Columbia Memorial Hospital faced the Catskills in the distance and stood just a half mile from the first living room I remember. The apartment possessed only two bedrooms, already too small for my father, mother, two older sisters, and newborn me. In a couple years, when my dad got a better job, we’d move. If child-bearing wasn’t what it was (and remains), I imagine my mom might have walked me home that week. But childbirth, rightly called labor, exhausts thoroughly. And with three kids all under five years of age and with a husband often working, parenthood never stopped exhausting my mother. April 10 th of 1971 brought unseasonably wintry weather, a pointed, probing wind across the river and our city of the same name. And the alley off of Worth Avenue in downtown Hudson, New York included a steep hill up. My mom didn’t walk me home. 1971, historically speaking, isn’t notorious or notable for things like military or terrorist attacks, political assassinations, or the end...
I have a friend, a dear friend in fact, someone I respect and admire. I’ll call him as I often do, G. When rarely the subject of religion comes up, G half-jokingly and half-proudly will declare himself a non-believer and anti-organized religion. He’d agree with Gandhi who’s been purported as saying, “I like Christ but I do not like your Christians. Your Christians are so unlike your Christ.” At the same time, G profoundly loves music, Gospel music included. This love reaches the level of the sacred to him. Music provides him meaning, comfort, and joy, as essential to him as God is to others. G and I disagree when it comes to religion and God. But when it comes to music we are in sync. There is common ground there. Music is sacred to me, essential, a source of meaning, comfort, and joy. And G and I agree on the spiritual and musical genius of John Coltrane who composed and performed the musical masterpiece called A Love Supreme. The 4th and final movement of A Love Supreme ends with...
Hospice chaplaincy took its toll emotionally sometimes, but it was blessed work. How grateful I was for those days, those days when God graced me with a little bit of the kingdom to keep me keepin' on. Usually, God’s grace came in the form of a patient sharing with me their story. Some days, I’d come home after the last visit full of gratitude. A patient named Gus comes to mind this Memorial Day as we ponder the meaning of selfless service for one’s country. Gus was 92-year-old man I visited just a couple of times. He graced me with his story and it helped me affirm the good in humanity and the goodness of my people. During World War II, Gus was a drafted officer in the German army. He was injured in the infamous battle of Moscow in late 1941. He’d later return to battle and eventually was taken as a POW by American soldiers and brought to Memphis, Tennessee. Gus spent a long while talking about how POW camps in America were different, a good different. He knew about the horror st...
Comments
Post a Comment