Blog Bits

“Well, if it isn’t Carla Beard.”

A pickup had pulled over across the street into the late afternoon shade of an old maple tree. “Keep talking,” I said. “Your voice is familiar, but I can’t tell who you are.”

“It’s Bob Anderson,” he said, and I recognized the smile. He walked across the street. We chatted briefly and then he said, “Excuse me a minute, I want to give this gal a piece of chicken.”

A woman was rolling her earthly belongings in a cart down the sidewalk. He opened the door on the far side of his truck and offered her some chicken, then sat down with her on my neighbor’s retaining wall and talked as she ate.

I hadn’t seen Bob since he’d graduated from high school. Last I’d heard, he was somewhere far from here, and I thought he was working in IT. We were Facebook friends, but the algorithm seldom popped up his name. I’d lost track.

Now he was talking with someone I’d never noticed before, offering free food and his time and attention. He waved me over and offered me some chicken, too. The three of us sat and talked. Well, Bob and I mostly listened.

Her name was Susan, and she was concerned about her nephew who was going to prison. “He’s been in jail before. There’s something wrong with him. I told him to read his Bible. I told him he needs help!”

This wasn’t the first time Susan had told this story; she moved smoothly from complaint to complaint.

“His wife gave him those pills to sell so that he’d get caught and she could get rid of him. She just wants his Social Security check, ” Susan stated flatly. “There’s something wrong with her. She needs help!” She shook her head. Her nephew wouldn’t listen to her. She said terrible things about the wife. “I told her to read the Bible,” Susan said, “and she said no! Can you believe that?”

Bob and I tried to make sympathetic sounds at the right times.

My neighbor came home from work to find us sitting on her retaining wall, eating chicken and listening to Susan. When she saw the chicken, she offered everyone some water. Susan tucked the plastic bottle deep in her cart and continued to disparage her nephew and his wife.

Bob pointed to multiple boxes of chicken on the front seat of his truck and said that he was going to deliver them to other people. He pulled out a trash bag for our chicken bones, and we thanked him as he left. After a few minutes, my neighbor and I also left Susan to continue her walk downtown.

Bob and I didn’t “catch up” in the usual sense, but I couldn’t help noticing what he was doing. He bought food with the intention of driving up and down the street to find people who looked like they might like something to eat. And then he sat and spent a little time with them.

He saw Susan and others like her. He shared what he had: help, time, and respect. He expected nothing in return.

I think maybe he’s been reading his Bible.

(“Bob Anderson” is not his real name. I don’t think he’d want to be identified. “Susan” isn’t her name, either.)

​A guy phoned my church today to ask for help. He said he’d about given up on getting help from anyone, but the Lord put it on his heart to try the Presbyterian Church, so he was calling.

He said he’d visited us last December and had spoken with Pastor Beau. Then he and his wife and child packed up and moved to Oklahoma for a job – he’s a welder by trade. The job was supposed to last a few weeks, then they would cut him a check and they would have money to travel back home. 

The poor man apologized for his horrible cold and coughing. He called my attention to it a couple of times. He mentioned that his wife has a heart condition and they were very worried when she came down with Covid right after Christmas. They also have a daughter, but she was apparently in good health, because he didn’t talk about her very much. 

Now, the job in this small town in Oklahoma lasted longer than expected, which meant he was making more money than expected. But at the end, the company had a financial limit that meant they couldn’t pay him the $5700 they owed him for another couple of weeks. And the check was coming to their Indiana address, so they needed to get back home. Could the church help them out? He would find a way to repay us. He was sure God would help him find a way to repay us. They had both PayPal and Venmo. 

I asked if he had asked the Presbyterian church in that Oklahoma town for help.  

“Oh, they only help the people who come to their church.” 

Wow, that’s not very Presbyterian of them. Have you asked any of the other churches? 

“Oh, this town is so close-knit, they only help their own. I’ve been begging people to help for two weeks. Everyone just tells me to go to someone else.” 

He had figured out my game plan: “Red Cross” was next on my list. I decided not to go there – he was getting angry. I told him that helping them was not my decision to make alone. Give me a few minutes to contact some other people, and I would see what we could do. We said good-bye and hung up. 

Now, I consider myself a born-again Christian, but I wasn’t born yesterday. This was almost definitely a scam, but it was plausible enough that it COULD be true. Sometimes strange things happen. I needed to be sure. 

I texted him back. “Our church is not set up for PayPal or Venmo, but we might be able to transfer funds church to church. Please give me the name of the church in the town where you are, and I’ll contact them to see what we can set up. Thanks.” 

For the record, the part up to the first comma is true. We are NOT set up for PayPal or Venmo. The part after that? Inspired invention. 

He replied, “All these people have done is what you are doing and passing us off on someone else. Ill reimburse any of you personally is one of you have paypal. But for two weeks ive been talked down to and humiliated by people who clearly do.not want to help or care and you want me to call them back? I never thought I’d do this to my wife and child but I give up. We won’t bother you any more”   

I tried again. “You misunderstood my question. We would send the funds to that church with instructions for them to make sure the funds get to you. That church would act as our agent. What is the name of the church? What is the name of the town?” 

He answered, “I didn’t misunderstand it said I would not call the churches ive begged got help the past two weeks and hope they will work with you instead of working with us! You guys dont want to help us either. As I said i am officially defeated. 3 days I fought off calling you guys before the lord had it in my heart you guys may help without massive humiliation. We won’t bother you any more and I mean that.”  

No church name, no town name, no credibility. We were done. I wanted to say “God bless you,” but I was already violating one commandment; I didn’t want to go for two. I chose my words carefully. “I’m sorry that you feel that way. Peace be with you.” 

He tried to guilt me one more time. “No you do not!  you guys dont care any more that the people here. [His wife] said you probably just want someone here to tell you this is real. You do not care I have no peace but you got out of helping so your happy” 

His wife was right, but I was done. I sent an email to Pastor Beau with the gist of the story and a simple question: am I going to H*ll for this? 

Tuesday night I looked down the stairs into the basement, and there was water all around my hot water heater. I knew that meant it was time for a new one, so the next day I went over to the plumber’s.

“How can I help you?” the man behind the counter asked.

“I want two things,” I said. “I want sympathy. And I want an appointment for someone to come and look at my water heater.”

He smiled. “I can give you so much sympathy you won’t be able to haul it all out of the store,” he said. Then he turned to his assistant, who looked through the scheduling book.

“We could probably get someone there tomorrow morning,” the assistant said.

“That would be great,” I said.

“Now,” he asked, “do you have a gas water heater or electric?”

There was a pause. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said.

As I walked out the door, he called, “Don’t forget your sympathy!” So I pretended I was Santa hauling out a big bag.

Got home and the basement was bone dry. We’d had some heavy rain, and I had forgotten that my basement always floods when it rains hard. My water heater didn’t need to be replaced, after all.

I went back to the plumber. “Well, it’s a gas heater,” I said. “And it’s fine. The basement was flooded from the rain.”

He looked me in the eye and said, “I want my sympathy back.”