. He
was grateful that no pain accompanied his disease, which was
apparently a form of skin cancer. He thanked God for giving
him the strength to keep going. At bedtime, we put a camping
cot in the children's room for him. When I got up in the
morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and the little
man was out on the porch. He refused breakfast, but just
before he left for his bus, haltingly, as if asking a great
favour, he said, "Could I please come back and stay the next
time I have a treatment? I won't put you out a bit.
I can sleep fine in a chair." He pause a moment and then
added, "Your children made me feel at home. Grownups are
bothered by my face, but children don't seem to mind." I
told him he was welcome to come again. And on his next trip
he arrived a little after seven in the morning. As a gift,
he brought a big fish and a quart of the largest oysters I
had ever seen. He said he had shucked them that morning
before he left so that they'd be nice and fresh. I knew his
bus left at 4:00 a.m. and I wondered what time he had to get
up in order to do this for us.
In the years he came to stay overnight with us there was
never a time that he did not bring us fish or oysters or
vegetables from his garden. Other times we received packages
in the mail, always by special delivery; fish and oysters
packed in a box of fresh young spinach or kale, every leaf
carefully washed. Knowing that he must walk three miles to
mail these, and knowing how little money he had made the
gifts doubly precious. When I received these little
remembrances, I often thought of a comment our next-door
neighbour made after he left that first morning. "Did you
keep that awful looking man last night? I turned him away!
You can lose roomers by putting up such people!" Maybe we
did lose roomers once or twice. But oh! If only they could
have known him, perhaps their illnesses would have been
easier to bear. I know our family always will be grateful to
have known him; from him we learned what it was to accept
the bad without complaint and the good with gratitude to
God.
Recently, I was visiting a friend who has a greenhouse, As
she showed me her flowers, we came to the most beautiful one
of all, a golden chrysanthemum, bursting with blooms. But to
my great surprise, it was growing in an old dented, rusty
bucket. I thought to myself, "If this were my plant, I'd put
it in the loveliest container I had!" My friend changed my
mind. "I ran short of pots," she explained, "and knowing how
beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn't
mind starting out in this old pail. It's just for a little
while, till I can put it out in the garden." She must
have wondered why I laughed so delightedly, but I was
imagining just such a scene in heaven. "Here's an especially
beautiful one," God might have said when he came to the soul
of the sweet old fisherman. "He won't mind starting in
this small body."
All this happened long ago -- and now, in God's garden,
how tall this lovely soul must stand.
Friends Are Like Angels
Our friends are like angels,
Who brighten our days.
In all kinds of wonderful,
Magical ways.
Their thoughtfulness comes,
As a gift from above.
And we feel we're surrounded,
By warm, caring love.
Like upside-down rainbows,
Their smiles bring the sun.
And they fill ho-hum moments,
With laughter and fun.
Friends are like angels,
Without any wings.
Blessing our lives,
With the most precious things.
Here is an angel sent to watch over you...
Author unknown. If anyone has a proprietary interest in this story please authenticate and I will be happy to credit, or remove, as the circumstances dictate.
Sent by Wendy Dunn WQDPDQ@aol.com