All letters
Letter 3 of 11. Patterns, Loneliness
Ever Wren
Dear Good Samaritan
to: the fixer of broken people
Dear Good Samaritan —and the Storms He Left Behind,By Ever WrenToday a message found me—unexpected, uninvited.A charity, a new campaign,burned bright across my screen.And there it was,a caption beneath the smiles:Running for a cause.Turning meaning into miles.A true Good Samaritan...A title bestowed.A version of him I never met.I found it interesting—how that word surfaced twice this month.Once in a parable.Once in a text.The same word,the same echo—twice.It lingered, refusing release,a reminder I hadn’t asked forbut could not ignore.As though the universe pressed it into my hands,demanding I wrestle with its meaning.Good Samaritan—not just a phrase,but a weight.The words ran deeper than they seemed.What does it mean to wear that name?Is goodness a headline,a cause aligned to a personal goal,a charity born not of mercybut of miles measured in achievement—or is it the hidden work—service without applause,generosity without medals?And from that very thought,the answer found me in that parable:“Good Samaritan.” (Luke 10:25–37)It whispered what I felt the world had forgotten—that goodness is not performance.It is the stranger who stops—oil and coin in hand,time surrendered,comfort laid down,mercy given with no expectation.And the truth of it struck—not with comfort,but with contrast.Because it met me in memory,in the story we once lived.A century spent beside him in quiet—no posts,no causes,no time offered beyond his own.And yet—funny how someone can swiftly show upin a city barely their own,with roots not yet settled in the soil,and begin again,as though a change of addresscould rewrite a life.Suddenly the saving hero—a flood of pledges,banners raised high,charity wrapped in captions.Wearing the word Good Samaritanlike a crown.Raising money for storms,while the wreckage he left behindstill echoes in the lives once closest.A tornado, I thought,raising money for tornados.Strange, isn’t it—how destruction can dress itself as rescue?And still that question rises:What does it mean, really,to be called good?Who earns that name—and who only performs it?For even storms never know what they ruin.They pass through—fast, fierce, unthinking—and keep moving.No apology.No glance back.Just debris,and new skies waiting.And maybe that’s what this is—a man rebuilding in another town,running for causes to quiet his own ache,reaching for redemption in placesthat never knew his damage.Perhaps he carries it still—the damage,the knowing,the silence.Unseen, unnamed—and that in itself is its own kind of storm...So maybe the question isn’t,“What is a Good Samaritan?”Maybe the real question is:“What story do they leave behind?”Will it be a trail of applause,or a wake of quiet mercy?From,Trusting that mercy (quiet or not) will write the last word