In the ensuing years, I would think of that incident occasionally. I don’t know what ever happened to the stranger. Did he get back on his feet? Did he find work? Did he die alone and poor with no one to care for him? Did he become a millionaire? I hope the latter didn’t happen because I’m married now with three children. I don’t think God would want me as a priest.
As I’ve grown, my faith has grown also. Somehow, in my heart I believe God has taken care of the stranger, if not in this life then in the next.
I’m grateful to that tall, thin man who entered my life one cold afternoon so many years ago. He allowed me to see a generous, sympathetic side of my normally pugnacious and argumentative Irish mother. He gave me a memory of her that I still hold dear today. His brief visit and my mother’s response also instilled in me a sympathetic heart towards those in need.
On that day, over fifty years ago, a stranger received a gift of two sandwiches, an apple, a container of milk, and a dose of compassion from my mother. Little did he know that I would receive an even more precious, wonderful and enduring gift from him.
Thank you stranger.
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