In this world we live in, the word value can mean many different things depending on the situation. Worth, importance or usefulness of something are just some definitions. It can describe the monetary worth of an object, the quality of being desirable, or even the social principles a person or group holds.
Monetary worth is the most common interpretation placing the amount of money something is worth or can be exchanged for. Examples include the price of a product, the value of a house, or the market price of a company.
Importance, on the other hand, refers to the degree to which something is considered desirable, useful, or important. Examples include the true worth of an education, the worth of friendships or the integrity of a good work ethic.
I want to describe something that is worth much more than money can buy, or even placing a value on a situation or experience.
It is simply called “showing up.”
Being there for someone who is sick. Spending time with those who feel unlovable. There are many simplistic examples in the scriptures which Jesus Himself spoke about regarding the “Value of Showing Up.”
“Then the King will say to those on His right hand, Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.”
I was naked and you clothed me.
Many years ago, while living in Warrenton, Oregon, along the beach, I was a manager for a foster care home for the elderly.
My job entailed cooking, cleaning, caring for all the needs of those who lived there. Even if they were unable to care for themselves in some ways; I was there to meet their needs.
5 elderly men in various stages of needs, were a daily, and sometimes nightly job requirement. In reality, I was there 24 hours a day, and needed to be alert and available if any of them had a “two o'clock in the morning” bathroom need. I had a relief worker come in two days a week to relieve me and provide the same quality care.
So, like clockwork at exactly 2 a.m., this one man would scream for me. I had monitors and devices in each room in case there was an emergency. What happened next was an emergency, at least early on. My room was near his, and it did not take much for me to quickly respond to any issue that could arise in the home.
He was a retired British Colonel who was 92 years old. He was born in 1893 and was in the military until he retired. He spent the better part of 46 years in the British Navy.
He would holler for me, “Joe, Mayday, MAYDAY!’
I ran to his room to find that his external catheter was removed. He had no clothes on for obvious reasons. I saw that he had made a mess of himself, his bed, and his entire room. It took about an hour to clean up and put fresh sheets, pillow cases and the like to begin the process of his immediate need.
Mopping the floor and wiping down everything in his military path was challenging. Didn’t need any smells or disease bacteria to infiltrate his personal space.
I was not a doctor or nurse, but I could do everything including C.P.R. if needed.
Once all was clean and he was back in bed, he wanted to talk about his war stories from the World War he had been in. This was 1985 when I did this job, and knowing he was 92, gave me some insight to history and that war.
Britain declared war on Germany on September 3, 1939, after Germany invaded Poland. The British Empire, including forces from across the Commonwealth, played a significant role throughout the war, fighting in various theaters of conflict.
This precious 92 year old Colonel, had hundreds of stories, and every night around the same early hours of each morning I was ready for his battle cry. “Mayday, MAYDAY.”
My response was one of sheer joy finally and I convinced him to stop messing with that external catheter. All he really wanted was someone to “visit” him and listen to his stories. It was no longer a job to me, it was an honor to spend time with this man who lived a life of valor and dignity. He passed away while he was in my care from natural causes. At times, he was “naked, and I clothed him.”
“I was a stranger, and you took me in.”
During the 1990’s, I spent some time in Portland, Oregon as an apartment manager for a retirement community for those who were 65 and older. I managed 36 units and did all of the landscaping and restoration of each apartment whenever someone would move or pass away. God had given me several divine appointments with many of the elderly residents, and I cherished them all.
One, in particular stood out.
One of the ladies called me for a maintenance issue from a small leak from her kitchen sink.
I arrived and fixed the problem but found that she wanted to talk. So, I spent as much time as my job would allow and had an opportunity to pray for her. But not in the beginning.
The back story for this lady was this. I never saw her outside when the weather was balmy or even cooler weather. Her curtains were always closed. Never open. Never.
I hadn’t met her until this maintenance issue happened. All of the residents had their rent checks sent directly to my office so that I did not have to collect rent or deal with the monies.
This day was about to drastically change for one woman and her son.
I had noticed on every Thursday afternoon that a man, who was probably around 40, appeared on a bicycle. He drove it too the front door of this particular woman’s apartment. I could see from my office this view and saw that he pulled his bicycle inside.
I watched and watched as he never came out, and didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary. It is okay to have visitors and it is none of my business who visited and when they could. No real rules regarding residents and the occupancy of their tiny apartments.
Friday morning, he would re-appear and drive away on his bicycle. This was his routine every Thursday afternoon and Friday morning.
So, once I met her through this maintenance fix, I casually asked her, “By the way Mildred, who by chance is the man who arrives every now and then on his bicycle?”
(You would of thought I had stabbed her in her heart with her response to my casual question.)
She began to cry and sob and convulse in emotional pain for over 5 minutes after my question. Once she calmed down, I heard her story.
“That is my son. He is homeless and has been for over 30 years Joe.”
She went on to tell me the thirty minute story, as she cried off and on throughout her explanations. “When my only son was 9 years old, he was struck by an automobile while riding his bicycle. He almost died. As a result of his injuries, he was diagnosed with a severe brain contusion, and never fully recovered. The doctors back then said he would never grow emotionally past the age of 9, and that came true. My son ran away after he partially recovered and I never saw him again for all these years. My husband and I looked and looked and tried contacting missing persons and had no success. There was no hope of ever finding him again.”
She wept again in front of me.
“I found him just after I moved in here a year ago. A private detective found him for me. He got on drugs and alcohol during his young life and never recovered or found purpose in life.”
She continued to cry and explain that once she found him, he would not accept any help from any organization or hospital and remained to this day, on the streets of Portland.
“Joe, I let him come every Thursday to clean up and take a shower and eat a meal. We talk and cry and talk some more until it is time for him to sleep. He always remembers me, his mother. I let him sleep here for one night, and then he leaves on time every Friday morning.”
She cried some more. In her fear-filled voice she spoke, “The last apartment manager threatened me that if I did not stop letting him visit me, that they were going to evict me Joe. They kept referring to the lease agreement about apartment occupancy and allowing overnight visitors and all the horrible rules that I was about to be kicked out of here for.”
With a pause in her tears and voice, she stated, “I just can’t ignore him, he is my only son.”
I remember on the Friday mornings, as this man left on his bicycle, that he had a small brown sack which he clutched with his right hand as he steered the bike out of the apartment complex. She told me it was a sack lunch and that she did not want him to go hungry.
Then, out of nowhere, she cried bitter tears. She confided in me a very personal tragedy in her young life.
“Joe, when I was 15, my Pastor of our church molested me, and I have never resolved this and I feel so dirty and unworthy. I thought the church was suppose to help, but in my case, I was destroyed. I lived with this secret all these years and never told my husband during our 60 years of marriage. I do not know why I am telling you this, but I need to let go of all of this pain.”
I led her to Jesus Christ when I prayed for her. She stopped crying and was so thankful, that my words will not do this moment justice. I can only write about it. I lived it. I watched it unfold before my very eyes that day.
I said to her after the prayer, “As far as your son, he can come and go every week for as long as you need. He is your son, and I will not say a word to anyone including my boss okay?” As long as he does not move in permanently, it will be our little secret!”
She wept again, but with a smile on her face.
It was not about a sink repair.
It was about her son and his misfortunes. It was also about her early years of trauma. Only God knows her true pain. Not just the pain of a son who suffered, but for herself. She suffered doubly. His pain. Her hidden pain and abuse at the hands of “A Man of the Cloth.” It surely was not the kind of cloth that honored a religious leader. His religious “order” was out of order, and out of the boundaries on holiness. It was demonic.
When I was done praying and gave her a hug, I left and gave God all the Glory for His intervention.
The following “sunny” day in Portland, I went outside to do my outside walk around for the sprinkler system when I noticed a new thing. At apartment 22, where my new friend was set free by Jesus the day before, her curtains were open. She was planting flowers in her little flower bed. Singing. I did not catch the tune, but she waved at me as I strolled by.
A true smile appeared upon her wrinkled, aged face. As I went by, she stopped me for a moment. She said softly, “I slept great Joe. For the first time in many years, I have peace.”
I smelled a sweet aroma coming from her open, living room window with the faded curtains which were wide open. It was the smell of something delicious.
She told me, “My son is coming by this afternoon. I am baking a cake for him because it is his birthday.”
I smiled at her and she winked back and stated, “It is his 9th birthday Joe. My husband, when he was alive; both of us always use to celebrate it as his 9th because (even though he disappeared) and we could never find him, we celebrated as if he was here again.
He does not remember anything after that car hit him. He was hit by the car on his 9th birthday over three decades ago. It was a brand new bike back then. It was his birthday present. He does not remember a thing, but he knows today is his “cake day” and he will be here soon.
She winked at me.
I said, “What man?” I don’t know about any man on a bike, do you?”
She winked again and went back to singing softly.
I was a stranger and you took me in.
She passed away about two months later.
No one came to take her belongings. Everything was donated or thrown away. I cleaned her apartment after all of this happened. I painted and filled holes where pictures hung for years.
I checked all of the plumbing to make sure everything worked properly.
As I opened the kitchen cupboard where the sink is, I paused.
It was because of a small leak in a drain that brought her and I together.
It was a confession and a bunch of tears that brought the healing.
It was a prayer that caused an eternity in Heaven to be populated with one more soul. A reminder. A simple reminder.
I am glad I showed up for that woman and her emotionally starved, 9-year-old grown man that day. I am grateful for an old Colonel in the British Navy.
Even more profound is the fact that Jesus Christ showed up. He always shows up for the broken hearted and the wounded in this life.
Value. “What price tag shall we give to those who are never appreciated?”
One thing is for certain in this life.
Jesus Christ appreciates us. He loves us. He cares about us. He shows up and is never late.
Perhaps the next time we see a grown man on an old bicycle who himself looks undone, we might remember this story. Everyone who is homeless has a story of how they got there.
“Mayday. MAYDAY!” It is battle time.
Go to war on your knees in prayer. If you do, you will realize Who will show up. Fact is, Jesus is always there whether we realize it or not.
There is value in showing up. We have to go forward to show up. Can’t go backwards. There is nothing back there of any value.
Well, maybe an old rusty bicycle. Or a few old World War II Navy medals earned the hard way.
Life. Your life. It counts. No matter the circumstances. In God’s Eyes, you will always be valued. You are priceless in the heart of the One who places value on you showing up.
He is waiting for you to open your curtains and let the SON-shine in.
Copyright © 2025 by Joe Wilkins
