Mr. Guthrie

My father was at death’s door. My mother was working and going to school. We had little but the clothes on our backs. The small amount earned by my mother was barely enough to feed the five of us.

One evening, Mr. Guthrie sowed up on our doorstep.

“How’re you folks fixed for food?” he asked.

Let me give some background before finishing the story. We were Seventh-day Adventists. This denomination owns and operates many hospitals around the world. In those days, these hospitals were not money-making operations, but centers of mission and healing. Mr. Guthrie was the hospital administrator. Today we would call him the CEO or president. He would be earning a six or seven figure salary and wouldn’t know anyone in the hospital below the rank of vice president. But things were different there and then.

We lived on the hospital grounds, in a ramshackle house that had seen its best days 30 years before. My father’s illness was contracted less than a month after he took a position at the hospital. For two years he was flat in bed while my mother struggled to finish nursing school and work enough to support the family.

The hospital was located on 100 acres in a small town south of the city of San Diego. In addition to housing for employees, the hospital grounds had a 12-grade school, a church, a store, a bookstore and a nursing school. It was a village in a town in a city. It had all the benefits and problems of a village: We kids could go freely anywhere on the grounds without fear; we could do nothing that everyone didn’t know about.

It was some time in that first year of my father’s illness when Mr. Guthrie knocked on our door. His hearty laugh, rotund figure and ruddy complexion made him the perfect image of Santa. Though I never remember speaking to him, he projected such a friendly air that I was not afraid of him.

“How’re you folks fixed for food?” he asked.

“We’re fine,” my mother answered, a bit flustered at having the hospital administrator standing unannounced at her doorstep.

He walked past her into the kitchen, opened the cupboards and the refrigerator and walked out.

A few hours later, in the dark of night, boxes and boxes of food appeared on our porch. We didn’t see them bring it, but it must have taken more than one to deliver the food.

Nearly sixty years later, my heart is still touched by the generosity and caring of this man who did not put position over need; who looked after his employees with practical love. Perhaps, today, my own joy of giving comes from the example of this godlike man.

There is a back story to Mr. Guthrie which may help explain his personal commitment and generosity. He, his wife and their children were missionaries in the Philippines when the Japanese invaded those islands. They were captured and interned for the duration of the war. Many died in their camp; others were shot. His wife, who was my third-grade teacher, described the sight of American paratroop landing a mile outside of camp. The internees were hastily lined up in front of a firing squad. They expected to be machine gunned before their rescue. But the order was never given. The Japanese surrendered and they were rescued. Perhaps, in those harsh conditions; those times of cruelty and terror Mr. Guthrie learned how to serve; how to give. His is a life I would like to know more about, but this small incident in his life was a huge one in mine. It is a smooth stone which I take out every so often just to feel its texture, warmth and shape in my hand. It inspires and ennobles me when I consider it.

One final note: that Christmas, we were inundated with gifts; far more than ever before or after. It was almost bewildering to my seven-year-old mind. On top of the fire engine someone gave me the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen-a white, short-haired terrier. But pal was a real pal to me for the next three years.

Thank you Mr. Guthrie for the memories and the inspiration.

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