RIVER CITY JOURNAL: WILLOUGHBY AND LEOLA ARE SPECIAL SAINTS

Doing a random act of kindness, it turns out, is quite a bit easier than trying to explain it to an inquiring store clerk.

Quite possibly you may not be interested in kindness theology, but this seems to be the right week to bring it up.

There are all kinds of popular theologies -- what we believe about God and his mystery realm -- but most of them don't interest me either. For example, I don't buy the theology of a payback God who asks for your cash and promises to give it back tenfold. Or is it a hundredfold? To me, God is far more concerned about my spiritual treasury.

I know some folks who have built up quite a nest egg in their own spiritual accounts. They are the kind of people who give and give and give -- of themselves. They are just about the kindest people you would ever meet. Let me introduce a couple of them:

Willoughby O'Connell (don't you just love that name?) was the postmaster in Nevada, a small town on the western side of Missouri. He and his wife were raising two adopted sons, and they extended every ounce of southern hospitality they could muster when we moved there in the early 1970s. We had small sons too, so we had that much in common to start with.

Our car -- we had one, sort of -- was the most undependable transportation known to modern man. But it was ours, and we made the most of it. It was difficult to find a whole weekend to leave town. Besides, we couldn't afford it very often. But we had planned for some time to visit grandparents on our older son's birthday. About noon on the Friday we were to leave, the car threw a fit and refused to function. Disappointed, we figured we would have to celebrate at home.

Willoughby called to say he had some information for a news story, so I walked to the post office to see him. After a bit he asked about our plans for the weekend. I told him the sad tale about the car. Without a moment's hesitation, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. "Here, take my car. We're not going anywhere this weekend." I stared at him in disbelief, but he was making an offer I couldn't refuse. I have never forgotten the simplicity of his gesture, which meant so much to us.

A few years later, we met Leola Swaney when we moved to Maryville in the northwest corner of Missouri. Our furniture arrived during an ice storm in December. The movers literally slid boxes and tables across a layer of ice that was then covered with several inches of snow. When the moving crew left that evening, we were dazed and disoriented in our new surroundings. We had no food in the house and didn't want to go out in the storm. We built a roaring fire in the fireplace and sat surrounded by unpacked boxes and stacked chairs.

Then the doorbell rang. It was the back door, and we couldn't imagine who it would be. Standing with the wind at her back was Leola -- all 4 feet, 8 inches or her. She had been the editor of women's news at the newspaper since 1946, and she had braved a snowstorm (actually, she had her husband, Lester, do the driving) to bring us a fresh-from-the-oven batch of what she called monkey bread. Then she disappeared into the swirling snow. I have never forgotten the generosity of the perilous trip from her house to ours.

I'm not sure about the kosher way to make a saint, but in my book St. Willoughby and St. Leola are pretty important figures.

All during Random Acts of Kindness Week, we have been wearing special pins that say, "Practice Random Acts of Kindness." Lots of people have asked questions. I stopped by a convenience store Wednesday evening to pick up some milk. At the checkout, the clerk said, "I've seen those. What does it mean?"

It means a lot of people are trying to do something special for someone this week, I said.

"But what is random kindness?"

I asked him to tell me what would be the kindest thing someone could do for him right now. Grown men don't cry in public, but his eyes teared up.

"I'm trying to balance the cash register, and it looks like I'm $20 short. I don't know what happened. Must have given the wrong change to someone. If I don't find it, I'll probably lose my job."

Bending down in front of the counter, I came up holding a $20 bill. Is this it? I asked. It must have fallen on the floor.

He beamed. "Thanks a lot, man. This is great," he said as I walked out the door. "Hey," he called. "That wasn't there before you came in."

I kept walking. I thought about suggesting that he thank St. Willoughby and St. Leola. I don't think he would have understood.

~R. Joe Sullivan is the editor of the Southeast Missourian.