![[Photo of a young boy geting a haircut]](https://www.deankwilson.com/Blog_images/young_boy_getting_haircut.jpg)
| Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience… |
| —Colossians 3:12 |
Among the many other wonderful attributes of this special time of the year, Advent, Christmas, and the beginning of a New Year are all times of remembering. First of all, we remember the mercy, grace, and love of God that caused Him to send his one and only Son to earth, so that Son could ultimately die in our place on the cross of Calvary, bearing the penalty for our sins and the sins of all humankind. We also find ourselves at this holy season remembering loved ones who have died and other individuals who have had a profound impact on our lives. Please permit me to illustrate:
An obituary in the weekly newspaper from my hometown of Bradford, Pennsylvania, caught my eye. Michael A. Ross, 93, of Lewis Run, PA, had died on Friday, November 26, 2021, after a short illness. Mike Ross, I thought to myself. Mike Ross—he was the kindest man. He helped me when I needed help the most.
Mike Ross was my barber for many years. I can remember the very first time my mother took me to the barber shop where Mike Ross worked. He very gently lifted me up onto the children’s platform that he had placed on his barber’s chair. He talked to me in a soft, kind voice to calm my fears as I received my first professional haircut. I was probably four or five years old. It was a somewhat terrifying experience for me. But, Mike Ross made the time pass swiftly and as pleasantly as having someone cut your hair could be.
The incident that cemented who Mike Ross really was occurred during the summer that I turned seven years old. My mother had signed me up to take swimming lessons at the YMCA. As I have shared several times on this blog over the years, I had spent the first five years of my life in near isolation, except for Sunday mornings at church. An only adopted child, living in a neighborhood where there were no children on my side of a busy city street that was also a major north-south route, I had developed very few social skills.
In any case, my mother believed that I needed to learn how to swim. On the first day of swimming class, my mother and I rode the city bus from our home to the downtown area where the YMCA was located, just across the street from the church we attended. After registering me for the class, she gave me a little coin purse with a single dime in it. That dime was for my ride home on the city bus.
Swimming class turned out to be a terrifying experience for this isolated, socially awkward little boy. As I donned my swimming trunks in the locker room, I was told that I didn’t need to wear them. “We all swim naked here,” an older boy explained. I was horrified.
With some reluctance I left the locker room and entered the large room where the pool was located. Sure enough, all the boys were naked. I kept looking down at the floor. I was embarrassed and confused.
Suddenly, an older and much larger boy pushed me into the pool. It happened to be the deeper end and I couldn’t swim. After all, that’s what I was there to learn. I struggled in the water, gasping for air and swallowing the wretched chlorine-laced water. For what seemed like hours, but was only a few seconds, the instructor jumped into the pool and lifted me out.
Struggling to breathe, I ran to the locker room, crying in deep sobs, dried off and got dressed. I ran up the stairs and out of the YMCA. I ran to the bus stop. Then, like a slap across the face, I realized I had left my little purse in the cubbyhole where I had registered. I didn’t have my bus money. How was I going to get home?
The bus stop happened to be right next to the barber shop. With tears streaming down my face, I opened the door and spied Mike Ross cutting hair in the last of four chairs in the shop. He looked up, saw my tear-stained face, stopped cutting his customer’s hair, and walked toward me.
“Dean! What’s wrong!” he said in a soft, but concerned voice.
As best as I could, I tried to explain that I needed to get home, but I didn’t have the dime for the bus. Without hesitating even one second, Mike Ross reached into his pocket, pulled out a dime and gave it to me. He patted me on the head and told me everything would be all right. And, it was.
I got on the next bus and was home in fifteen minutes. My mother was very surprised when I walked through the front door of my house. I spent the next few moments tearfully explaining, or trying to explain, what had happened. But, the center of my story then—and today—was the kindness of Mike Ross, my barber.
I share this story with you because I want to remind myself of the kindness of someone in my life who helped me when I needed it the most. The fact that I remember this incident that took place in the summer of 1954, tells you how significant this act of kindness affected my memory.
Mike Ross was a faithful member of the Our Mother of Perpetual Help Roman Catholic Church in Lewis Run, PA. He and his wife of 73 years raised three sons. His obituary celebrates his life of service to his church and to his community. He continued to cut hair right up until one month before he died.
During his career as a barber, which spanned 80 years, Mike Ross gave thousands upon thousands of haircuts. But, I will always remember him for the time he showed a simple act of kindness to a frightened nearly seven-year-old little boy. My mother insisted that we stop by that barber shop the very next day to repay the dime that Mike had given to me. He seemed almost shy when he extended his hand to take that dime from my mother’s hand.
I am quite certain that Mike Ross would not remember his act of kindness to me. That’s what true acts of kindness are like: the person extending the kindness may not remember. But, the one receiving such kindness never forgets it. Oviously, I have always remembered this act of kindness.
The first phrase of Ephesians 4:32 states:
Be kind and compassionate to one another…
Down through these intervening years since that summer day in 1954, when I think of kindness, I think of Mike Ross. During this special season of the year—a time of remembrance—I am moved to pray that God will prompt each of us to extend kindness in the same way that Mike Ross showed compassion to me on that hot summer day so very long ago.
