Carl was a quiet man. 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. The lone sight of him walking down the street
often worried us. He had a slight limp from a bullet wound received in W.W.II.
Watching him, we worried that although he had survived W.W.II, he may not make
it through our changing uptown neighborhood with its ever-increasing random
violence, gangs, and drug activity. When
he saw the flyer at our local church asking for volunteers for caring for the
gardens behind the minister’s residence, he responded in his
characteristically unassuming manner. Without fanfare, he just signed up. He was well into his 87th year when the
very thing we had always feared finally happened. He was just finishing his watering for the day when three gang members
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,” with a
malevolent little smile. 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 minister came running to help him. Although the minister 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 minister kept asking as he helped Carl to his
feet. Carl just passed a hand over his brow and sighed, shaking his head. “Just some punk kids. I hope they’ll wise-up someday.”
His wet clothes clung to his slight frame as he bent to pick up the hose. He
adjusted the nozzle again and started to water. Confused and a little concerned, the minister 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 minister could only
marvel. Carl was a man from a different time and place. A few weeks later the three 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
sauntered 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.
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 hating 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. He died one cold day after Christmas that winter. Many people attended
his funeral in spite of the weather. In particular the minister noticed a tall
young man that he didn’t know sitting quietly in a distant corner of the
church. The minister 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
minister’s office door. Opening the door, the minister 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 minister 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 and vegetables 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 new minister
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 minister, as he was handed the garden shed keys.
“That’s wonderful! What’s the baby’s name?” “Carl,” he replied.