I'VE GOT TO HAND IT TO YOU

As far as opinion goes, it does not matter what I think as to whether you should receive communion on the tongue or in the hand. According to the General Instruction of the Roman Missal (paragraph 92) you have the right to receive on the tongue as a universal rule. You may receive in the hand where the conference of bishops with papal approval has deemed it permissible. (It is interesting to note however that the rest of the short paragraph warns against possible difficulties with receiving in the hand and actually forbids the practice if there is a risk of profanation.)

The risk of abuses when communion is received in the hand increases dramatically and it is incumbent upon the communicant to put forth the extra effort this privilege demands in order to make sure that the Blessed Sacrament is afforded all of the attention and care of which He is deserving. It is also vitally important that pastors make sure that his people are properly disposed to receiving in the hand if they so desire it. To that end, here are a couple of notes:

If you are not able to properly receive in the hand; don't. If you have a hand in a cast, if you are on crutches, if you have a hymnal in your hands, if you have your hymnal (or purse or any object) shoved up under your arm (no matter powerful your armpits are), if you are carrying a baby, or holding hands or need a hand to balance yourself or for any reason you do not have full and free use of your both of your hands and arms for the reception of the Blessed Sacrament, receive on the tongue.

So suppose your hands and arms are not otherwise occupied or disabled, please consider the following.

This is the way to receive communion in the hand. Your dominant hand is placed under your non-dominate hand. With fingers closed and palm flat and parallel to the floor, you create an altar for the reception of our Lord. Observed in this fashion it will be difficult to receive communion irreverently (unless at the same time you are also sticking your tongue out thoroughly confusing the person distributing.)

THE PINCHASAURUS (Sometimes know as Birdus Beakodiosus) As communion is about to be placed in the hand of the recipient, a "pincher" known in some circles as the Bird Beak of Snatchiness jumps out and tries to snatch the host out of the hand of the minister. The pincher can sometimes be quite persistent. In worse case scenarios one must use the incantation, "Stop it!" and then whack the person on the head and when they open their mouth to say, "Ouch," you place the Eucharist on their tongue and promise them that this is what will happen every time they come to communion until they learn now to receive correctly.

THE AMBIDEXTROUS It may be obvious to YOU into which hand the Eucharist should be placed (couldn't he see my pinkies were overlapped?) but it is not to everyone else. Please don't make the minister have to guess.

LAYITONMEOUS - Often leads to popping Jesus in the same way pills are popped. Again if you only have one hand, receive on the tongue. Unfortunately I am blind in one eye so if you hold out only one hand, I won't see it and will resort to distributing to you on the tongue. (Yes, I am kidding, I can see with both eyes. Just not at the same time.)

THE POSTUS SLOTUS - Please deposit one host. No.

THE RICEUS BOWLUS - Rice bowls are general good for collecting money for Catholic Relief Services and for, well, rice. Doesn't work so hot for communion. It may be that you are crippled up with arthritis, but in such cases, please receive on the tongue.

THE MODEST MANUS - I find it strange that persons who don't mind showing their mid-drifts or legs beginning just below the hips will be modest about exposing the skin of their hands in church. Please let me assure you that not only, at least in the instance, is it alright, it is also mandatory.

THE PIUS MANUS - Actually NOTHING should be in your hands, not even something that we would otherwise consider holy.

THE NOTA BENE - Have the answers to your final written in the palm of your hand? A reminder to pick up milk? A phone number? More information than we need. Only the pure of heart shall see God and only the clean of hand shall receive Jesus.

We believe this is the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of our Lord Jesus Christ. Proper reception of the Body and Blood of our Lord gives great witness to this miraculous gift He has entrusted to us.

MONDAY DIARY - CHAPTER 14

The homily for my Dad's funeral was a partial reflection on our relationship with God and so I thought for this week to post it as the Monday Diary (it seems to work). As usualy with my homilies, it does not read well and changes with the preaching of it, but you get the idea. Thank you again for all your prayers and support. Especially surprising was the support from the cyber community. Wow. Thank you guys. May God bless you all.

I will tell you the truth, I was worried about my Dad. Not only was he not much of a Church man he was not much of a God man either though he tollerated my my foray into both realms. He once told me that he was glad that I was going to be a priest. “Religion is for weak people,” he said, “and at least you will be a leader.”

Dad was extremely practical and of a scientific mindset. For something to matter to him, for it to be believed, for it to make it on his radar screen it had to be out in the open readily available to touch, sight, and scrutiny. That bled into his life even about the house. Things were not in drawers or closets or boxes but out in the open. Even his desk was covered with papers and projects much to the consternation of Mom who liked things neat and tidy. “A place for everything and evething in its place,” she used to say. I like to think I am like Mom, but I am afraid that I am much more like my Dad in that matter. Fr. Klasinski, my last pastor, used to say, “You have so much STUFF.” I don’t think I did, it was just that all my stuff was out in the open.

This needing to see and handle and prove and use extended, for Dad I think, even to God. For most of his life God was just a bit too invisible, required to much quietness, was a bit too theoretical to be believed.

Those of you who knew my Dad know that he loved, relished, and adored life. The world was his playground. He woke up excited in the morning and went to bed regretuly at night that the day was over. Especially after retirement it was not at all unusual for him to wake up in the morning to work in the garden, then run out to see if the guys were windsurfing at the lake, take a trip out to the airport to see if anyone wanted to go up, then home to eat dinner and back out to go on a long bike trip which might include a visit to his sister in Pleasantview or Sue down at the city building. And this he did well into his eighties.

And though he loved life, one day we were taking a ride out to Silver Creek to go cross country skiing and he turned to me with tears in his eyes and said, “Do you know why I do all these things? I have to get it all in. Soon there will be nothing, this will all be over.” He truly believed that this life was all there was.

Now this is pretty serious stuff for a son who believes that all of this is temporary. It is nice and beautiful and enjoyable but is not the point of our existance. There is more life, more beauty, more joy yet to come and (I thought) my Father has no concept of it. He has no hope. For me this was sad and so I prayed for him in a special way every day that he would not live life merely in fear of death.

The first time I had an inkling that things might be different was when Mom died. Dad was destroyed; completely bereft. He may have not known Scripture but he did believe that they were one and part of him died when she died. It was made all the worse because he did not have the hope of a future meeting. For him his wife, Mom, simply ceased to exist. That was when Uncle Frank reported that he had taken Dad aside and prayed with him; perhaps the first time he had done so not under deress since he was a lad.

A few months later I was cleaning his house (something he was adament about not needing done) and I came across a prayer he had secreted away that someone sent in the mail. It asked for God’s help in belief. I quietly put it away. God and prayer were not topics about which we spoke civily.

Eventually it became clear that Dad needed constant attention and so he went to live at Pleasantview with his sister. (I must say that Pleasantview is an outstanding institution that bent way over backwords for Dad. I’ve yet to encounter a place that does so much for residents as this place did for Dad. Instead of medicating into oblivian they worked hard at just plain tuckering him out every day.) Every now and then I would ask him if he would like to be anointed (I didn’t want to force anything one him) and he would get a sour look on his face (a kin the look I might get if you ask me if I would like to have some fish) and flatly say, “No!”

I know some of my brother priests visited him from time and so I asked them to offer the sacraments to him should they be there in the off chance that he just did not want to receive them from his son. I thank you for your efforts.

It got to the point that I no longer asked or brought my oils with me. One day he was feeling particularly down and we had emptied our bag of tricks and so in an off hand way I said, “All that’s left is anointing Dad, I’m out of ideas.” “Okay,” he said. I was in shock. I said to my sister, “Keep him occupied, I am going to run out and get my oils before he changes his mind!” When we were done there was a quiet time and we could see him thinking. “Thank you,” he said in his most officious voice. That was amazing and my sister and I looked at each other with eyebrows raised.

Things began to change quite a bit after that. Dad was confused and could not understand what was the matter with him. His body in which he had put so much trust was turning on him. Once again, after everything else failed I said, “Well Dad, you could trying praying.” “Fine. How?” he asked in his gruff way in these matters. “Just ask God to help you.” “Fine. God help me. How’s that?” “That was a good start Dad.”

Then a couple of weeks ago I got the best present that Dad could give. Conversation was difficult. He could be right in the present or the very distant past. You could not ask what he had for lunch and he could not or would not talk about the future. So conversation was more of a monologue of current events from the speaker. I ran out of things to tell him and we sat quietly for a while and then I stood and said, “Well, Dad, I gotta go.” “Okay,” he said. But it didn’t seem quite right to end the conversation on that note and so on a whim, on my way out the door, I said, “God bless you Dad.” “John,” he said causing me to stop and turn, “God bless you too.” For a week I was in a daze. “Wow, I received my Father’s blessing.” This was something I never expected to receive and it was quite the thing to receive it.

Well, this is the way things stand; Dad died with the consolation of the sacraments and we rely on God’s mercy which I believe to be generous. The day before he died I told hom to say the prayer to the Sacred Heart to Whom our family has a particular devotion. “Just say, ‘Jesus, I trust you’ Dad. It is the most powerful prayer I know for you now.” And with that I put my trust in Him.

How appropriate then it seems to have buried Dad on the Feast of Saint Thomas. Doubting Thomas who would not believe until he put his finger into the wounds of Jesus’ hand and his hand into his side. Who know why or if there is a why Dad had to suffer so. But maybe he need to experience wounds, albeit his own, in order to believe and so be ready to go home.

In any event it just goes to show you never know. Never give up on a person. Never give up on love even for the seeming unlovable thereby becoming unloving yourself. Never give up on hope even with the hopeless. Never give up on faith even with the difficult cases. Everyone has their own journey and no two are alike. Some are hard and some are not. But I believe God never gives up on us no matter how “hard” we may be and we should, in turn, never give up on each other.

So Dad, we pray you find you way home and to joy and to God. May you find the best clouds to ski down and Mom to waltz with once more.

O Sacred Heart of Jesus, we place our trust in You. Jesus meek and humble of heart, make our hearts, and especially that of the most troubled, like unto Thine.

THE "HOW NOT TO" OF EVANGELIZATION

It was was late and I was still fully vested and noticed that one of the doors of the church was still propped open and so went to close it before I took off my robes and put everything away.  Just I was about to close the door two gentlemen walked in.

“You are welcome into the church,” I told them, “Just make sure that the doors are closed when you leave.”

One was dressed like a priest whom I have never seen before.  “Oh no Father, we are here to see you.”

“Oh.”  Alarms are going off in my head.  Weird time.  Weird place.  Weird situation.  “What can I do for you?”

“We are here to tell you that Jesus loves you and died for you.”  Then for the next fifteen minutes or so the priest gave me his witness about what a rough life he lead until he started taking Jesus seriously, while I stood against the door holding it open, fully dressed, with a candle snuffer in my hands.  In my mind, I am wondering how I can shake these guys.  I’ve got a church to close up, it’s close to my bedtime, and I just wanted a little time to unwind.  But being late, I had no excuse.  “I have another appointment to get to,” would not only be a lie, it would be an improbable one.

But then he was winding up and I though that I could still salvage a little of my evening.  Nay, nay.  Then the other gentleman started in on his self humiliating witness.  

The night went on from there.  It is a much more involved (and mildly humorous) story.  Eventually we (Fr. Simone is there by now) fed them and found them a place to stay.  Afterward time was given to analyzing how effective their witness was.

I suppose on the one hand I an grateful for being given the opportunity to minister to them.  (And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is my disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.  Mt 10:42.)  But was their witness effective?  I found myself more annoyed than anything else.

It reminded me of riding the Metro to downtown Akron from Barberton when I was a kid.  There was a guy who got on and started asking people, “Are you saved?  Are you going to heaven?”  He worked his way down the aisle of the bus and before long people would not even look at him.  

In both of these cases there was a person who presumed they had something to give you without even bothering to know you (or being asked.)  Is that it?  It is like someone handing out unsolicited medical advice?  A person leans over from their table at the restaurant and taps another patron on the shoulder, “Are you really going to eat that?  Do you know what that does to your arteries?”  

The lesson for me here is that evangelization doesn’t seem to work well in guerrilla mode.  I know my defenses went immediately go up.  (Who are you?  What is that you really want?  Do you even know me or what I might need?)  But the best path is always through familiarity and invitation.  

Maybe not the best example is my father.  When he was nearing the end of his life, not a lifelong friend of the church, he started asking me for “help.”  “All I have Dad is sacraments and prayer,” to which he offered a, “Bah!”  Then one day he begrudgingly said, “Okay.”  It was such a shock that it took me a few seconds to believe him.  There were no commands, “You need to pray and be anointed!”  There was no ambush, “I’m going to anoint you whether you like it or not.”  There was an invitation from his son and eventually he said yes.  I believe, handled any other way, he would never have been anointed - just annoyed.  

MONDAY DIARY: ALMOST EXCRUCIATINGLY TRUE STORIES: YET ANOTHER REASON TO WEAR ONE'S COLLAR IN PUBLIC

The most remarkable thing happened this past Saturday night; too remarkable to make into a cartoon.  Fr. Pfeiffer and I went to go see a play in downtown Cleveland and when the play finished, we found ourselves in one of the very scenes of the play, unstaged, out on the street.

 

To get the incident, I’ll give you a quick rundown of the pertinent parts of the play.  It was a staged production of C. S. Lewis’s book, “The Great Divorce.”  The story is a Dante-esque journey of a bus load of people from hell getting the chance to see heaven and even stay there if they chose so, but who ultimately chose to stay in hell.  One man feels that his rights were violated by the mercy of heaven, a woman cannot let go of her control of others, one wants fame more than glory, one wants her version of love rather than God’s, and the list goes on.  In the end, these people chose hell as a favored place to be.

 

When the play let out, it was apparent that at least one other play had ended at the same time and so I suggested that we go across the street and get coffee and desert while we waited for the traffic to thin out.  We debated the play and the points made and then headed out.

 

Crossing the street there was a young man, (mid-twenties?) who turned to us and said, “Are you two priests?” 

 

“Yes,” I replied, and took off my glove and extended a hand.  “Hello, my name is Father Valencheck.”

 

He recoiled as if I were handing him a snake.  “No way!” he said, turned and kept on his way to the other side of the street.

 

Things such as this happen occasionally.  It is the sometimes blessing/sometimes curse of wearing one’s collar in public.  One learns to let it roll off.

 

As we gained the sidewalk however the young man turned back toward us and said, “You guys know, of course, there is no God.”

 

“Actually, I don’t quite know that at all.” I responded.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.  There is no God.  I know it.”

 

“And I would respond that there is one.  And I know Him.”

 

“You know what I believe?  Science.  Facts.  Not stories in a book.  Not people walking on water.  Not having to do good works that a God tells me I have to do to get into heaven.  It’s all silly.”

 

I will give this much to the young man.  He may have been willing to throw out comments such as this, but he was also willing to engage and have a conversation.  Many, if not most people like to throw a comment-bomb and run it seems.  I admire him that he would be willing to have a debate in the middle of the sidewalk in downtown Cleveland, late on a cold, cold night.

 

Everything in the objections-to-faith-including-the-kitchen-sink arsenal was hauled out and thrown at us.  It was like a game of dodge ball but instead of the two of us playing against one person, he was like a team against two!  Question from left field, point from the right, beaming ball right between the eyes.

 

The most interesting part of the conversation for me was toward the end.  “How do you determine the good?”

 

“We, each of us, get to decide for ourselves.” 

 

Fr. Pfeiffer, “And what if I thought it was right to take your life?”

 

Young man: “That would be wrong.”

 

Me:  “Good.  Then how is it determined that your good is better than mine?”

 

Young man:  “Look, if a guy killed five people robbing a bank, how could you say that that was right?”

 

“The crook would think it just fine.  He would have money he never had before and if not caught might have a lot more stuff than he did before.”

 

Eventually we got to this point: there is no ultimate good, no truth (unsubstantiated by facts) and no real purpose or point to life.  It is simply what you make of it and decide that it is.  And when death comes, its game over – end of existence.

 

“That being said,” added the young man, “You have to admit that religion is what causes all the wars and violence in the world.  Religion is what is wrong.”

 

“I would have to strongly disagree with you.  As a matter of fact, I would say quite the opposite in most cases.”

 

“It is religion that breads hatred,” he countered, “and violence.”

 

“And yet,” I replied, “when we were crossing the street, which of us took off his glove, extended a hand, said good evening and introduced himself, and who refused?”

 

At that, he broke out with a great smile, he shoulders relaxed, and he extended his hand.  “Sorry about that.  I think I needed to vent and you were here.” 

 

We learned then that his name was Mike and he turned out to be quite a likable fellow.  We parted on friendly terms and Fr. Pfeiffer could not resist turning back to him and saying, “Good night and God bless!” to which he threw up his hands and with a big smile shot back, “No, no no!”

SHORT STORY WEEK INSTALLMENT II

II

“Please Bishop, I really think I have done all that I can do here.  The parish is in default and I don’t seem to be able to help the downward spiral!”  There was a tinge of frustration and sadness in his voice.  “Please let me transfer!  Get someone in here that knows what to do!”

“Fr. Andrews, you far undervalue your services at the parish.  You know as well as I do that we cannot close the it.  It is far too historic and important to the diocese.  I also believe that if it wasn’t for you, the situation would be far, far worse.  I can’t imagine another priest in this diocese that would be as good a priest for this parish as you are.  I know it’s difficult.  Nobody saw all of the factories in town closing and so quickly.  I need you there!  You are a great pastor of the people who are left.”

“But . . .”

“No buts.  The conversation is coming to an end.  I told you my decision Fr. Andrews.  Be the great pastor to this parish that I know you are.  Remember: it is not about numbers.  God bless you.”

With a click the line went dead.  Placing the receiver back onto its cradle Father Andrews rubbed his eyes and sighed heavily.

“What is it boss?”  Mrs. Bailey came into the office carrying a tray of coffee.

“Oh?  Nothing.  Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Coffee pusher.”

“What did His Excellency have to say?”

“What?  Nothing.  I mean, what excellency?”

“Oh come on.  I know it was the Bishop on the line.”

He held her gaze for a moment and then relented.  “There isn’t going to be any help coming from downtown to save us and I was told to buck up and keep the place going.”

“Ah,” she said, sitting across from his desk and stirring her own coffee.  As the milk turned the coffee caramel she asked, “What do we need to make a real go of it Father?”

The priest snorted.  “People and money.”

Mrs. Bailey clicked her spoon down on her saucer.  “Well there's a revelation.  I meant, what do you suppose we need to get more of both over in the church?”

“A miracle.”

“What kind of miracle Father.  Dream big.  What would do the trick?”

“More jobs in town.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” she took a sip of her coffee while resting both elbows on the edge of his desk.  “But what is something more realistic?  If you could wish something what would it be?”

The priest guffawed.  “Wish?”

“Yes, what would you wish?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe that we had some sort of vision or something.  Maybe if the Blessed Virgin Mary showed herself and we started getting bus loads of people in here to help pay for all of the repairs these old historic buildings need.  That would be great.  I wish something like that would happen.”

As Mrs. Bailey sipped her coffee she let slip a "Humph!"

Just then there was a frantic and persistent knocking at the door.  Mrs. Bailey and the priest looked at each other.  "What could that be about?” Mrs. Bailey asked.  More with his eyes than with his voice he conveyed that he hadn’t the slightest idea.

“FATHER!”  The pounding continued.

“For the love of Pete come in.”  The door flew open and a young altar server stumbled in, his face red, his eyes wild, arms flying.  

“Father, get over to the church right now!  On the wall over the organ!  There is an apparition of the Blessed Virgin Mary!”

III

Father Andrews slammed his fist down on his desk.  “This is ridiculous!”  

“That may be,” said the inspector,  “but it is the law.”

“Look, I think that we have been more than accommodating.  We built two new parking garages,  purchased the surrounding houses of upset neighbors, updated everything to be in line with codes, built the reception halls; the new church alone built to hold all of the extra people cost millions and now you want us to help pay for road improvements?  Are you out of your Vulcan mind?”

“That is uncalled for Father.”  The inspector adjusted the briefcase in his lap.  “This was a quiet neighborhood.”

“WHAT NEIGHBORHOOD?  There was no neighborhood.  The neighborhood was DEAD!”

“Be that as it may, the area was not designed for the high level of traffic that your church is attracting not to mention the busses and . . . “

The intercom buzzed.  “Fr. Andrews?”

“WHAT?”

“There is another unscheduled bus that just showed up, the Society of the End of the World is holding a rally outside again, there is a news crew in the lobby wanting just a quick word with you, and Mrs. Lanning has chained herself to the altar rail again.  Do you want me to call the police?”

The inspector stood.  “Here is your warning letter Father.  Fines will start if don’t start taking care of this project.”

“Oh, you’ve got to be . . .”

Just then the door burst open.  “Father Andrews!  Come quickly.”  It was the neighboring pastor and he had a rather desperate look on his face.

“What is it Jack?”  His level of disinterest matched Fr. Jack’s level of excitement.

“There’s no time to explain.  Just take my word for it that you need to follow me and NOW!”

Fr. Andrews lumbered to the door and Fr. Jack grabbed his arm and forcibly picked up his pace.  

“Wait.  Where are we going?  Are you taking me to my suite?”

“You look miserable.  Sit down.  I’m making us drinks.”

“But there is a bus and . . .”

“It’s not your parish Father and you are not the savior of the world.  Let the bus take care of the bus.  This is ridiculous.” 

“You can say that again.  This place has become a zoo that happens to have Mass and confession.  Wow, does that taste good.  Thank you.  I just might make it to dinner aline now.”

“I don’t know how you think you are going to continue this way.  It isn’t particularly good for you and your parish is practically nonexistent.  All your people have fled to surrounding parishes.  This is nothing but a religious tourist trap.  Nice new bookstore by the way.”

“Thanks.  Here’s a discount card for clergy.”

“Thank you.”

After a sip Fr. Andrews told his friend,“This place is going to be the death of me.”

“I can see that.”

“Sometimes I wish . . .” with that, Fr. Andrews slapped a hand against his lips.

“What?  Wish what?  What were you going to say?”

“I - I’m afraid to say it.”

“It’s just me.  You can say anything in front of me.  It goes no further.”

“You’d be surprised how far it might go.”

“What?  Are afraid that your room is bugged?”  He took a quick look under the lamp shade.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

Fr. Jack took a sip of his drink.  “You worry me Father.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  Really.  You seem like you are on the edge of falling apart.”

“Wow,” he said as the realization of how stressed he must seem hit him.  “Maybe I should say it.”

“Say what?”

“I wish all this craziness would end.”

EVERYBODY CALLS ME FATHER

Today's post is the result of two ideas. The first comes from the notion that you are far more interesting that you think you are. The reason people's lives in books and movies seem so interesting is that they have writers who who cut out all the mundane and unnecessary stuff to a particular storyline (except the sex of course - *sigh* - Okay, I've got it! They're having sex. Can we move along?) I thoroughly believe that something happens to you everyday or nearly everyday that would make a good story if the time were taken to contemplate it or if it could be seen it from the outside. Your life is foreign and interesting to somebody.

The second notion comes from people always asking, "So what do you do as a priest?" The response usually begins with, "What day?" because there isn't an average day in the life of . . .

So last January I tried a little experiment. Every day I would write a short story about what happened the previous day. One to show that something story-worthy happens in average people's lives and two to give an answer to the question, "What a day in the life of a priest like?" What follows is from the first day, January 12th.

Incidentally, the title of this blog entry, "Everybody Calls Me Father" is the title of a best selling book that my first pastor, Fr. Hilkert (RIP) wrote when he was a young priest.

JANUARY 12TH

When the phone in the common room rings, it is not good news. This is the emergency line. Someone is dead or someone thinks someone will soon be dead. It only rings when nobody is around. It is the last chance to catch a priest and it rang just in time. I was on my way out to hear first confessions at a neighboring parish.
“Hello Father,” came the voice on the other end of the line, “This is Dunley Funeral home.”
Someone was dead.

There was to be a funeral the next day for a man who had suffered with leukemia for many years. A couple days before I had anointed him while his wife cried. He was barely able to speak or move and she was as sad as if he had already gone and died. “I can’t live without him,” she said. And she didn’t. The family had gone to pick her up for the evening calling hours and found her dead on the floor. She couldn’t live without him.

“Father, could you go to the hospital and comfort the family?” asked the funeral director. I replied “Of course,” as if it was the most natural and comfortable thing to do, but deep down I was sick to think of it. The neighboring parish was called and warned that I would either be late or perhaps absent all together. I put on my coat, and headed for the hospital.

I suppose people expect priests to be brave in these situations, to know what to say and what to do, and indeed I’ve known Godly men who were just so, but that is not the case with me. It was with great trepidation that the emergency room door was opened. What will they expect? How emotional will they be? Will I say or do the right thing?

The hospital staff is exceptionally kind and helpful and show the way to the waiting room with apologetic smiles and concerned brows. Nobody in the room looks familiar and there are a couple of uneasy moments while everyone tries to figure out if we are there for each other. Finally a lady stands and introduces herself as the sister to the person who died. She is crying. Her arms move in such a fashion that I can’t tell if she is simply frustrated or looking for a hug. I put my arm around her shoulder and let her determine if she wants more of a hug or not.

After a few words of condolences we “go to see her.” There is finally someone whom I recognize. She is also the only person not breathing. Great sobs are let out and tears fall like rain. “Why don’t we say some prayers?” That seems to bring some amount of comfort.

“Would anyone like to talk?” I ask thinking that maybe someone would like to speak privately. This is the hardest. This is when questions like “Why?” come up. Even if this question were answerable, it is not answerable here and now. Though theologically convincing and understandable, it makes no sense standing in an emergency room looking at the dead body of the one you love if you’ve not thought about it, prayed about it, believed it, and were ready for it.

“There is someone else you should see Father.” The dead lady’s daughter was in yet another emergency room bed with heart problems. She was given the anointing of the sick. We talked for a bit and then it was time for me to go; the family was turning in on itself to begin communal mourning and while welcome, I was no longer necessary.
A five-minute drive brought me to the neighboring parish where I was originally headed. There were still lines of second graders making their first confessions. Sitting down, a young person came over to me dressed in the finest of clothes and with an excited look. “Bless me father for I have sinned, this is my first confession.” I smiled back and was genuinely happy to be there on this person’s joyous day. Thus was I yanked from despair to joy, from death to new life, and the hand stretched out over the young penitent’s head offering absolution still had the oil from the blessing of the sick on its finger tips.