November 21, 2007
Incognito
I live on a fairly busy street and on several occasions people have come to the door asking for help. A few years ago around 11:00 pm an intoxicated young man stumbled up the stairs and pounded on the door. It was the dead of winter and he was sopping wet and muddy. Judging by his tracks in the snow he’d failed to navigate the drain ditch while taking a short cut across the park. His breath hung in the air and through chattering teeth he ask if he could come in the house and use the phone. Surely Lord, this can’t be one of those strangers we’re supposed to be entertaining (Heb 13:2). I just couldn’t let him in…but I did offer to call the police so they could help. Shivering uncontrollably he declined my offer. As I closed the door his muddy feet slipped on the redwood steps and he ricochet to the bottom coming to a sprawling stop. He got to his feet and staggered down the road. I suppose this stranger could’ve been an angel…nah!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Gail;
-----The Lord tells us to be wise as foxes, but gentle as doves. Before I married Char, I would have let that guy in in an instant. “Phone? Coffee? Cookies? Anything else I can help you with? Oh! How much?” Although I think it is already clear who is the wiser of us, I am going to relate an experience I had just for starker contrast, and maybe to emphasize the wisdom of your offer to help by calling the Police.
-----When I was dating Char, she lived in Grand Junction and I lived in Montrose. Friday afternoons I would go there to see her. Then late Saturday night, actually, very early Sunday morning, I would return to get a few hours of sleep before teaching a Sunday School class. One Winter Sunday morning, after a snow storm had left a fresh few inches of snow on the ground, as I rounded a curve in the road, maybe ten miles or so South of Grand Junction, I was surprised by a beam of headlights that flashed at me from the barrow pit to my left. I was particularly caught by them because they shined right at me, perpendicular to the highway. I knew there were no side roads along that stretch of road. I knew those people were in trouble. So I turned around.
-----I found two drunk wetbacks (sorry, but that’s what they were called in those days, put up with it) beside a car that had obviously been introduced to the ground on both sides and its top at least once. One of these guys wasn’t hurt beyond the damage done by the alcohol, the other was holding his side, bent over, and wasn’t using one leg. Neither spoke English, at least to me at that time. So I waved my hands around, pointing at myself, then towards town, holding a hand to an ear like a telephone, and twirling fingers in the air like revolving lights. Of course, I was also trying to baby-say, “I go call Patrol.”
-----”NO! No police! No police!” They knew that much English!
-----”Then, hospital! Ambulance!” I was twirling my fingers in the air again.
-----”NO! No doctor! No doctor!” Hey! They knew more English!
-----”Well, then I take you to hospital.”
-----”No! NO! To house! To house!”
-----Good grief! Here I was out on this stretch of nowhere at near 2AM, freezing cold, in the company of two yahoos not dressed for it, both drunk, one hurt, and the whole situation looking like one nobody else but a darn fool like me would stop for!
-----”OK! OK! House! Where?” I had only just finished relenting and one of them was excitedly crawling through the back door of the roll-over groping and tearing off the rear window the blue tag that probably itself had something to do with our broken negotiation. Then I stuffed those two birds in my Subaru Brat (yes, cramped like sardines), and drove off toward Grand Junction wondering if this guy was going to be successful in directing me to anywhere, and if the other was even going to make it there. Fortunately, as his friend kept seeming to pass in and out of consciousness, he was able to direct me to a little mobile home in a trailer park as dumpy as the one I lived in. Since his friend was now able to achieve only half consciousness, we drug him to the door of the house, and when it opened I helped dump him in on the floor like a bag full of wet laundry. I waved, “Hi” as the owner of the house looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he knew them, then I disappeared into the night.
-----I didn’t sleep a wink that night. In fact, I didn’t sleep much that whole week. I kept a sharp eye on every local news cast, and I bought every Daily Sentinel looking for a story about a drunk wetback dying at a stranger’s house after being dumped there by another stranger. Thank God I never saw it.
-----Now brothers and sisters, who was wiser? Gail, or me? Or, need I ask?
Post a Comment