Previous Challenge Entry (Level 4 – Masters)
Topic: Charity (05/08/25)
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TITLE: The Accidental Saint | Previous Challenge Entry
By JK Stenger
05/15/25 -
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My hands clenched in frustration as I glared at the email. I considered firing off a reply, telling Forest Digest magazine to find another columnist. I'm hired to raise awareness about our planet's deteriorating condition—the polluted air, the poisoned water and the vanishing wildlife—not to solicit charity. That word has a religious connotation. It belongs to magazines like The Pastor’s Pillow.
Not that I don’t believe. There’s something up there ... I guess. But I'd deal with that later. What matters now is the need to save the planet, the snakes, the bats and the hornets.
I sighed, but I knew I must give in. After all, my editor's pay check keeps the lights on.
With a good case of writer’s block, I pulled out the dictionary and found the word ‘Charity’.
Charity: An organization that offers aid. Charity is helping the poor. In a biblical sense, it’s the quality of unconditional love.
That doesn’t help. Maybe, I ought to write about creating a charity to aid persecuted whales off the Alaskan coast.
The doorbell rang.
What now? Don’t people know I am busy? I stumbled to the door.
“What's up?” A growl escaped my lips as my eyes fixed on a pale, tired boy of about six or seven.
“Just a coin, sir. My friend’s shack burned down. I’m trying to live 1 Corinthians 13, you see.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“In the Bible, sir. If a man is rich or smart, but has no love for his neighbour, it’s no good. The Bible calls it charity.”
Charity?
An idea formed. “Listen, boy. I am a writer. I'll pay you a dollar so I can watch from a distance and see how people respond when you ask for money. Then I can write about it.”
I was proud of my idea. Nobody in this neighbourhood would help this kid. My dollar could fund a critical article on charity's ineffectiveness. That would be a dollar well spent and I could refocus on environmentalism.
The boy grinned, despite his cough and I trailed him, curious to learn more. I have to admit, I kind of liked him. All things considered, his actions were rather commendable.
But then, just when he was about to ring a bell, he collapsed. I gasped and ran over. “What is it?” I asked. “Are you ill?”
“J-Just tired, Sir,” he mumbled. I've worked all day.”
“Where do you live?”
“Nowhere, sir. Under a bridge.”
“Where are your parents?”
“D-Dead, Sir,” he stammered, his voice a whisper as his eyes closed.
I pulled out my phone and called for help. Minutes later the ambulance arrived.
“Are you his father?” a paramedic asked. “This boy is in critical condition. Do you have insurance?
Hey, that’s not my kid. It's not my problem. But when I saw the boy’s pale face, a lock of dark hair plastered to his sweaty forehead and his shallow, ragged breathing, my heart broke.
I sighed, and said, “Yes, I am insured. I'll pay the bill. Take care of him.”
“Will do, Sir,” the man said as they hoisted him into the ambulance.
“Want to ride along?”
“Fine,” I mumbled, in a daze.
That night when I returned, I was tired, very frustrated, $500 poorer and still without my article. What a day this had been. Hopefully, tomorrow would be better.
And tomorrow was better, although not in the way I expected.
When I glanced at the morning paper my eyes fell on an article called the Good Samaritan, about a man who had helped a poor boy in need, paid the kid’s hospital bill, and had been a beacon of hope in a dark world.
The article closed by saying: “Some folks believe charity is just a word and we need to focus on the more important things in life, like saving the planet, the whales and the snakes, but there are only three things that truly will save this planet. Faith, hope and love; the greatest being love. People like the Good Samaritan put agnostics to shame and show us the true meaning of charity.”
My fingers trembled as I read the article and tears welled up. How wrong I had been. I was on the wrong track and needed to change direction.
That afternoon, I completed my article, free from writer's block. And, I secretly submitted it to the Pastor’s Pillow as well.
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