The Old Fisherman

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 out-patients at the Clinic.

One summer evening as I was preparing 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, shriveled 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 'till 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 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
favor, 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 neighbor 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. There'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.'


*Contribution from Story Teller whom recieved this story from
a dear friend of hers and posted it on Teaching Hands' blog.
Thanks Cindy, always love your satire hugs.