George MacDonald Black
“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'“
“Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'” (Matthew 25:35-38 NIV)
The first day I saw him; he stood and looked my direction through the brush and trees. The youngster was about seven or eight years old, and I assumed he lived in a house with lots of kids, two or three houses down.
By the way, I’m George McDonald, and at this particular time I lived in a little town just forty or so miles from Anchorage, Alaska, called Houston. A recent divorcee, I’d moved into a small one bedroom duplex along the Parks Highway, the highway that runs between Anchorage and Fairbanks. My place was just a few hundred feet from the Little Susitna River.
I worked almost every night delivering papers or bundles of papers for the two local, Wasilla newspapers. Every day, after I slept for a little, I would go out into my front yard and work on an old beat up Winnebago motor home. My elderly landlord, who lived two houses down, announced when I rented the place, that this rig was ‘up for grabs’ if I wanted to work on it and get it running.
So every few days I would run to the local automotive parts store and pick up a few parts. The vehicle needed a lot of work. I started with parts for the diesel engine which was in the back of my future home on wheels.
It was late spring in Alaska and the snow was melting fast. One day, again I noticed the little boy watching from the trees. He moved a little closer to the edge of the driveway, and I invited him to come nearer to watch what I was doing. He was there for an hour or so and then turned to leave. He hadn’t even said a word, but finally he announced, “My name is Trevor.”
Trevor went home, but before he left I invited him to come back and watch any time he wanted to. I didn’t see Trevor for a few days, but I just figured he had school and could only come by on the weekends.
The one thing I noticed about my new found friend is that he was dressed rather plain but always neat. He wore coveralls, a little too big and folded at the cuffs. His clothes were neatly pressed and clean. He wore an old tattered San Francisco Giants cap and nicely polished work boots.
It was late spring and Trevor would come by every day. Together we would go fishing in the Little Su or work on the Winnebago. He didn’t say much but you could tell he enjoyed watching and helping.
One early morning on my way home from work, I noticed a lot of cars parked around my landlord’s little ranch along the highway. I thought nothing of it, just supposing they were having a family reunion. That day Trevor didn’t come. He wasn’t there the next day either.
It was late June, and I was ready to plant my garden and construct a small greenhouse for my strawberries. I watched for Trevor, but he never came. He would have loved to observe me, and possibly help. I missed him not coming by.
A few days later while I was finishing up the small greenhouse, I spotted a little face poking through the brush just south of my driveway. Trevor walked out of the shade and crossed the asphalt. He looked like a mess. His pants were dirty and ragged. His shirt was unkempt and pulled partially out.
I invited him to help me complete my makeshift hot house. He was hesitant at first, but finally jumped right in without saying a word. When we had finished, he hung around till almost dark. Summers in Alaska are long, and it was nearly two A.M. I told him I had to go to work so he wandered home.
Days passed. Trevor and I did many things together. I even invited him to come with me to Sunday School if he could get permission. The youngster always refused.
Finally I announced to the seven year old that the motor home was ready for a test drive. Trevor acted like he wanted to go, but he shook his head and ran home. My prayers went out to him, and I wondered what was really wrong with my little friend.
Summer turned to fall, and I kept reminding Trevor about the importance of the month of September. Yes, it was the month school started, but in Alaska every child knows it’s moose hunting season. I wanted Trevor and any of his family members to come along with me as we really tested out my rebuilt and renovated Winnebago.
I didn’t see the youngster for a few days, and it was getting really close to the time I had chosen to leave. I took time off from work and had my rig packed with supplies for a few days. I was hyped.
The night before I had planned to depart is was really cold. In fact, I thought maybe it was getting ready to snow. I wanted to be completely prepared so I started up the motor home. Diesel engines don’t start very well in the Alaskan cold.
I let the engine run for several hours while I rested for my trip. Early the next morning I went outside, and decided to check on my engine before I left. I open the engine compartment, and found a frightening sight.
Trevor was lying inside the compartment sleeping. There was plenty of room for a little seven year old, but the child didn’t realize his leg was resting against the hot engine. The heat had burnt through his trousers and severely scorched his leg while he slept.
Hurriedly I got him into town to the emergency ward at Wasilla General. The first thing they asked, “Who is next of kin.” I told them that I had no idea, and where I thought he lived. I had no recourse but to leave him there.
Time passed and I heard nothing of Trevor. I thought of him many times, and even searched where I thought he might be living. I asked the neighbors, but to no avail. What happened to my little friend, Trevor? I didn’t know so my life went on.
Twenty years later I purchased some property on the Parks Highway near Willow. I had saved a lot of hard earned money and built a small place to live. A few years after that, I added a little restaurant and gas station. It was a comfortable life, but I had never forgotten about Trevor.
One lazy summer day I sat in my favorite chair in front of the restaurant and watched the tourist come and go. Motor home after motor home drove by until one enormous rig pulled onto the property pulling a Jeep Cherokee. It didn’t drive into the pumps but parked next to the main building.
The motor home stopped, and a tall handsome, well dressed man in his late twenties walked toward me. He walked up to me and asked, “Are you George McDonald?”
Of course, I answered, “Yes!”
The young adult asked me if I recognized him. I told him, “I have seen many tourists today and this whole summer, and no I don’t recognize you.”
He said, “I’m Trevor Black.”
I couldn’t believe my eyes. This tall handsome man was the little boy who befriended me twenty plus years ago. The first thing I said was, “Praise the Lord.” And then I felt tears running down the sides of my face.
Trevor told me how he often thought of our good times back in Houston. He told me that back then he was living with his grandparents who were my landlords. During that early summer his grandmother had passed away, and then later he watched as his grandfather sat in a chair and never woke up. The next day he slept in my motor home’s engine compartment. He was cold because the fires had gone out at home and, “Grandpa wouldn’t wake up.”
After the trip to the emergency the local social worker found his home and his dead grandpa. They fostered him to some close relatives that lived in Anchorage, and he finished school there. These people were Christians, and he got involved in all the church activities including leading worship.
Trevor told me that after high school he went to college at the University of Alaska at Anchorage and later joined the Army. He specialized in diesel mechanics. After the service he got married, had a son, and started his own business in the city taking care of big diesel trucks.
Then he asked me, “You want to meet some people?”
He started to walk back toward the large rig and I followed. The door opened and a beautiful woman and young child walked down the little stairway.
“George, I want to introduce to you my wife, Edna and our son George…George MacDonald Black.”
I was set to tears again as the young child walked up to me and shook my hand. I could hardly stand so I walked back to my familiar chair and slumped down.
The little family followed me. Trevor addressed me again as his family watched. “God has blessed my wife and I….and our son. We have an incredible lifestyle…partially because of you.”
Trevor pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and placed it in my lap and said, “Today, I’m going to give you something very special to replace the old Winnebago that is parked on the other side of the building. This motor home is yours….but the Jeep we’re pulling is ours. We need to get home, somehow.”
We all laughed, but I still was in shock. Trevor told me that they had to get back to the city so they unhooked the Cherokee, and we said our goodbyes. “I took care of the insurance for five years and the license is in your name,….my old friend…I hope we can get together again and go fishing and work on engines….and George, September isn’t very far away….Put my son and me on your list…We’re want to go hunting with you.”
I agreed, and he left me his cell number. They all started to leave, but little George stood staring at me. Without notice little George walked up to me and hugged my neck. He then whispered in my ear, “Thank you, George MacDonald.”
The seven year old backed away from me and announced very deliberately, “I want to thank you for two things.” Little George raised up two little fingers. “I want to thank you for being good to my daddy aaaand……for my name.”
'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' Mathew 25:40 NIV.
