The Ugly Fisherman
Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of
John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to
out patients at the clinic. One summer evening as I was fixing supper, there was a knock
at the door. I opened it to see a truly awful looking man.
"Why, he's hardly taller than my eight-year-old," I
thought as I stared at the stooped, shriveled body. But the appalling thing was his
face--lopsided from swelling, red and raw. Yet his voice was pleasant as he said,
"Good evening. I've come to see if you've a room for just one night. I came for a
treatment this morning from the Eastern shore, and there's no bus 'til morning." He
told me he'd been hunting for a room since noon but with no success; no one seemed to have
a room. "I guess it's my face...I know it looks terrible, but my doctor says with a
few more treatments..."
For a moment I hesitated, but his next words convinced me: "I
could sleep in this rocking chair on the porch. My bus leaves early in the morning."
I told him we would find him a bed, but to rest on the porch. I went inside and finished
getting supper. When we were ready, I asked the old man if he would join us "No thank
you. I have plenty." And he held up a brown paper bag.
When I had finished the dishes, I went out on the porch to talk with
him a few minutes. It didn't take a long time to see that this old man had an oversized
heart crowded into that tiny body. He told me he fished for a living to support his
daughter, her five children, and her husband, who was hopelessly crippled from a back
injury. He didn't tell it by way of complaint; in fact, every other sentence was prefaced
with a thanks to God for a blessing. He was grateful that no pain accompanied his disease,
which was apparently a form of skin cancer. He thanked God for giving him the strength to
keep going. At bedtime, we put a camp cot in the children's room for him.
When I got up in the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and
the little man was out on the porch. He refused breakfast, but just before he left for his
bus, haltingly, as if asking a great favor, he said, "Could I please come back and
stay the next time I have a treatment? I won't put you out a bit. I can sleep fine in a
chair." He paused a moment and then added, "Your children made me feel at home.
Grownups are bothered by my face, but children don't seem to mind." I told him he was
welcome to come again.
On his next trip he arrived a little after seven in the morning. As
a gift, he brought a big fish and a quart of the largest oysters I had ever seen. He said
he had shucked them that morning before he left so that they'd be nice and fresh. I knew
his bus left at 4:00 a.m. and I wondered what time he had to get up in order to do this
In the years he came to stay overnight with us there was never a
time that he did not bring us fish or oysters or vegetables from his garden. Other times
we received packages in the mail, always by special delivery; fish and oysters packed in a
box of fresh young spinach or kale, every leaf carefully washed. Knowing that he must walk
three miles to mail these, and knowing how little money he had made the gifts doubly
When I received these little remembrances, I often thought of a
comment our next-door neighbor made after he left that first morning. "Did you keep
that awful looking man last night? I turned him away! You can lose roomers by putting up
Maybe we did lose roomers once or twice. But oh! If only they could
have known him, perhaps their illnesses would have been easier to bear. I know our family
always will be grateful to have known him; from him we learned what it was to accept the
bad without complaint and the good with gratitude to God.
Recently I was visiting a friend who has a greenhouse, As she showed
me her flowers, we came to the most beautiful one of all, a golden chrysanthemum, bursting
with blooms. But to my great surprise, it was growing in an old dented, rusty bucket. I
thought to myself, "If this were my plant, I'd put it in the loveliest container I
had!" My friend changed my mind. "I ran short of pots," she explained,
"and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn't mind starting out
in this old pail. It's just for a little while, till I can put it out in the garden."
She must have wondered why I laughed so delightedly, but I was
imagining just such a scene in heaven. "Here's an especially beautiful one," God
might have said when he came to the soul of the sweet old fisherman. "He won't mind
starting in this small body." All this happened long ago -- and now, in God's garden,
how tall this lovely soul must stand.