Dismissals

I attended a meeting of a committee I served on. Everyone was to bring some small sample of their own artistic, musical or literary work to share with the group … a “get-to-know” introduction. I’m a longtime watercolorist. I brought a small, recent watercolor. I thought it a good enough bit of work in its amateur, cartoony, good-natured, sort-of-way … a sailboat sailing, a big ship sinking, volcano erupting, and happy fish ignoring the chaos. A few in the group seemed to think I needed counseling. Next time, a cheerful landscape, chirping birds, and a smiling sun. 

Credit cards weren’t new, but Aunt Ellen didn’t have one. She acquired her first for a trip to England, assured by her banker that credit cards were as safe as the ocean liner itself. Her children gave her a small image of St. Christopher, patron saint of travelers. St. Christopher was lovingly tucked into her wallet next to her new credit card. Who knew St. Christopher was magnetized? Aunt Ellen learned a few things about magnets and credit cards … and about the hospitality of strangers in a distant land who, in her distress, saw to her needs … a splendid trip!

Sister Genevieve was my spiritual director, a counselor and advisor on the road to faith. I visited with her for some years. It was a challenge but Sister listened and helped me along. Sometimes, on the drive home, I recollected words that Sister had spoken, words from which I discerned meanings that hadn’t yet occurred to me. I once told Sister that my prayers seemed unfocused. Sister rose from her chair and gave me a candle so that, once home, sitting in the dark and focused on the candle, I might rejoice in the clarity that came from its light.

“The world is a dangerous and untidy place.” This old saying is an admonition … and a prompt. The time is right for me to join the fray … to do what I can … perhaps to throw a little oil on the troubled waters … perhaps to bind a wound or tend the broken. It comes to mind that I am not alone … that we are all coworkers … in this together … and we are legion. I watch what others do. I learn and the world becomes not so dangerous, not so untidy. I am one of many … and many hands make short work. 

“Robot” is the only Czechoslovakian word in the American lexicon. Thirty-five years ago, having worked there, I drove a rental car into Czechoslovakia. My work finished, I headed out at twilight … only to be stopped by flashing lights and six well-armed policemen. I produced my U.S. passport. They spoke no English. I stood stock still. With only “robot” as common language, it was a short conversation. They were courteous. We were all nonplussed. I, imagining a Czechoslovakian jail cell, sidled into to my car, looked back at them, and waved. They waved to me. I drove off.

Long ago, my sister Lorinda was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was her guy and we did medicine together. Sometimes, we went far afield. As the end drew near, we settled in with the hometown hospital. Whatever the procedure, as Lorinda was trundled down the hall on a gurney, I walked beside. Lorinda, looking up, found the ceiling to be frightfully dull. She said, “I wish someone would paint pictures on the ceiling.” The plea was heard. Fifth grade classes did the painting, hospital maintenance installed the images overhead. They were little noticed, except by those lying on a gurney.