Dear Friend,
Chuck Swindoll is one of
my favorite writers, and I thought this message from Come Before Winter was
worth sharing.
“Keep on loving each other
as brothers and sisters. Don’t forget to show hospitality to strangers, for
some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it! (Hebrews
13:1–2)
Who really cared? His was
a routine admission to busy Bellevue Hospital. A charity case, one among
hundreds. A bum from the Bowery with a slashed throat. The Bowery .
. . last stop before the morgue. Synonym of filth, loneliness, cheap booze,
drugs, and disease.
The details of what had
happened in the predawn of that chilly winter's morning were fuzzy. The nurse
probably shrugged it off. She had seen thousands, and she was sure to see
thousands more. Would it have made any difference if she and those who treated
him had known who he was? Probably so.
His recent past was the
antithesis of his earlier years. The Bowery became the dead-end street of an
incredible life. On that icy January morning before the sun had crept over New
York's skyline, in a 25-cent-a-night flophouse, a shell of a man who looked
twice his age staggered to the wash basin and fell. The basin toppled and
shattered.
He was found lying in a
heap, naked and bleeding from a deep gash in his throat. His forehead was badly
bruised, and he was semiconscious. A doctor was called, no one
special—remember, this was the Bowery. He used black sewing thread that
somebody had found to suture the wound. That would do. All the while the bum
begged for a drink. A buddy shared the bottom of a rum bottle to calm his
nerves.
He was dumped in a paddy
wagon and dropped off at Bellevue Hospital, where he would languish, unable to
eat for three days . . . and die. Still unknown.
A friend seeking him was
directed to the local morgue. There, among dozens of other colorless, nameless
corpses with tags on their toes, he was identified. When they scraped together
his belongings, they found a ragged, dirty coat with 38 cents in one pocket and
a scrap of paper in the other. All his earthly goods. Enough coins for another
night in the Bowery and five words, "Dear friends and gentle hearts."
Almost like the words of a song, someone thought. But who cared?
Why in the world would a
forgotten drunk carry around a line of lyrics? Maybe he still believed he had
it in him. Maybe that derelict with the body of a bum still had the heart of a
genius. For once upon a time, long before his tragic death at age 38, he had
written songs that literally made the whole world sing, such as:
"Camptown Races"
"Oh! Susanna!"
"Beautiful Dreamer"
"Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair"
"Old Folks at Home"
"My Old Kentucky Home"
And 200 more that have
become deeply rooted in our rich American heritage. Thanks to Stephen Foster,
whom nobody knew. And for whom nobody cared.
Deep within many a
forgotten life is a scrap of hope, a lonely melody trying hard to return. Some
are in prison. Some in hospitals. Some in nursing homes. And some silently slip
into church on Sunday morning, terribly confused and afraid. Until someone steps
in. And stoops down. And, in love, rebuilds a life, restores a soul, rekindles
a flame that sin snuffed out, and renews a song that once was there.
Do you care? Enough
"to show hospitality to strangers," as Hebrews 13:2 puts
it? It also says that in doing so, we occasionally "entertain angels
without knowing it."
Angels that don't look
anything like angels. Some might look like bums from the Bowery, but they may
have a song dying in their hearts because nobody knows and nobody cares.” Taken
from the internet and shared in Come Before Winter, Chuck Swindoll, 1985
When you and I next
encounter someone who is lost, hungry or hurting—may we be reminded of
this story and look to help for we might discover we are entertaining one of
God’s special angels.
Yours in faith and
friendship,
Tom
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