Robert Hillyer
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Monday, September 15, 2008
16 September Inspiration
Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so.
Douglas Adams
With the ring, Happily ever after
I was a new pastor’s wife when my husband took me to a small town in Oklahoma. We fought until we learned to love each other during the two years we spent there. I was the new girl in town. I knew no one and barely knew my husband, Brad. He was busy with his church, and there I was, stuck. No money, no job and no friends. I was uncomfortable in my new role and resented it when others referred to me as “the preacher’s wife.” I failed to see what an honor that was.
The parishioners made attempts to befriend me, but I was too busy being lonely and angry, and was bound and determined to let Brad know it. I pouted and packed, whined and packed, and threw things at him and packed. “I’m leaving!” I would scream when he came home. With the fifty cents I had in my pocket and no gas money, I don’t know where I thought I was going, but I was adamant.
“Don’t do me any favors,” he would reply, which only caused me to turn on my heels and shout, “I’m staying, and don’t try and stop me!” Who did he think he was? I wasn’t about to let him kick me out.
Somewhere between my daily suitcase-packing episodes, I remembered that I had promised to love him for better or for worse. In desperation, I found ways to entertain myself. I spent hours picking from the six pecan trees in the front yard. I quickly realized that even though we had no money, the pecans made great Christmas gifts. I even found a job. Then my husband came home one day and announced that he had an interview at a church in Louisiana. I had just learned to live in Oklahoma!
True to form, I pouted and griped on the way to Louisiana. Then something stopped me in my tracks. We were on our way through Texas when we ran right into what looked like a giant crystal bowl. An ice storm had hit the area a few days earlier, and it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. And there I was, gnawing on my husband. Somewhere between Denton and Sulphur, I had taken off my wedding rings and tucked them into the folds of my skirt so that I could apply some hand cream. The ice we were skidding on distracted me just enough that I forgot to put my rings back on.
Three hours later I looked down and realized that I had lost my rings out on the highway when I had stepped out of the car to take a picture of a horse and buggy driving by. But which highway? Everything looks the same in an ice storm, especially when you are in unfamiliar country.
“I’ll buy you another ring,” my husband said.
I knew he meant well, but the ring was a family heirloom. “That ring can’t be replaced,” I cried.
“Honey, we don’t even know where to begin looking,” he said. “No, we’re NOT going back,” he insisted as he turned the car around and headed back to look for the rings.
It was hours before we found a location that seemed familiar. Occasionally some well-meaning person would pull his car over to the side of the road, roll down his window and yell, “Hey, buddy, what’d ya lose?” At one point, there must have been ten cars stopped on the side of the road, all abandoned by the occupants who had joined in the search. But with the sun going down, it was obvious that our chances of finding the rings were slim. I was crushed.
“Face it, Honey, they’re gone,” Brad said. “I know you’re upset. I promise to try and find a suitable replacement.”
I knew he was right. The walk in the cold that day had given me time to think about the day’s events. I played the scene over and over in my mind, and what I saw was not a pretty sight. I had ranted and raved, nagged and wailed, and acted like a spoiled brat. I took a good long look at my husband pacing back and forth in the freezing cold. He had driven three hours back to this desolate area in the middle of a treacherous ice storm without one thought for himself, attempting to find something that was important to me.
The rings might be gone, but there could never be a suitable replacement for my husband. Suddenly, the rings seemed so unimportant. I resolved right then and there to stop thinking only of myself.
It was at that very moment that I opened the car door and began to step inside. Something on the floor caught my eye. My rings! I grabbed them and waved them in the air. Brad rushed to my side and put them back on my finger. “This is where these rings belong,” he whispered. I looked into his eyes, and knew that I had found what I was looking for. It wasn’t my rings that were lost that day—I was the one who had been missing.
Life in the pastorate hasn’t changed. The only thing that has changed is me. We still move around more than I like. And I still have to start over again every time we do. But I’ve learned to appreciate when people call me “the preacher’s wife,” because etched into my mind is a frozen road in Texas, and a voice that whispers, “This is where these rings belong.”
The parishioners made attempts to befriend me, but I was too busy being lonely and angry, and was bound and determined to let Brad know it. I pouted and packed, whined and packed, and threw things at him and packed. “I’m leaving!” I would scream when he came home. With the fifty cents I had in my pocket and no gas money, I don’t know where I thought I was going, but I was adamant.
“Don’t do me any favors,” he would reply, which only caused me to turn on my heels and shout, “I’m staying, and don’t try and stop me!” Who did he think he was? I wasn’t about to let him kick me out.
Somewhere between my daily suitcase-packing episodes, I remembered that I had promised to love him for better or for worse. In desperation, I found ways to entertain myself. I spent hours picking from the six pecan trees in the front yard. I quickly realized that even though we had no money, the pecans made great Christmas gifts. I even found a job. Then my husband came home one day and announced that he had an interview at a church in Louisiana. I had just learned to live in Oklahoma!
True to form, I pouted and griped on the way to Louisiana. Then something stopped me in my tracks. We were on our way through Texas when we ran right into what looked like a giant crystal bowl. An ice storm had hit the area a few days earlier, and it was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen. And there I was, gnawing on my husband. Somewhere between Denton and Sulphur, I had taken off my wedding rings and tucked them into the folds of my skirt so that I could apply some hand cream. The ice we were skidding on distracted me just enough that I forgot to put my rings back on.
Three hours later I looked down and realized that I had lost my rings out on the highway when I had stepped out of the car to take a picture of a horse and buggy driving by. But which highway? Everything looks the same in an ice storm, especially when you are in unfamiliar country.
“I’ll buy you another ring,” my husband said.
I knew he meant well, but the ring was a family heirloom. “That ring can’t be replaced,” I cried.
“Honey, we don’t even know where to begin looking,” he said. “No, we’re NOT going back,” he insisted as he turned the car around and headed back to look for the rings.
It was hours before we found a location that seemed familiar. Occasionally some well-meaning person would pull his car over to the side of the road, roll down his window and yell, “Hey, buddy, what’d ya lose?” At one point, there must have been ten cars stopped on the side of the road, all abandoned by the occupants who had joined in the search. But with the sun going down, it was obvious that our chances of finding the rings were slim. I was crushed.
“Face it, Honey, they’re gone,” Brad said. “I know you’re upset. I promise to try and find a suitable replacement.”
I knew he was right. The walk in the cold that day had given me time to think about the day’s events. I played the scene over and over in my mind, and what I saw was not a pretty sight. I had ranted and raved, nagged and wailed, and acted like a spoiled brat. I took a good long look at my husband pacing back and forth in the freezing cold. He had driven three hours back to this desolate area in the middle of a treacherous ice storm without one thought for himself, attempting to find something that was important to me.
The rings might be gone, but there could never be a suitable replacement for my husband. Suddenly, the rings seemed so unimportant. I resolved right then and there to stop thinking only of myself.
It was at that very moment that I opened the car door and began to step inside. Something on the floor caught my eye. My rings! I grabbed them and waved them in the air. Brad rushed to my side and put them back on my finger. “This is where these rings belong,” he whispered. I looked into his eyes, and knew that I had found what I was looking for. It wasn’t my rings that were lost that day—I was the one who had been missing.
Life in the pastorate hasn’t changed. The only thing that has changed is me. We still move around more than I like. And I still have to start over again every time we do. But I’ve learned to appreciate when people call me “the preacher’s wife,” because etched into my mind is a frozen road in Texas, and a voice that whispers, “This is where these rings belong.”
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The Long Road Home
I find myself packing again. Well, let's be completely honest, this isn't really packing—it's shoving three weeks' worth of dirty clothes into a suitcase and having my roommate sit on it so I can get it to close.
This time is different; this isn't the same nostalgic trip down memory lane as when I packed before college. This is the "night before my first trip home frantic pack." So you get the idea—my plane leaves in two hours, and no, college didn't teach me to procrastinate. I was experienced in that art long before I stepped onto my college campus.
So now that I'm packed, I have a minute to examine my emotions about my first trip home. I'm excited. My best friend, Matt, picks me up, groggy, for our 4:00 a.m. drive. My expectations are that I am going home to what I left: my parents, home-cooked meals, friends with whom I shared distinctive bonds and my long-distance boyfriend, whom I have been dying to see. I am happy at college, but a trip home, to my family and friends, sounds like just the thing I need to prepare me for the pre-finals crunch.
I think I will catch up on the missed hours of sleep on the plane. Instead, I look around and realize that most of the exhausted passengers are students just like me. Below us, in the cargo bin, sits a year's worth of dirty laundry at least.
I miss my connecting flight, so I am later than expected. I step off the plane to find my mom frantic, thinking I had been "abducted" on the trip home. I look at her puzzled. I guess in a mother's eyes there is no logical explanation for being late, such as the obvious flight trouble. I assure her that I am fine and that I don't need to fly as an "unaccompanied minor" on the way back.
A few hours later, I'm back at the airport, waiting for my boyfriend's arrival home. He steps off the plane with the same groggy but excited look I wore hours before. We drive over to see my dad, who seems calmer than my mother had been. I ask to see my room, expecting to find my shrine, my old pompoms, prom pictures, candid photos of friends and dolls scattered about. To my surprise, everything is gone; there's not even a trace I had ever lived in the room. I'm starting to wonder if I really had been abducted on the way home. It's as if the second I became a "college" student, I had ceased to exist.
I start to wonder what else had changed since I'd been gone. My parents are in an awkward transition, wondering how to treat me now. They wrestle with whether to treat me—still their daughter—as one of them, an adult, or as the child they feel they sent away months earlier.
I run into two of my best friends from high school; we stare blankly at each other. We ask the simple questions and give simple, abrupt answers. It's as if we have nothing to say to each other. I wonder how things have changed so much in such a small amount of time. We used to laugh and promise that no matter how far away we were, our love for each other would never change. Their interests don't interest me anymore, and I find myself unable to relate my life to theirs.
I had been so excited to come home, but now I just look at it all and wonder: Is it me?
Why hadn't the world stood still here while I was gone? My room isn't the same, my friends and I don't share the same bond, and my parents don't know how to treat me—or who I am, for that matter.
I get back to school feeling half-fulfilled, but not disappointed. I sit up in my bed in my dorm room, surrounded by my pictures, dolls and mementos. As I wonder what has happened, I realize that I can't expect the world to stand still and move forward at the same time. I can't change and expect that things at home will stay the same. I have to find comfort in what has changed and what is new; keep the memories, but live in the present.
A few weeks later, I'm packing again, this time for winter break. My mom meets me at the curb. I have come home accepting the changes, not only in my surroundings, but most of all in me.
This time is different; this isn't the same nostalgic trip down memory lane as when I packed before college. This is the "night before my first trip home frantic pack." So you get the idea—my plane leaves in two hours, and no, college didn't teach me to procrastinate. I was experienced in that art long before I stepped onto my college campus.
So now that I'm packed, I have a minute to examine my emotions about my first trip home. I'm excited. My best friend, Matt, picks me up, groggy, for our 4:00 a.m. drive. My expectations are that I am going home to what I left: my parents, home-cooked meals, friends with whom I shared distinctive bonds and my long-distance boyfriend, whom I have been dying to see. I am happy at college, but a trip home, to my family and friends, sounds like just the thing I need to prepare me for the pre-finals crunch.
I think I will catch up on the missed hours of sleep on the plane. Instead, I look around and realize that most of the exhausted passengers are students just like me. Below us, in the cargo bin, sits a year's worth of dirty laundry at least.
I miss my connecting flight, so I am later than expected. I step off the plane to find my mom frantic, thinking I had been "abducted" on the trip home. I look at her puzzled. I guess in a mother's eyes there is no logical explanation for being late, such as the obvious flight trouble. I assure her that I am fine and that I don't need to fly as an "unaccompanied minor" on the way back.
A few hours later, I'm back at the airport, waiting for my boyfriend's arrival home. He steps off the plane with the same groggy but excited look I wore hours before. We drive over to see my dad, who seems calmer than my mother had been. I ask to see my room, expecting to find my shrine, my old pompoms, prom pictures, candid photos of friends and dolls scattered about. To my surprise, everything is gone; there's not even a trace I had ever lived in the room. I'm starting to wonder if I really had been abducted on the way home. It's as if the second I became a "college" student, I had ceased to exist.
I start to wonder what else had changed since I'd been gone. My parents are in an awkward transition, wondering how to treat me now. They wrestle with whether to treat me—still their daughter—as one of them, an adult, or as the child they feel they sent away months earlier.
I run into two of my best friends from high school; we stare blankly at each other. We ask the simple questions and give simple, abrupt answers. It's as if we have nothing to say to each other. I wonder how things have changed so much in such a small amount of time. We used to laugh and promise that no matter how far away we were, our love for each other would never change. Their interests don't interest me anymore, and I find myself unable to relate my life to theirs.
I had been so excited to come home, but now I just look at it all and wonder: Is it me?
Why hadn't the world stood still here while I was gone? My room isn't the same, my friends and I don't share the same bond, and my parents don't know how to treat me—or who I am, for that matter.
I get back to school feeling half-fulfilled, but not disappointed. I sit up in my bed in my dorm room, surrounded by my pictures, dolls and mementos. As I wonder what has happened, I realize that I can't expect the world to stand still and move forward at the same time. I can't change and expect that things at home will stay the same. I have to find comfort in what has changed and what is new; keep the memories, but live in the present.
A few weeks later, I'm packing again, this time for winter break. My mom meets me at the curb. I have come home accepting the changes, not only in my surroundings, but most of all in me.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
14 September Inspiration
Man improves himself as he follows his path; if he stands still, waiting to improve before he makes a decision, he'll never move.
Paulo Coelho
The Big Picture
He was a most remarkable man. A man of years clearly mapped out upon his face. Clean, well-kept, but not pretentious in his style or dress. I shook his hand and felt a mix of gentleness and hardened, leather-like skin. I would guess he labored most of his life; now he was forced to stop long enough to heal.
His movie-star blue eyes slip you into a momentary trance. He wouldn't notice you staring at him, though, for he is legally blind. But he senses the hesitation in your voice if you do not respond immediately to his first question. "So, how was your life?"
That question alone halts you in your tracks.
"I would be better prepared to answer how was my day," I suggested.
"That's too easy," he said. "I think we need to keep up on our life as a whole."
I thought for a moment and simply asked, "Why?"
"We tend to nit-pick. We can so easily take one day and dissect it. It is easy to say you are having a bad day. Or simply write it off as 'One of those days.' But when we broaden the view, we take much more into consideration. Life in general will be 'good' or at least 'okay,'" he explained.
"So you cut right to it and ask for an overall rating," I said.
"If I can get someone to see the big picture and realize there is more good in their life than one bad day, I might even change their outlook on this very day," he said.
"So, how was your life?" I asked him right back.
"Wonderful so far!" he responded with a smile. "Thanks for asking."
Then he said one more thing that really stayed with me. "I'm on the shady side of sunset."
How powerful! It seems to me that we often see life as beginnings and endings. Sunrise depicts a new dawn, an exciting adventure ahead. Sunset make us think of endings, like "riding off into the sunset."
This man knew his life, his time, was coming to a close.
"I do hope the sun sets slower for you," I told him. "You have so many more people to ask the big question."
Before I left I promised him I'd help. Let me begin by asking you.
"So, how was your life?"
13 September Inspiration
Most people want to be delivered from temptation but would like it to keep in touch.
Robert Orben
Friday, September 12, 2008
Miracle's cost
Sally was only eight years old when she heard Mommy and Daddy talking about her little brother, Georgi. He was very sick and they had done everything they could afford to save his life. Only a very expensive surgery could help him now . . . and that was out of the financial question. She heard Daddy say it with a whispered desperation, "Only a miracle can save him now."
Sally went to her bedroom and pulled her piggy bank from its hiding place in the closet. She shook all the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times. The total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Tying the coins up in a cold-weather-kerchief, she slipped out of the apartment and made her way to the corner drug store.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her attention. . . but he was too busy talking to another man to be bothered by an eight-year-old. Sally twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. She cleared her throat. No good. Finally she took a quarter from its hiding place and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice.
"Well, I want to talk to you about my brother," Sally answered back in the same annoyed tone. "He's sick . . . and I want to buy a miracle."
"I beg your pardon," said the pharmacist.
"My Daddy says only a miracle can save him now . . . so how much does a miracle cost?"
"We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I can't help you."
"Listen, I have the money to pay for it. Just tell me how much it costs."
The well-dressed man stooped down and asked, "What kind of a miracle does you brother need?"
"I don't know," Sally answered. A tear started down her cheek. "I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my folks can't pay for it . . . so I have my money.
"How much do you have?" asked the well-dressed man.
"A dollar and eleven cents," Sally answered proudly. "And it's all the money I have in the world."
"Well, what a coincidence," smiled the well-dressed man. A dollar and eleven cents . . . the exact price of a miracle to save a little brother. He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said "Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents."
That well-dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, renowned surgeon, specializing in solving Georgi's malady. The operation was completed without charge and it wasn't long until Georgi was home again and doing well. Mommy and Daddy were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.
"That surgery," Mommy whispered. "It's like a miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?
Sally smiled to herself. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost... one dollar and eleven cents... plus the faith of a little child.
Sally went to her bedroom and pulled her piggy bank from its hiding place in the closet. She shook all the change out on the floor and counted it carefully. Three times. The total had to be exactly perfect. No chance here for mistakes. Tying the coins up in a cold-weather-kerchief, she slipped out of the apartment and made her way to the corner drug store.
She waited patiently for the pharmacist to give her attention. . . but he was too busy talking to another man to be bothered by an eight-year-old. Sally twisted her feet to make a scuffing noise. She cleared her throat. No good. Finally she took a quarter from its hiding place and banged it on the glass counter. That did it!
"And what do you want?" the pharmacist asked in an annoyed tone of voice.
"Well, I want to talk to you about my brother," Sally answered back in the same annoyed tone. "He's sick . . . and I want to buy a miracle."
"I beg your pardon," said the pharmacist.
"My Daddy says only a miracle can save him now . . . so how much does a miracle cost?"
"We don't sell miracles here, little girl. I can't help you."
"Listen, I have the money to pay for it. Just tell me how much it costs."
The well-dressed man stooped down and asked, "What kind of a miracle does you brother need?"
"I don't know," Sally answered. A tear started down her cheek. "I just know he's really sick and Mommy says he needs an operation. But my folks can't pay for it . . . so I have my money.
"How much do you have?" asked the well-dressed man.
"A dollar and eleven cents," Sally answered proudly. "And it's all the money I have in the world."
"Well, what a coincidence," smiled the well-dressed man. A dollar and eleven cents . . . the exact price of a miracle to save a little brother. He took her money in one hand and with the other hand he grasped her mitten and said "Take me to where you live. I want to see your brother and meet your parents."
That well-dressed man was Dr. Carlton Armstrong, renowned surgeon, specializing in solving Georgi's malady. The operation was completed without charge and it wasn't long until Georgi was home again and doing well. Mommy and Daddy were happily talking about the chain of events that had led them to this place.
"That surgery," Mommy whispered. "It's like a miracle. I wonder how much it would have cost?
Sally smiled to herself. She knew exactly how much a miracle cost... one dollar and eleven cents... plus the faith of a little child.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
A Candy Bar Blessing
By Norris Burkes
"Today's the day I start the big diet," I told my wife as I raised my hand and promised, "No chocolate today!"
"Oh, has the hospital gift shop stopped selling Three Musketeers bars?" she asked, referring to my favorite candy bar.
"No," I said, letting my belt out an extra notch. "I'll just have to rely on some willpower."
But when I arrived at the hospital and found my little friend Benton had been admitted again, I knew my candy pledge would quickly melt. Because if Benton had things his way, and he usually did, I'd be eating a piece of candy from the bottomless bag he constantly shared.
Benton Regello was an eight-year-old boy who was blinded by a tumor when he was fifteen months old. For the next twenty-six months, he was in and out of our hospital for chemotherapy and surgeries. During that time, he made countless friends. Struck by his incredible bravery and resilience, our staff began to believe that Benton was going to beat his disease. "He was just a regular little boy," recalled one of the nurses, "only he learned his ABCs in Braille."
For nearly four years, it seemed as though Benton was beating the odds, until one Friday afternoon in April 2003, when he developed a headache and lost movement on his right side. His mom rushed him to the hospital, where tests revealed a large tumor had hemorrhaged and caused a stroke. But the worst news was that the malignancy had spread into other areas of the brain.
Over the next several months, Benton came to our hospital many more times. Each time he came, he wandered the halls, guided by his mother. Each time one of his caregivers would say hello, Benton answered the greeting by dipping into his candy sack and holding out Hershey's kisses. Sort of a trick or treat in reverse.
So, on that first day of my diet, I went to his room expecting more candy kisses. Instead, I found Benton curled up in his bed, his eyes open but not looking into this world. His parents, Bob and Jeanne, had moved their bed next to his and lay stretched alongside him, stroking his head and whispering things I could not hear.
Benton had suffered more seizures. And now he was dying.
"We've tried to say our good-byes," his mom explained. "But I know he's worried about us. He knows he's going to heaven, but he doesn't want to go there alone. Chaplain, could you say a prayer that he won't feel alone?"
My prayer came from Psalm 139:7–8:
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there.
After the prayer, I helped Benton's parents recall the days we'd seen him in the hospital giving out candy. We talked about how Benton had used this simple gesture to express care for people whom he didn't even know or wasn't able to see.
Yet, even without his vision, he did see. He saw the need of people to know a touch and he gave them that touch. That touch was Benton's real gift.
"We brought his candy bag with us. Would you like to have some?" Jeanne asked.
Without a mention of my diet, I reached into the bag and pulled out the first piece my fingers touched. When I opened my hand, I found a miniature version of a Three Musketeers.
The gravity of my tears was impossible to resist. It seemed as though Benton had saved one last piece of my favorite candy.
I managed some quick good-bye hugs and put the little candy bar in my breast pocket. At home that evening, as I was getting undressed I removed the candy just as the phone rang. It was Benton's nurse.
"Chaplain, I thought you'd like to know, Benton passed away ten minutes ago," she said.
As I hung up the phone, I ripped open the half-melted candy bar and, with the solemnity of communion, I ate it.
"Today's the day I start the big diet," I told my wife as I raised my hand and promised, "No chocolate today!"
"Oh, has the hospital gift shop stopped selling Three Musketeers bars?" she asked, referring to my favorite candy bar.
"No," I said, letting my belt out an extra notch. "I'll just have to rely on some willpower."
But when I arrived at the hospital and found my little friend Benton had been admitted again, I knew my candy pledge would quickly melt. Because if Benton had things his way, and he usually did, I'd be eating a piece of candy from the bottomless bag he constantly shared.
Benton Regello was an eight-year-old boy who was blinded by a tumor when he was fifteen months old. For the next twenty-six months, he was in and out of our hospital for chemotherapy and surgeries. During that time, he made countless friends. Struck by his incredible bravery and resilience, our staff began to believe that Benton was going to beat his disease. "He was just a regular little boy," recalled one of the nurses, "only he learned his ABCs in Braille."
For nearly four years, it seemed as though Benton was beating the odds, until one Friday afternoon in April 2003, when he developed a headache and lost movement on his right side. His mom rushed him to the hospital, where tests revealed a large tumor had hemorrhaged and caused a stroke. But the worst news was that the malignancy had spread into other areas of the brain.
Over the next several months, Benton came to our hospital many more times. Each time he came, he wandered the halls, guided by his mother. Each time one of his caregivers would say hello, Benton answered the greeting by dipping into his candy sack and holding out Hershey's kisses. Sort of a trick or treat in reverse.
So, on that first day of my diet, I went to his room expecting more candy kisses. Instead, I found Benton curled up in his bed, his eyes open but not looking into this world. His parents, Bob and Jeanne, had moved their bed next to his and lay stretched alongside him, stroking his head and whispering things I could not hear.
Benton had suffered more seizures. And now he was dying.
"We've tried to say our good-byes," his mom explained. "But I know he's worried about us. He knows he's going to heaven, but he doesn't want to go there alone. Chaplain, could you say a prayer that he won't feel alone?"
My prayer came from Psalm 139:7–8:
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there.
After the prayer, I helped Benton's parents recall the days we'd seen him in the hospital giving out candy. We talked about how Benton had used this simple gesture to express care for people whom he didn't even know or wasn't able to see.
Yet, even without his vision, he did see. He saw the need of people to know a touch and he gave them that touch. That touch was Benton's real gift.
"We brought his candy bag with us. Would you like to have some?" Jeanne asked.
Without a mention of my diet, I reached into the bag and pulled out the first piece my fingers touched. When I opened my hand, I found a miniature version of a Three Musketeers.
The gravity of my tears was impossible to resist. It seemed as though Benton had saved one last piece of my favorite candy.
I managed some quick good-bye hugs and put the little candy bar in my breast pocket. At home that evening, as I was getting undressed I removed the candy just as the phone rang. It was Benton's nurse.
"Chaplain, I thought you'd like to know, Benton passed away ten minutes ago," she said.
As I hung up the phone, I ripped open the half-melted candy bar and, with the solemnity of communion, I ate it.
11 September Inspiration
Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.
Dr. Seuss
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