It’s a funny thing, but sometimes those who’ve seen the tougher side of life discover that helping causes ripples of goodness that spread much father than a single action—into memories, principles, and life lessons.
That’s how I remember Clint.
Clint was in his mid-fifties when I met him. Though his face was lined with life’s hardships, his blue-gray eyes were as bright with wonder as my three-year-old son’s.
A nasty divorce left him estranged not only by his ex-wife, but from his daughter as well. The harsh severing of family ties left him so disillusioned that he’d become clinically depressed and unable to pursue the executive career that he’d excelled in for many years.
Though Clint was unable to handle the pressure of high finance, he was unwilling to be idle while he worked through his sorrow with the aid of a doctor and a counselor. Though his family had cut him off, he found ways to reach out to others.
When I first saw him, he was dressed in a red and white checked flannel shirt and blue jeans that were shredded at the knees. His work-glove-covered hands held a hammer, and he whistled as he drove nails into a neighbor’s fence.
“Isn’t he sweet?” my neighbor called. “He saw that I needed a few new fence panels, and offered to nail them up for me. I haven’t been able to keep up with that kind of work since my husband died.”
“How kind of him,” I said.
I extended my hand and introduced myself.
Clint took of his right glove before shaking my hand.
“My back porch needs a railing. How much do you charge?”
“Oh, I just did this because Mrs. Trent needed it,” he answered simply.
“I baked him a big apple pie!” Mrs. Trent added.
“You seem to enjoy your work,” I said.
Clint grinned hugely, showing white, even teeth.
“I love it!”
“Well, let me know if you have time to look at my porch.”
I couldn’t afford to pay him much, but I was afraid my son would fall off the porch before my husband, who worked long hours, was able to fix it. Later that week I saw Clint at my neighborhood church. I learned he’d done odd jobs for several other widows besides Mrs. Trent. He’d accepted meals, baked goods, even fresh eggs from a woman who raised chickens. But he hadn’t accepted money.
He was quickly becoming a favorite of the older women in our neighborhood. But what I admired was that in his nature there was no sense of duty, of proving that he was a good person or of making up for the loss of his family. Though he grieved for his family, and yearned to be reconnected with them, that didn’t stop him from loving others. Especially children.
When he first saw my son, his eyes shone. He squatted to make his six-foot-three gaze level with Jason’s, and held out his hand.
“You’re a fine little guy! How are you today?” he asked as they shook hands.
He gave my son a lollipop and ruffled his hair before moving on.
The next week, I was hanging laundry on the clothesline that was suspended from my back porch when my poodle, Alex, began barking. When I went around front to see what she was barking at, Clint stood on the other side of my front gate. Jason darted behind my legs and peeked out at him giggling.
“Hi!” he called cheerfully. “Where’s Jason today?” he teased.
“I’m not sure,” I said, joining the game. “He was here a minute ago.”
“Well, too bad I missed him,” Clint said. “I had a hat for him.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a red baseball cap. Jason squealed and jumped out from behind me.
“I’m here!” he cried.
