He, miles from home is tired and alone, his body worn and ravaged by cancer. This treatment, though over but a moment too late, he arrives at the station as the last bus home rolls out of sight.
The next not till morning, his body fatiguing, his weary head needs a resting place. But like the story of old, he’s turned away; to this disfigured soul seems there’s no more room at the inn this night.
A border house owner, on her front porch she finds him, begging for a place to rest his soul. “I don’t need a bed, I’ll just sit here instead. With a face like mine marred," he said, "I know I create quite a fright."
But with compassion compelling, she finds herself telling him, “Sir, be of good cheer, please stay with me here. I’ll give you a bed for your weary head; yes, here you’ll be safe until morning light.”
Said he, “Don’t know where to begin, but my condition of skin, gives others chagrin. Please, don’t think me rude, but I won’t need any food; just a small safe corner I would prefer, for in the morn I’ll be travelin’ home."
Later that evening, they talk for a spell. Her respect for him growing, as to his tell she sits listening; finds herself knowing that deep in this heart runs a pure river flowing, a body so frail, his heart has outgrown.
Home, is a daughter, with five hungry mouths; her husband disabled, unable to walk. He their provider with a fisherman’s rod, his own condition an afterthought. No word of complaint, only thankful instead, making her grateful to have heard his tome.
Sure as promised, next morning she finds him, sheets neatly folded there on his bed. As he is leaving she hears him asking,”Ma’am, may I return to this room? While others reject me, you’re willing to accept me; last night left me grateful I wasn’t alone.”
And return he did, with accompaniment of fish and oysters shelled fresh as his gift. As his kindness she pondered she couldn’t but wonder at the hour of his awakening, for with shelling and travel, it left precious little for sleep.
Months they passed by and his visits continued and even when absent his thanks persisted, by parcel his gift from the sea would arrive, wrapped in spinach or kale, then packaged and mailed, each one showing his gratitude deep.
“Did you board that man with awful appearance?” a neighbor’s voice broke through her daydreams one day. Truth rose up inside, she had nothing to hide as she answered. “Any losses I suffered are smaller than gains, for lessons like these don’t come cheap.”
“See… these Mums that today bloom in my garden were once merely seeds, easily forgotten. But planted and watered they grew, in an old dented pail most would've discarded. But once strong and grown tall, I gently transplanted them allowing their beauty to beam.”
And here she reflected on thoughts that were tumbling, she found herself grateful for this enlightening: a lesson here offered, one others had missed, this remarkable teacher others dismissed; one teacher uncommon gave her life lessons, these three...
*1. Don’t judge a book by its cover, or silence the teacher before the lesson begins. 2. Let gratitude flow as an unending response. 3. Our Father often places His best seed, in an old dented pail where it grows in test; then gently is lifted to bloom in His garden, its legacy gleaming for all here to see.
Post Script:
Our son Daniel is one who was lifted from the old dented pail in which he came to us. Today he stands tall, blooming brightly in our Father’s garden, his legacy still speaking to all.
I did not contrive this story myself, nor is it a new story. I don’t know just how old it is, but it does seem to have been around for some time. Its truth many question, perhaps legitimately so. However, regardless of its veracity, even if simply a short novel written to relay some time-tested truths, I see only benefit in its propagation. If you’ve never before read it, I invite you to read the story for yourself here:
http://antiquetractorsforum.com/viewtopic.php?t=4319
My poetic version makes some subtle changes, solely for prose, not overall message. I truly hope you will enjoy this as much as I did, both as I read the original and then as I wrote this poem. Hereafter, should you visit my wife’s vintage shop out here in the Pacific NW, you will find the following message on a card affixed to each old dented pail you find hanging there:
“LESSONS OF THE OLD DENTED PAIL: Always remember...
1. Don’t judge a book by its cover or silence the teacher before the lesson begins.
2. Let gratitude flow as an unending response.
3. Our Father often places His best seed, in an old dented pail where it grows in test; then gently is lifted to bloom in His garden, its legacy gleaming for all here to see.
For the complete story follow this link... “
(the link of course leading to the entire poem and the original story on her own blog)