The Giving Soul

It was starting to get dark, the air still and cold. It has been a few days since he visited the shelter, but it was time. It was much too cold to stay outside in the park tonight. The streets were lit dimly with the glow of the street lights, just enough to make his way down the sidewalk.

He stopped at the elevated stairs of the shelter, the words Hamilton County Shelter across the top of the doorway. He pulled the door open to feel the warm air of the room, the smell of smoke and cheap wine. An attractive young woman stopped him at the door, “Name?” she asked in a soft and comforting voice. She was neatly dressed, but casual, obviously since the work at a shelter would require more hands-on work than you’d think.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your name … sir. We need to register everyone that stays in the shelter. For our records,” the woman said as he entered.

“So you can keep track of us when we die in your beds?”

“Well, not exactly. We just need your name please!” she said.

“Craig James.”

She paused for a brief second. She felt there was something familiar about the man, but could not place it.

“You’ve been here before?” she asked.

“Yes, I have. Off and on over the last several years. You must be new here?”

“Yes, my name is Catherine. I am one of the new volunteers at the shelter. I just graduated from the University of Cincinnati with my degree in social services, and I am hoping this work will help me land a good job soon.”

“Well, thank you for taking your time to help at the shelter,” he said as he walked past, leaving behind the smell of someone that has not seen soap in several weeks.

The main room of the shelter was long and open, with Korean War Hospital style single beds along the walls on both sides. Toward the back was a kitchen, with an old stove that probably didn’t work. A few tables with chairs were lining the back wall.

About half way down the row, he found an open bed and sat down. A younger man, maybe in his forties, sat on the bed next to him. Craig looked over at the man on the next bed, “Hey Paul. How have you been? Cold outside tonight, ain’t it?”

“Sure is. I would not want to be caught outside on a night like tonight,” Paul said. “Do you think we’ll ever get out of here? Get this figured out? I heard Maranda lost her job again.”

“I don’t know man, I just don’t know.” Craig said with his head down, as he started coughing uncontrollably, a bit of blood coming from his mouth.

“Still sick? Have you seen anyone?”

Craig looked up at him, out of breath, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “I tried the other day, but they just told me there isn’t much they can do since I don’t have insurance.”

“You should go back down there and demand some medicine. It’s just not right,” Paul said angrily.

“You’re probably right, but I have a feeling there really isn’t anything they can do for a dying man,” Craig said below his breath.

“You’re not dying. Go back down there tomorrow,” Paul demanded.

More people were entering the shelter now, and most of the beds were occupied with old men, women with their children, and a few younger guys that look like they were trying to sell their cocaine.

Craig laid his head down on the clean white pillow, and whispered quietly to himself, with tears in his eyes, “Dear God, I ask you now again, for guidance and the purpose of my life. I wonder why you have put me here. What is my place? Why have you taken everything from me? What am I supposed to do now?” He drifted off to sleep.

The next day, he left the shelter early. The wind was blowing with an icy chill, and clouds covered the sky, looking like it was going to snow. Small amounts of trash and leaves were blowing across the street, and a piece of paper blew up against his wet boots and stuck to the side of the soaked leather. It was a lottery ticket, lost by someone, and not scratched off. Craig scratched the ticket. His eyes raised …

WINNER - $2,000,000

“Oh my God.” His eyes lit up in amazement, “This is the gift I have been praying for.”

The next morning, Craig leaves the shelter and walks down the streets of town, wandering past the huge oak trees. Finding a place in the grass, he lays down under one of the oak trees and falls asleep. He dreams of his wife who passed away many years ago, and of his daughter. He has not seen her in almost 20 years. “God, if you can hear me, show me the direction of my life. I want to make up for my past mistakes.”

Craig dreams of his friend Paul and how he would like to help him get well and finally leave the shelter. He dreams of Maranda, helping her with the money to help her get a place of her own and finally get back on her feet, finding a new job.

Craig sleeps well that night, dreaming of the people he could help. Helping people that really need it.

He returned the next night with a bank envelope tucked inside his jacket. He walked straighter though his lungs wheezed like bellows.

He searched for Catherine. Near the back of the shelter, she was sitting at a small table. He sat down next to her. He opened the envelope. Neat stacks of cashier’s checks filled it, each labeled with amounts that made her blink.

“You’re giving this away?” she whispered.

“I don’t need it,” Craig said. “Not where I’m going.”

Her throat tightened. “Craig …”

He lifted a hand, not unkindly. “You know I’m sick. Doesn’t matter the name for it. I’ve been dying for a while now. But before I go, I want to do something decent. Something that matters.”

Catherine swallowed hard. “Let us help you. You could afford a doctor. A place to stay. Treatment.”

“Too late for all that,” he said softly. “But it’s not too late for others.”

He pushed the first check across the table. “This one’s for Paul. The fellow with the gray cap. He’s got cancer you all don’t know about. He’s trying to keep working, but the treatments drained him.”

Catherine covered her mouth. “How do you—?”

“I listen,” he said simply.

The next check: “For Maranda. Lost her job after her company merged. Been living out of her car with no place to keep her clothes clean for interviews. This’ll help her get back on her feet.”

Catherine felt tears blur. “Craig … this is everything you won.”

He nodded. “Money doesn’t do much good when you can’t hold onto life. But it can make someone else’s road easier.”

“And you kept nothing for yourself?”

His smile was faint but steady. “A bed here and a warm meal are worth more to me than any apartment now.”

She couldn’t argue, his mind was already made.

Catherine distributed the checks discreetly, making up stories about anonymous donors. Paul wept openly in the hallway, clutching the check to his chest. Maranda hugged Catherine so tightly she could barely breathe.

Craig watched from a distance, hands folded, eyes soft.

The next day, he did not come in. Nor the next.

Craig dreams of being in the clouds, rays of sunlight on his face, and joy in his heart. His body feels young again, free of pain. Free of the hard life he has now left behind.

A figure emerges from the mist. “Where am I?” he asked the figure standing in the clouds.

“You are now in my kingdom. You will see the greatness you have passed to others, and be able to guide many more in the direction of God.”

God takes him to the lives of those he touched. Maranda has found a good job and has purchased a home. His good friend Paul has received the treatment he needed.

“You have proven your kindness, your selfless giving, to those who need it more than you. You are now home. You are now at my side, working with me to show love and forgiveness to those in need.”

Several years later, Paul visits the shelter. He finds Catherine, now the director of the shelter, “I appreciate all that you have done for me, and my family. And thanks to Craig, my cancer is in remission. I am glad we could honor him today.”

Catherine responded, “I am so glad you and Maranda could come to the dedication ceremony yesterday. It means the world to me. I am honored that we could dedicate the shelter to my father.”

Her mother had only said her father left when she was young. They’d lost touch. He struggled with addiction, she’d said. He couldn’t stay.

Craig had known her name.

He had known her face.

He had known exactly who she was—and he never told her.

Memories snapped into place: the way he looked at her sometimes with an expression she couldn’t name. The way his voice softened when she spoke. The gentleness. The familiarity she could never explain.

Her father had been right here, and never said a word.

Paul gives Catherine a hug and turns to leave the building. “It is the least I can do. The money your father gave me not only helped me, helped Maranda, it will continue to help the tragic people that come through these doors. And thanks to your work, many more will be served.”

As he passes through the entrance, he turns and glances at Catherine, her eyes welling up with tears, and she said softly, “I just wish he could have been here to see it. I wish I could have spent some time with him before he died.”

Then, a faint whisper in the night air …

“I am here with you. I will always be here to watch over you, and give you guidance when you need it. I am so proud of you. I love you.”

Above the door, a new sign has been placed…

The Craig James Shelter For The Homeless

She closed her eyes, imagining his faint smile, the rasp of his breath, his quiet dignity.

The shelter was his now—not in bricks or ownership, but in purpose. In heart.

And in the knowledge that even a dying man with nothing could leave behind everything.