From the Logans:

So, yesterday morning I found Don Jose. I didn’t recognize his crumpled body slumped in the street. His trademark sombrero was missing from his head. He looked drawn in and his hands were cold to the touch. He had bodily fluids on his shirt and pants. He wouldn’t move.

What should I do? I prayed again to God, out loud, surrounded by a group of other drunk Mayans…who I’m sure, were wondering what a Gringo was doing hanging around the bars downtown and showing interest in this sleeping old man. This didn’t feel safe, but I knew I should do something. But Don Jose would not awaken and I looked as confused as I felt.

As I turned to walk away God gentled whispered… “What if he were you’re Dad?” “But God, he is not my Dad?” No

Don Jose? Lifted from The Journey

answer. I guess that wasn’t the question. Again… “What if he were your Dad?”

So I picked up his crumpled body and threw him over my shoulder at the protestations of the crowd of drunks. Iwaived down a Tuk-Tuk and brought him to our home. Carried him into our house. I put him in our guest room bed. Heather looked at me as if to say, “Honey, I love you…but now what?” I answered without her asking, “I don’t know what to do next, but I’m acting as if he were my Dad.”

5 hours later, after cleaning him up, and keeping him calm, feeding him some eggs and forcing water down him…Itook him to his own home. This time he could walk with his arm around my shoulders. He looked better and alive. And my home only needed to be cleaned from all the fluids that kept spurting from him. My kids acted with love. My wife was a wonderful care-mate with me.

As I was walking him home we passed many, many people. The sight of a big gringo walking a little, old, drunkMayan man home drew a mixture of humorous smiles and looks of shock. This job… if done at all, would be done by a family member. A wife, or daughter. But when I brought him to his home, I was greeted by his wife, his sister…daughters, and children with hugs and kisses. So, at least for them…it felt like the right thing to do.

Will he be at work today? Will he now stop drinking because he knows his life isn’t hidden from me? I don’t know. But we are praying and he knows that I know now. He knows that I care.

I haven’t been able to deduce from the blog who Don Jose is, so perhaps he is a long-time friend of the family.  I have to say this is one case where I would likely take a ‘pass’ on helping the drunk, presumably vomiting man from the street to my home.  For one, we already have people in this house who can’t control their bodily functions, two, I don’t know what some drunk is likely to do in my home and/or to my family.  The old nuns used to teach (before they gave up their habits and faith for feminism), that the first rule of charity was ‘Do no harm’.  I don’t need the Wife or daughter in danger so I can help a guy who’s drinking himself into acoma.

I would be inclined to help a starving child or person in need of emergency medical care, even in my home if that was appropriate.  If I were a single guy roaming the country doing good deeds, that would be different.  In fact, on some days that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.  But I think I would draw the line here.  Am I just a scaredy cat?  WWYD?

P.S.  What is it with indigenous people and their drinking?  Around the world this seems to be a predictable theme.