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The Good Samaritan
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Trust in the Lord with all thine
heart; and lean not unto
thine own understanding
- Proverbs 3:5 -
My youngest daughter and I enjoyed
some shopping at Summit Mall in Akron before we began our trek south on I-77
towards Dover. Having just accelerated to
pass a car, I felt something pull hard to the
right on my steering wheel. A screeching
noise made me immediately take my foot
off the accelerator and pull my car to the
side of the busy road. Was it a flat tire?
Kristin opened her door, stuck her head
out, and said, “Mom, the back tire is on
fire.” “What?” We smelled something
burning (burning rubber has a whole new
meaning for me!) and we jumped out of
the car in time to see the tire disintegrate in
front of our eyes. In the back of my mind,
I worried the car might catch fire, too.
As I walked along the back of the car,
I popped the trunk opened so others would know we had a car problem. As I glanced into the trunk, I wondered if I had a spare tire. My calm-cool-collected daughter walked to the back of the car and pulled up
the carpet to expose a hatch that housed the
jack, some kind of tool and small tire. It’s
92 degrees and the sun was beating down
on us—whew—it was really hot! Cars and
semi trucks were whizzing by as she says, “Dad taught me how to change a tire
before I got my driver’s license.” Within a
minute, she‘s sitting on the ground and
loosening the lug nuts before jacking up
the car. She was able to get the five lug
nuts out and the tire off before the car came
crashing down. That scared both of us! It
was about this time I decided to call AAA
for help. After punching in the number
into my cell, I was told my membership
card was no longer good. Looking at my identification card, I knew I had renewed it (a loyal member for 19 years!) but didn’t want to bother to fight that battle at the moment. It was then I remembered I had a
roadside assistance number inside my owner’s manual.
We had been sitting alongside the
road for 30 minutes and not a single person (including the highway patrol) had stopped
to inquire if we needed help. We decided
at least half of the people who had sped by
us were women who may not have been
able to help much, anyway. That’s when it
happened.
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A man, in his early or mid 40’s, driving an older model Buick stops and pulls his car off the road and parks a few feet ahead of us. The Good Samaritan saunters up and asks if we needed help. I look at Kristin and she’s looking at me. Worried, I wasn’t sure if we should let him (he HAD offered) or continue with the plan to call the roadside assistance. Little did I know Kristin had memorized the license plate of the car in front of ours and had also noticed he had a passenger in his car. She made the decision to trust he wasn’t an ax murderer and was telling him what happened when she tried to jack the car up.
Within 30 seconds, the man had
thrown his glasses on the roof of the car
and was lying on the gravel and positioning
the jack under the car. He starts pumping
the jack and Kristin is laughing as she says, “I was using the jack the wrong way, Mom.” She had been able to get the bad tire off before the car fell but couldn’t get it up enough to put the replacement on. Within about five minutes, the donut was on the car and the kind stranger said, “Don‘t drive over 45 m.p.h..” With cars speeding by us, I thought I better put on my flashers to warn other drivers that I was driving slower than the posted 65 mph. Since I’d never used the flashers, I didn’t realize I was pushing the button for the CD player. My Lady Antebellum CD kept popping in…and out. In and out. Glancing down at my dashboard, I couldn’t figure out why the flashers weren’t on. Finally, it dawned on me and it was my turn to laugh and tell Kristin that I was hitting the wrong button for the flashers.
As I said a prayer of thanksgiving, we pulled onto our street and I thought about how fortunate we were God has kept us safe during the whole ordeal. The tire could have caused a major accident on the busy highway and people (including us) could have been injured or killed. God not only kept us safe but, sent us a kind stranger to help. As I pressed a $20 in the man’s hand and thanked him, he thanked me and said he was just trying to save us a tow bill. Little did he know, he had done much more than that. With his simple act of kindness, he has restored my belief that people do care and eventually, someone will stop to help along the highway of life.
Mary Ann Adams
Dover
Scripture from King James Version. |
The Boys of Summer
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It was one of those visceral moments, a mental image that sears your mind with its
poignancy. Several Sundays ago, during worship music at church, I noticed that the band
consisted mostly of young men who’ve “moved on.” College aged “boys” performed, giving
the regulars a break and causing a wave of memory so powerful that I had to stop singing. Just for part of the summer, they were home and still willing to give of their time and talents to their
church. They’d returned to their roots, and for a moment, I saw little boys again first pick up
their guitars and drum sticks, nervous fingers cold, voices breaking, hearts pounding, as they
performed in front of a loving but very nerve wracking crowd. When my bigs were little, we had
a household joke, that for every Edwards there was a Harper because they were always together, usually playing an instrument or video game while consuming massive quantities of pizza.
These were the same young men, but calmer, more assured and confident, with skill levels that
amazed. Roots are the gift we give our children that grounds them. Roots aren’t meant to hold
something down, they’re meant to nourish it and help it grow strong so that the plant gives off
seeds of its own, is fruitful and multiplies.
Up there with these transient visitors, those boys of summer who would too soon be gone,
stood new fruit. A harvest that belonged to the church as a body. You see, the boys of summer,
Logan and Garret, Clayton and Andrew, had grown up together musically under the tutelage of
their youth pastor, their studio instructors (thanks, Hummingbird) and the older men in the
church. This last group had taken time and much patience, practicing over and over again with
those enthusiastic newbies who always had the volume set on loud.
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They passed on their sense of purpose, their desire for service and commitment to these boys. Now, up on stage with the boys of summer, the younger generation was learning the same lessons, facing the same fears and being mentored into Christ’s service. Learning that purpose is why the music matters, the Who it’s really for. Purpose is taught and caught. The boys of summer, having been taught and having caught, have passed it on. And when the boys of summer have departed, their legacy will remain.
We saw an eagle last night, soaring over pond and pasture, white head gleaming. The boys of summer are gone now, floating on broad wings like that bird. Moving in ever higher spirals away from their home. Having returned to their roots and renewed their purpose, they are flying solo now. Updrafts and hurricanes, long summer days, still cool nights full of cricket song; all these will fill their lives. Less will they need the nurture of their roots as they set down tendrils of their own. They’ve left us in good hands, taking under those strong wings younger fellows in the church, inspiring them to achieve and believe, to live the life and to dream and to play music for their Lord and Savior. The praise band plays on. The gift is shared. Children in junior church watch and learn. Here and there, one picks up a guitar. One of the high-schoolers steps in, “Here, you hold it like this.” One of the older men asks the teenager, “Have you ever tried it this way?”
The cycle is really very simple: roots, purpose, wings — three things we must give our children. The paradox remains both privilege and pain. We give them these things that they might leave us and “be on their own,” to set down roots, share purpose and grant wings, all the while wishing that the boys of summer would come once more and simply stay.
Anne Harper M.D.
Dover
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A Man On the Hill
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When I awoke this morning, I remembered an incident that had happened many
years ago to my youngest son and his friends. But as I thought about it, it took on new
meaning. He had asked to have a camp-out with some of his friends. This was
nothing new, and plans were made. It was going to be in our barn, and kids were
invited.
My husband was working afternoons, so I was “in charge.” The fun started. We
had a pond that was treated so they could swim, fish, play ball and whatever else Middle School boys do when they camp out.
I had settled in for a nice evening, when they came running in very excited and fearful. This is where this evening became not just a camp-out but a very real adventure. It was now dark and they told me there was a man on the hill who had built a fire and walked around it and then bedded down. I went to the window and sure enough there he was. I could see him in the light of his fire.
So, as a good mom, I “took charge.” I placed each boy at a window to keep watch until my husband got home. I went from window to window to see what they were seeing and to keep an eye on this man. We lived just over the hill from Interstate
77, so I thought it could be someone who was taking a rest from his travels. I can’t
remember all the stories but the boys got excited about this experience and their
imaginations went wild. Now this went on for several hours, because my husband
didn’t get home until about 12:30.
Finally we saw him pull in, and I went running with the news that a man was camped out on our hill.
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He could see the fire and this man sleeping beside it, so he told all the boys to stay in the house and he got his shotgun (of all things) and headed up the hill.
He later told us the “rest of the story.” When he got there with his gun in hand, he kicked the man and asked him what he was doing. You can imagine the surprise and terror for this man to wake up to a man standing over you with a gun.
The next thing I saw was my husband walking down the hill with this man, and all at once he didn’t look so big. It was a neighbor boy who had not been invited to my son’s camp-out and just wanted to be a part. When the boys saw who it was, they embraced him, and now the real camp-out began in the barn. It had not been intentional, but he had been left out.
As I began to think about this today, I wondered how many times someone has built a fire within my sight and has even come and camped there. How many times have I not included a person into my walk with Jesus because I was afraid and had a picture of what I thought about them. They were different, and I didn’t know why they were there. Would they think I wouldn’t want to be their friend? After all, I didn’t invite them into the fellowship of my other friends. Could it be that I just didn’t stop and think about the one that was just wanting to be a part and wanting to be included in what looked like something great, but he wasn’t invited?
As the Body of Christ, may we look (really look) at ourselves and ask, “Have we become so comfortable with our own little ‘party’ that we don’t invite others to it?”
Father, help us see and include “the man on the hill” in our lives and invite him to Your party!
Shirley Henry
Port Washington
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Refuge
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I got an extra blessing last night. I
couldn’t sleep, so I eased out into our big back
yard on the edge of the woods. As I paused to listen to the night, I saw some fireflies in the
yard; they are called lightning bugs by some
people. They brought back many memories
with their little flashing taillights.
When I was just a child, not more than
nine or ten, I used to be a child of the night. I learned early that I was blessed with night eyes. I could see well at night with very little light. This made me very sure-footed in the dark while other people were stumbling around.
It used to amaze me what you can hear at night.
I would climb a tree, and find a comfortable
limb, lean back, close my eyes, and just listen.
I could hear cows lowing, the occasional dog
barking, mothers calling children in for the
night, tractors chugging their way to the barn,
and the occasional car. As the night moved on
it, it would start getting quieter. Some nights I could actually hear snatches of conversation cared by the breeze, sometimes several miles
away. Several nights I heard a young mother
as she talked to her baby as she prepared him
for bed, and then her soft lullaby as she rocked
him to sleep. I could hear the forest starting to
come alive also with the creatures of the night.
In the dusk of the coming night, I watched as
flights of bats darted and dived chasing their
tiny insect prey through the air, and listened as all the little rodents scampered through the underbrush hunting for food and water. Moreover, I could literally hear the night and all its creatures hold its breath as the King of
the Night, the Barn Owl made his appearance.
The Owl had no enemy in the night that could
challenge him, so he would fly his loop around
his domain and then settle onto a tree limb. I
could barely see him on his limb, but it was
easy to imagine the dip of his majestic head
giving permission for the creatures of the night
to begin moving again. He would stay there until just before dawn when he would feed. Sometimes it was a rabbit and other times only
a field mouse or two; he never killed more than
what he needed.
Now it was my turn to walk the darkness–somewhere in the night was my cousin Jimmy Dee. He was two years older than I was, and had a mean streak that he was good at hiding from the adults. Jimmy liked to play mean tricks, and practice wrestling moves on me that he saw on television. However, today I had gotten him into trouble, and made him look bad. He was caught tormenting me, and he blamed me, of course. He knows that I am camping out tonight so he has come to get his revenge. Strangely, I am not afraid. The night has long been my friend. It is one of the few places that I walk with confidence and feel at peace. I know Jimmy Dee has come because I can hear him walking in the night. He is almost a half-mile from me, but although I cannot see him yet, the night tells of his passing. Where he passes the night grows still, and does not move again until he has passed. Brother Owl has left his tree and soars silently through the night checking out this invader. I find myself moving to intersect my cousin, using the night to guide me to him. It is easy to locate him because he is stumbling in the dark, mumbling under his breath as he trips over roots, and small limbs that he had not seen slashed him in the face. |
As I came up behind him I felt powerful and strong–maybe for the first time in my life. I knew he meant to hurt me, and I knew the night was not going to let him. I softly whispered his name, and as he jumped in fear and spun. I gently pushed against him with one hand, and off-balance he fell over the root on the ground behind him. He bounded to his feet and came forward with a lunge, but stopped as he realized that he couldn’t see me. He started swearing, and telling me what he was going to do when he caught me. When I whispered his name again, he charged toward my voice, but the limb I had pulled back swung into his face and knocked him down again. As he fell, Brother Rattler whispered from somewhere close to him, his warning rattle vibrating into the night. “I am here! I am here, and I am death! Anger me at your peril!” Jimmy Dee froze, afraid to move in any direction because he could not see Brother Rattler.
I whispered from the darkness, “Move slowly toward my voice with no sudden moves.” Using only my voice I guided him back to the trail. Moments later, Jimmy suddenly dove to the ground frantically trying to cover his head with his hands as Brother Owl swooped low overhead with his challenging cry of, “Who? Who?” which was echoing through the night. Who indeed? Suddenly I realized that Jimmy was nothing to fear–nothing worth hating. At peace again, I told him to go home before he got himself hurt, he did not belong here. Standing there with my eyes closed, I listened to his passage back out of the woods. I heard when Sister Raccoon startled him on her nightly trip to the creek, and in the quietness of the night, I could almost hear my cousin’s heart thumping as his flight stopped at the edge of the big meadow–only moments from his freedom. I knew from his hesitant pause that he had seen the shadows moving in the thicket, and I knew why he was afraid. I knew, but he had no way of knowing that passing through the thicket, Brother Deer was actually just as afraid of him! Then… it was just the creatures of the night and me once more.
God gives each of us our place of refuge. It is His special gift to each of us. For some it is in the arms of their spouse, or a rocking chair by the fireplace. Sometimes it is a lake, a park, a mountain, or a special valley. Some find their peace in the breaking of each new day, or the sinking of the evening sun. But at that time–and at that spot–there we can truly experience contentment. Sometimes in the hustle and bustle of day-to-day life we forget to use that blessing. It is there that we are renewed, and that our soul is at peace. Do you know where your place of refuge is?
Isaiah 4:5-6 (NIV) Then the LORD will create over all of Mount Zion and over those who assemble there a cloud of smoke by day and a glow of flaming fire by night; over all the glory will be a canopy. It will be a shelter and shade from the heat of the day, and a refuge and hiding place from the storm and rain.
Emmett Alan Nethery
Hartselle, AL
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