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This story is very true and I hope, by sharing it, I will inspire other teenagers to take action and help someone who may need it the most! Life's number one rule: Never judge a book by its cover; if you do, you might miss out on something very important.
When I was small, the earliest lessons that my parents taught me were to always treat others the way I would want to be treated and to never judge anyone without getting to know the other person first. Little did I know that those two childhood lessons would eventually lead me to a beautiful blessing and an unlikely friendship.
I was fourteen years old in the summer of 1995 and—like most teenagers—my favorite pastime was hanging with my friends around the apartment complex swimming pool. The pool, which was nestled between two apartment buildings and near the complex’s leasing office, allowed for a clear view of the parking lot; its central location led my friends and me to comment often about the nearby foot traffic. The main topic of our discussions was usually Doris Casey. Doris was a small woman with whitening, unkempt hair, born shortly before the Great Depression. She lived alone and, to the common passerby, appeared to be a bitter old lady. She rarely spoke with anyone—only to the delivery men who brought her lunch every day—and enjoyed a very secluded life with no nearby family and seemingly no friends, other than her cat. When my friends and I saw her outside, she did not wave; instead, she would grab her groceries, place them in her two-wheeled metal cart, and slowly make her way to her front door, where she would enter her apartment and stay hidden from view, usually until the next day’s lunch hour meal delivery.
Because of the widely believed opinion that Doris was mean, my friends often shied away from having any contact with her; they would not extend even as much as a sociable wave. In my friends’ opinions, what was the point in being kind to someone who had never granted kindness to them? In my opinion, I felt I should not judge her until I knew all of the facts regarding why she acted the way she did.
While outside with my friends—one day in mid-July—I saw Doris near her car, struggling to haul her groceries from the trunk to her wheeled basket. She looked frustrated and was visibly annoyed. Without hesitation, I left my snickering friends and offered to assist her. To my surprise, Doris accepted my help. As I walked with her to her apartment, I noticed a woman in pain. She was a woman trapped beneath the harshness of debilitating arthritis who felt the hurt much deeper than her joints and muscles and I soon understood why. When Doris and I arrived inside her apartment, I saw a home in complete disarray with paintings faded beneath the dust, sinks so dirty they were black, and carpets so stained that it was difficult to tell what color the floors once were. Instantly saddened by the conditions of her home, my heart was angered that no one offered to help her—though I understood she was likely too ashamed or proud to ask for help—and my soul was called to action.
Without a moment’s pause, I said, “Mrs. Casey, would you like for me to come and clean your apartment for you? It won’t cost you anything and I’d be happy to do it.” Doris’s response was, “My child, this apartment has not been cleaned in ten years; you don’t know what you’d be doing to yourself.” Persistent and sincere, I would not take “No,” for an answer, so Doris finally agreed to let me work toward beatifying her home. She and I agreed that I would bring my own cleaning supplies and come that next Monday to begin the project; a project I assumed would take a week. The next few days were sun-filled and warm; I spent a lot of time with my friends and became the brunt of a few jokes for offering to help Doris. I did not care; in my heart, I felt I was doing the right thing.
When Monday came, I postponed my home-schooling assignments until evening and left our apartment by 8:30 a.m. for my “mission.” As I walked, I conjured some odd looks from a few apartment complex residents. I am certain I resembled some form of alien with vacuum hoses stretched over my head, a straw broom dragging behind me and a bucket clinched in my left hand, filled to the brim with many supplies. Doris awaited me, immediately opened her door and welcomed me inside. She offered me some water and introduced me to her cat, we devised a plan for tackling the cleaning, and then, my work began.
I started with the bathroom, cleaning every square inch of space until the entire area glistened. When I finished, I yelled to Doris—who stayed out of sight as I worked—for her approval, and made certain the room met with her satisfaction. She simply nodded her head, too speechless for words and obviously grateful for my efforts. By the end of the afternoon on Monday, the back portion of her apartment was finished. Doris offered to pay me for my work, but I would not accept; instead, I told her I would return on Tuesday to continue. Every afternoon—from Monday through Thursday, that week—I worked. Each night, I left Doris’s apartment, told her I would return the next day, and listened as she offered to pay me; every day, I refused payment. Compassion moved my heart towards a purpose greater than money.
I arrived on Friday to an apartment that was nearly clean. The only room still needing work was Doris’s kitchen, the least dirty room in the home. With a mop in hand, I began scrubbing the floor, making wide and small strokes, as if I was conducting an orchestra. Indeed, the mop strokes created beautiful music: the beautiful music of happiness and altruism. With every stroke of the mop, Doris’s hurt and shame were washed away—specks of forgotten grief floated throughout the dirty mop water, until nothing but the aromatic scents of a newfound friendship permeated throughout the home.
By four o’clock on Friday, my mission was finished. One last time, I called Doris into the kitchen to approve my work and instantly, she began to cry. When I inquired about her tears, she said nothing; she simply hugged me. The hug said enough; I knew I had changed her life. As I was leaving, Doris again offered to pay me; once more, I refused. I told her the smile on her face was payment enough for me. It was!
As time went forward, my friends continued to criticize Mrs. Casey, but Doris and I shared a bond that lasted the rest of her life. By giving her a chance, I learned she was not a bitter old lady, but someone needing some tender, loving care in the form of a friend. Indeed, as my parents taught me, you should always treat others with kindness and not judge them without knowing the facts. By enacting my parents’ lessons, I found—in Doris—my life’s greatest blessings: the value of eternal friendship and the soul-touching goodness to come from aiding someone in need.
© 2009 – Jill Eisnaugle. All rights reserved.
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