THE GOOD SAMARITAN

I watched him from afar for a long while before I determined he would not be a threat to my dogs, but when we resumed our evening walk, he came trotting across the street and started following us. I turned and quickly walked the dogs back home. I returned alone to see if he was wearing a collar and ID tag, although is was painfully obvious he was recently abandoned.

I watched him crawl on his belly and then slowly work his way across the street. He was younger than I thought, still a puppy, and in need of rescue. I tossed him a dog biscuit and he ran away.

As I sat on a concrete slab, wondering what to do, I prayed for someone who could help him. Even if I could catch him, it was not plausible to bring him in the house. What if he fought with the dogs, attacked one of the cats or had something contagious? His face was scraped, one eye barely open, and he had a skin problem – fleas, allergy or possibly mange. Where would I find money to pay the vet?

I heard a sound, turned and watched a young couple approach with their two dogs. The puppy leaped to his feet, raced across the street and joined the group. I followed them. When they turned to retrace their route, they asked if I knew who owned the puppy. I learned their yard is fenced and if the puppy followed them home, they would hold him and call Animal Control in the morning. I watched them continue down the sidewalk, breathing a sigh of relief my prayer was answered.

In a short while, the dogs and I set out to finish our aborted walk. We passed the street where the couple always turn left, walked once around a parking lot, turned toward home, and encountered the puppy running toward us from the side street. His tail wagged furiously as he bounded back and forth between the dogs. He wanted to come inside with the dogs but he was afraid to cross the threshold.

I gave him a short sponge bath on the porch. When he was finally inside, I put a used collar around his neck. Before retiring for the night, I took the dogs outside and discovered the puppy was not accustomed to a leash. He jumped backward, then stood ramrod still. Once coaxed inside again, he stood spraddle-legged, head stretched forward, immobile for a long while.

A short while later the exhausted pup was sound asleep on the floor at the foot of the bed. I knelt beside him with a pan of water and a bar of pine tar soap to clean the underside of his dirty, crusty neck, only his neck was not dirty. It was swollen, with wounds on his throat that were bleeding from the short time the collar rubbed against them.

Two mornings later, Little No Name (yes, I really called him that so I wouldn’t get attached to him) was named Samaritan. His name originates from the story in Luke 10, but not because I have any illusion of being a good Samaritan. As much as I love animals, I was a very reluctant rescuer in this instance, but taking care of this puppy has blessed me greatly. Samaritan has not growled, complained or refused to accept my help

I am mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted after nine years of assisting an iron-willed, elderly parent, one who desperately needs help but fights tooth and nail against even the smallest thing that should be done for her basic needs, comfort or safety. Often anger surpasses compassion on both our parts.

I was feeling lost, abandoned and confused with some wounds of my own that needed attention. After Samaritan’s name came into my mind, I began to realize that just as I was ministering physically to this puppy, God was ministering to my spirit, reminding me of His love and faithfulness.

I thought of how Jesus can be called the ultimate Good Samaritan. Often an unconverted man has to hit rock bottom before he will accept Jesus stopping to help him. Jesus binds his wounds and his sins are added to Jesus’ account, which He has already paid in full.

I could have called Animal Control and sent the puppy to the shelter where he would have lain, without hope of rescue, on a concrete floor until it was his turn to die. God could have left man to live and die in his sins, without hope of redemption or mercy. Instead, He sent His Son, Jesus Christ. What a wonderful Savior!

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DON'T RUN WITH THE PACK

Dogs are social animals. They enjoy hanging out with a human companion, napping in front of the TV set or chasing a Frisbee. They also enjoy hanging out with canine companions, hiking the fields and swapping stories about the prey “this big” that got away.

In a group they can become a pack with primal instincts and deadly consequences. A quiet, gentle, cat-and-small-animal-loving dog will join his companions in attacking other animals – and possibly humans - for the sheer sport of killing. They easily fall into the pack mentality of doing things together each might not consider doing apart from the pack.

This same trait is exhibited in human nature, but whereas dogs as a pack will attack and kill other living creatures, human beings as a group attack and kill reputations.

In a group setting, prohibitions can disappear. Everyone wants to fit in and be one of the “guys,” accepted by the group and participating in any discussion. Small talk can take a bad turn, melding into gossip and plowing into “catty.” In the extreme, exaggerations and outright lies can flow without conscious thought. Someone’s reputation is stained or attacked and killed without viable thought and often without malevolence. Humans easily fall into the group mentality of doing things together each might not consider doing apart from the group.

This was brought home to me with several recent events. One eye-opener began as an angry meeting where the incoming president and members discussed the outgoing president and treasurer, who had used a little ingenuity to clean out the treasury. With only a few meetings under my belt, I could not participate in a conversation of broken by-laws, and I did not want to participate in the character appraisal of the outgoing officers, which wandered off the path and into the brierpatch.

The members were understandably angry, but I had nothing to contribute so I sat quietly and left when the meeting ended. I then became the topic of conversation. “Jan didn’t say anything tonight. She must be with them.”

This incident was a reminder that sometimes silence is viewed as tacit agreement or complicity. Sometimes you have to take a stand and let others know where you stand.

A week later I did, with another group, one that had lost its community focus and had become a small group that meets mainly to complain and bear tales on the neighbors. “I see your neighbor hasn’t cut his grass.” “The neighborhood is full of rentals and renters don’t care.” (Hey, folks, I’m a renter!)

The members are good, kind, Bible-believing, church-attending folks who would not even consider absconding with the treasury, and they might not have realized how far they had strayed from the original purpose of the meetings. I held no illusions that anything I said would change the direction, but I addressed my concerns to the president of the group and, sadly but resolutely, the next day I resigned as secretary.

We are admonished in 1 Peter 4:15: But let none of you suffer as a murderer, a thief, an evildoer, or as a busybody in other people’s matters.

Of course, a loner can become a busybody, but a group seems to unconsciously egg on the timid and add bluster to the overzealous, so choose groups wisely, and avoid “running with the pack.” A Christian should stand out in a group just as much by what he does not verbalize as by what he does.

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THE POPPY LADY

For the past three years I have helped the Veterans of Foreign Wars distribute Buddy Poppies for two days twice a year – the Friday and Saturday of Memorial Day and Veterans Day weekends. I am not a Veteran, merely a member of their Auxiliary who volunteers to help.

For the most part, I enjoy Buddy Poppy drives. The nice folks more than compensate for the grumps, those who avoid eye contact, and the occasional hostile passerby. Some of the reactions from folks who know me are curious.

One elderly neighbor always stops short and asks. “What are you doing?” as if he has never seen me standing in the same spot with the familiar red Poppies in hand. (Sadly, he has Alzheimer’s.)

A minister joked, “I didn’t know the men make the women work.”

“I didn’t recognize you. Take off those sunglasses so people know who you are,” another neighbor ordered, with a laugh.

But my favorite comment came from my mother’s neighbors who approached as I stood outside Ingle’s holding Buddy Poppies in one hand. “Are you the Poppy Lady today?” the wife teased.

“Yes, I guess I am,” I replied, aware I was the only woman in town distributing VFW Poppies on that particular day.

Buddy Poppy days are either cold and wet or hot and humid. This Memorial Day weekend is hot and humid. (Obviously, I don’t do it for the good weather.) I was fortunate to be able to stake out a post in the shade during the early morning hours on both days, but before noon I was hitting my large water jug frequently, and despite the baseball cap shading my face somewhat, my skin was on fire. I was hot and tired and ready to go home, but I managed to persevere until I ran out of Poppies.

What keeps me motivated is the knowledge I am exchanging a Buddy Poppy for a donation to help veterans who served their country overseas. A soldier in combat or in a combat zone does not have the luxury of leaving his post because there is no shade or it is wet and cold. He can not walk into the grocery store or over to a vending machine to get out of the weather for a few minutes, or to purchase a cold drink if he is thirsty or a snack if he is hungry. He sticks to his post and waits to be relieved.

I saw a strong example of this determination to duty last year when Jimmy, a Vietnam veteran, appeared ill and ready to collapse as he sat in front of the Wal-mart Super Center in the hot sun with his Poppies, but he refused to allow anyone to relieve him or to take a break. “I can’t leave my post until I’m relieved (by his commanding officer),” he insisted. Fortunately, the local VFW Post Commander thought of his welfare, arrived early, took a firm stand, and, despite protests, he drove Jimmy home. Jimmy died a few days later.

No matter who you are or where you serve, if you follow Christ you are a soldier in a war zone too.

Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we do not wrestle against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this age, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, that you may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. Ephesians 6:11-13.

You will need all of the armor because some people will tease you, some will be uncomfortable and avoid eye contact with you, and some will be downright hostile to you when you follow Christ. Trials and temptations will come, friends and family might desert you, accidents might occur, disease might attack your mind or body, but Christ said, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” Reflect on that promise at those times when you stand at your post feeling alone and abandoned.

You need to stick to your post, no matter what, until Christ relieves you of your physical duties, either in death or by His return, whichever comes first. (“I will come again,” Jesus promised. John 14:3)

For a few days a year now I serve the VFW as “the Poppy Lady.” But my service to God is a lifetime commitment.

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CLUTTER IN THE DEN

Merci isn’t aware her den is actually my bedroom and I doubt she cares. When she arrived, she spent two days sleeping on a throw rug in the living room. On the third day, she decided she preferred the bedroom carpet, moved her new toys and claimed her own space. She likes to sleep surrounded by her toys. I like to walk without tripping over her clutter.

My dream is that one day Merci will learn to pick up her own toys and put them in a basket so her den is neat. She will probably learn that right after she learns to cook and clean. Meanwhile, I occasionally pile all her toys in a basket and put the basket in the living room. She reacts like a mother dog moving her puppies to a safer location. Shortly, all her toys are scattered around her bed in her den in my way.

This morning I decide she needs to spend less time in solitariness and move her bed near my workspace. I place the basket with all her toys on top so she will feel secure. One by one, she trots the toys back to their rightful spot in her den.

Merci’s toys are dirty from being repeatedly tossed and fetched. I wouldn’t think of putting one of her toys in my mouth. But as I watch her I realize we sometimes hoard anger in the same way. We embrace it, chew on it, and cuddle it as we sleep and as soon as we decide to move it out of our life, we grab it back from the trashcan and chew on it some more. We don’t consider the germs it carries.

There is a time to be angry, but when the time has passed, we need to toss the anger in the trashcan and leave it there. Anger is like clutter. If we don’t pick it up, sooner or later we will stumble over it.

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HARDWORKING RANDY

I remember the days when customers spoke kindly of the U.S. P.S. (United States Postal Service). Today there are more complaints about their service than compliments. The postal service handles more mail per day than I can imagine, yet they have a too-high rate of lost or destroyed mail complaints. I know this from personal experience. In 2005, three of my checks were lost within the short span of two months.

Some of the mail is destroyed by machinery. Some is misplaced, forever lost, left in the bottom of a mailbag, sent on permanent vacation to unknown destination, or hidden in a home or storage locker by the occasional kooky carrier. Thankfully, much of the mail does reach its destination intact. And that is thanks to the hard-working folks such as my friend Bill who has a high pressure postal job in another state. I do not know whether the center where he works realizes how dedicated and conscientious he is or how his determination reflects well on the postal system, but I do know God is aware he perseveres on the job and always gives his best to help postal customers.

Misdelivered or lost mail can cause major problems, so I really appreciate a good mail carrier. I had a carrier in Phoenix, Arizona who knew everyone on his route, even though he delivered to a number of apartment buildings with a high turnover of tenants, and he had a very low incidence of mail delivered to the wrong box. He was personable, diligent and highly regarded.

The carrier at my next apartment complex was just the opposite. One of the tenants in the apartment building called his supervisor one day and asked, “What does that man have on you that he can do whatever he wants and walk away without even a reprimand?” One complaint was that although the news carried warning after warning about boxes of checks being stolen from home mailboxes, this carrier continued to throw boxes of checks on the public sidewalk somewhere in the vague vicinity of an apartment, and he could not understand why anyone would fuss about it.

I moved to a small town several years ago and the mail service has been good here. For several years, Randy has delivered mail in this area. This is a walking route, whereas the other carriers drive their routes. He walks ten miles a day, up and down steps, and up and down hills.

He works hard, yet he is always smiling and cheerful. He knows who is related to whom and which dogs belong to which owner. If anyone has a question or a problem, he will do his best to answer or resolve it. He is not the type to deliver a box of checks by tossing it toward the porch from several yards away. All of the people I know on his route like him and trust him, knowing he is willing to go the extra mile to serve.

He is one of those people who bring to mind Ecclesiastes 9:10a: Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with your might.

Lately I noticed a substitute carrier is delivering the mail and assumed, as did others on his route, Randy is on vacation. I learned today he is not off somewhere having fun. He is recovering at home from injuries sustained when the diving board broke and he fell into his pool while he was cleaning it. The pool was empty at the time and his injuries are serious. He will be out of work for three to four months.

As I thought about his accident today, two things immediately came to mind.

1. No matter how hard you try to avoid them, accidents can happen. In a split second your life is altered, and you can not go backwards, only forward with your life.

2. A lazy worker’s absence is noted with celebration. A hard worker’s absence is recognized with sadness.

My neighborhood recognizes Randy’s absence with sadness. We are praying for his complete recovery and look forward to seeing him back on his route. Meanwhile, the route is being handled by a brave (it’s a hard route, remember) and competent female sub.

Some Christians are lazy workers, wanting to skim through life and into heaven with as little work as possible, but we are called to service. The Bible is our instruction manual. Prayer is our power source. Jesus washed His disciples’ feet, which was the act of a servant. He is our example.

Some Christians are such hard workers they can forget salvation is a gift of God, not a do-it-yourself challenge. Their works will not earn their way into God’s kingdom.

I do not know whether the world, your neighbors, or even your family will realize how dedicated and conscientious you are, but I do know God is aware when you persevere and work hard in His service. .

Christians are part of the body. Serving others can be frustrating and exhausting at times, but it is also rewarding. Our work is to be done in Christ and not in our own strength or to our own glory.

© 2006 Janice Price
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