I thought I would share this story I found....
There was a rich man who lived in a fancy house in a nice
part of town. He was a kind, compassionate man who loved to entertain his
neighbors, spend time with his family, and give to his church. He was also
deeply concerned about a certain group of people he called “the poor.” He was
always encouraging his friends to give money to organizations to help the poor
and he himself gave generously. He signed hundreds of petitions on facebook. At
church, he would occasionally speak about national and international policies
that hurt the poor and he would castigate policies that lacked compassion for
human need. He did much good in the world—wells in foreign countries were dug
at his expense and a community center was erected in a small island nation. The
rich man was a generous man.
There was only one thing the rich man disliked very much.
Not too far from his neighborhood, there was a large community of people that
simply took no pride in their surroundings. They let grass go to seed on their
lawns and forgot to paint the outside of their homes. There were old cars
rusting on the sides of their houses and the people that sat on the porches
looked unkept. The rich man tried to avoid driving through this neighborhood
and shook his head with his friends.
One day, the rich man decided to throw a benefit party for the
poor in a foreign country. He invited all his friends and asked them to bring
their friends too. The party was going to be beautiful. The rich man stopped at
the store a few hours early to pick up a few supplies he had forgotten. The
closest store, unfortunately, meant that he had to drive through the
neighborhood he disliked and that put him in a bad mood. As he walked up an
aisle, he saw a woman pushing a basket. She had a little girl clinging to her
skirts, and two small children in the cart. One little boy, whose face looked
like he had just eaten a jar of jelly, was howling.
The rich man didn’t mean
to, but he glared at the woman, who was filling the cart with frozen food. Why
in the world do people eat that stuff, the rich man muttered to himself.
And he hurried on. The line was long and by the time he got
to the clerk, she was in a hurry, ringing up his tomatoes, destined to be
turned into his favorite salsa recipe, and barely noticed him. He was irritated
by her rudeness. She had argued with the customer before him and that did not improve
his view. Her thick, ugly glasses did not add to her appeal and he noticed her
eyeliner had run. Why don’t people keep themselves up, he wondered. He grabbed his bags, in a worse mood than
before, and walked outside. A pickup truck with loud music roared past. The guy’s
arm hung out the window, full of tattoos. The rich man again shook his head—what
was wrong with people? Stupid idiots.
He was almost to his car, thinking about the party that
night and running through his little speech in his head when a man spoke to
him. “Can you spare some change?” The rich man, startled, looked up. The man
who spoke was thin and wiry and his face was lined and hard, even though he
couldn’t be older than thirty. He had a tattoo on his cheek and his hair was
tousled. The rich man looked around
uneasily and noticed there was no one else nearby. Without another look at the
man, he walked on, more quickly now. He reached his Prius in short order, threw
the bags in the back, and settled into his seat.
With the push of a button, he felt the cool air blowing and
his music started, a lovely CD of African folk music, recorded by one of the
organizations he supported. He sighed with relief.
The party was a great success. He raised more money than he
expected and everyone complimented the food. There was good wine in abundance.
The party was slowing down for the evening and people were
leaving, when he glanced out the front door. Someone was lurking in the shadows
and then turned, seeing the rich man looking at him. He moved into the light
and came closer to the steps. “Excuse me, sir,” the man said in a soft voice
and in the evening shadows, he looked ancient. “Could you help us out? I come
from the next town, me and my wife, and we are trying to get to our son’s place
up north. Can you spare a few dollars?”
A hundred thoughts ran through the rich man’s head. The guy
was probably lying. Wasn’t that the same fellow he saw at the highway entrance
a few days ago? He couldn’t remember for sure. Did a guy like him even have a
wife? It seemed like an easy story to make up and tug at some sucker’s
heartstrings. He saw a few of his friends roll their eyes in the living room
and suddenly he wished that he had closed the door before he saw the man. “No. I don’t have anything,” he said, closing
the door quickly to shut out the man’s face.
Several of his friends were putting on their coats to leave
and looked out the window first. “He’s still there,” the woman told him. “I don’t
really want to walk out there.” She lingered with her boyfriend for a bit. The rich
man went over the window again and, sure enough, the man was still there,
sitting by the flower bed. Well, he couldn’t have the guy scaring his friends.
And he certainly was not going to go out to talk to him. Who knows what he was
capable of? After another few minutes and an awkward silence, he muttered; “I’ll
call the cops.” It only took a few minutes and a short, polite explanation to
the police, and the man was arrested, and the cars with flashing lights were
gone. His guests had enjoyed a little excitement, after all. And the man, he
thought, well at least he would get a few square meals in jail.
That night, the rich man slept well, though he checked all
the locks in the house before he went to bed.
But, half way through his dreams, came a voice; “This night,
your soul is required of you.” His heart skipped a beat and he broke into a
cold sweat as he looked around for the speaker. The crazy man from the front
porch loomed large. “Who are you?” the rich man whispered. The man smiled and
in his soft, courteous voice said; “I am the poor you talk so much about.”
--Anonymous
No comments:
Post a Comment