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The Power of
Caring
Carl was a quiet
man. He didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm
handshake. Even after living in our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could
really say they knew him very well.
Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The lone sight of
him walking down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet
wound received in W.W.II.
Watching him, we worried that although he had survived W.W.II, he may not make
it through our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random
violence, gangs, and drug activity.
When he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for
the gardens behind the minister's residence, he responded in his
characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared finally
happened.
He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members
approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked,
"Would you like a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure," with a
malevolent little smile.
As Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl's arm, throwing him
down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way,
Carl's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay
there trying to gather himself as the minister came running to help him.
Although the minister had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get
there fast enough to stop it. "Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?" the minister
kept asking as he helped Carl to his feet.
Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head.
"Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday." His wet clothes clung to
his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again
and started to water.
Confused and a little concerned, the minister asked, "Carl, what are you doing?"
"I've got to finish my watering. It's been very dry lately," came the calm
reply.
Satisfying himself that Carl really was all right, the minister could only
marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place.
A few weeks later the three returned. Just as before their threat was
unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose.
This time they didn't rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched
him head to foot in the icy water.
When they had finished their humiliation of him, they sauntered off down the
street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing at the
hilarity of what they had just done.
Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up
his hose, and went on with his watering.
The summer was quickly fading into fall Carl was doing some tilling when he was
startled by the sudden approach of someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into
some evergreen branches.
As he struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his
summer tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected
attack.
"Don't worry old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time." The young man spoke
softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl
get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl.
"What's this?" Carl asked.
"It's your stuff," the man explained. "It's your stuff back. Even the money in
your wallet." "I don't understand," Carl said. "Why would you help me now?"
The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ea se. "I learned
something from you," he said. "I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We
picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But every time we
came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting back, you tried
to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for hating you. You kept showing love
against our hate." He stopped for a moment.
"I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back." He paused for
another awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. "That bag's my
way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." And with that, he
walked off down the street.
Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out
his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he
checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride that
still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people attended his
funeral in spite of the weather.
In particular the minister noticed a tall young man that he didn't know sitting
quietly in a distant corner of the church.
The minister spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life. In a voice made thick
with unshed tears, he said, "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as
you can. We will never forget Carl and his garden."
The following spring another flyer went up. It read:
"Person needed to care for Carl's garden."
The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until one day when a knock was
heard at the minister's office door.
Opening the door, the minister saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding
the flyer. "I believe this is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said.
The minister recognized him as the same young man who had returned the stolen
watch and wallet to Carl.
He knew that Carl's kindness had turned this man's life around.
As the minister handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, "Yes, go take
care of Carl's garden and honor him."
The man went to work and, over the next several years, he tended the flowers and
vegetables just as Carl had done.
In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member of
the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory and kept the
garden as beautiful as he thought Carl would have kept it.
One day he approached the new minister and told him that he couldn't care for
the garden any longer. He explained with a shy and happy smile, "My wife just
had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the garden shed
keys. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?" "Carl," he replied.
GOOD FRIENDS ARE LIKE ANGELS, YOU DON'T HAVE TO SEE THEM TO KNOW THEY ARE THERE
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