Wordfull Wednesday: Act of Kindness

Guest Post by Paul:

There are a few simple, paradoxical truths about the concept of giving that, when discovered, can unleash immense power in our lives. One is that, in general, the more one gives, the more one receives in return. Another is that the more anonymous the giving is, the more it says, practically speaking, about the giver.

For about a year or so, I awoke each morning to find the newspaper perfectly placed on our front door welcome mat. It struck me as odd, as our door is probably 30 feet or more from the street. Either the paper boy is the reincarnation of Greg Maddox, I thought, or he is spending an inordinate amount of time placing the paper on the stoop. Either way, I figured it wouldn’t last long – he’d either be drafted into the big leagues, or fired by his curmudgeon newspaperman boss for taking so long on his route and putting the rest of the paperboys to shame.

One autumn morning, I uncharacteristically arose early to take the dog out for an early morning walk. It was barely 5:00 a.m., and my limbs, unaccustomed to being up at such an early hour, seemed to drag lifelessly along in the chilly pre-dawn air. It was one of those misty, mysterious mornings, like something you would see in the movies, where the darkness and stillness is exaggerated. You grip your popcorn a little tighter because it feels like some kook might jump out of the shadows to rough up the protagonist.

Barely two minutes into our walk, as Archie stopped to communicate with his neighbors in the manner dogs often do, I picked up a faint shuffling sound ahead of us down the street, something like worn out windshield wipers toiling in short, swift strokes or, more likely, old rubbery-soled shoes on a sidewalk. Unable to make out anything in the darkness, we pressed on another house or two down the street, picking up the pace a bit to perhaps get a better look. There I was finally able to make out a small shadowy figure shuffling along slowly in the orange-tinted shadows of the street lamp ahead. It was clearly an elderly man, cloaked in a brown coat a size or two too big for his small narrow shoulders and skinny waist, his small head topped off with a glen plaid cap. He was shuffling along with a decided elderly gait, the kind that belies experience, propelled by feet that had doubtlessly taken tens, if not hundreds, of millions of steps before. From a distance I could hear him humming an unrecognizable yet upbeat tune as he went.

I continued to follow him, gaining on him with each step, two of mine the equal of perhaps six of his. When I was about 20 paces away, he turned abruptly to his left and then, after a few steps, stooped down at his waist and snatched a yellow plastic bag off of a wet driveway. The Salt Lake Tribune. I slowed to a pause and watched him patiently and methodically shuffle to the neighbor’s front door, depositing the paper neatly on the Welcome mat, before turning and heading back down the driveway. When he arrived again at the sidewalk, I recognized him. It was my neighbor Grant Morris.

From what I gathered, Grant Morris had done well in his life, having invested wisely in businesses and properties, a quiet, humble sort of capitalist. By any standard he was well off, yet he chose to live relatively simple, healthy life. His secret to longevity, he confided in some, was a daily dose of mint, picked fresh from his garden, squeezed into an herbal tea. Like his faded brown coat, he was practical and comfortable being so.

But the crisp, sharp mind that had once driven a hundred business deals had now faded somewhat, and as he spotted me on the sidewalk it seemed to search in vain for my name. That look was not new to me, for each time I saw him in church or in the neighborhood he mistook me for someone else. I told him my name as we briefly shook hands there on the wet, predawn sidewalk, and, looking relieved, his eyes instantly lit up in a warm, enthusiastic greeting. I wanted to mention something of his service, to thank him on behalf of the whole neighborhood, but, as quickly as the thought came to mind, a strong impression came to me to say nothing at all.

The Savior Himself said it best in the Sermon on the Mount:
1. Take heed that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye have no reward of your Father which is in heaven.
2. Therefore when thou doest thine alms, do not sound a trumpet before thee, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and in the streets, that they may have glory of men. Verily I say unto you, They have their reward.
3. But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth:
4. That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly. (Matthew 6:1-4)

Grant Morris was not like most other people. If he were he might go about his errand a bit later, after the dawn had broken, when he would be in plain view of the world. He might casually let you know in conversation that he was responsible. He could mention it in a church talk, or maybe joke about how tough the regular snowfall was making his rounds. But he didn’t. Instead he kept his charitable act to himself, his alms in secret. His habit of forgetting my name made his other habit all the more charming, his service all the more anonymous.

After exchanging a few pleasantries we parted ways. I stood still a bit and watched him shuffle off into the darkness, the windshield wiper sound of his feet fading as he continued down the street to collect the next newspaper. My eyes, like the air itself, became misty. I realized that the foreboding-movie-type feeling I had had before, the exaggerated stillness and darkness, did indeed did produce a plot twist that I would remember vividly for a long time to come.

It was a simple gesture really - fetching newspapers from driveways and placing them on front porches. Some might not have even noticed. But in reality his daily act of charity, rendered to all, transcended every worldly division in our neighborhood: different faiths, different political views, different life stages. In fact, the diversity of newspapers themselves, from the Deseret News to the Salt Lake Tribune, the New York Times to the Wall Street Journal, represented a sort of microcosm of all those differences. With that slow gait and the winding, hilly streets in our neighborhood, in the rain and in the snow, it may have taken Grant Morris hours every day. But under the cover of darkness, every day, without fail, the paper was there.

When Grant Morris moved out of the neighborhood recently, some of the neighbors actually called the newspapers to complain. The paper boy just wasn’t doing it like he used to, they said. They never knew. Indeed, just the way Grant Morris would have wanted it.

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