Seeking The Good Samaritan

Frank's spirit left Charlotte Street this morning.  I shed a tear.  Then stopped mid-stream and thought: 'If Frank knew, that would touch his heart.' His life was a hard one.  He wouldn't expect anyone to weep at his death. Although I strongly suspect Joanne would as well. And so, when I hear, I dig out our old most-unused phone book and try to reach her.  Working what what few facts I know.

Fact #1.  Joanne and Brian were Frank's Good Samaritans. He spoke of them often with a warmth in his voice that wasn't there for the rest of the world.  They cared for him - and took care of him in a way that the rest of the world didn't.  She did his laundry. And - when she could get away with it - cleaned his 4'x8' kitchen that usually spilled over with leftover food and unwashed dishes.  Frank tried to slip them a gift card at Christmas.  But, he said, the money always appeared back in his rather empty cupboard as extra groceries.

Fact #2.  They probably work at the local grocery.  And now I find myself wishing that I had listened more closely to Frank's stories. Those stories began the moment you climbed the pocketful of steps up on to the back stoop that led into a cramped two-room cubicle he called home.  Like one of those big rigs he drove in healthier days, those stories were still rolling under a full head of steam when you headed back down the steps a full hour later.  Now I wished I had asked more questions. Packed away the fine details for such a day as today.

I met Joanne just once. She dropped by mostly,  I suspect,  to make sure he was still breathing and to tidy up the place. I listened to Frank reminisce.  A great lover of country music, it seems he once drove a tour bus for Johnny Cash. A long way from Charlotte Street. And the hard cards life had dealt him.  I listened to Frank.  Joanne,  God bless her, still wearing her bike helmet, washed the sinkful of dishes.

I never did meet Brian.  And, try as I might,  never found either of them. A few days from now a handful of us will come together at Bishop's Funeral Home. Gordie, the gentle but wise soul who, unlike me, was able to keep Frank on the straight and narrow.  Four more of us who were his parish church neighbors.  A rooming house neighbor who quite honestly couldn't stand Frank - but after all had found his body.  A senior lady, friend it seems of his former wife. No family. A minister who fills in on occasions such as these.

No Joanne. No Brian. They watched out for him in life.  He's gone now. And their seats are empty.  Yet it warms my heart. Knowing. Just knowing.  That out there somewhere there are still Good Samaritans.

BROCCOLI AND THE GOLDEN HOUR

Do you ever see the Pharisee… in you… in me?   I do.  In me mostly.

He appeared again tonight.  I’m cooking supper.  A honey garlic sausage and rice.  And a healthy serving of organic broccoli.  Fresh from Aura.  That’s for me.  For Larry, it will be meat and potatoes and other stuff.  He doesn’t do honey garlic and rice. (Much less broccoli and organic.)  We have a five o’clock date – after the Marlins finish off the Cubs.  In case you don’t know, baseball holds a revered spot in our house.  As far as Larry is concerned.  And after 45 or so years, I think I have my priority threads untangled.

So the Marlins are wrapping it up at 5 to 3.  Sausage and pork chop are nicely crisped.  Rice and potatoes are in their final simmer.  Dinner plates ready.  The phone rings.  Every night it rings at 5:10.  Mostly telemarketers.  No call display.   But we do have the Rogers Blessing.  It’s easy to pick out those rings.  We ignore.  Tonight, the call is local.  Our end-of-the-day daughter?  Charlie or Nicholas? Turn down the knobs on supper.  Answer the phone.  It’s Earl.

Earl is a dear Christian friend. He has attention deficit hyperactivity disorder.  And learned behaviour issues.  And, let’s be honest, has been known to drive some people crazy.  But to know Earl, to really know him, is to love him.  (OK, so maybe you’re too young to remember the Teddy Bears’ hit from the ‘60s, but there we are.)

Earl needs to talk.  I can smell the broccoli.  (How low did I turn the burner?)  He’s been on the phone with Christine.  You remember Christine.  Schizophrenic. Sweet.  Wears T-shirts in a winter blizzard and black fleece in mid-July. Two phone calls.  The third time, he calls to invite her to supper.  And she’s blocked his number.  Again.  

‘That’s OK, Earl,’ I assure him. ‘I’ve seen Christine today.  She’s fine.  Just needs space.‘  We are all different. One call per day works well for Christine.  She’s fine.

Mollified, Earl changes direction. ‘Are you coming to visit me?  When are you coming?’

That is when the Pharisee appears.  He’s been walking beside me for 102 days.  And I didn’t even see him.

In case you don’t know, Earl used to live in a rooming house.  Under challenging circumstances.  Neighbours on alcohol and drugs. Fowl language. Small space.  Shared kitchen and bath.  Rent soaked up most of his money.  But, in late summer, after much stressing, hoping and praying, he moved to a sparkling new subsidized housing unit on Brookside Court.  Earl will tell you:  God is Good.  He keeps His promises.

Then came that Sunday afternoon in early January.  We celebrated his new life with a house warming. With the goodbye hugs and congratulations, there were promises to ‘come and visit’.

So here we are.  Suppertime.  Thursday.  April 19. Earl is alone.  And the Pharisee is staring me straight in the face.   What would it cost me… you… anyone?  All it will take is one hour. Call ... just call him. Drop by Brookside Court.   The unit at the back.  On the second level.   Maybe a package of cookies from Superstore.  Say ‘How are you doing?’  Earl’s Mom moved on to Glory  about a month and a half ago.  He’s certain to be missing her. 

And, after all, Earl is family.  God’s family.  For me, that one hour costs nothing.  For him, it is pure gold.  What will you do?  For me - it's time to pull out my calendar.  And then check the broccoli.

PHARISEE MOMENTS

Do you ever have Pharisee Moments?

I do.  Christine was one of them. I met her in a snowbank one bitter January morning.  I was on my way to church.  She was wearing only a T-shirt and jogging pants - shivering but not minding the cold. (Without my heavy winter coat, I would have been freezing.)  It was 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning.  She had been at the church looking for a cup of coffee for herself and her friend, Earl. She came away empty-handed. She needed food. I, on the other hand, was on my way to meet my friends for early morning prayer.  I was late. That was my Pharisee Moment.  The voice inside my head said: 'Hurry up! Keep going. You're late.' Thank God, I listened and, instead, turned to Christine's voice. Christine received her coffee - and I received the blessing of a beautiful friendship.

Why am I telling you this? Well, yesterday I met the Pharisee again.  A biting cold December afternoon. (After all, this is Fredericton.)  It's Sunday - again. My friend and I are hurrying along the lower blocks of Queen Street.  On our way to a rare visit with Sheree - who has been our mutual cherished friend forever.  Afternoon tea at the Beaverbrook.  (Oh yes, I know it's now the Crown Plaza, but if you've lived here long - it will always be the Beaverbrook.) It's cold enough that we need to pop into the occasional storefront to keep warm.

And there he is.

Small.  Huddled in a bundle, sitting on the sidewalk, holding a - probably by now - cold cup of coffee. Maybe middle-aged. Only a layer of thin jeans between him and the freezing concrete. Not moving. Escaped into a drug-induced world. Probably. Over his right shoulder, through the window of Cora's cafe, the faces of dozens of smiling people eating late Sunday brunch. My eyes focus on one bright girl. Beautiful. Laughing. Chatting.The moment passes. We are on our way to warmth, fragrant friendship, dark hot tea. But the Pharisee is following me.

What if...

It would only have 'cost' five minutes to say: 'Are you alright?' Perhaps tuck him inside the warm door of Cora's and pay for scrambled eggs and toast, a steaming cup of coffee. Perhaps broken down the walls that keep us inside our comfort zone.

And found 'Christmas'.

Oh - and Christine? I often think about her name. An extension of Christ. If you live in Fredericton, it's easy to meet Christ in a snowbank.