On a hot, dusty Sunday afternoon on January, 2006, while walking the streets of Colombo, my wife Maria and I found a man lying beside the road.  He had on nothing but a ragged shirt and clearly was in severe distress.  A passerby had placed an old pair of pants across him to cover his nakedness.  Locals said he had been robbed and beaten and had lain there for many days.  Exhausted and parched, he was able to tell us only that his name was Milton.  In his condition of severe dehydration, immediate attention was critical.

While Maria cradled his head and gave him small sips to drink, I went to the local police station to seek permission to take Milton to the hospital.  The commanding officer, glad for our help, gave us full authority and an escort.  

Milton was in excruciating pain as we tried to lift him.  I ran to a local shop and bought a tablecloth to use as an improvised stretcher.  Even with this he cried out in pain, borne of dehydration and exposure, as we lifted him into our van.  With the police escort we moved quickly through the crowded streets and arrived a short item later at the General Hospital.  He was placed on an unpadded, metal stretcher and rolled across the rocky parking lot, moaning loudly at each jolt.  Because he was accompanied by westerners, Milton was taken into the emergency room very quickly.  Inside this typical third world public hospital, there were few nurses and fewer doctors.  After a few hours, Milton was finally admitted for observation.

The next day we returned for a visit.  Milton was in a ward with dozens of other patients.  He was happy to see us but pleaded for water.  When queried, the nurse said that Milton was scheduled for surgery and could have nothing to eat or drink.  Neither she nor anyone else knew what kind of surgery, however.  Milton begged with his eyes and hands for relief from his thirst.  The only comfort we could offer was to hold his hands, as we fought back our tears.

When we came back on Tuesday, we were told that he was better and had checked himself out.  The discharge papers showed a scraggly line across the page which I was told was his signature.  Clearly this man, who could barely talk and certainly could not walk, did not check himself out.  Outraged, we began searching the neighborhood streets.  Within a few minutes we found him, on the sidewalk, naked and left to the elements once again, without even the cloth we had bought for him for protection.  (In the overcrowded General Hospital, it was apparently better to put a dirty, dying, and homeless man out and free-up the bed.)

As we stood over Milton, still stunned by the circumstances, a policeman came near, cast a brief glance and then walked by.  A short time later a nurse came from the hospital.  Her clothes crisp and starched in the British tradition, she walked quickly past on the other side of the street.  These scenes only added to our distress.

Once again, we bought a tablecloth, lifted Milton in the van, and I held him in my arms as we drove – this time to Apollo, the best hospital in the country.

Filthy, unable to speak and clearly without means, Milton would never have been admitted without the presence of westerners.  A few days after Milton was admitted to a room, we left for our work in the south and east of the country.  Before doing so, I met with the Little Sisters of the Poor who run an Elder Home in Colombo.  It is a wonderful facility that rivals the best we have here.  They cater only to the poor and raise their money through begging.  They agreed to take Milton, which meant that he would spend his remaining years loved and well cared for. 

A few days later, I was called with the news that Milton had tuberculosis and bladder cancer.  Because of the contagious nature of TB and the fact that he was very belligerent, I was asked to take him back.  I was saddened by the diagnosis and confused about his being “belligerent.”

When we arrived a few days later, we found Milton in an isolation room with his hands tied to the bed rails.  It was a pitiful sight as he tried to bring his hands together in the traditional show of respect as he saw Maria.  Next to his bed were several dishes of cold food.

Upon investigation we determined that Milton's belligerence and subsequent restraint were because the nurses did not speak his language and often tried to give him shots and make him swallow pills.  In his state of dehydration even a gentle touch could be excruciating.  Seeing that feeding him was going to be too much trouble, they left the food at his side.  Even in the best hospital, he was given third class attention.

Once again, Milton was homeless.  The Little Sisters of the Poor could not take him while his TB was active.  The Sisters of Charity (Mother Theresa) only help those on the streets and had no housing.  They did, however, recommend a hospital in the outskirts of the city that could take him and once again we drove off in search of care for Milton.

About a half-hour north of Colombo we entered Velisara Hospital.  Built long ago during the days of the British Empire, it had the feel of a country estate, but instead was another public hospital filled to capacity and then some.  They were willing to take Milton because they had numerous other TB patients so his contagion was not shunned.

As at the General Hospital, Milton was placed in a large ward with dozens of other patients.  With open windows, flies and mosquitoes were prevalent.  It was not what we had hoped for, but at least he was not on the street and would receive medical attention.  Maria and I were leaving that night for the US so we said our last farewells to Milton and started to depart.

We were soon stopped by the ward attendant who informed me that I must find a full-time aide for Milton.  This one man was in charge of a ward of over 50 patients and he could not feed, clean or toilet Milton.  I told him that we were on our way to the airport that very evening for the US and had no options left.  I asked if he had any recommendations.  After considering our dilemma he said, “I can see how much you care for this man.  I will take care of him for you.”  I was so grateful and pulled him aside privately to thank him.  I gave him money and told him to buy Milton whatever he needed.  If he spent more, I told him not to worry, as I would re-pay him when I returned in 6 months.  We then parted.

Sri Lanka is a country where life is hard and victories are few.  Three weeks later I learned that Milton died.  He had at last found a permanent home.  So he would not be nameless and faceless in death as he had been in life we had him buried in a small cemetery and a headstone built for him with the inscription,”Milton Lyanage, friend of Jack and Maria”

We so often hear about “Entertaining angels unaware.”  Maria and I always felt we could see the Savior in Milton’s eyes and when I think of him now, the last verse of A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief comes to mind.

 “And in a moment to my view, the stranger started from disguise.  The tokens in his hand I knew, the Savior stood before mine eyes.”