Gods thinks about you always
Our house was directly across the street from the clinic entrance of John Hopkins in Baltimore. We lived downstairs and rented the upstairs rooms to outpatients at the clinic. One summer evening there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a truly awful looking man. He was hardly taller than my eight-year-old and had a stooped, shriveled body. His face was lopsided from swelling and yet his voice was pleasant. He said, “Good evening. I’ve come to see if you’ve a room for just one night. I came for treatment this morning from the Eastern Shore, and there’s no bus till morning.” I’ve been hunting for a room since noon but with no success. I guess it’s my face”. 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. Later, I went out on the porch to talk with him for a few minutes. It didn’t