The Rented Room
Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of Johns
Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs
rooms to outpatients 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 'til 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 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 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 a 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
prefaced 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 camp 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
paused 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 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 illness' 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.
The LORD does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward
appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart." (1 Samuel 16:7b)
Friends are very special. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They
lend an ear and they share a word of praise.
Show your friends how much you care.
Pass this on, and brighten someone's day.
Nothing will happen if you do not decide to pass it along.
The only thing that will happen if you do pass it on is that someone might
smile--because of you.
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