Stopped at a red light, I looked with concern at the motorist in front of me. She had a dangerously low passenger tire on the right side. But just then, the light changed and she started to speed away.
I, too, sped up and began following her. I couldn’t get out of my head the possibility she might crash her car—when it could be avoided. At the next light, I pulled up next to her, tooting the horn. She rolled down the window and I told her about the tire. She really appreciated that.
We all share the road. Drivers can at times exasperate us and even make us curse. But we should help them in any way that we can. It’s the right thing, the kind thing, to do.
By Ron Cooper
Showing posts with label Inspirational stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Inspirational stories. Show all posts
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Life in the slow lane
Life moves along in the slow lane at Mom’s nursing home—sometimes too slow for an impatient Baby Boomer such as me.
On a brilliantly sunny day two summers ago, I was taking Mom outdoors. I was most anxious to get her outside the stuffy locked facility where she and her fellow Alzheimer’s residents spent their days into the broad embrace of Mother Nature.
But the hallway near the chapel narrows. And on this day it was blocked by a slow-moving resident with a ball cap perched on his head. He was propelling his wheelchair as quickly as he could, but not fast enough for me.
“Excuse me, Sir, could we get around you?” I inquired, nudging up close and getting ready to pass. I was polite on the outside, but inside I thought: “Come on, old man, move it along!”
“Of course,” the man seemed to say, craning his head sideways to get a glimpse of me, a slight smile resting on his lips. At that moment I looked down at the floor and discovered to my shock:
The man had only one leg. His right foot literally danced over the carpet, pulling him ahead inch by determined inch. The half-trouser on his left leg was pinned neatly and rested on the wheelchair seat.
Mom, asleep, did not notice my shame. We carefully manoeuvred around the man at the place near the chapel where the hallway widens.
A few weeks later at noontime, I spotted this man again. Half his face was covered by an eye patch. Presumably he had had some surgery. But his eyesight was good enough for him to ease forward. His right foot set the pace for a slow, yet purposeful journey, tapping on the carpeted hallway as if it were tapping to a tune.
He wheeled past the small placard placed on a table in front of the chapel. It read, “God’s eternal peace to our dear residents” with the four residents who had passed on the previous month: Mary Ann on the 5th, Doris on the 25th, Mary on the 27th and Louise on the 30th.
He didn’t look up at any one or anything, such was his single-mindedness to join his companions at lunch, escaping his own sober thoughts for a thin slice of time.
By Ron Cooper
On a brilliantly sunny day two summers ago, I was taking Mom outdoors. I was most anxious to get her outside the stuffy locked facility where she and her fellow Alzheimer’s residents spent their days into the broad embrace of Mother Nature.
But the hallway near the chapel narrows. And on this day it was blocked by a slow-moving resident with a ball cap perched on his head. He was propelling his wheelchair as quickly as he could, but not fast enough for me.
“Excuse me, Sir, could we get around you?” I inquired, nudging up close and getting ready to pass. I was polite on the outside, but inside I thought: “Come on, old man, move it along!”
“Of course,” the man seemed to say, craning his head sideways to get a glimpse of me, a slight smile resting on his lips. At that moment I looked down at the floor and discovered to my shock:
The man had only one leg. His right foot literally danced over the carpet, pulling him ahead inch by determined inch. The half-trouser on his left leg was pinned neatly and rested on the wheelchair seat.
Mom, asleep, did not notice my shame. We carefully manoeuvred around the man at the place near the chapel where the hallway widens.
A few weeks later at noontime, I spotted this man again. Half his face was covered by an eye patch. Presumably he had had some surgery. But his eyesight was good enough for him to ease forward. His right foot set the pace for a slow, yet purposeful journey, tapping on the carpeted hallway as if it were tapping to a tune.
He wheeled past the small placard placed on a table in front of the chapel. It read, “God’s eternal peace to our dear residents” with the four residents who had passed on the previous month: Mary Ann on the 5th, Doris on the 25th, Mary on the 27th and Louise on the 30th.
He didn’t look up at any one or anything, such was his single-mindedness to join his companions at lunch, escaping his own sober thoughts for a thin slice of time.
By Ron Cooper
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Breakfast ministry
For the past year I’ve gone to a restaurant where I eat bacon and eggs and teach English to Maria on placemats. We started with simple words and phrases and graduated to talking about the pluses and minuses of signing up for her employer’s health insurance plan.
This is my breakfast ministry.
When you least expect it, God puts you in a position to help one of His children. I majored in Spanish for one year in college and used it daily when I worked with Mexican-Americans as a VISTA (Volunteer in Service to America) in the 1960s in Nebraska. My Spanish got rusty—until Maria entered my life.
She’s about 35, has a young daughter and a husband, all of them from Mexico trying to carve out a life in Southern Indiana. She busses tables at the restaurant, and her English is elementary.
Teaching Maria has become part of my early-morning routine. I did not expect others at the restaurant to take note, but Fay the cashier did and my breakfast ministry doubled.
Fay was fond of Maria and wanted to speak with her in her native tongue. So I began to teach her Spanish. I taught her the word for “pretty” (bonita) so she could pay a compliment to Maria. I also told her how to say goodbye, hello and see you later. Fay was tickled to death. I’m pleased, too.
I didn’t dream I’d be ministering to someone in this way. But you never know when God will call you. Just be ready. It could come between your first and second cups of coffee!
--By Ron Cooper
This is my breakfast ministry.
When you least expect it, God puts you in a position to help one of His children. I majored in Spanish for one year in college and used it daily when I worked with Mexican-Americans as a VISTA (Volunteer in Service to America) in the 1960s in Nebraska. My Spanish got rusty—until Maria entered my life.
She’s about 35, has a young daughter and a husband, all of them from Mexico trying to carve out a life in Southern Indiana. She busses tables at the restaurant, and her English is elementary.
Teaching Maria has become part of my early-morning routine. I did not expect others at the restaurant to take note, but Fay the cashier did and my breakfast ministry doubled.
Fay was fond of Maria and wanted to speak with her in her native tongue. So I began to teach her Spanish. I taught her the word for “pretty” (bonita) so she could pay a compliment to Maria. I also told her how to say goodbye, hello and see you later. Fay was tickled to death. I’m pleased, too.
I didn’t dream I’d be ministering to someone in this way. But you never know when God will call you. Just be ready. It could come between your first and second cups of coffee!
--By Ron Cooper
Old man and a chair
Every morning at my restaurant hangout, a feeble old man shows up with his walker. Every morning, he takes little baby steps on his way to a table. Lately, I’ve noticed the man slowing down. He gets halfway to his goal when the sudden weight of his weariness overtakes him. He teeters and looks like he will fall.
But the waitresses have their eye on him. After he makes one little misstep, they are at his side with a chair. They coax him into it, and he just sits there. There he sits, a slight, drooping figure with a faint smile of gratitude on his face. Waiting in the middle of a busy restaurant. Waiting for his gathering strength to return. When it does, he’s on his way again.
The waitresses watch his progress, whispering among themselves whether they should bring out the chair again.
After watching this occur many times, I can only conclude: One small act of compassion equals one big act of love.
--By Ron Cooper
But the waitresses have their eye on him. After he makes one little misstep, they are at his side with a chair. They coax him into it, and he just sits there. There he sits, a slight, drooping figure with a faint smile of gratitude on his face. Waiting in the middle of a busy restaurant. Waiting for his gathering strength to return. When it does, he’s on his way again.
The waitresses watch his progress, whispering among themselves whether they should bring out the chair again.
After watching this occur many times, I can only conclude: One small act of compassion equals one big act of love.
--By Ron Cooper
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
