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Carl
Contributed by Father Al Jenkins
Carl was a quiet man, 87 years old. He didn't talk much. He would
always greet you with a big smile and a firm handshake. Even after living in
our neighborhood for over 50 years, no one could really say they knew him very
well. Before his retirement, he took the bus to work each morning. He had a slight
limp from a wound received in WWII.
When he saw the flyer at the local church asking for volunteers to care for the
gardens, he responded in his characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare,
he signed up. One day, he was finishing his watering for the day when three local
bullies approached him. Ignoring their attempt to intimidate him, he simply asked, "Would
you like a drink from the hose?"
The tallest and toughest-looking of the three said, "Yeah, sure.” As
Carl offered the hose to him, the other two grabbed Carl's arm, throwing him
down. As the hose snaked crazily over the ground, dousing everything in its way,
Carl's assailants stole his retirement watch and his wallet, and then fled.
Carl tried to get himself up, but he had been thrown down on his bad leg. He
lay there trying to gather himself as the priest came running to help him. Although
the priest had witnessed the attack from his window, he couldn't get there fast
enough to stop it. "Carl, are you okay? Are you hurt?" the priest kept
asking as he helped Carl to his feet.
Carl passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head, he said, "Just
some mean kids. I hope they'll wise-up someday." His wet clothes clung to
his thin frame, as he picked up the hose. He adjusted the nozzle again and started
to water. Confused and a little concerned, the priest asked, "Carl, what
are you doing?" "I've got to finish my watering. It's been very dry
lately," came the calm reply. Satisfying himself that Carl really was all
right, the priest could only marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and
place.
A few weeks later the three mean boys returned. Just as before their threat was
unchallenged. Carl again offered them a drink from his hose. This time they didn't
rob him. They wrenched the hose from his hand and drenched him head to foot in
the icy water. When they had finished their humiliation of him, they walked off
down the street, throwing catcalls and curses, falling over one another laughing
at the hilarity of what they had just done.
Carl just watched them. Then he turned toward the warmth giving sun, picked up
his hose, and went on with his watering. The summer was quickly fading into fall
and Carl was doing some tilling when he was startled by the sudden approach of
someone behind him. He stumbled and fell into some evergreen branches. As he
struggled to regain his footing, he turned to see the tall leader of his summer
tormentors reaching down for him. He braced himself for the expected attack.
"
Don't worry old man, I'm not gonna hurt you this time." The young man spoke
softly, still offering the tattooed and scarred hand to Carl. As he helped Carl
get up, the man pulled a crumpled bag from his pocket and handed it to Carl. "What's
this?" Carl asked. "It's your stuff," the man explained. "It's
your stuff back. Even the money in your wallet." "I don't understand," Carl
said. "Why would you help me now?"
The man shifted his feet, seeming embarrassed and ill at ease. "I learned
something from you," he said. "I ran with that gang and hurt people
like you. We picked you because you were old and we knew we could do it. But
every time we came and did something to you, instead of yelling and fighting
back, you tried to give us a drink. You didn't hate us for harassing you. You
kept showing love against our hate." He stopped for a moment. "I couldn't
sleep after we stole your stuff, so here it is back." He paused for another
awkward moment, not knowing what more there was to say. "That bag's my way
of saying thanks for straightening me out, I guess." And with that, he walked
off down the street.
Carl looked down at the sack in his hands and gingerly opened it. He took out
his retirement watch and put it back on his wrist. Opening his wallet, he checked
for his wedding photo. He gazed for a moment at the young bride that still smiled
back at him from all those years ago.
Carl died one cold day after Christmas. Many people attended his funeral in spite
of the weather. In particular, the priest noticed a tall young man that he didn't
know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the church. The priest spoke of Carl's
garden as a lesson in life. In a voice made thick with unshed tears, he said, "Do
your best and make your garden as beautiful as you can. We will never forget
Carl and his garden."
The following spring another flyer went up. It read: "Person needed to care
for Carl's garden." The flyer went unnoticed by the busy parishioners until
one day when a knock was heard at the priest's door. Opening the door, the priest
saw a pair of scarred and tattooed hands holding the flyer. "I believe this
is my job, if you'll have me," the young man said. The minister recognized
him as the same young man who had returned the stolen watch and wallet to Carl.
He knew that Carl's kindness had turned this man's life around. As the priest
handed him the keys to the garden shed, he said, "Yes, go take care of Carl's
garden and honor him." The man went to work and, over the next several years,
he tended the flowers just as Carl had done.
In that time, he went to college, got married, and became a prominent member
of the community. But he never forgot his promise to Carl's memory and kept the
garden as beautiful as he thought Carl would have kept it. One day he approached
the priest and told him that he couldn't care for the garden any longer. He explained
with a shy and happy smile, "My wife just had a baby boy last night, and
she's bringing him home on Saturday."
"
Well, congratulations!" said the priest, as he was handed the garden shed
keys. "That's wonderful! What's the baby's name?"
"
Carl," he replied.
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