By Roger Kiser
I walked into the Huddle House restaurant in Brunswick, Georgia, and sat down at the counter as all of the booths were taken. I picked up a menu and began to look at the various items, trying to decide if I wanted to order breakfast or just go ahead and eat lunch.
"Excuse me," said someone, as she touched me on the shoulder.
I looked up and turned to the side to see a rather nice-looking woman standing before me.
"Is your name Roger by any chance?" she asked.
"Yes," I responded, looking rather confused as I had never seen her before.
"My name is Barbara and my husband is Tony," she said, pointing to a distant table near the door leading into the bathrooms.
I looked where she was pointing but did not recognise the man sitting alone at the table.
"I'm sorry ... I don't think I know you guys. But my name is Roger. Roger Kiser," I told her.
"Tony Claxton. Tony from Landon High School in Jacksonville, Florida?" she asked me.
"I'm really sorry. The name doens't ring a bell."
She turned, walked back to her table and sat down. She and her husband immediately began talking and once in a while, I would see her turn around in her seat and look directly at me.
I finally decided to order breakfast and a cup of decaffeinated coffee. I sat there racking my brain, trying to remember who this Tony was.
"I must know him," I thought to myself. "He recognises me for some reason." I picked my coffee up adn took a sip. All of a sudden it came to me like a flash of lightning.
"Tony. TONY THE BULL," I mumbled, as I swung around on my stool and faced his direction. "The bully of my seventh grade Geography class."
How many times had that sorry guy made fun of my big ears in front of the girls in class? How many times had this sorry son-of-a-gun laughed at me because I had no parents and had to live in an orphanage? How many times had this big bully slammed me up against the lockers in the hallway just to make himself look like a big man to all the other students?
He raised his hand and waved. I smiled, returned the wave, turned back and began to eat my breakfast.
"Jesus. He's so thin now. Not the big burly guy I remember from back in 1957," I thought to myself.
All of a sudden I heard the sound of dishes breaking so I spun around to see what had happened. Tony had knocked several plates off the table as he tried to get into his wheelchair, which had been parked in the bathroom hallway while they were eating. The waitress ran over and started picking up the broken dishes as I listened as Tony and his wife tried to apologise.
As Tony rolled by me, pushed by his wife, I looked up and I smiled.
"Roger," he said, as he nodded.
"Tony," I responded, nodding my head in return.
I watched as they went out of the door and slowly made their way to a large van which had a wheelchair loader located on its side door.
I sat and watched as his wife tried, again and again, to get the ramp to come down. But it just would not work. Finally I got up, paid for my meal, and walked up to the van.
"What's the problem?"
"Darn thing sticks once in a while," said Tony.
"Could you help me get him in the van?" asked his wife.
"I think I can do that," I said, as I grabbed the wheelchair and rolled Tony over to the passenger door.
I opened the door and locked the brakes on the wheelchair.
"Okay. Arms around the neck, Dude," I said as I reached down, grabbed him around the waist and carefully raised him up onto the passenger seat.
As Tony let go of my neck, I reached over and swung his limp, lifeless legs, one at a time, into the van so that they could be stationed directly in front of him.
"You remember, don't you?" he said, looking into my eyes.
"I remember, Tony."
"I guess you're thinking, 'What goes around comes around'," he said softly.
"I would never think like that, Tony," I said, with a stern look on my face.
He reached over, grabbed both my hands and squeeze them tightly.
"Is how I feel in the wheelchair how you felt way back then when you lived in the orphan home?"
"Almost, Tony. You are very lucky. You have someone to push you around who loves you. I didn't have anyone."
I reached in my picket, pulled out one of my cards and handed it to him. "Give me a call. We'll do lunch."
We both laughed. I stood there watching as they drove toward the interstate and finally disappeared onto the southbound ramp. I hope he calls me sometime. He will be the only friend I have from my high school days.
Story sent in to Starmag by Vincent.
Showing posts with label forgiveness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label forgiveness. Show all posts
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Carl's Garden
Carl didn't talk much. He would always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in our neighbourhood 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 sight of him walking alone down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound he got in WWII. Watching him, we worried that he might not make it through out changing uptown neighbourhood with its ever-increasing random voilence, gangs and drug activity.
When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared happened. He'd just finished 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 guys said, "Yeah, sure." As Carl offered him the hose, the other two grabbed his arm and threw him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, they stole his retirement watch and wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get up, but he'd been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister ran up.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Carl just passed a hand over his brow and shook his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise up some day." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He re-adjusted the nozzle and continued to water the plants.
A few weeks later, the trio 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 from head to toe. Then they sauntered down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, and falling over one another at the hilarity of what they'd done. Carl watched them. Then he picked up his hose, and carried 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, the tall leader of his tormentors reached down for him. Carl braced himself for the attack.
"Don't worry, old man. I'm not going to hurt you this time," the young man said softly, as he offered his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. He helped him up, when pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket.
"What's this?" Carl asked.
"It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand. Why would you help me now?"
The man seemed ill at ease. "I learned something from you. I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked on 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. You kept showing us love."
He stopped for a second. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused again. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." With that, he walked off.
Carl looked at the bag in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his watch and strapped it on his wrist. He opened his wallet and checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one cold day after Christmas that winter and many people attended his funeral. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man, whom he didn't know, sitting quietly in a corner of the church. He spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life: "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can."
The following spring, another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." One day, someone knocked on the minister's door. He opened it and 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. "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honour 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.
One day, he approached the new minister and said that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. "My wife had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the keys to the garden shed. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
"Carl."
Sent in to Starmag by S.T. Koay
Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. The sight of him walking alone down the street often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound he got in WWII. Watching him, we worried that he might not make it through out changing uptown neighbourhood with its ever-increasing random voilence, gangs and drug activity.
When Carl saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers to care for the gardens behind the minister's residence, he signed up.
He was well into his 87th year when the very thing we had always feared happened. He'd just finished 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 guys said, "Yeah, sure." As Carl offered him the hose, the other two grabbed his arm and threw him down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way, they stole his retirement watch and wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get up, but he'd been thrown down on his bad leg. He lay there trying to gather himself as the minister ran up.
"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Carl just passed a hand over his brow and shook his head. "Just some punk kids. I hope they'll wise up some day." His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He re-adjusted the nozzle and continued to water the plants.
A few weeks later, the trio 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 from head to toe. Then they sauntered down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, and falling over one another at the hilarity of what they'd done. Carl watched them. Then he picked up his hose, and carried 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, the tall leader of his tormentors reached down for him. Carl braced himself for the attack.
"Don't worry, old man. I'm not going to hurt you this time," the young man said softly, as he offered his tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. He helped him up, when pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket.
"What's this?" Carl asked.
"It's your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet."
"I don't understand. Why would you help me now?"
The man seemed ill at ease. "I learned something from you. I ran with that gang and hurt people like you. We picked on 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. You kept showing us love."
He stopped for a second. "I couldn't sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back."
He paused again. "That bag's my way of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." With that, he walked off.
Carl looked at the bag in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out his watch and strapped it on his wrist. He opened his wallet and checked for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride who still smiled back at him from all those years ago.
He died one cold day after Christmas that winter and many people attended his funeral. In particular, the minister noticed a tall young man, whom he didn't know, sitting quietly in a corner of the church. He spoke of Carl's garden as a lesson in life: "Do your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can."
The following spring, another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care for Carl's garden." One day, someone knocked on the minister's door. He opened it and 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. "Yes, go take care of Carl's garden and honour 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.
One day, he approached the new minister and said that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. "My wife had a baby boy last night, and she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"Well, congratulations!" said the minister, as he was handed the keys to the garden shed. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
"Carl."
Sent in to Starmag by S.T. Koay
Thursday, June 24, 2010
'I'm proud of you'
Forty-three years seems like a long time to remember the name of a mere acquaintance. I have duly forgotten the name of an old lady who was a customer on my paper route when I was a 12-year-old boy in Marinette, Wisconsin, the United States, back in 1954.
Yet, it seems like just yesterday that she taught me a lesson in forgiveness that I can only hope to pass on to someone else someday.
On a mindless Saturday afternoon, a friend and I were throwing rocks onto the roof of the old lady's house from a secluded spot in her backyard. The object of our play was to observe how the rocks changed to missiles as they rolled to the roof's edge and shot out into the yard like comets falling from the sky.
I found myself a perfectly smooth rock and sent it for a ride. The stone was too smooth, however, so it slipped from my hand as I let it go and headed straight for a small window on the old lady's back porch.
At the sound of fractured glass, we took off from her yard faster than any of our missiles flew off her roof.
I was too scared about getting caught that first night to be concerned about the old lady with the broken porch window. However, a few days later, when I was sure that I hadn't been discovered, I started to feel guilty about her misfortune. She still greeted me with a smile each day when I gave her the paper, but I was no longer able to be comfortable in her presence.
I made up my mind that I would save my paper delivery money, and in three weeks I had the seven dollars that I calculated would cover the cost of her window. I put the money in an envelope with a note explaining that I was sorry for breaking her window and hoped that it would cover the cost for repairing the damage. I waited until it was dark, snuck up to the old lady's house, and put the envelope of retribution through the letter slot in her door. My soul felt redeemed and I couldn't wait for the freedom of, once again, looking straight into her eyes.
The next day, I handed the old lady her paper and was able to return her warm smile. She thanked me for the paper and said, "Here, I have something for you."
It was a bag of cookies. I thanked her and proceeded to eat them as I continued my route. After several cookies, I felt an envelope and pulled it our of the bag. When I opened the envelope, I was stunned. Inside was the seven dollars and a short note that said, "I'm proud of you."
Sent to Starmag by Kimly
Yet, it seems like just yesterday that she taught me a lesson in forgiveness that I can only hope to pass on to someone else someday.
On a mindless Saturday afternoon, a friend and I were throwing rocks onto the roof of the old lady's house from a secluded spot in her backyard. The object of our play was to observe how the rocks changed to missiles as they rolled to the roof's edge and shot out into the yard like comets falling from the sky.
I found myself a perfectly smooth rock and sent it for a ride. The stone was too smooth, however, so it slipped from my hand as I let it go and headed straight for a small window on the old lady's back porch.
At the sound of fractured glass, we took off from her yard faster than any of our missiles flew off her roof.
I was too scared about getting caught that first night to be concerned about the old lady with the broken porch window. However, a few days later, when I was sure that I hadn't been discovered, I started to feel guilty about her misfortune. She still greeted me with a smile each day when I gave her the paper, but I was no longer able to be comfortable in her presence.
I made up my mind that I would save my paper delivery money, and in three weeks I had the seven dollars that I calculated would cover the cost of her window. I put the money in an envelope with a note explaining that I was sorry for breaking her window and hoped that it would cover the cost for repairing the damage. I waited until it was dark, snuck up to the old lady's house, and put the envelope of retribution through the letter slot in her door. My soul felt redeemed and I couldn't wait for the freedom of, once again, looking straight into her eyes.
The next day, I handed the old lady her paper and was able to return her warm smile. She thanked me for the paper and said, "Here, I have something for you."
It was a bag of cookies. I thanked her and proceeded to eat them as I continued my route. After several cookies, I felt an envelope and pulled it our of the bag. When I opened the envelope, I was stunned. Inside was the seven dollars and a short note that said, "I'm proud of you."
Sent to Starmag by Kimly
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Wiping the Slate Clean
Lisa sat on the floor, staring at the old shoe box in front of her. She had decorated it many years ago, for use as her memory box.
One by one, she took her things out: photographs of her family at the Grand Canyon; a note from her friend telling her that Nick liked her; some sweet cards. She lingered over the last before reaching for the last item in the box. It was a single sheet of paper with lines drawn to form boxes - 490, to be exact, and each box had one check mark.
As she stared at the paper, her mind wandered ...
"How many times must I forgive my brother?" the disciple Peter had asked Jesus. "Seven times?"
The Sunday school teacher then read out Jesus' answer to the class: "Seventy times seven."
Lisa leaned over to her brother and whispered, "How many times is that?"
Brent, two years younger but smarter, replied, "490".
She nodded and sat back in her chair.
Brent looked small for his age. He had narrow shoulders and came close to being a nerd. But his incredible talent in music made him popular among his friends. His music teacher had predicted that he would be a musician some day.
That night, Lisa drew up the chart with 490 boxes. She wanted to tally the number of times Brent forgave her. She showed him the chart before going to bed.
He protested. "You don't need to keep count ..." he protested.
"Yes, I do!" Lisa interrupted. "You're always forgiving me, and I just want to keep track."
Slowly, the ticks filled the boxes. No. 418 was for losing Brent's keys; 449, for the dent in his car, which she'd borrowed; 467, for the time she put extra bleach in the washing and spoilt his favourite shirt.
They had a small ceremony when Lisa ticked No. 190. She let Brent sign the chart before putting it away in her memory box.
"I guess that's the end ... no more screw-ups from me!" she exclaimed.
Brent just laughed. "Yeah, right."
Soon enough, it happened. No. 491 was another careless mistake ...
When Brent was in 4th grade at music school, he was offered an opportunity to audition for a place with an orchestra in New York. He was out when the call came. Lisa was the only one home; the audition was scheduled for May 26, the secretary reminded.
Lisa didn't think to jot that down, but assured her that Brent would get the message. Straight after hanging up, she sat down for her own music practice, and totally forgot about the call.
Some weeks later, as the family was having dinner, Brent suddenly said: "The people from NY orchestra were supposed to inform me ..."
"What's the date today?" Lisa shouted.
"June 8."
"Oh no!"
She'd blown her brother's big chance. Guilt engulfed her as she related how she'd picked up the phone and what happened after that. Brent ran straight into his bedroom and didn't come out again, not even to watch his favourite TV show.
That night, Lisa wrote a note - "Mum and Dad, I've made a terrible mistake and Brent won't forgive me. Don't worry, I'll be fine." - and left home.
She found a job in another town and settled into a small apartment. Her parents wrote countless letters to her, but she refused to read or answer any of them.
One day, while at work, Lisa met a family friend, Aunt Winnie, who blurted out: "I'm so sorry about your brother ..."
"Brent? What happened to him?"
Aunt Winnie explained that he had had an accident on the highway and died on the spot.
That night, Lisa returned home. After crying on Brent's bed, she crept into her own room and opened the memory box. There, on top of her forgiveness chart, was another, which had letters written big and bold: "491: Forgiven forever. Love, your brother Brent."
One by one, she took her things out: photographs of her family at the Grand Canyon; a note from her friend telling her that Nick liked her; some sweet cards. She lingered over the last before reaching for the last item in the box. It was a single sheet of paper with lines drawn to form boxes - 490, to be exact, and each box had one check mark.
As she stared at the paper, her mind wandered ...
"How many times must I forgive my brother?" the disciple Peter had asked Jesus. "Seven times?"
The Sunday school teacher then read out Jesus' answer to the class: "Seventy times seven."
Lisa leaned over to her brother and whispered, "How many times is that?"
Brent, two years younger but smarter, replied, "490".
She nodded and sat back in her chair.
Brent looked small for his age. He had narrow shoulders and came close to being a nerd. But his incredible talent in music made him popular among his friends. His music teacher had predicted that he would be a musician some day.
That night, Lisa drew up the chart with 490 boxes. She wanted to tally the number of times Brent forgave her. She showed him the chart before going to bed.
He protested. "You don't need to keep count ..." he protested.
"Yes, I do!" Lisa interrupted. "You're always forgiving me, and I just want to keep track."
Slowly, the ticks filled the boxes. No. 418 was for losing Brent's keys; 449, for the dent in his car, which she'd borrowed; 467, for the time she put extra bleach in the washing and spoilt his favourite shirt.
They had a small ceremony when Lisa ticked No. 190. She let Brent sign the chart before putting it away in her memory box.
"I guess that's the end ... no more screw-ups from me!" she exclaimed.
Brent just laughed. "Yeah, right."
Soon enough, it happened. No. 491 was another careless mistake ...
When Brent was in 4th grade at music school, he was offered an opportunity to audition for a place with an orchestra in New York. He was out when the call came. Lisa was the only one home; the audition was scheduled for May 26, the secretary reminded.
Lisa didn't think to jot that down, but assured her that Brent would get the message. Straight after hanging up, she sat down for her own music practice, and totally forgot about the call.
Some weeks later, as the family was having dinner, Brent suddenly said: "The people from NY orchestra were supposed to inform me ..."
"What's the date today?" Lisa shouted.
"June 8."
"Oh no!"
She'd blown her brother's big chance. Guilt engulfed her as she related how she'd picked up the phone and what happened after that. Brent ran straight into his bedroom and didn't come out again, not even to watch his favourite TV show.
That night, Lisa wrote a note - "Mum and Dad, I've made a terrible mistake and Brent won't forgive me. Don't worry, I'll be fine." - and left home.
She found a job in another town and settled into a small apartment. Her parents wrote countless letters to her, but she refused to read or answer any of them.
One day, while at work, Lisa met a family friend, Aunt Winnie, who blurted out: "I'm so sorry about your brother ..."
"Brent? What happened to him?"
Aunt Winnie explained that he had had an accident on the highway and died on the spot.
That night, Lisa returned home. After crying on Brent's bed, she crept into her own room and opened the memory box. There, on top of her forgiveness chart, was another, which had letters written big and bold: "491: Forgiven forever. Love, your brother Brent."
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