Just Sam

My dad always called me Sam. I have no idea why, but he always called me Sam. That's one of those questions I have tucked away to ask him when I get to heaven ... one of those questions I wish I would have asked him before he died. I've talked about my dad often in this blog, so those of you who are faithful readers know that he was truly an exceptional man ... a loving man, a giving man, a compassionate man.

Daddy taught me many lessons, far too many to recount in this blog post, but I'm certain future posts will be sprinkled with them as I continue to write. One particular lesson, however, has come back to me recently in full force. I recall once when I went to work with Daddy at the railroad, there was a group of homeless men huddled around a small fire near the tracks at the back of the train yard. Daddy didn't hesitate as he grabbed his lunchbox, Thermos of coffee, a bag of chips and some cups and walked deliberately toward the men. I hustled to keep up with him, more than a little frightened as we drew nearer to the dirty, smelly group. I watched in amazement as my dad greeted the men by their names and then opened his lunchbox and took out several sandwiches and began to distribute them along with the chips to the hungry men. He handed me the strofoam cups to hold as he poured coffee into each one and passed those as well to the men. And then ... then Daddy did something that I've never forgotten. He went around that circle of homeless men, and he hugged each and every one of them, not caring how they smelled, what they wore, or how they lived.

Three years ago, I sat at my desk and listened as some of my co-workers made fun of a homeless man who was struggling outside on the sidewalk in front of our building. Tears sprang to my eyes as I heard the derogatory commentary and the laughter directed toward the poor man on the street. As I listened, I suddenly saw my dad ... handing out sandwiches and coffee, and wrapping his arms around those whom mainstream society had rejected and discarded. I practically leapt from my chair that day, grabbed my lunch, filled my water bottle, ran down the stairs and bolted out the front door. After I got past the smell, I handed the man the supplies I was carrying, and then ... then I asked his name. "My name's Sam," he said. "I'm just Sam."

What began as an impulse that day has grown into meeting Sam once every couple of weeks. I give him food, yes, but I also give him God's Word, some of my time and a listening ear. Every couple of weeks for three years ... until three weeks ago. I usually stop after work on Thursdays at the place where Sam makes his "home," under a railroad bridge off of the boulevard, to drop off water and some food. As I pulled up, I noticed Sam's best friend Marcus, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. I rolled down my window and handed the water, lunch meat and bread to Marcus and asked where Sam was. Marcus often has a hard time communicating, and today he was really struggling to speak. "Sam left me. He went away." My heart skipped a beat and my breathing quickened as I questioned Marcus further. "Where did he go, Marcus? Where did Sam go?" "His boy, Tony, came and took him to home," Marcus said. "To Tony's home, Marcus? To live with Tony?" "Yes, Sam, he go to home with Tony." 

My eyes filled with tears and I breathed a prayer of joy and relief as I drove away and headed for home. You see, Sam often said his son Tony would come and rescue him one day and take him home. Whenever Sam would say that, I often wondered if he really meant an earthly home or a heavenly one, and on this day, I couldn't help but think of the day that Jesus will take those of us who are His home to be with Him ... safe, secure, cared for, protected, warm, dry, fed, clean.

Coincidence that Daddy always called me Sam? That a man that God placed in my path who was in need was named Sam? I don't think so ... I don't think so at all. And Sam, should you ever read this, I want you to know something. You are so much more than "just Sam," my friend ... so much more ... to me and to God.