The clinic gate was being locked when the three vans pulled up. They were hours late. A nun stepped out and hurried toward me.

"You're late, sister," I said, "we're closing."

The nun apologized profusely. Her accent was Indian. She wore a white cotton sari with the blue border. She was a Missionary of Charity, one of Mother Teresa's disciples. One doesn't refuse them.

I moved to the curb, looked into the vans and was stunned by the children inside. Some of their eyes turned out toward the ears; others ducked behind noses; a pair jiggled and danced. One child had no eyes at all.

The nun answered my unasked question: "People leave them with us."

But now a problem arose. How were we to get them into the clinic? I cringed at the thought of lifting those smelly children! You see, I tend to be punctilious about hygiene.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw John.

R For much of the day John would sit motionless on an old steel-framed chair, under the shadow of a mango tree. He smiled a little, spoke less. His young body, usually shirtless, was worn, pale and emaciated. Stretched skin covered long limbs. His eyes were dull, sallow. Movements were slow and caused him to grimace as if in pain. He reputedly sold drugs.

Now John rose and brushed by me. He murmured, "Don't worry, Doc. I'll take them in."

John opened a van door. He smiled at the children, speaking to them with his eyes. They sensed his warmth, and a few managed to smile back.

Three of John's pals appeared from behind fences and hedges. The four of them worked delicately, with the greatest tenderness, and carried the children into the clinic.

John and his pals waited while I performed the examinations. The work took hours, and the night was old when I finished. The children were loaded back into the vans.

R As the last taillight swung the corner, an elderly lady sidled up to me. "It was very kind of you to see those children."

"I didn't do a damn thing. But ma'am, who are you?"

"I'm John's mother."

"Oh," I said, "it was most touching what John did."

"Yes, he's like that. He'll help anyone. But he's very sick, Doc. Very, very sick -- always in pain."

"How long has he had AIDS?"

"AIDS? John don't have AIDS! He has sickle cell."

The night couldn't blanket my humiliation. In younger days, when time was served on medical floors, I could spot from afar a person suffering from sickle cell. But now I was so inured to the belief that street corners and drugs were synonymous with AIDS. I should have known better. I had made the age-old mistake of judging a man by the color of his skin, the texture of his hair, the cut of his cloth.

For days, I grieved.

I grieved for the children; however, I could do nothing for them. They needed love. The nuns would supply that in ample and noble measure.

I grieved for John, whose constant companion was pain.

But I grieved mostly for myself, for I knew that John's lesson would soon be forgotten.

And so it has. As the days blur, one into the next, I keep making judgments based on flittering shadows and keep seeing demons and dervishes where, truly, only angels dwell.

Write to Jeevak Lal, M.D., at World Eye Mission, 1306 N. Eaton St., Albion, Mich. 49224, or e-mail worldeyemission@cs.com.

Want to tell your story? CALL John Osborn at (215) 643-8055, E-MAIL to osbornjs@boucher1.com, FAX to 215-643-3902, or WRITE to 1300 Virginia Drive, Suite 400, Ft. Washington, Pa. 19034. Offer a few thoughts, and we'll take care of the rest.