by Margaux Geofferys
Lewes, Delaware, USA
Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to outpatients at the clinic. One summer evening as I was fixing supper, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a truly awful-looking man. “Why, he’s hardly taller than my eight-year-old,” I thought as I stared at the stooped, shriveled body. But the appalling thing was his face; it was lopsided from swelling and scarred, red, and raw. Yet his voice was pleasant as he said, “Good evening. I’ve come to see if you’ve a room for just one night. I came for a treatment this morning from the eastern shore, and there’s no bus ’til morning.”
He told me he’d been hunting for a room since noon with no success. No one seemed to have a room. “I guess it’s my face… I know it looks terrible, but my doctor says with a few more treatments….”
For a moment I hesitated, but his next words convinced me: “I could sleep in this rocking chair on the porch. My bus leaves early in the morning.” I told him we would find him a bed, but to rest on the porch. I went inside and finished getting supper. When we were ready, I asked the old man if he would join us. “No, thank you. I have plenty,” he said, holding up a brown paper bag.
When I had finished the dishes, I went out on the porch to talk with him a few minutes. It didn’t take a long time to see that this old man had an oversized heart crowded into that tiny body. He told me he fished for a living to support his daughter, her five children, and her husband, who was hopelessly crippled from a back injury. He didn’t tell it by way of complaint; in fact, every other sentence was prefaced with a thanks to God for the blessing. He was grateful that no pain accompanied his disease, which was apparently a form of skin cancer. He thanked God for giving him the strength to keep going.
At bedtime, we put a camp cot in the children’s room for him. When I got up in the morning, the bed linens were neatly folded and the little man was out on the porch.
He refused breakfast, but just before he left for his bus, haltingly, as if asking a great favor, he asked, “Could I please come back and stay the next time I have a treatment? I won’t put you out a bit. I can sleep fine in a chair.” I told him he was welcome to come again. On his next trip he arrived a little after seven in the morning. He brought a big fish and a quart of the largest oysters I had ever seen as gifts. He said he had shucked them that morning before he left so they’d be nice and fresh. I knew his bus left at 4:00 a.m. I wondered what time he had to get up in order to do this for us.
In the years he came to stay with us, there was never a time he did not bring us fish or oysters or vegetables from his garden. Other times we received packages in the mail, always by special delivery — fish and oysters packed in a box of fresh young spinach or kale, every leaf carefully washed.
Recently I was visiting a friend who has a greenhouse. As she showed me all of her flowers, I spotted the most beautiful one of all: a golden chrysanthemum bursting with blooms. But to my great surprise, it was growing in an old dented, rusty bucket. I said to her, “If this were my plant, I’d put it in the loveliest container I had!”
“I ran short of pots,” she explained, “and knowing how beautiful this one would be, I thought it wouldn’t mind starting out in this old pail. It’s just for a little while, till I can put it out in the garden.”
She must have wondered why I laughed so delightedly. I was imagining just such a scene in Heaven when the old fisherman was born. “Here’s an especially beautiful one,” God might have said when he came to the soul of the sweet old fisherman. “He won’t mind starting in this small body….” This all happened long ago. Now, in God’s garden, how tall this lovely soul must stand.
Podcast: Play in new window | Download (Duration: 5:58 — 4.5MB)
12 thoughts on “The Old Fisherman”
At times it does seem that the most beautiful souls are placed in not so beautiful containers. Maybe there is so much light emanating from the souls the container does not matter at all. Thank you for resharing this lovely story.
Leo, 1> Thanks for taking the lead on Heroic Stories. Thus bringing it back to life. We here had forgotten this was Randy’s baby some years back. We continue to read him to this day.
Was just reading about the Old Fisherman from The Eastern shore in Baltimore @ J/H for treatment, and the family that fixed a place for him to to spend the night. What you do in itself is also MORE than acts of kindness. Wishing many more could read stories such as theses.. Al
Why can’t I stop crying?
What a touching story. I will never forget this one.
This is just a beautiful story, full stop. It is a perfect reminder that beauty on the outside does not determine inner beauty, the beauty of the soul.
Wonderful story. It touched my heart. God bless.
I have my doubts about the validity of this story… found this source as well. “The Old Fisherman
A True Story by Mary Bartels Bray
Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of John Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to out-patients at the clinic.”
When the story was accepted for publication in 1999 the author stated that it was original and authentic. It’s very likely that some of the re-posts you find are, in fact, (rather illegal, I would think) copies of the original HeroicStories publication of the tale.
I”m afraid someone lied at some point… Mary Bartels Bray
reprinted from Guideposts, June 1965
I remember this story when it was first published. What a lovely story – thanks for the repeat.
A wonderful reminder that we should “never judge a book by its cover”.
What a blessing for the author to meet such a beautiful soul and learn such a valuable lesson. I appreciate the reminder myself!
As a fairly recent newcomer to Heroic Stories, this is the first time I’ve read this wonderful story. No matter where it originated, the fact that it has come around again and reached my fresh ears and open heart, is all that matters to me. I am deeply moved by the character drawn of the deformed Fisherman, and the welcoming soul of the person providing him a place to rest for the night. I couldn’t help thinking about the story of Mary and Joseph searching for a place for the night, where she was about to give birth to baby Jesus. History will repeat itself in order for us to learn the lessons of why we have been put on earth i.e. to love one another and “… whatever you wish that others would do to you, do also to them …”