Carla Pettey
Nov 1988
Jumping To Conclusions
In meeting new people sometimes we prejudge them because of something
they say or do. Because of some mannerism or speech pattern, we immediately
jump to conclusions and don't give them the benefit of the doubt.
It was a long time ago when I learned a lesson about jumping to
conclusions on judging people.
In the spring of 1943 during WWII, our food ration had been reduced
almost to the starvation point. People could not have survived unless they
bought food on the black market where prices had gone up by more than 20%. Looking
for food at a better price became an important activity. People from the city
would go out of town to small villages where farmers grew their own vegetables,
fruits and stock. Often these farmers were glad to sell their surplus.
There was no mode of transportation to these villages. Many people
walked there, rode their bikes, motorcycles or trucks. Also, they hitched rides
on empty German or Italian military transport trucks that were returning north
from the battle front.
It was on the back of one of the military trucks that my older sister
and I rode for two days to the Tuscan hills. There were other people with us,
and upon arriving at our destination everyone jumped off the truck and went
their separate ways. My sister and I followed a narrow dirt road that led up
the hill to a small village.
My sister and I stood in the middle of the town's square confused and
hesitant. We just looked around, not knowing what to do. There were only a few
pew people seated at the square's outdoor cafe. They recognized we were
strangers, and they just stared at us.
Soon a tall, lean man came toward us. He wore a long black robe with a
silver cross on his chest. He held his folded hands in front of him, and on his
face he had a friendly and gentle smile. He was the village priest.
"Where are you from, and how did you get here?" he asked.
"We come from Rome," my sister answered, "and we hitched a ride on a German army
truck. The driver let us off down the road and we walked to your village."
The priest remarked, "I hear things are really bad in Rome."
"Yes," my sister said, "in Rome we have a shortage of food, coal for
heating and cooking, and transportation. Many people are forced to sell their jewels
and family heirlooms to buy food on the black market. Others go to farms
outside the city and even further to buy food, and we came here to do the same."
This seemingly good and gentle man appeared concerned about our plight. We
talked some more. He was truly sympathetic. Then he leaned over us, tilted his
head to one side and said in a low voice, "I have some food stored in the
parish house. Often the farmers bring me olive oil, fresh eggs, cured ham,
sausage, flour. I can let you have some."
My sister and I were surprised at the offer. Because, usually, it was we
who had to do the asking, almost begging, and now he was offering us food.
I thought, "How much would he charge us?"
"What else did he have up his sleeves?"
My sister smiled in appreciation, while I fumed. "Why, he was no
better than those profiteers in Rome who took advantage of the food shortage and
charged the hungry people exorbitant prices." I thought, "Here is a
man married to the Church, a man who served God, dedicated to humility and
sacrifice...a priest educated and trained to alleviate the suffering of the
people, and bring them comfort and hope." I was angry! "How could he?
How dare he make a profit from the food the farmers gave him? No doubt in exchange
for the absolution of their sins."
All that I had heard about priests was true then: they were greedy. All
they wanted was money and a full belly.
While I stewed over this, my sister, pleased that we had made a contact
so quickly, smiled and asked, "How much do you want for it?"
I stared at the priest and anticipated the big price he would ask. It
astounded me when I heard him say, "I don't want to sell it to you, I want
to give it to you."
I turned my head so the priest would not read my thoughts. I was
embarrassed and ashamed to have judged this good man so hastily. Of course no
one knew how I felt, but, nevertheless, my conscience bothered me. On the other
hand, it felt good to discover that the priest was a virtuous and honest man,
concerned and caring about our sufferings.
The lesson I learned that spring day of many years ago was never to jump
to conclusions and always give the other person the benefit of the doubt.
