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The Good Samaritan

By Sara Elston-Moore

The hot summer morning air beat down on Mark Wilson as he slipped out of his house for his daily morning run. His blond, curly hair soon clung to the back of his damp neck as sweat poured down his face. Occasionally he arranged the ear buds streaming an old Keith Green song from his Ipod, but, mostly, Mark was a fluid motion; one man running on the sidewalk awakened for the day, as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky. Mark enjoyed his work as an estate planner; it gave him satisfaction to know that he was helping people ensure that what they wanted done with their money and possessions would be. Mark adored his wife of two years, Katherine, and the night before she had laughingly confided that, soon, Mark would become a daddy for the first time. He ran on and on, farther than he usually did, adrenaline flowing through his body with the excitement of impending fatherhood.

Lost in the music and thoughts of his family, Mark never saw the silver Ford Escort glide slowly past him. He didn't notice it the second time, after it circled the block and came back. He never saw it pull ahead of him, pull around the block and park. Not until it

was too late did he see the four young men standing in front of him, one holding a baseball bat. And he never did see the oldest, the one in the bandana, or the sunlight glinting of the .45 Glock.

Reverend Lee Mills had presided over the largest church in the decade for almost two and a half decades. Under his leadership, it had grown from a mere four hundred to almost eight thousand. Next week, they would move into their new multi-million dollar complex, and Pastor Mills was hard at work planning for the dedication ceremony. It would be televised and the largest local paper was covering it. The reporter Pastor Mills had spoken with the night before had hinted that the AP might actually even pick up on the story, and so they planned to meet first thing at the new facility. The reporter wanted pictures of Pastor Mills and the impressive building.

He had overslept. Of all mornings to oversleep. He rushed through the shower, into his new suit and tie, and barely grabbed the cup of coffee his wife offered as he jumped into his new Lexus. Hurriedly exiting the garage, Reverend Mills sped down the road.

He thought it was a dead animal at first. The object crumpled on the sidewalk seemed to be contorted into an impossible position, and as he grew closer, Reverend Mills could see it was soaked in blood. His eyes grew wide with horror as he realized it was a person, beaten, shot, and unconscious on the sidewalk. He reached for his cell phone to call 9-1-1, and then realized he had forgotten it in the morning rush.

He'd have to flag down a car—and the man looked dead. No one could be that broken and alive.

And then, days before the dedication, Pastor Mills would be dragged into a high publicized murder case.

He might even be suspected as killing the man!

And…he'd be very late to meet the reporter, and she might even leave if he didn't show up soon.

It was a well-traveled road, Pastor Mills told himself. Someone will be along shortly. And he sped off.

Dr. Jayne Edgewater was also late for her first appointment of the morning. A student had emailed yesterday, requesting help with a paper for the summer class she was teaching. They had set up to meet today, and then Jayne was being interviewed on a national talk show. With a law degree from Harvard and a theology doctorate from Princeton, Jayne had written four best-selling books on Christian politics and was quickly becoming well known as a leading conservative. And while she loved teaching, Jayne hadn't completely ruled out a future run for office. Dr. Jayne Edgewater was at the top of her game, well on her way to a brilliant future.

Except for that morning. Her computer had broken down the day before and Jayne was up most of the night trying to retrieve files. She had barely enough sleep and no time for anything extra this morning.

The bleeding man was moving when Jayne passed him. She backed up, staring out her passenger side window. Yes, she said to herself. He's alive. Jayne started to get out of the car, but then he stopped moving.

It would take forever to get an ambulance.

And Jayne didn't have forever.

Lord, she whispered as she drove away, Please send someone to take care of that poor man. You know I would, but I have too much to do for You today. I know You understand.

Brad Johnson was exhausted that morning. Eight-month-old Liselle was teething; and Brad and his partner, Mike, were up all night comforting her. Finally, morning came, and Brad dropped Liselle off at day care on his way to his job. Usually, Mike took her, but Mike was fighting the flu. The ten miles out of his way made Brad very late for his job as marketing director at the local Planned Parenthood.

He saw the man lying on the sidewalk, covered in blood and grime. Brad quickly pulled over and put his emergency lights on, dialing 9-1-1 as he ran to the bloody person. He knelt by the man's side, searching for a pulse. It was weak, but there was one.

"9-1-1, what is your emergency?" The disembodied voice on the other end said.

"There's a man, been shot, on Meadow Lane going east. We're just about to West Chester Ave. I need an ambulance, hurry."

Brad wiped the blood away from the man's forehead, then tried to staunch the bleeding coming from the man's chest. In the distance, through the humid, muggy summer air, Brad could hear the sirens wailing.

He followed the ambulance to the hospital. The paramedics had found a wallet lying beside the man, containing a driver's license that said his name was Mark Wilson. There was a wedding picture, too, of Mark and a lovely red-haired woman. Mark and Katherine was embossed in the corner. Brad prayed silently that Mark would be okay, and that

Katherine would be strong enough to face what had happened. He called his office and told them he would have to take today off. There had been an emergency, he said, and would call later with details.

Thirty minutes later, a disheveled Katherine Wilson came running into the emergency room. The attending policeman stopped her, explaining that Mark had lost a lot of blood, and they didn't know how long he had been on the sidewalk. He was in surgery, and they just didn't know if he'd be okay.

Brad Johnson came over to where she stood. Her face was pale, and she was in shock. He took her hand and led her to the waiting room.

"Do you have family?" he asked. "Someone I can call, who can come wait with you?"

Katherine shook her head. "Mark's parents are on vacation in Mexico," she said. "And my parents are gone." She wiped a tear from her eyes. "I'm alone," she said.

"I'll stay," he answered. "My name is Brad Johnson. I'm the one who found your husband. I'm so sorry."

"I told him to be careful," Katherine whispered. "I always told him to be careful."

"Have you eaten?" Brad asked.

"No," Katherine replied. "No, I didn't even think—and I didn't bring any money."

Brad pulled out his wallet. He pressed several twenties into her hand. "Don't even think about it, Mrs. Wilson," he said. "Right now, let me take care of things. You have enough to worry about."

The doctor came out to where they sat.

"Katherine Wilson?" he asked gently. "I'm Dr. Howard."

"My husband?" she whispered, clutching Brad's hand.

Dr. Howard smiled. "I think he's going to be fine. He lost a lot of blood, but he's stable, now. Mr. Johnson stopped right in time."

Jesus said, go, and do likewise.

(Luke 10:25-37)