Commentary: An act of kindness can last a lifetime

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Kindness at church

Skinny and tall for a 7-year-old, I would have made a good poster child for neglect. My granddaddy, a kind and benevolent soul, took good care of me when I lived at his house, which was not often enough.

All that changed when Momma picked me up, and I found myself at the mercy of her latest male companion. These were tough times with rough treatment, not much food and no hint of creature comforts. A little kindness would have gone a long way with me, but like a good friend, both were hard to find at that point in my life.

My feet dirty, my shorts frayed, I walked up the steps and into the small, white clapboard church located in “orange grove country.” Everything in the sanctuary held the sweet fragrance of orange blossoms. That and mosquito spray.

After stepping across the threshold and heading down the center aisle, I admired the pews, original to the church founded in the mid-1800s. Turning my head, I saw the youth leader—smiling from ear to ear—indicating where I should sit.

The service featured a film on young people being kind to show love to others. At the end of the service, the youth worker explained to me the advantages of kindness and the importance of working together to give a helping hand.

As a child, the concept of “kindness” was foreign to me. However, as I walked home from church, swatting mosquitoes and watching for snakes every step of the way, I became aware of a seed planted in my heart. Soon, the youth worker’s kindness and wisdom began to germinate as I started replacing indifference with concern and cruelty with compassion.

Kindness at school

Elementary school turned out to be tough on me. An inability to concentrate made teaching me a challenge. Second grade proved overwhelming, and it took two tries before moving on to third.

Attention deficit disorder made difficult life in general and school in particular. My self-confidence hovered painfully just above zero for years. Bouncing between three schools with no parental assistance kept me in an almost constant state of humiliation. I’m sure a little bumping up my grades helped, because somehow, I stumbled through first through fifth grades.

Mrs. Rowe was my sixth-grade teacher. She was an exceedingly kind widow with a genuine love for her work and students. Most of my previous teachers brushed me aside for numerous reasons. Mrs. Rowe would have none of that. Every day, she went to all manner of extra trouble to help rebuild in me a healthy self-esteem, while instilling the joy of learning.


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On one of my more difficult days, she asked me a simple question. Rattled, I answered in a harsh, defensive tone.

Mrs. Rowe—always the kind, nurturing professional—sighed, took her glasses off, rubbed her forehead and said: “Steve, I’m only trying to help you. I stay awake at night trying to think of ways to help you.”

She said this, not in a scolding manner, but in a soft, caring voice I remember to this day. Until I reached high school, any time I accomplished something noteworthy, I hopped on my bicycle and pedaled across town to tell her all about it.

Both the youth leader—whose name I never knew—and Mrs. Rowe had a lasting impact on me. As my early life unfolded, they planted godly concepts in my life that continue to bear fruit.

I doubt the tiny, country church’s youth leader received any money for her work. Regardless, she invested her Sunday night introducing an unknown child to the value of compassion and kindness. I doubt she ever thought her story would be told more than 60 years later.

Mrs. Rowe likely had no inkling she helped point me and my younger sister in a positive direction. Aside from teaching us to spell and “cipher,” she planted in us a sorely lacking seed of confidence and self-esteem.

I am thankful for their efforts and the bearing they still have on my life.

Kindness in the yard

Once when running from my sister, I came around the front of the house. About 50 yards away were several men digging a ditch. After a double take, I realized the men dressed in striped pants and dark shirts were a work crew from the minimum-security state prison.

Seeing a prisoner work crew was common enough, because in my youth such things were not considered “cruel and unusual.” It also did not escape my notice that standing watch over the detail were two burly men armed with short-barreled shotguns.

While I stood there, hands in pockets, one of the inmates called out to me: “Come here, kid. Take this dollar and go up to the store and get me a drink.”

As is my nature, I said, “Sure,” and started strolling his way.

Before I reached the inmate, one of the guards shouted: “Don’t get any closer, and get back in your yard!”

Addressing the prisoner, the guard said, “When we are done, we will all go to the store.”

I saw no need in being unkind to the prisoner, but I also didn’t want to cross the guard again. So, I sat down on my porch and watched them labor in the ditch.

After hours of 80 percent humidity in the blazing Florida heat, prisoners and guards alike happily loaded shovels into the work truck. The exhausted workers formed a line and headed up the road toward the closest cold drinks.

I watched them file by and made eye contact with the man who called me over. He gave me a nod. Then with the same motion used to discard a cigarette butt, he flipped me a folded dollar.

I hopped off the porch in my bare feet and scooped up his gift. While the inmates trudged up the hill toward their well-deserved break, something dawned on me. The man probably was paying back the kindness I had shown him.

Being treated with respect, something he likely saw little of, must have gone a long way with him. I believe he flipped me a dollar as a way of saying, “Thank you.”

This event taught me a valuable lesson. Regardless of one’s standing in society, we all are God’s children and should be treated with kindness and respect. While not guaranteeing the same treatment in return, we will have done our best to lighten someone’s load and make their day a little easier.

Steve Carter has been in Christian ministry more than 50 years as a Sunday school teacher, youth ministry worker, musician, hospice chaplain and Mississippi State Guard chaplain. He lives in Tupelo, Miss., and can be emailed at [email protected]. The views expressed are those of the author.


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