SermonStudio

Like many small rural townships, Thornberry had some problems because it had no zoning laws. On their own property, people could pretty much do as they pleased, and while most residents had enough pride to keep their places looking good, a few didn't put much energy into upkeep. In Thornberry, the worst appearing property belonged to Ray Sandauer. It wasn't just that the place looked rundown, and it did, but also that Ray operated his trucking business out of his home. He owned three semis, one or another of which was always broken down and sitting in his oily driveway with the motor exposed. Old truck parts littered the property and the house was desperately in need of paint and shoring up. The ramshackle outbuildings and a partially collapsed barn added to the eyesore quality of the place.

Although Mrs. Sandauer, a quiet woman who kept to herself, dressed tidily enough, Ray's appearance -- even in a community where farmers routinely wore work clothes -- was cause for comment. His ragged shirts and jeans were always greasy, understandable when he was working on his trucks, but he came to community functions dressed similarly. His outfits, combined with his unkempt curly beard and shoulder-length stringy hair, conspired to give him an outlaw look.

No one had had any direct problems with him, but the look of his homestead irritated his neighbors. Without zoning laws, there were limits to what they could do about it. But sometime before my arrival in Thornberry, a few of Ray's neighbors had decided to try a legal action to force him to clean up his place. The plan had failed, I was told, largely because Marti, the widow who lived immediately next door to Ray, had been unwilling to support it.

That surprised me, for Marti's property was immaculately kept, and I assumed the blot on the landscape next to her would have bothered her. But Marti had steadfastly refused to have anything to do with the complaint.

Then one Sunday, I noticed that the flowers on the altar that morning had been given by Marti in memory of her son, Ricky. I knew that Marti had a grown son; she'd often spoken about him and about her grandson, who was named Ricky. But I hadn't heard about a son by that name. When I inquired of Marti about him, she only said, "He died as a child. It was a long time ago. My grandson is named after him."

The choir director overheard my conversation, and when Marti had left, he told me the story. One day, when both of Marti's boys were small, a teenaged girl was babysitting them. While she was in another room, the boys wandered outside and began playing in the farm pond on the property. Minutes later the older boy, age 5, came running in to tell the babysitter that his brother was in the water. Running outside, the sitter saw no sign of the child in the murky water and began screaming for help.

Ray, working on a truck next door, heard her and came running. Quickly grasping what had happened, he ordered the sitter to phone the rescue squad, and then he raced into the pond, diving again and again until he found the little boy. Hauling Ricky out, he tried to revive him, using CPR, which he continued until the rescue workers arrived. Regrettably, it was all too late. Ray phoned the parents, and stood by them during the next horrible hours. And he did his best to console the horrified brother and the guilt-stricken sitter.

I understood now why Marti would never support any action against her neighbor, for that's what Ray was -- her neighbor indeed.