The One Who Stayed, A Retelling

She walked the road alone. It is anyone’s guess why she trudged that forsaken stretch of road, leaving the city of worship for the city of the rich and powerful. Sometimes life has a way of beating you down even on the road to success, or perhaps, especially on the road to success.

Whatever she had when she left the city of sacrifices and sages, it had been stripped from her on her lone journey. Ravaged by thieves and once again alone, she now lay with the road beneath her rather than before her. Bleeding. Naked. Scarred. Her life seeped with her tears onto the sand, which burrowed itself into her wounds and mixed into a muddy grit against her cheek.

It’s my story. It’s your story. We’ve all lain on that road in that pool of hopelessness with everything that matters stripped from us. Some of us have learned how to get up, dust ourselves off and pretend all is well. But the unhealed scars run too deep to brush off, and we leave the precious behind, ever lost to the thieves that stole it from us. Some lay there and succumb to death, with only a ghost of themselves rising to walk on. But either path is still forged alone.

She lays on the ground, waiting for death to claim her from the pain and agony of each ragged breath. Then, she hears something. Straining her neck with laborious movement, she sees a woman approaching her on the road. It’s the lady from church, the one who teaches a class of preschoolers then volunteers on the side to raise money for the orphanage in Africa. She knows her theology well and leads the women’s Bible study every month. The church lady must be on her way to the place of worship. She trips along in her high heels, Coach purse slung over her shoulder, clutching her Bible. Of course, it’s the Bible she’ll need when she gets there. Maybe she’ll see me, the thought stays locked in her pounding head since she can’t muster even a groan. And then, miracle of miracles, she saw! Her eyes landed on the lady at her feet and a brief moment passed between them. Then, she passed to the other side of the road. Of course, she must not be late. Today is Bible study day after all.

Alone again, she feels her breathing slow. The pain in her chest and ribs is so crushing, she wonders if a vital organ is punctured. Tears come again, unbidden and bothersome since she can’t even raise a hand to brush them away. Gritty mud again presses into her face. Then, she hears footsteps again. This time, she sees, through blurred eyes, the form of the choir leader. She carries her books of music and hums a familiar bar of a gospel song. She must be headed to choir practice. The big program is this week after all. She loses sight of all but her feet when they stop inches from her head. The lady bends to her to make eye contact. “I’m so sorry this happened to you!” She tries to speak, to grunt, to move. Failing on all counts, she simply looks into the eyes of sympathy above her. “I will request prayer for you at church, Dear. God is able!” With a tentative pat in between the wounds on her shoulder, the choir director, too, passes to the other side and away.

Finally, the loneliness overcomes her and the tears dry. She’s so tired. Hope fades and a welcome blackness seeps in. Just as the last of her consciousness begins to blink out, she feels a pulling and tugging on her limbs and a fiery liquid pouring into her wounds. She flails between succumbing to death and succumbing to the stinging pain. She feels herself being lifted and slid into the backseat of a car. Too spent to question her new fate, she lets the darkness close in fully.

It’s my story. It’s your story. We’ve been the woman who strolled, or scrolled, on by. We’ve been the woman who stopped and looked, or clicked. We’ve been the one who requested prayer or shook our heads in sympathy. We’ve shared that prayer request through a text or a social media post or a phone call. We probably even prayed, sincerely. All the while the suffering one on the roadside of what we call Life is still the same as she was. Alone.

This story was Jesus’ simple answer to the question He was asked, “Who is my neighbor?” There are a few telling questions he didn’t answer. Like, Should that person have been traveling that road to begin with? Did the person on the roadside deserve to be beaten up by thieves for her poor judgment? And what was his race, her job, his circumstances? What church did she attend, and to which political party did he belong? No, Jesus didn’t answer those questions and the one we call the Good Samaritan didn’t ask them. That’s the one Jesus called a true neighbor.

See, the true neighbor didn’t just stop. He stayed. He didn’t just look. He bound up the stranger’s wounds. He didn’t just pray God would send someone to help. He became that help. He didn’t raise an offering. He reached into his own pocket. Instead of keeping up appearances, he soiled his saddle blankets with a stranger’s blood. All through the long night, he watched and cared for the stranger’s needs. And when it was time to leave, he still didn’t leave the stranger alone. He left him in good hands and gave his own money for his continued care. With a promise to return.

These things the true neighbor gave freely: Time. Attention. Active compassion. Skill. Resources. Money. It’s my story. It’s your story. We many not have them all, but chances are good we have at least one. Will we scroll? Will we click? Or will we stop hiding behind our screens and the excuse of busy and just stay?

Because no one deserves to suffer alone.