Towards The Light

There was an elderly little man wandering on the road. He appeared lost. I watched him from the comfort of my sky-blue 1920's French lawn chair.

It is always so much easier to make the choice to not involve oneself with the pain of others. We have troubles of our own, or so we convince ourselves.

But, the comely old man smiled at me from afar as he held his arms out in front of him, reaching out, searching.

Perhaps, I only imagined him smiling. My eyes have weakened in the last six years. I can no longer see distant images clearly.

I made the choice to stand up and walk towards this stranger. Though, as I looked back at my antique chair I wondered anxiously if it would be stolen. The allure of things is powerful. Berating myself for such selfishness, I continued to walk towards the distant figure.

"Hello." I said.

"Hello." He answered in loving gentle tones, and embraced me as if I were a long lost grandchild.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Home." He said.

"May I walk with you?" I asked.

"Yes, I would be happy for the company." He said.

Arm in arm, we walked in silence under the trees.

In time, he whispered, "I used to live in a very large house. There were many fruit trees that I had planted. I would tend my trees each day. They grew big and strong. I enjoyed their fruit. But, now I live here."

"Are you happy here?" I asked.

"It is like a prison." He said.

His words made me uncomfortable because I too had recently felt the same, and had shared the exact words in my conversations with God during prayer.

"No one speaks to me. I am all alone. If people would only reach out to me, I would return their love a hundredfold." He said.

Again, his words made me feel exposed, and ashamed, as I continued to hear my words coming out of his mouth. 

But, how could this man know my innermost thoughts, and secret feelings?

Nervously, I asked, "What is your name?"

Yes, I felt nervous because I was no longer quite sure what was actually happening. Who was helping who find his way here?

Sometimes, in our desire to help others, we end up helping ourselves.

The old man told me his name was Yervant, and that he had been born in the Holy Land.

I held him tighter as he spoke. He told me he had a very large family with many children.

Then, he turned to me, looking into my eyes, and said, "You are my only friend."

I cried when I heard him say this. But, I turned my head away as we continued our walk, so that he would not see my tears. 

There is a community garden behind the building where I live. I left Yervant sitting on a bench. He sat there happily gazing out over the tomatoes and corn.

Before, I walked away, I asked him if he needed any further help getting home. He looked at me and replied, most graciously, "I am home."

There are no coincidences. God allows Himself to be found by us, if we search for Him with sincere hearts, in the silent stillness. In the distance, He who appears to us as stranger, in the light-filled nearness, becomes intimate Friend.

Rising.

Upon returning to my flat from Hospital, I followed Doctor's instructions and slept. The following morning, I awoke to bluebirds and finches outside my window. Light poured into the room in an obvious display of spiritual affection. I chose to get up and follow the healing warmth of the sun. Once outside, revisiting familiar fruit trees, and the long boxed-hedge, I remembered beloved neighbors that had recently passed away.

Nine years ago, there were many seniors here who are no longer with us today. Sitting by the red-green hedge, under the pine tree, I imagined them in Heaven looking down on me in love-felt prayer. To this day, I remember their wisdom and tenderhearted laughter. 

Each of us is a falling pebble, leaving ripples across the water. We affect the lives of those around us, and we affect the world. In any given moment, we become the choices that we make. We can choose to love or to hate, to hurt or to heal, to do good or to do evil.

We may never regret the millions we could have made, but will we regret not being kind when we had the opportunity?

Today, I have chosen to be Kindness itself. The minute ripples we create, in time become gentle waves that long outlive us.

The overwhelming scent of pine brings me back to the immediacy of the Present. In God, I am home. The chambers of my heart; my humble abode.

I am so grateful to you, dear reader, who in your infinite mercy, choose to continue our daily walk together. Thank you, true friend, and constant companion.

Blessings to you, always.

Divine Mercy.

Waking up slowly, the first words I heard as I recovered from the general anesthesia were, "I like his hat."

Now, with eyes open, I began to make out the blurred images. 

"Am I dead?" I asked myself.
"Am I in Heaven?" I wondered aloud.

As my eyes began to regain the ability to focus, I realized the white surrounding me was not the white of celestial clouds, but that of curtains, partially screening me from other patients in the UC Davis Medical Center.

"You are in the recovery ward," The nurse at the foot of my bed informed me in a caring tone. "Try not to move or exert yourself. You are still connected to an I.V. for fluids. Your blood pressure is low."

I looked down at my body. The index finger of my right hand was connected to some kind of wire. There were wires on the right side of my body, and wires on my chest.

The nurse pulled the curtain open. With focused vision, I searched for the voice that had initially called out regarding the hat on my head. I remembered that the nurses had asked the doctors for special permission allowing me to wear the hand-crocheted hat throughout the procedure. It was a hat made especially for me by one of the prayerful elder women from a church in an adjacent town in the foothills. 

When I had first entered the Prep-Ward, and was instructed to disrobe, I informed the medical staff that this was my magic Orange Hat. I pleaded with the nurses to allow me to keep it on. If I died during the exploratory medical procedure, I wanted to be able to meet God while wearing my hugely over-sized bright Orange Hat. I felt sure that God would like the hat, and that He would give me a hug.

Lying on the hospital gurney, naked, cold, alone, and afraid, I began to cry hysterically like a baby abandoned on an inner-city stoop. The nurses, in an effort to console and comfort, assured me that I would be allowed to wear the Orange Hat.

Though hand-made with the love that is generous and eternal, it is a funny-looking hat. Most people laugh, or call out cruel names when they see it on my head. 

But, the first voice I heard as I had regained consciousness in the recovery ward said, "I like his hat."

I had not far to look for he that had spoken. In the bed directly opposite me, on the other side of the cavernous ward, lay a man peering at me with such compassion in his eyes. He was missing part of his foot. He was a soldier. He looked to be in a state of terrible discomfort. Severely wounded under both arms, he was unable to use his crutches. His wife sat next to him, her face hidden on the lower half of his legs. She wept silently. 

The wounded veteran called out loudly to the attending nurse, inquiring on the status and location of his fellow soldiers. Apparently, there had been a horrific accident, and the soldiers from his base had been sent to nearby local area hospitals.

This man lying across from me had every reason to think only of himself, and his pain, his wounds. But, his thoughts were only of others. Seeing that I was all alone in the world, he complimented my hat in an effort to soothe my soul. He yelled out at the nurses not of his terrible wounds, but of those of his fellow soldiers. With his left hand, he stroked his wife's hair, doing his best to heal her heartache.

This man had every reason to act out in a selfish and self-serving manner, but thought only of others.

He put me to shame, I who profess to serve God and God's people.

This wounded soldier across from me in the ward was a great spiritual Teacher, at least that is how I saw him.

My medical condition changed suddenly. the nurses rushed to my side and started to wheel me away to another room. I began to lose consciousness, but I called out, as my gurney passed his bed, "What is your first name!"

The man answered, "James."

In my last moments of wakefulness, I gasped, "You have a Good Heart."

Then, all became black. I awoke in a different ward. I never saw the wounded soldier again. 

Dear reader, I think James was actually an Angel in the guise of an extra-ordinary man. 

Don't you?

New-Found Vision.

Greetings and salutations! Welcome back, dear reader. Forgive my long absence. Protracted and persistent physical illness kept me away. It is an interesting awakening when one discovers that modern medicine can have its limitations. Sometimes there is illness of the body that cannot be cured, or efficaciously treated. In these situations, illness must be endured. One must learn acceptance in order to find peace.

Illness, though, can become a distraction, keeping one from seeing as before. 

Long enough, have I dwelt in darkness. So, in an effort to re-emerge into the light, I have given myself the homework assignment to consciously see my community through the eyes of love with which I first fell in love with the little town where angels wait to greet us just behind the very next tree, or corner.

Once again, we begin the journey, you and I, only this time it is my hope and prayer to do so with new-found vision.

God is a loving God and answers our prayers, allowing us to learn the lessons we need, at just the right time.  A simple shift in focus would allow me to re-discover the heaven all around me, and the angels in our midst.

For example, last month, I found myself in the position of having to dial those three numbers we pray we never have to dial, but know are always available to us; 911. 

So incapacitated was I from illness, it took me eleven hours to crawl to the phone in the next room.

"What is the nature of your emergency?" the 911 operator asked calmly but firmly. I heard myself yelling incoherently. The 911 operator asked for name, address, phone number and symptoms, and instructed me to wait for help. Less than six minutes later, the EMT opened my apartment door and found me on the floor in duress. They did not hesitate, but cradled me like a newborn babe and lifted me onto the gurney, gently caressing my wounded, wretched body. The EMT enveloped me with wings of guardian angels.

Soon, the bay doors of the Marshall Hospital Emergency Room opened; towering over me like life-saving Titans were Dr. John Tucker, emergency room doctor, clad in Superman-themed hospital scrubs; Deb, emergency room head nurse equipped in her bullet-deflecting bracelets and golden lasso of truth; and Dr. Gallant, emergency room doctor, gallant by nature, Gallant by name.

As they did their heroic best to stabilize my condition and that of all the other patients in crisis, pain, and trauma around me, I developed a deeper appreciation for our local EMT and Marshall Hospital ER staff. 

They provide the same terrific treatment and compassionate care to all patients regardless of race, color, culture, religion, political affiliation, disability, or health insurance status. Our emergency-responders do not ask for it, but they certainly do deserve our heartfelt thanks.