The city of brotherly love came as a shock to this country boy. I left the boarding house at 7 a.m. for school. Waiting for the trolley I noticed a man lying on the sidewalk. I ran to a nearby phone booth. The Philadelphia police dispatcher said, Mister, we can’t be bothered by an old drunk. He’ll sober up in time for his next bottle.
What’s with the brotherly love business? On the farm we treated sick animals with greater compassion. Did residents forget the name of their city?
Lilly attended my church when I was a boy. She gave hard candy to the kids who were reverent in worship. She was my friend. Years later I was in college. I was told that Lilly was committed to the insane asylum. One night she slipped out of her barracks and nobody seemed to care. Two weeks later a motorist saw her body in a roadside ditch. She had died of exposure on a frigid February in Pennsylvania. No city of love for Lilly. She was buried in a pauper’s grave.
Years later I was the chaplain in a psychiatric hospital. I met patients who were dumped. Visiting hours were painful for them. I listened to their cries of loneliness and forsakenness. Heart breaking!
My concern for the forgotten was learned from my mother and father. Hobos stopped by our farm regularly. My mother gave away dozens of hobo meals. My father insisted they split a box of kindling for the old kitchen stove. His mantra was no work-no eat. They were often heard to say some people have it really hard. I pray that I can cheerfully follow their example.