This story was shared with me by Ann Stewart Porter, one of God's mentors for me; with her permission. 

"I’m in Downtown Denver, Colorado.

A place I rarely visit for any reason.

It is 4:00 in the morning. A.M.

It’s summer, but not hot.

I’ve had to get up by 2:30 a.m. to get

here before daylight, since I’m a good ways from Denver, but there’s little traffic this time of morning. I’m grateful.

I’m not a morning person.

We park at an old rundown apartment complex, in a place that reminds me why I hate the city.

But I’m here for my Nursing training.

Shirley jumped out in her white uniform and coat, and we walk cautiously through the naked bulbs on the top of the crusty outside.

I am sure we will be robbed, raped

or murdered, but we are not.

It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s scary.

“I’ve got the key, so we’ll just knock and go on in.” She remarks and I can tell she’s done this a dozen times.

“Althea?” She speaks loud enough, but not thundering.

“It’s me. And I’ve got a friend this morning.”

We enter a dull pink plastered bedroom, with a hospital bed and a swing to the side. It’s a Hoyle lift.

They exchange morning conversation. Althea has slept okay. But what if she had not?

Althea is a little bigger than our Rachel, but has her mind intact.

It’s her body that has betrayed her, and I determine I will not cry.

We do everything from get her out of bed, to the bathroom, shower her, get her dressed, feed her the breakfast I cooked, and leave an hour later, having sit her in her black wheelchair. She’s waiting on a bus to take her to her job at a local college.

She has no one else.

If Shirley did not come each morning, Althea would eventually

die in that old plastered pink room.

Alone. The world never knowing.

And I try not to cry as I think of it.

Shirley whisks me off in the sunrise to an elderly man, in a fancier ornate cherry wood bed, in a house he’s lived in for years, even after his wife died. It’s after 6 in the morning and his bowels aren’t working. Shirley does unspeakable things, that most of us would never do in dark or daylight. Her hand is covered in feces as she hands a bag and directions to me. I nearly vomit.

I don’t do mornings well.

And while I have had to do the same things with my own daughter, I always cried and Dan would finish it.

But it has to be done.

By 7 in the morning breakthrough, we are bathing and feeding a young, funny AIDS patient. He doesn’t have long, so he sleeps on his couch.

There is no friend.

Only Shirley and me.

We laugh with him and listen to his jokes and he insists a scrambled egg would be the best.

My heart hurts for him. I smile.

You could not help but love him.

But I do not cry.

Finally, Shirley looks at the next person on her list, and gives me directions. He is a cranky old hoarder she says, so watch my step.

We have a few minutes so I ask how she does this…every….day?

I tell her I don’t know if I can, though I’ve been “doing” for my own child over 15 years.

It’s still different to me.

She says at first it’s hard. It’s ugly.

It’s scary. It’s disgusting. And then she

falls in love with the people, and now

she just loves what she does.

For $8 an hour.

And then….I cry.

I tell her she’s my hero.

I ask God to bless her in every way He can think of to bless her.

She says she’s nothing but ordinary.

God and I know different.

Now you do too.

Find a person to serve this season.

Find somebody you wouldn’t ordinarily see, or serve. Let your compassion make a difference.

Love is an incredibly heroic

thing to do".

~AnnStewartPorter