The Art of Work: A Proven Path to Discovering What You Were Meant to Do

Ed had worked hard to build a life for himself, a fact in
which he seemed to have just the right amount of pride. He
had disciplined himself to rise above what was expected of
him at a time when black men weren’t given many options
to succeed. And here he was, back with the kind of people
he had tried not to be like his whole life. It was humbling,
I’m sure. To be honest, I probably judged Ed a little. Did he
really have compassion for these men, or did he merely
tolerate them? There were times when it seemed he was
quite uncomfortable around them. So why did he keep
spending his time, which was becoming a more valuable
commodity with age, at the mission? Why here? What did
he have to gain from spending his remaining years of life
with such men? I once heard a story from one of the other
chaplains, which answered the question.
One day outside the mission doors, lying on the ground
in the courtyard, was a small, emaciated man who appeared
to be either dead or comatose. Like many, he had passed out
from some form of intoxication or drug-induced slumber.
Frail and fraught with disease, likely infected with HIV, he
was covered in his own urine and feces. Sadly, it was not
uncommon to see a man like this, passed out due to
drinking or drugs, who would then wake up to a mess of his
own making. When this man awoke, he was too weak to
move. Some passed him by, laughing and even playing
jokes on him, while others ignored him.
But when Ed—clean, proper, doctoral Ed—saw this man
and realized he couldn’t get up on his own, he went to him.