Good deeds don't come cheap

My godmother once challenged me to do one kind act a day. A kind act that goes unrewarded, undeclared and unnoticed.

This type of philosophy was recently visited upon me.

It was my mother's birthday and, as her one and only daughter, I took her out for a celebratory meal. When we went to pay and leave, I noticed I no longer had my wallet. Somewhere between paying for parking and the restaurant I had lost my wallet.

Disappointed, we paid (my ma had her wallet, thank god) and we trundled off to home. This is where my godmother's challenge comes in.

When I returned home there was a message on my voicemail from Sam -- an apparently young man who had found my ID. Now, I do not carry my home telephone number in my wallet. I do, however, carry three credit cards, personal ID, gift certificates, cash, and sentimental memorobilia -- namely my father's OBIT, the first US dollar my father ever gave me, a ticket to see the Dalai Lama and an email from my brother that saved my sanity oh-so-many-years ago.

Now, the reality is Sam was young, maybe mid-twenties, and heavily into feeling good. Listening to the answering machine message it was evident that the young man had been actively enjoying a little bit of hippie-lettuce. Then, when I spoke to him directly on the phone to get directions to his place, he was, once again, enjoying the benefits of the herb. A girl knows that sound.

I don't believe people who partake in the weed are violent...but I live in inner-city Toronto and have grown up with the news reports that centre on drugs, violence and poverty, particularly in localized areas. Late that Sunday night, I was about to enter into one of those areas to meet a man that was obviously high. I would be lying if I said I had no reservations. I would be lying if I said my stereotypes fed my fears.What made it worse was that Sam kept calling (three, maybe four times) as I waited for him downstairs in my car. At first it was to double-check that I was, indeed, outside his complex. Then it was to see if I was in the lobby. The last two times I cannot tell you why he called. He simply did, said something irrelevant and then promised to be there shortly.Given the circumstances and given my media-fed prejudices, I was simply hoping to get my shell-of-a-wallet and get out without incident

Then a remarkable thing happened.It appears that more than one person lives by the do-good without recognition credo. And Sam was one of those people. Despite his outward appearance (young, high, gang-banger with baggy pants and sideways cap, all in chosen colours, all in a gang-influenced neighbourhood) Sam handed me back a wallet complete with ID, credit cards, credit notes, memorabilia and money. Nothing was removed. Nothing was disturbed. And -- as if that wasn't enough -- a thorough search of my wallet told me what I already knew: in order to return my wallet (and all its contents) Sam had searched out my home number.

That took effort.

Unrewarded and unrecognized. That's the premise of a good deed. Thanks, Sam. May my prejudiced mind remain open.