Text Box: We are on the web at: www.sciotolodge.com or www.chillicothemasons.org Text Box: Office of the Secretary 57 East Main Street Chillicothe, Ohio 45601 Text Box: Phone: 740-774-3485 Fax: 740-774-1053 Email: sciotolodge6@horizonview.net Text Box: U.S. Postage PAID PRSTD STD Chillicothe, OH Permit #47 Text Box: Return Service Requested Text Box: JUDGE NOT By E. Miller It has been thirty years since I last saw him, since I wrongly and unfairly passed judgment on him. Thirty years in which I expected to never have another thought about him, and thirty years that have taught me a lesson I will remember for the rest of my life. Steve attended high school with my little sister. They had become a “couple” and I was not pleased. Steve was a handsome young man, but little else in my thinking. Poor grades, poor family, poorly dressed; not good enough for my beautiful little sister. So, with that in mind, I “encouraged” him to move on, and quietly, without protest, he did so. In my estimation, his life would never amount to anything. As the self righteous older brother, I had taken the proper action, and that was that. End of story. Or not. Some five years later my sister had married a man that (fortunately for him) met my approval, and they had a wonderful son. Her life was good. I was living in Denver, Colorado, and one morning I walked into a café for breakfast. After ordering, I picked up what was left of an abandoned newspaper and started to thumb through it. To my surprise, the paper was not a local one, but from a small town in northern Idaho. It was a few days old, and I assumed someone passing through had left it there. The paper wasn’t really what I wanted, but it would fill some time, so I flipped from page to page, not so much reading, but just scanning until one small story caught my eye. There was Steve’s name. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, or was this the same Steve from my home town? The article reported that Steve had suffered a fall in which he was paralyzed from the neck down. It told of where he was from and it listed the address of the care center where he had been placed. It stated that if anyone had the time to write, Steve would love to get some mail. A twinge of guilt hit me as I finished reading. I hadn’t particularly liked Steve, but I wished him no harm. I thought of how depressing it must be to know you would never walk again and to be totally dependent on someone else for your every need. I tore the article out of the newspaper so that I would have the address. I promised myself I would write. I promised I would atone for dismissing that young man as unacceptable some five years before. I wrote one letter, and one letter only. I really didn’t know what to say, but did want Steve to know someone was thinking about him. I wrote that letter more for my benefit than his. Twenty-five years later, and my life is pretty good. Perhaps I thought of Steve a few times over those twenty-five years, but at most, it was just a passing whim. One letter had cleared up any guilt I experienced, and time has moved on. I now lived in Idaho, employed at a local funeral home. Glamorous it is not, but funeral homes are not as bad you might imagine; and life has been pretty good. One morning as I arrived at work, I noticed Steve’s name written on the board that records the death calls that come in overnight. My first thought was “Is this the Steve I once knew, or a coincidence?” It was him. As a ward of the state, Steve had been moved from one care center to another over the years, but had been in my city for almost the same amount of time as I had. After twenty-five years of enduring the effects of total paralysis, Steve had died. The twinge of guilt was back. As Steve’s affairs were processed, I spoke to a lady who worked at the care center where he had lived the final years of his life. Her story got to me. I found out through her that Steve was a wonderful man. Although he couldn’t move, he could talk, he could laugh, he could encourage, and he really knew what it meant to live. He read everything, and he followed sports with a passion. He made people feel good. He never complained, never felt sorry for himself, and he believed that his life was a blessing. Steve was everything that I had judged him not to be and many things I wished I were. His life was filled with purpose and immeasurable value and I will never forget him. The next time I feel the need to judge someone according to my standards, I shall do my best to remember Steve and what I learned from him. Sometimes the most precious gifts come in the least likely packages. I know Steve would agree.