I had planned to blog today about this being the 251st anniversary of Patrick Henry’s famous, “Give me liberty, or give me death!” speech.
But something happened at my house on Friday, and I haven’t been able to get it off my mind. I rarely blog about happy things. Life here has taken one bad turn after another, but what happened in my front yard on Friday gives me hope.
In case you are not familiar with Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan in the Bible, a man was beaten up and robbed. Left by the roadside to die, a number of individuals walked past him and kept going. Some of them considered themselves to be religious.
But then a man from Samaria came along. He helped the man up, accompanied him to a place of lodging, and even paid the bill for the man to stay there and recover.
There are political and religious subtexts to that story, and I invite you to read it. It is found in Luke 10:25-37. (Here’s a link to it from the New International Version of the Bible: https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=luke%2010:25-37&version=NIV.)
What I want to share with you today is that there are still people in this difficult world who carry the spirit of the Good Samaritan in their hearts, and some of them are children.
Another point I want to make is that we often forget that little children are capable of great things.
Let me start at the beginning
My sister and I share a home. Whether we like the label or not, we both qualify as “senior citizens.” (We didn’t see that coming!)
We have a large yard with many large, old hardwood trees. Hardwood trees drop dead limbs. They drop healthy limbs during 12-inch snowfalls and storms with high winds.
I compare our trees dropping limbs it to another Bible story — the one in the 16th chapter of Exodus about God providing manna for the Israelites to eat every morning in the forty years they wandered in the wilderness. They depended on God to provide for them daily. They were told not to hoard the manna, for it would get wormy. The manna appeared on the ground every day.
That’s the way it is with the limbs in our yard. We are greeted with limbs on the ground. Every. Single. Day. Unlike manna, we cannot eat the limbs, and we do not need them for fuel. We must pick them up, put them in a brush pile, then hire someone to come haul them off. Sometimes we burn them in a big oil drum, but that’s not safe on several levels.
Years ago, someone who had lived in a city all her life asked me, “Where do you get your brush?” How do you even answer a question like that? I don’t recall how I answered her when I calmed down enough to speak!
Perhaps I complained too often in recent months about having to pick up limbs six days a week. (I’m thankful that I don’t have to feel guilty for not picking up limbs on Sundays!) Since my sister’s surgery in November, it has all fallen on me. I complained too much.
On Friday, while I sat at the computer writing this week’s blog posts, my sister went out to pick up limbs. I looked out the window and checked on her occasionally. She always appeared to be doing okay, so I kept writing.
You know where this is going.
You, no doubt, know where this is going and you are probably wondering when I will get to the “happy” part of the story. Keep reading.
My sister fell. She wasn’t badly hurt, but she could not get herself up.
Several cars passed. We live out in the country. There’s not a lot of traffic. I got absorbed in my writing and stopped looking out the window.
The first I knew there was a problem was when my sister came inside, breathless.
Here’s the happy ending
A car came along and the little boy in the back seat saw my sister. He said, “Mom, that woman is lying on the ground!”
His mother stopped the car, turned around, and drove into our driveway. She and her little boy rushed to my sister, asked if she was hurt, and then the two of them helped her to her feet.
My sister thanked them. She thanked the little boy for being observant and for telling his mother that there was a woman lying on the ground who needed their help. She told the little boy what a wonderful thing he had done by speaking up.
She thanked the mother for stopping in the midst of her busy day to give assistance.
The mother asked if my sister planned to keep working or was she going in the house. She said she was going in the house. The mother asked if she was here alone. She told her that I was in the house.
The mother said, “Go inside. We’ll sit here and watch until we see that you are safely in your house.” And that’s what they did before they continued on their way.
What could have happened
This story could have ended differently. My sister could have broken a bone or sustained a concussion. She did not.
The little boy could have been playing on his tablet or been asleep and not noticed my sister.
The little boy could have seen my sister but not said anything. His mother was focused on the road and did not see my sister out of the corner of her eye.
The mother could have been illegally using her cell phone while driving and not heard her son.
The mother could have had music playing or been distracted by any number of concerns and not heard her son.
The mother could have heard her son but ignored him.
The mother could have heard her son but said, “We don’t have time to stop. I’m in a hurry. We’re running late.”
The mother could have said, “She’s okay. Someone else will help her.”
The mother could have said, “It might be a trick. I’m afraid to get involved.”
The unidentified “Good Samaritan”
My sister did not get the names of the little boy or his mother. Chances are, they were not Samaritans. They were Americans. They were Americans doing something that would have been expected and taken for granted in earlier generations.
It is a sign of the times that this incident made such an impression on me. It is sad that we are tempted today to not get involved, to justify our inaction by telling ourselves that someone else will help the person in distress. It is sad that our first thought when we see someone needing assistance is to wonder if it is a trick. If I stop to help, I might get robbed or worse!
I hope the mother in this story thanked her son for what he did and used it as a teaching opportunity. I hope she impressed upon him the value of what he did. I hope he will carry that few minutes and the memory of the action he took throughout the rest of his life.
Janet
Janet's Writing Blog 