Being there

By A. J. Walker

There are times when small acts of kindness have far-reaching effects. I learned that one summer in the 1950s.

It wasn’t until I started attending grade school that I began to understand that my family was "dirt poor." Mom and Dad did the best they could for my brothers and me, and they taught us to be happy with what we had.

By world standards, we were quite well off. We had shelter, food, clothing and medical care. There were some books and a few toys. Yet by small-town America standards, we lived well below the poverty line.

From age seven or eight, I spent most summer days playing behind my house. I ventured beyond the back yard, into the woods and onto the railroad tracks. (Mom didn’t know about that.) I spent most of my time off the ground, dangling from the trees. I fancied myself the best tree climber in town.

Nature provided a great playground for us. Poor as we were, we had little and lacked little. However, something that we could have benefited from was a bathtub or shower stall. Bathing for us kids consisted of a few quick swishes with a wash rag. Not very effective or pleasant.

In grade school I remember a fellow student announcing rather loudly that I should go home and wash my neck. I was humiliated and embarrassed.

Shortly before junior high school, two caring strangers contributed greatly to my life. The first was a person who anonymously paid my way for a week’s stay at a Methodist summer camp. I never knew who that person was, but she or he was there for me and gave me just what I needed at just the right time.

I was thrilled to go, but I was extremely shy and withdrawn. Camp was in a remote area of Maryland, bordering the Chesapeake Bay. I remember huge white buildings surrounded by numerous small cabins scattered in the woods.

For the most part, my stay was wonderful. I was exposed to the usual summer camp activities, including Bible stories and songs of worship, which I loved. All the adult staff treated me graciously.

Not so wonderful was the way my cabin mates teased and taunted me. I was an easy target because I lacked an adequate understanding of social skills or how to properly care for myself. I was still more interested in climbing trees than in hygiene.

One day, a thoughtful counselor saw I was in need of help. Apparently, everyone knew I needed a bath except me! I was escorted to the staff showers and introduced to the new world of indoor plumbing. The counselor explained how to control the water pressure and temperature and how to bathe, and then she gave me my privacy.

It was glorious! For the first time, I felt completely clean, cared for and accepted. I’d been treated with care and with respect for my feelings. This small act of kindness of a camp counselor made all the difference in my young life.

The memory of those two kind strangers from more than 40 years ago still moves me today. Had the anonymous donor not paid my way, I would not have had the opportunity to go to camp that summer. I might not have grown to love those Bible stories and songs of worship. I would not have met that caring counselor or experienced her gift of compassion. And I would not have learned from her how to share that gift with others.

Small acts of kindness can sometimes have far reaching effects. They certainly did for me.