Sadness and Hope and Remembrance

Voluntarily (sort of) trapped in our homes, we have all found new ways to occupy ourselves. We pray more. We read more. We probably eat more. We spend more time listening to our favorite music. We stay in closer touch with our families, and even renew old friendships via email and telephone and text. Some folks, especially here in The Villages, play more golf. (Yes, indeed, in The Villages golf is apparently considered an essential activity, and is both allowed and encouraged, so long as everyone follows the usual social distancing guidelines.) And, of course, we're all watching far too much TV. In the words of one friend: "I spend an awful lot of time fending off boredom."

If, however, boredom is our principal complaint, we certainly can't claim to be suffering. I hate to admit it, but I've even grumbled about the inability to get a haircut. But for most of us, to encounter true suffering we must look beyond the walls of our homes. Millions of Americans have lost jobs and, as they wait for government assitance, are unable to make ends meet. Hundreds of thousands of small businesses, the true engines of our economy, have shut down and their owners worry about their ability to restart once things improve. Of course, thousands of Americans have contracted this nasty illness, COVID-19, and far too many have died as a result. I'm not downplaying the effects of their deaths on their families, because the death of a loved one, especially when that death comes suddenly and unexpectedly, is always tragic. But by focusing so much attention on the virus and its immediate effects, we can lose sight of the tragedies and suffering that have continued unabated and are experienced by so many more. 

According to the latest revision of the virus' predictive model, our nation can expect 60,000 deaths as a direct result of this virus. But sometimes it's useful to put such huge numbers into proper perspective. For example, nearly 50,000 Americans will commit suicide this year. And an even greater number will die from drug overdoses. Close to 40,000 Americans will die in automobile accidents. And hundreds of thousands will die from the effects of cancer. 

This last statistic was brought home to Diane and me this week, and to many of our friends, when we lost Donna Slider. After a long battle with cancer, Donna entered hospice just a few days ago and died on Tuesday, April 7. 

Donna was the manager of the Wildwood Soup Kitchen and, like all soup kitchen workers, she was an unpaid volunteer. Diane and I have volunteered there for over 16 years, but while we worked every Thursday, Donna was there almost daily, doing whatever had to be done to keep the kitchen functioning at full speed. She not only worked tirelessly for the good of others, but she did so with a smile. Indeed, it's hard to recall Donna's face without that beautiful, disarming smile. So often I'd approach her all grumpy about some petty irritant, and Donna would just nod understandingly and flash that wonderful smile, as if to say, "It's really not that big a deal, Dana. In an hour's time you'll have forgotten all about it." Of course she was right. She had a way of bringing me back to reality -- to the reality of God's love. 

As you might expect, Donna was a woman of deep faith. I was made very aware of this last year at a special Mass and healing service celebrated at our parish. I had been asked to preach and because of Donna's illness, Diane and I invited her and her husband, Vic, to attend. Both are active Christians, but neither Donna nor Vic are Catholic. But as she said to me later, "Healing is healing. We all seek it and God offers it." Diane and I met with them during the healing service and the four of us experienced God's loving Presence as we prayed for His will to be done in the shared life of this wonderful couple.

Interestingly, Donna and I had another connection. Some years ago, when she first joined the soup kitchen, someone told her of my past life as a Navy helicopter pilot who had been involved in the recovery of Apollo astronauts. She asked me if I knew Glen Slider, her brother-in-law. I couldn't believe it! Back in 1970 Glen was a Navy Chief Petty Officer in our helicopter squadron, HS-4. He was also the first crewman of the primary recovery helicopter for the Apollo 13 recovery operation. I happened to be the co-pilot of that same helicopter. This was truly one of those remarkable "small world" situations that remind us of how interconnected we all are.

On Tuesday our loving God called Donna to Himself. He took her from the anxiety, the pain, and the cares of this life and carried her to the glory of eternal life. When I think about her now, in my mind's eye I see her resting in God's loving embrace. And that smile? Yes, it's even brighter, inviting us to set aside our sadness and remember to share God's love with all His people, especially with those in greatest need.

In a paradoxical, but very real sense, Donna's death has lifted me up. It has freed me from worry about this pandemic and reminded me that the rest of the world hasn't been put on hold. Donna knew that life continues as it always has and we are still called to do God's work in our troubled world. 

In the words of the "Song of Farewell," so often sung at the end of our Catholic funeral liturgies:

May the choirs of angels come to meet you;

May they speed you to paradise.

May the Lord enfold you in His mercy;

May you find eternal life.

Rest in Peace, Donna.
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...and for those who might be interested. Here's a link to a video of my homily at that Mass and healing service last year:

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=YtaPL8Xkh5A

Broken but Beautiful

Once or twice a month Diane and I are privileged to minister as on-call chaplains at our local hospital here in The Villages, Florida. This involves being available for a 24-hour period, and spending a few hours during the day visiting the newly admitted patients. In most instances the patients we visit have been hospitalized for surgery or other procedures, or for treatment of injury or illness. After a few days of healing or treatment, the majority of patients recover and return to their homes or perhaps go to a local rehab facility. Of course, we live in a retirement community, so some patients must deal with terminal illness, and many of these, depending on the progress of their illness, will enter hospice.

On occasion, and so often these calls arrive late at night or early in the morning, we are asked to minister to the dying or to the families of those who have just died. Inevitably, when the phone rings at 2 a.m., I wake up grumbling in my own uniquely human way, "Oh, great!! There goes my night's sleep." But then, as the hospital operator relays the situation and the need, my heart melts and I know Diane and I are being asked to take Gods merciful love to those in real need of it. 

We try to offer spiritual comfort and hope to the dying, perhaps share a prayer with the family, and just listen as family and friends struggle to cope with the loss of one who is loved. But about the last thing a family needs at this time is for someone to preach at them. Over time I've come to realize that so often it simply means being quietly present. I suppose for many our presence in some way assures them of God's presence. We are just a sign of God's real, enduring, loving presence, especially at a time when God can seem so distant. I believe that often enough it's in the silence that God manifests His presence, and like Elijah at Horeb, we must draw away from the noise and distractions of the world and listen for God's "still small voice."

Recently, though, I've been the recipient of that voice thanks to Nancy and Joe, our dear friends from South Carolina. For the past few months, Diane and I have been their on-again, off-again hosts at our home here in The Villages, Florida. As I mentioned in a previous post, this has involved my driving them to Tampa so Nancy can receive frequent treatment at Moffitt Cancer Center.

While Nancy is being examined, poked, prodded, treated, and transfused with blood and platelets, Joe is usually with her. This leaves me to spend considerable time in one of the many waiting rooms. Thanks to my trusty iPad, I can take work with me and usually do. But occasionally my aging brain refuses to cooperate and the Spirit leads me to strike up a conversation with someone seated nearby. And, believe me, chatting with cancer patients has been an enlightening experience.

Unlike the waiting rooms of my dermatologist, eye surgeon, and primary care physician, the waiting rooms at Moffitt are populated with cancer patients, family members, and caregivers. I guess I'm among the few exceptions since I fall into none of these categories. In truth Nancy and Joe insist on calling me their "driver." And a happily content driver I am...and surprisingly patient too since I spend so much time putting the wait into waiting rooms. And thanks to those waits, I have learned much about courage, and faith, and thankfulness, and hope, and fear. 

Here I am, 74 years old, reasonably healthy, and certainly not focused on, as Nancy calls it in true disco fashion, "Stayin' alive." But on every visit I find myself in the presence of some truly wonderful people. The hope, faith, and courage, and yes, even the fears, are there, plainly evident in the faces of those seated around me. But all are so courageous in their own unique ways, and for many their faith just overwhelms the fear. Interestingly, the courage and faith of the patients also seem to dampen the fears of family members, especially that of spouses.

As I chat with these good people, they talk about their families, their illnesses, their faith, but not about their work or their jobs, and never, or rarely, about the past. For so many people today their work is life-defining; but for the seriously ill cancer patient work is all but forgotten, replaced by something else, something truly life-defining. It's all about relationships with others; in a sense it's all about communion.

And here I sit, secretly thankful that I don't suffer from this dreaded disease, but quietly wondering whether such suffering might help me find the path to the salvation God wills for me. And so I pray, and ask you to pray with me. I pray for Nancy and Joe. I pray for all those patients whose names I don't know, all those broken by illness but beautiful in faith, all those who taught me as I waited. And I thank God for every day He has given me, for today, and for every day I have yet to live.

Praised be Jesus Christ...now and forever!

John Hathaway - Our Newest Saint

Our dear friends, Nancy and Joe Hathaway, have been staying with us at our home in The Villages, Florida. Nancy, who is battling leukemia and more, is being treated by the wonderful people at Moffitt Cancer Center in Tampa. Because the Hathaways live in South Carolina, they needed a place to stay during Nancy's treatments. And so our home became their home away from home, a far greater blessing for us than for them. 

I'm also the driver, tasked with ensuring they arrive in Tampa (75 miles from our home) in time for Nancy's frequent appointments. I am more than fairly compensated for this since I drive for pizza -- my daily reward is a single slice from the hospital cafeteria, along with a diet Coke, and is reward enough. Of course Diane and I have tried to make this challenging time a bit less difficult for our friends.

But then today everything changed. Early this morning their son, John Hathaway, the youngest of their four children, died at the age of 41 in South Carolina. The call came in the predawn darkness, just a few hours before we had to leave for our drive to Tampa. As you can imagine, it was a time of tears and prayers, a time filled with phone calls and text messages from family and friends, and a time for more tears, and more prayers.

John Hathaway, Heaven's Newest Resident

Indeed, as I write this, Joe and I are shuttling between Moffitt's many waiting rooms while Nancy undergoes transfusions, biopsies, and tests. Yes, it's been a very hard day and I suspect more will follow. But Nancy and Joe, a couple with a deep and living faith, will make their way through this sorrowful time. It's a journey they must make together, but not alone, since they are strongly supported by family and many dear friends. Diane and I will certainly be there for them, able at least to hold a hand, share a comforting word and prayer, and give a hug. 

During my 74 years on this beautiful planet, I've known many saints. Some have returned to the Father and a few are still with us. John Hathaway is now among the former. Truly a most remarkable young man, John suffered his entire life from Marfan Syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that affects the body's connective tissue. Because connective tissue is just about everywhere in the body, Marfan Syndrome and the many disorders that stem from it often affect the heart and the body's blood vessels, as well as lungs, bones, joints, eyes, and skin. It can be a devastating illness. (Click here to read more about Marfan Syndrome.)

But despite the pain and the suffering John did not let his illness define him. Once, asked if he were angry with God because of his illness, John replied, "Of course not. Why would I be angry at God for the greatest gift He's ever given me?" Unlike most of us John realized early in life that everything is a gift, especially life itself. And he was always thankful that God in His wisdom knows what is best for each of us, what will lead us to the salvation He has planned for us. 

John Hathaway's life was the very personification of those famous words of St. Paul: 

"We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose" [Rom 8:28]. 

And, oh, did John love the Lord his God and strive mightly to fulfill that purpose, God's holy will. (If you'd like to read John's own view of his illness, written in 2010, read his brief essay on The Ministry of Suffering.)

Interestingly, although I have known John's parents for at least a dozen years, I met John only once, back in 2013. He was a patient in a Charleston, SC hospital recovering from one of his many surgeries and medical emergencies. At the time he could hardly speak but seemed truly happy to meet Diane and me. I gave him a blessing and asked for his prayers. He no longer needs any blessings, but I still need his prayers and trust he will continue to intercede for all of us who know and love him.

The photo below shows John surrounded by his wife, Mary, and their wonderful children. 

John, Mary and their children

All four of their children -- Allie, Gianna, Josef, and Clara --are young people of deep faith, thanks to the loving example of their mom and dad. How blessed this family is to have a husband and father who rests now in God's embrace. I know John is asking the Father to shower His goodness and grace on the family he loves so deeply. 

Diane and I have a special affection for John's eldest daughter since we got to know her when she accompanied her grandparents on one of their brief visits to our home. Allie is now a senior in high school and, like her father, has Marfan Syndrome. But I also expect that, like her father, she will be the strength of her family during the days to come.

John's funeral will be celebrated next Friday in South Carolina. Diane and I will head north with Nancy and Joe so they can say good-bye to John and be with their other children and grandchildren. Given Nancy's health issues this will be a most meaningful visit for the entire Hathaway family. Please keep them all in your prayers.

Oh, yes, one more thing: John posted regularly on his blog, The Lewis Crusade. It overflows with prayerful, funny, thoughtful, and thought-provoking words and is certainly worth a read.

Thank you, John, for touching my life.