Good samaritans comes in all forms

As a youth on summer vacations, I observed my granny, my mother’s mother, love her neighbor and strangers with active compassion. Surrounded by the needy in her small, Appalachian community where she preached the Gospel, Granny reminded me of the Good Samaritan.

I first heard Jesus’ parable of the man beaten by thieves in Mrs. Urban’s Sunday school class. There, she opened her Bible on her lap and read the Scripture for the lesson. Some of my classmates and I didn’t own a Bible.

However, Mrs. Urban gave us little booklets with our Bible verses and her lesson to follow along. After Sunday school, I sat with Mrs. Urban and other classmates whose parents didn’t attend the worship service.

To occupy us and satisfy our sweet tooths, Mrs. Urban passed a roll of Butterscotch Lifesavers down our row. I felt her love and mercy for her little students as I felt my granny’s love and mercy for the needy.

And above all wonderful gifts, my Friday night Pioneer Girls teacher, Verna Wilson, gifted me a Bible in celebration of my water baptism at age nine.

Perhaps the mercy these three women granted me most influenced my study of the Holy Scriptures. And I have no doubt they, and Verna’s big Bible, inspired my devotion to showing mercy to those in my path who have fallen among thieves.

Thieves of all varieties. Death. Disease. Senility. Poverty. Greed. Floods. Fires. Lies.

Whatever the cause for whatever the need, mercy and compassion heal whomever suffers.

My friend Mary confirms this upon every visit to her home and our phone calls. “Oh, the people from OPC are just wonderful. I love the little children when they come to deliver my meal,” Mary says.

Over the past thirty years I’ve watch the Older Persons Commission in Rochester grow into the most remarkable building offering all forms of activities including sports, music, literature, art, dining, and more.

OPC’s vision could not succeed without a host of volunteers who understand the meaning and value of mercy and friendship. For Mary, it’s not the food she most needs, rather the child’s smile.

For it is Mary’s smile and laugh that I most crave in my solitude as a widow. Her guileless wisdom amuses me. Instructs my soul.

Now, in our present frozen tundra, my next-door neighbor, Tim, insists he take my garbage to the road every Monday morning. Including the smelly bags of cat litter.

And Roland, the neighbor down the road, delivered three bags of deicer to my garage yesterday. He also installed the snow blade on John Deere several weeks ago, and taught me how to plow my new concrete driveway.

Yes, good Samaritans, younger than I, who understand the promise of reciprocity.

For, dear Reader, they trust a future trade with a batch of warm, mocha pecan scones from my oven, or bread-and-butter pickles from my canning shelf.

For I am my granny’s child, and love a good, homemade biscuit and pickle.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com