About ten years ago a young and very successful executive named Josh was traveling down a Chicago neighborhood street. He was traveling a bit fast in his sleek, black, sixteen- cylinder Jaguar XKE, which was only two months old. He watched for kids darting out from between parked cars and slowed down when he thought he saw something.
As his car passed, no child darted out, but a brick sailed and— whump—smashed into the Jag’s shiny side door. SCREECH! Brakes slammed. Gears pounded into reverse, and tires madly spun the Jaguar back to the spot from where the brick was thrown. Josh jumped out of the car, grabbed the kid and pushed him up against a parked car. He shouted at the kid, “Just what was that about? Who do you think you are?” Building up a head of steam he continued, “That’s my new Jag; that brick is going to cost you plenty. Why did you throw it?”
“Please . . . please, mister, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do,” pleaded the youngster. “I threw the brick because no one else would stop.” Tears were dripping down the boy’s chin as he pointed around the parked car. “It’s my brother, mister,” he said. “He fell out of his wheelchair and I can’t lift him up.” Sobbing, the boy asked the executive, “Would you please help him back into his wheelchair? He’s too heavy for me.”
Moved beyond words, the young executive tried desperately to swallow the rapidly swelling lump in his throat. He helped the youngster upright the wheelchair, and the two of them lift- ed his brother back into the chair. It was a long, long walk back to the sleek, black, sixteen- cylinder Jaguar XKE—a long and slow walk. Now, Josh never did fix the side door of his Jaguar. It reminded him not to go through life so fast that someone has to throw a brick at him to get his attention.
[A 5th Portion Of Chicken Soup]
