Helping Jesus’ Brother

The home-care aide tried not to shudder as she walked up the overgrown sidewalk. Soon she was at the rickety front door of the house where Buddy, a diabetic, lived.

The woman wished she had maneuvered her way out of this assignment like the other aides had. Caring for Buddy’s infected foot and leg seemed like an exercise in futility. And the man was downright gross.

Buddy lay in a dirty bed, his gray-black hair matted around his face and his beard scraggly and unkempt. Along with the odor emanating from his bandaged leg, the aide detected the stale smell of beer in the room. So much for him following his special diet.

“It’s gettin’ worse.” Buddy swore. Lines of pain deepened in his pasty face.

The aide took deep breaths and held them as she cleaned Buddy’s wounds and changed his bandages. She forced herself to sponge the top layer of dirt from Buddy’s face and body. She scrubbed her hands under hot water and heated a bowl of soup for him. The look of gratitude he threw her stopped her cold.

“Nobody’s ever been so nice to me,” Buddy said.

“I’ll pray for you, Buddy,” she answered.