#87: Brad Ketch

At 5:30 one morning the doorbell rang at Brad Ketch’s home on his 5-acre estate just outside Portland, Oregon. “I need help,” said a Latino teenager. “My friends stopped the car, hit me on the head, took all my stuff, and threw me in your bushes. Can you drive me home? It’s about three miles from here.”

“My friend and I are going to the gym and driving right by your house,” said Brad. “He’s picking me up in a few minutes. We’ll help you out.”

Brad’s friend pulled up in his Mercedes and was silently appalled at the dirty teenager sliding into his back seat.

Brad Ketch had no frame of reference for this kid’s life. At Renaldo’s apartment was a car up on blocks, a Little Mermaid sheet in the living-room window where curtains ought to be, and a dirty, torn screen door. The parking lot was next to a strip club, an hourly motel where people cooked meth, and the hub of a narcotics business.

“I could not get Renaldo out of my mind,” said Brad. “What should I do?”

When he mentioned it to his wife, she said, “Maybe we should just do what Mother Teresa said when rich people came to volunteer in Calcutta: ‘Stay where you are. Find your own Calcutta. Find the sick, the suffering, and the lonely, in your own homes, your own families, in your workplaces and schools. You can find Calcutta all over the world if you have eyes to see.’”