Carol was retarded. That's the description we used.

She was a neighbor, in a time and place in which you knew your neighbors. I don't remember being unkind to her. I was the fat, poor kid. I was too busy trying to survive to be a bully. I may have joined the cruel jokes and jibes. I hope I didn't, but I'm sure I did.

It was obvious Carol had suffered. In my mind's eye, I can still see her as we crossed paths on the sidewalk in front of my boyhood home. She instinctively cringed as I approached, as she did with everyone. She put right hand to her brow, as she did with every encounter, as if to shield her eyes from the sun. But she wasn't facing the sun. She was shielding herself from me, from the pain of words that were cruel instead of kind, from perhaps from hands that hit and didn't caress.

I knew her parents by sight and her mother well enough to perhaps say make eye contact in passing. She seemed more a grandmother in appearance. Maybe she was older or maybe life was hard. Maybe it was both. I know little else of her other than that she nearly died one cold winter day. Walking home from work in the dark, she slipped and fell, badly breaking a bone. She laid there alone for hours.

I don't know what happened to Carol. She was part of our neighborhood, and then she wasn't. She, like her mother, was damaged and un-missed.

Tim had been in a horrible car accident. The scars were still prominent years later. He too, nearly died. While he was in coma, he had had a vision of Jesus, calling him to live. But his body and brain had been damaged. He walked stiffly and couldn't speak clearly. Although he seemed intelligent, he was prone to do unfortunate things in the church we both attended. We did our best to be kind while being protective.

One day, Tim wanted to tell me something. We were at pot luck. The meal was over. I was alone with Tim in the busy room. He was working very hard to get the words out. “I” ….. “wish” ….. “I” ….. “was” ….. “like” ….. “you.”

When finally I understood what he said, I assumed he meant something about my maturity or position of responsibility at our church. Feeling good about myself and expecting to feel even better, I asked him, “How would you like to be me, Tim?”

“You've” …. “got” …. “a” …. “family.” Tim lived in a group home. He often walked for blocks in hits stumbling, awkward gate to share worship time with us. I had thought being kind to him was enough. I'd been pleased with myself that I'd occasionally given him a ride. He was lonely before he met me and lonely afterward.

Many of us in our churches work demographics and look to target groups for outreach. We tend to look for people like ourselves, those who will fit in, those who can “contribute.” I think Jesus did demographics and target groups, too. Only His demographics were the poor, afflicted, and sick. And His target group was “the least of these.” He looked for those couldn't possibly fit in. These were the core.

Jesus, you came to Tim as he lay dying and had nothing to give. And he never would. If I had the courage, I'd ask you to help me be like Tim, and to be like you as You seek “the least of these.” I'd ask you ask me to help extend real friendship to him. I'd ask you to help me see Carol as you did—not retarded or slow or different—but as one You loved and cherished. But even though I'm too afraid, will you seek and care for me, too? Will you carry me close to your heart? And in the warmth of your arms, will you melt fear?

He tends his flock like a shepherd:
He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart (Isaiah)