“Cruel robbery leaves people stranded,” began my friend Jim’s e-mail. A couple in the process of moving from out of state had been stripped of their van and all their possessions. They were now staying in a tent at the state park and in need of just about everything. “Bring things to my house,” instructed Jim, “and I’ll deliver them.” The needed items read like a typical camping list.

I piled my late husband’s camping gear into the car, knowing he’d be pleased. I added offerings from my kitchen and bath cabinets, a flashlight and batteries, and at the very last, two metal chairs — still useful, but oh so ugly.

I shot back an e-mail: “Car loaded. Ready to go.”

“Just take to space 43 in the park,” he replied.

Oh, dear, I felt my enthusiasm drain. I’d rather just drop it all off at Jim’s.

“Why is that?” an inner voice probed.

Well, I feel terribly sorry for these folks, but I prefer not to get that close.

“Oh. You mean like the priest and the Levite in the Good Samaritan story, huh?” Ouch!

Perhaps they’ll be taking a walk, I hoped. Then I can just leave the stuff and go.

But there they were, Bob and Jan — real people with names and faces, not just the anonymous “needy.” They helped me unload the car while I apologized for my humble offerings. But then I looked at the meager sum total of their worldly goods and knew how ridiculous I sounded.

They invited me to sit on the ugly chairs I’d been ashamed of and almost didn’t bring. We sat in the lee of the tent, sheltered from the cool autumn air, beside the cold fire pit with no fuel in sight.

The next morning I phoned a friend, who took them seasoned firewood. Later that day I took coffee and cookies to the park.

“You like coffee?” I asked as I got out of the car.

“Sure. Gotta have my caffeine and nicotine fix.” Jan grinned and took the carafe.

I recoiled. How could she lump my beloved, perfectly acceptable coffee with cigarettes? In the breeze that ruffled my hair I thought I detected a faint holy chuckle.

We sat drinking coffee beside the fire, and Jan told me of the betrayal and theft by her son. I learned too of her bout with colon cancer, and the chronic irritable bowel syndrome she lives with every day.

“That’s why we chose this site, so close to the restroom.” She pointed to the building across the road. “Sometimes I have no warning.”

How long since I’ve thanked the Lord for electricity and indoor plumbing?

That night I called my daughter to ask about their old trailer. “We’ll just give it to them,” she said.

The next day I took Jan to see her “new home.” She could hardly speak. Compared to a tent, the tired, old 36-foot fifth-wheel looked magnificent.

“Need to find you an RV park,” I said. Bob hadn’t been paid yet, but remembering how the Good Samaritan gave money to the innkeeper, I reasoned I could certainly manage to put down a deposit in the meantime.

But at every place we visited, we heard, “Sorry. All our monthly spaces are filled, but you can add your name to the waiting list.” I visited RV parks a bit farther away, sharing the story and adding my name to other lists.

Meanwhile I visited Jan often. “How could my son have done this to us?” she’d lament as she wrestled with disappointment and bitterness. We talked about how God could forgive us because of Christ’s payment for our sin. She said she was a believer, and I encouraged her to forgive her son. Easy for me to say. What if I were in her shoes?

I turned to the story of Joseph in the Bible. She immediately identified with him.

“But sometimes,” she said, “especially on cloudy days, I’m overwhelmed with depression.”

“If I were in your place I’d be fighting depression too,” I admitted, “and probably not doing as well as you. But I’ll bet Joseph had depressing days.”

We read the end of his story in Genesis and his forgiving words to his brothers: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good” (Genesis 50:20a).

As their allotted time at the park ended, the ranger said they needed to move on. Many sites were empty, and I wondered why such rigid enforcement was necessary. I began hounding the RV parks. I pushed and pulled on doors that refused to budge. I anguished in prayer and remembered that “without faith it is impossible to please God” (Hebrews 11:6a). Ah, ha! This is that trial of faith that Peter wrote about, isn’t it, Lord — that trial You treasure and I struggle with?

I fought off visions of heart-wrenching eviction scenes. Hour by hour, day by day the silent countdown pressed on. Then the call came.

“We have a space available. You still need it?”

“Yes. Yes. Absolutely,” I erupted. “I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

Last night I snuggled in my cozy abode while unrelenting rain splattered my windows. I thanked the Lord and rejoiced that my friends — when had they become my friends? — were now warm and dry and enjoying full utility hookups.

Then I thought of the others in need — the nameless, faceless ones. Without knowing names or seeing faces it’s easier, and very tempting, to turn away rather than get involved. And certainly, donating is much easier than befriending. But somehow I think it was God’s plan all along for me to make that first trip to the park and get involved.

So am I finished now? Oh, no. Bob and Jan’s struggles continue, but we visit often and look into God’s Word together. One day Jan said, “It’s ridiculous to think we can earn our salvation by being good. That’s like making ourselves our own savior.” She paused and then added, “It’s only by the blood of Jesus Christ that we can come to God.”

My mouth dropped open. I think she’s got it, Lord. Thanks for drawing me in.