Give My Heart

Snow has come to Santa Fe. This is a good thing, for several reasons, chief among them, we need the moisture—always—and, of course, snow in this place in December adds to the magic. Yesterday, standing in the kitchen of new friends and looking onto the landscape of their warehouse neighborhood, coffee brewing and cheese sandwiches grilling on the stove top, old-fashioned holiday tunes playing in the background, I felt included.

Sunday, our worship at St. Bede’s was centered on the lessons and carols, a tradition that dates to the late 19th century in the Anglican Tradition. Familiarity is famous for encouraging our minds to wander, as we repeat experiences. I was drawn to the snow falling on an already blanketed ground, outside the expanse of glass on either side of the altar table. In the church yard small trees, branches laden with the night’s offering, farther away, homes outlined in white, and finally, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains—the blood of Christ—crested with snow, the towering evergreens that cover them a dark carpet now decorated in white.

Although I tried to listen to the story of the fall of man, the promise of the Messiah, His birth, I drifted between the readings, the carols, and the story happening right outside the warmth of the church. One carol, Christina Rossetti’s poem, “In the Bleak Midwinter,” (1872), called me back. It is an Advent season tradition from the hymnal. “What can I give Him, poor as I am/If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb/If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part/Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart”.

Any time is a good time to count blessings. In this place where plenty lives so obviously next to poverty, where winter is more than a gorgeous photograph—where the elements do make a difference in how we live our lives each day—where opportunity waits with open arms, simply and plainly waits for us to reply, the season begs us to remember.

We are exchanging gifts all day long, often not realizing the importance of a greeting or handshake. What we give doesn’t require any more currency than what resides in our hearts. Often the gift comes from the person we hardly imagine being our blessing on any given day. All of the expectations we attach to those who share our walk for a while, however little or great, can lead to mighty disappointment. “You are an angel,” insisted my neighbor this morning on the landing outside our front doors—over my protests that the few hours each week I give to volunteer work amount to all that much. There’s no need for me to trivialize my efforts, but by comparison I know they are small. I have felt little affection for this troubled neighbor whose presence at times has been the cause of angry stirrings in my heart. Today he called me “an angel”. Surely, I am to do something with that news. “Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart”.

“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him, nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away when He comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him, whom cherubim, worship night and day,
Breastful of milk, and a mangerful of hay;
Enough for Him, whom angels fall before,
The ox and ass and camel which adore.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
But His mother only, in her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
If I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
Yet what I can I give Him: give my heart.”

Give My Heart—Santa Fe, New Mexico (December 16, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

Reaching for the Kingdom

“The righteous shall possess the land and dwell in it forever.” Psalm 37

“Together we have walked, we have suffered, we have cried to God. He has sustained us and brought us to the place where we are. The land of God is here; the kingdom of God is in your heart….Trust him and keep walking.” (from Forward Movement, December 11, 2008)

“It smells like Thanksgiving in here,” I commented to another of the volunteers last night at the shelter, my second night to help out for a few hours in the week when my place of worship is one of two churches staffing with volunteers and food—precious, warm, fragrant food on a night where the temperature was headed for the low 20s here in the high desert. It was indeed Thanksgiving, not only because of the large pans of turkey and dressing, along with meatloaf and baked potatoes, and an array of desserts, bowls filled with fruit, but more importantly because of the spirit of gratitude that washed over those assembled. Some were escaping the cold, ready for a night out of the elements, even if it meant sleeping in scant sleeping bags on a concrete floor barely saved from rock hardness by a cheap, thin layer of commercial carpet. The number had climbed almost to 60 at this overflow shelter by the time I left at 9—mostly men, but a few women as well, and two couples.

Once again, I was amazed by the competence and good humor of the volunteers, although in my eyes I was the least among them. “What do you want to do?”, someone asked. Just assign me something, I said, and then I described the role I had played on Sunday night. It seemed that we had way more volunteers than we needed when I walked in the front door. As it turned out, we stayed busy for three hours, checking in pilgrims, welcoming them, stowing their belongings under lock, assigning rooms and issuing sleeping bags, and encouraging them to the dining area.

I am impressed by the other volunteers, most who seem to have lots more experience than I. A big, imposing but gentle guy manned the locked door, through which mostly one person at a time entered. He quietly greeted and explained before sending people forward to the check-in desk. About an hour into the evening, someone working at the desk commented that he was surprised we hadn’t needed to call the police because of drunken, aggressive behavior from one of the few regulars who had already created a reputation for themselves. Before the words were hardly out of his mouth, BAM-BAM on the exterior door—a young woman with way too much attitude who had already been told not to come back until the regular shelter staff came on duty at 9. At that time she might be admitted if she could get her behavior under control.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the offenders were equally men and women. The police eventually did arrive, and the drama unfolded, now at the front door. As I left, two of the women exited the shelter and started down the street, one trying to calm the other. They wore coats, but as I drove away, chilled just by my walk from the building to my truck, cold now after three hours in the parking lot with temps already in the high 20s, I wondered, how can they spend tonight outside? Where will they go? Another woman had already laid out her own sleeping bag outside the back entrance, where she apparently intended to camp after choosing to leave the shelter because she didn’t like her room assignment. It was claustrophobic, she had complained earlier in a loud voice—not fair, she added, as other guests watched quietly from the dining tables and chairs situated around the common area. More than a couple of men protested their claustrophobia, realizing they would be one of five sleepers in a 10 x 10 room arrangement. The crowded conditions couldn’t have been news because virtually every one of the guests is mightily familiar with the circumstances. The vast majority was just happy to be warm and safe, at least half of them retiring to their make-do beds after eating—to sleep, to have quiet conversation with their roommates, to read.

An articulate, handsome and fit man—just turned 66—sells Christmas trees during the day. When he rearranged his pack at the check-in desk, I saw among his belongings the wool and nylon pullover shirt with Native American designs that I had brought to the shelter on Sunday night. Along with all of the other things I brought, that shirt had to make its way to a local organization that processes donations, then to be distributed. I smiled, pleased that one of my own gifts had made it to the shelter and onto the back of a really sweet man. Another man asked for a wake-up call at 1:30 a.m. to go to work. I overheard him discussing art with someone across the table at dinner. A woman new to the shelter as of Monday had made her way from 10 miles south, and through the help of others, to the shelter. She hopes to have a job by the end of the week. There’s John and Paul and Mary. There’s the shy, smiling man reading the biography of a 19th c. American female author. They are a mirror. I was told late in the evening last night that one of the volunteers left, offended by the behavior of some of our guests. Allegedly, that’s not what she and her church were there for. Second hand information to me because I was quietly working at my station in the back of the building, where the pilgrims enter. Hmmph, well, what are we there for, to pick and choose those who deserve our kindness?

From my small but warm and safe condominium here in Santa Fe, I can look out the balcony doors onto the remnants of snow on the ground. I look through the branches of a large pine, where a plump pair of doves occasionally light. I shower luxuriously every morning in this place where we are reminded that any time is a good time to conserve our precious water supply. I drink coffee brewed from beans purchased at Whole Foods Market. I cook chili and beans, and I bake sweet potatoes that I adorn with minced meat. Decent bottles of red wine sit on my kitchen counter. I sleep under down on a firm mattress. Books line the shelves of a cabinet at the end of my bed and rest on my softly lighted bedside table. The treasures that I instinctively seek fill this artful space. Yes, thanks to my good fortune—an education, good jobs, my very modest retirement income, the gifts of my own efforts and those who came before me, all the way back to my German great grandmother who landed in Galveston as a toddler with her parents in 1866—I live in relative luxury. And though my lot is not that of those who inhabit homes ranging in value from a half million to many millions in this land of plenty, contrasted sharply with a large measure of meagerness, I am blessed and I give thanks. We are reaching for the kingdom--together. At least, that’s what the prayer says.

Reaching for the Kingdom—Santa Fe, New Mexico (December 11, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

Out of the Valley of the Blind

I don’t remember when I first heard the expression, “In the valley of the blind the one-eyed man is king,” but I suppose I’ve understood it to mean that by comparison, any one of us can have insight that could put us in a position of power. I’m thinking of power for good. Today I’ve discovered that the expression is actually “In the country” etc. etc., and the source is the H. G. Wells short story, “In the Country of the Blind”. For some reason, this expression came to mind this morning while I read today’s meditation from Forward Movement. “Teach me what is good and what is not, Lord, for alone I cannot tell. Let me see the pieces with your eyes.” (Forward Movement - Monday, December 8, 2008)

The Wells story concerns the inhabitants of a valley in Ecuador who, after generations following a natural upheaval of the land that effectively cut them off from civilization, had become completely blind as a result of some plague. The sight of those who weren’t born blind dimmed gradually, and all the children born henceforth were born without sight. Eventually blindness became normal, even revered. All this occurred against the backdrop of this valley that ”had in it all that the heart of man could desire--sweet water, pasture, an even climate, slopes of rich brown soil with tangles of a shrub that bore an excellent fruit….” “…life was very easy in that snow-rimmed basin, lost to all the world, with neither thorns nor briers, with no evil insects nor any beasts save the gentle breed of llamas they had lugged and thrust and followed up the beds of the shrunken rivers in the gorges up which they had come. The seeing had become purblind so gradually that they scarcely noticed their loss.” (H. G. Wells, “The Country of the Blind”)

Word of this valley had traveled outside through a man who went in search of aid, but was lost. After many generations those who occupied this paradise of sorts had grown very adept at living without sight. Indeed, their other senses were finely tuned, and it wasn’t even possible for the trekker who eventually happens into the valley to explain sight to the people. On the contrary, his efforts lead to peril. He is considered an idiot who suffers from delusions, “newly formed” and not to be trusted. After his life is spared as he tries to escape, the intruder decides that he must succumb to the forces of the “blind” when he falls in love with a young woman, and in order to marry her he agrees to surgery for removal of “those queer things that are called the eyes”—to have those “irritant bodies” removed so that he will be like everyone else. So much for what had become legend about this place—“In the Country of the Blind the One-Eyed Man is King." Ultimately he realizes the insanity of agreeing to such calamity, and he escapes to that which is “drenched with light and beauty”.

So how frightening it is that in the midst of paradise we become blind, that our loss becomes the norm. God forbid that we would rob others of a gift that we, through some toll that life exacts, have grown accustomed to living without. “Let me see the pieces with your eyes.” Blindness takes many forms. Perhaps one of the worst is our failure to see what is going on right before our eyes. Last night I spent three short hours helping out in a local homeless shelter. My role was small, my time there of little consequence, especially compared to the time I realized others on duty had already given, as they talked about more hours in the coming days.

In they came, first the women and then the men. Fewer than 10 women, one husband and wife, and close to 40 men before 9 o’clock. They were screened one at a time, then at the next station asked to empty their pockets into a Ziplock bag, which was returned to them. The remainder of their belongings were labeled and stored in locked rooms—one for women and one for men. If they didn’t already have a sleeping bag marked with their name because they had been to the shelter on previous nights, they were issued one, along with an exercise-type rubber mat for additional cushion on the concrete floor, carpeted but with no padding. The men were assigned four and five to a room, some choosing to go into the “overflow” room, which was larger.

Local churches have taken on the responsibility of staffing with volunteers during the hours from 6 to 9 p.m. each night, at which time shelter employees come on duty. This week the church where I worship is partnered with another church to provide staff and food. Last night the offering was lasagna and beef vegetable soup. Coffee, cocoa, and milk, along with dessert, completed the menu. The tables lined up in the dining space were decorated with large bowls filled with apples and oranges. I learned that the morning, which begins at 6 a.m., would include a breakfast of cold cereal and milk, juice and hot beverage.

Frankly, I didn’t know what to expect last night. I wasn’t surprised by the appreciative response as one by one people made their way through the points from exterior doorway to their rooms. The good natured conversations among our guests and volunteers was heart warming, as were the table games—cards and chess—and open books. Some guests retired quietly to their make-do quarters after eating, folded into their sleeping bags with a paperback. Some went to sleep right away.

In spite of the rules and the cautions we new volunteers were to learn about in our short time on duty, the helping spirit of the shelter was obvious. “Thank you for being here,” we heard from many. “Thank you,” replied the female pastor of one of the Methodist churches in the city, many times. She’s volunteering several nights this week, although her own church has no official responsibilities until next week.

I was a little apprehensive as I made my way to the shelter last night, bags of clothes in the bag of my truck from a friend who owns a consignment store. From my own closet, I had taken some flannel shirts and a wool pull over shirt to accompany a new jacket I had bought a couple of weeks ago to donate on my night of volunteering. As the evening began, I realized quickly how great this act of generosity, this shelter on a cold high desert night, these volunteers, the smell of soup and the beautiful, generous servings of lasagna. I understood, again, that there but for the grace of God go I. I had my eyes opened to the intelligence and handsomeness and seeming goodness of pilgrims for whom life has dealt a blow for reasons I can only imagine. And I was rewarded—oh, that I might be part of the reward—by the difference we can make when we allow ourselves to see what should be so obvious around us. “Teach me what is good and what is not, Lord, for alone I cannot tell. Let me see the pieces with your eyes.”

Out of the Valley of the Blind—Santa Fe, New Mexico (December 8, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

Breathe In...Exhale Slowly

"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could, some blunders and absurdities have crept in. Forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day." - Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

"No matter what looms ahead, if you can eat today, enjoy the sunlight today, mix good cheer with friends today, then enjoy it and bless God for it. Do not look back on happiness or dream of it in the future. You are only sure of today; do not let yourself be cheated of it." - Henry Ward Beecher (1813-1878)

A friend reminded me recently of something I don’t like about myself. I am impatient. Giving things a positive spin, I like to think of myself as eager. Truth is, however, that I am my father’s child—my impatience a gift from my Scots Irish Daddy, Russell, my namesake. It was probably his lack of patience that stymied my already puny aptitude for excelling at many things that came so naturally to him. A tinkerer, he was adept at a little of this and a little of that. My sisters and I all have something from his capable hands—a Felix the Cat drawing, chest for holding treasure, bookshelf, a table. I remember times that he attempted to engage my help in one of his projects. “Here, let me do that,” he would say in exasperation when I either didn’t catch on or I just wasn’t doing it to his satisfaction. So, no builder, electrician, or plumber am I. Gladly, I did develop his instincts at the stove, and I have taken his love for collecting treasure to an art form. And while I don’t recall ever feeling, as a child growing up, that Daddy and I were just enjoying one another’s company, in my gut I know that we had those times. Otherwise, I couldn’t hold his memory the way I do in my heart. So at times, in the heat of my eagerness—my champing at the bit—I smile, understanding that I am Daddy’s child.

For the record, I am impatient with my impatience. Mother used to say, “You’re just like your daddy. You want everything now.” I admit that I’m a lifelong devotee of immediate gratification. I go like “a house on fire,” according to Mother, a perception of me apparently so noted by those who know me well enough that they either remind me—not so much…only my oldest sister, Joan—or, I trust, they certainly note it to themselves and one another in my absence. I see a goal or a problem to be solved, and I go after it like, as the saying goes, there is no tomorrow. As my friend kindly pointed out to me the other night, making quick decisions can lead to regret, even in things as simple as—or maybe not—oh gee, a choice of material to drape a patio door. Keep in mind that the result must be artful, pleasing to the eye, aesthetically just. Name the task, buying screws at 40 cents each or comfortable sofa and chair for an otherwise empty living room, I’m on it, and I’m focused, and I ready to toss the dice. Going to the task, even if I’m doing so at someone else’s behest, I instinctively grab the reins. Sometimes, the results are disappointing.

Whatever role genes and modeled behavior has played in the nature that marks me in these senior years, I have come to learn that perhaps my impatience grows out of some lack of contentment. At least, some would suggest so. If I were content with just being on the journey, I wouldn’t have my attention so fixed on the destination. After all, what am I going to do when I get there, except perhaps say, “I’m here.” I don’t wolf down my food, especially if I’m eating with someone else. As a rule, I’m content to enjoy the company—that is, if the company merits the enjoyment. I can nurse my glass of wine with the best of them. Some people I know drink a beer or a glass of wine like it is water. A friend from long ago mastered the art of making the last four ounces of iced tea at a meal seem like nectar, to be sipped in some kind of delight that no thrice refilled glass of Lipton deserves. It was a form of control to delay our leaving the table, as he sensed my readiness, to be on! To where?

These days, in this place of conscious-raised humanity, I am reminded often of the importance of being present. You hear people talking about it. You see it on the walls, even displayed in the bathroom where I go for massage. “Live for Today,” the nicely framed piece rendered calligraphically advises. I wonder if a lot of people throw this term around without being truly keen on what it means exactly. The Internet serves up many websites devoted to Zen Buddhism and yoga, where one can read simple explanations of what it means and how it feels to be present.

Recently I went to a gathering that was supposed to be about journaling and being in the present. Unfortunately, the facilitator was a little caught up in the sound of her own voice, so much so that she didn’t really listen, unrelentingly eager to tell about her own journey, her own struggle to just be. Do as I say, not as I do. I guess what I am to learn from this modeled sense of urgency about oneself is to remember to take a breath, in fact several. Meditation guidelines routinely direct you to inhale and exhale slowly over a period of minutes, as you focus on the experience, letting go of past and future. Slowly, bend your neck to the right, now to the left, back and then forward. Aahh, I can feel the tightness in my neck and shoulders fading away. I wonder how long it takes to form this habit—wherever we are, to just stop, take a few deep breaths, and get over ourselves. My massage therapist tells me that she’s read new habits require 30 days to form.

I grew up in a family with a mother who clung to the past. Fear loomed large for her. In spite of her great love for family, her sense of loss, both proven and anticipated, claimed much of her energy. Oh, how I wish that I could have helped her be present in her final long struggle. Oh, that I had understood at the time what a difference it could have made for all of us. I can only wonder at the mix of eager, impatient father and anxious mother that nurtured us in our formative years? I don’t want to accept that we get too old to change. I hope that the old dog can learn new tricks. Any day of the week is a good day to let go of regret. Any time is a good time to show the door to fear.

For most of us, the house is not on fire, as we go about each day. For some, dealing with calamity is a profession. While this is not so for most of us, we indulge our restlessness—behind the wheel, in the grocery store line, at table, with those who serve us and those we claim to love. With our thoughts focused on where we think we need to be and what we think we need to be doing, we charge ahead, sometimes elbowing our way. Or wounds of the past lay claim to our present. Either way, we are robbed of precious time. It’s time to redo the tattoos on my forearms. For the next 30 days, that likely must be translated into some infinite number, on the left forearm, Pay Attention, and on the right forearm, Take a Deep Breath—and Let Go.

Breathe In…Exhale Slowly—Santa Fe, New Mexico (December 4, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

Thanksgiving Connections

Growing up in Texas, the first signs of fall were a big deal for me. Fall is my season. After the long, hot summers, which seem to have become even longer, I am eager for cool weather to play with my spirit, and though I don’t like anticipating my life away, I look forward to Halloween and Thanksgiving. Of course, fall is the time of harvest, the time for gathering. In my part of Texas, we don’t see much that distinguishes the changing of the seasons. There’s nothing to support romantic notions of changing leaves or smoke wafting from chimneys. In the city you can’t even burn leaves anymore, one of my favorite fall experiences when I was growing up. I love All Hallow’s Eve and All Saints Day, that Sunday in church when we chorus, “For all the saints, who from their labor’s rest/who thee by faith before the world confessed.” Though I have no cultural connection to the Mexican holiday Dia de los Muertos—Day of the Dead—which traces its roots to Mexico’s Aztec ancestry, I am at least a little fascinated by the celebration that focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and relatives who have died. In a few days we will gather as family and friends to give thanks for our blessings, and again we will remember those who have joined the company of saints, those with whom we have shared Thanksgivings past.

A couple of days ago, a cousin that most likely I’ve never met asked me for some family history from my Texas German maternal side. Her mother and my mother were first cousins. She found her way to me by searching on the Internet for my Grandma Lizzie Fuchs’s name. How wondrous this connection we humans have—blood and otherwise—that brings us together, sometimes for reasons that might just go by unrecognized. How good it feels to be reminded that I know something about from where and from whom I come, that I have a heritage that can easily be traced to Europe. I know that my great grandmother, Louisa Benfer Fuchs, celebrated her first birthday and learned to walk on the crossing from Prussia to Galveston, Texas in 1866. And I am grateful that my mother’s interest in talking about her family translated to me.

These days I live relatively far away from what has been familiar for most of my 65 years. I have traded the Gulf Coast, whose power extends far to the north of the coast, for the high plateau of New Mexico, situated at 7000 feet and at the base of mountains whose Spanish name translates in English to Blood of Christ. In a city of 70,000, I have no family, although I have paternal cousins I haven’t seen since they were young children and I was a recent college graduate. Aside from the Hollis blood we share, nothing connects us. We have no history of affection, nothing to stir us to caring about one another. Some 15 years ago, as my cousin Jimmy lay close to death in this small city—a still young man—I was visiting here with friends over Thanksgiving. I called Jimmy’s home to say hello, knowing that he was seriously ill, yet not having seen him for close to 30 years. His grown daughter answered the phone. I gave her my name, told her that I was Jimmy’s cousin, and asked if she knew who I was. “No,” she answered simply, and then she put her mother on the phone. Jimmy was too sick for visitors. Recently I went looking for his grave, only to discover that he lies at the feet of his father-in-law, but there is no marker noting his presence.

So this email message two days ago out of the blue from a 3rd cousin in Texas that I’ve never met, asking for information about my mother’s side of our family, was delightfully welcome. Perhaps I will never meet this cousin. Most likely, our connection will be brief, once I have supplied her with the information about her grandfather’s siblings that she wants to pass on to her own children some day. I suppose it doesn’t really matter all that much. What does matter is that we have connected, if only in passing. The need to know something about from where and from whom we come is important, even if it’s limited to knowing something about your Grandpa Willie’s sisters and brothers. I remember Great Uncle Willie only a little. I remember that he was a farmer, that he and his wife, Donie, had a large bunch of children. Hanging on a wall upstairs in my Texas barn home is a photograph of Louisa and some of her brood, including Willie, most likely a teenager, he and his older brother each astride a horse. I remember Uncle Willie’s funeral on a hot, late-summer day. It was in the country, probably a Baptist church, constructed of clapboard covered in white asbestos siding. Why Willie, who was raised a Missouri Synod Lutheran by a first generation German Lutheran, was buried from a Baptist church, I don’t know. He had died after a long siege with cancer. Uncle Willie’s only surviving child, number 10 and the youngest, is now 64. She was 12 at the time of his death, and six at the time of her mother’s death. I wonder what she remembers about her daddy’s funeral. Maybe, in the course of connections, I will hear from her, and I will ask her.

It is time once again for us to try to overcome all that separates us and give thanks. Those who are blessed to be with their kin probably don’t realize the extent of their blessing. Those who have created family that isn’t connected by blood—the ones who for the most part choose with whom they celebrate—maybe they think about this a little more. Maybe they don’t take familiarity as license—well, for anything. When I returned to Santa Fe several weeks ago, I was resigned to tough it out for Thanksgiving, to be alone on this my most favorite holiday, cast in my most favorite time of the year—if no one invited me to share their table. As it has turned out, I have received five invitations. How blessed am I. Although I will join a friend, cornbread stuffing in hand—that is my assignment—I will begin the day as a Kitchen Angel, helping a large group of regular and ad hoc volunteers put together the lunch that will be delivered to our 80 clients. The kitchen manager has assigned me cornbread dressing, using my middle sister Sue’s recipe, a recipe Sue has adapted from our Mamaw Hollis, a true East Texas cook. Connections are happening all over this Thanksgiving landscape, and I embrace all reminders of what it means—what is feels like—to belong and to have the opportunity to share our blessed bounty.

Thanksgiving Connections—Santa Fe, New Mexico (November 23, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

Angel in Disarray

Genesis 32: 26-28 “Then he said, ‘Let me go, for the day is breaking.” But Jacob said, “I will not let you go, unless you bless me.” 27 So he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” 28 Then the man said, “You shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with humans, and have prevailed.’”

We sat trapped—we had chosen to be trapped, I guess by what you’d call good sense—as a man, wild about the head and in his head demanded and pleaded for money. Face it. His plea was for our help. Honestly, I felt a little fearful, but I was in the company of a capable friend, trained in medicine and no stranger to people in crisis. At first, not realizing how much clearer and protracted this situation would become, my friend yelled through the closed and secure driver’s window, “Get a job.” After all, our chance encounter had begun with this disheveled man rapping on the driver's window, announcing that he had lice and needed money. I suppose we were to assume that he intended to go to CVS Pharmacy just across the parking lot. From that point on, the situation rapidly deteriorated into something like lunacy.

Our fortress was a new model Toyota crew cab truck, complete with heated seats, a DVD-based navigation system, rear backup camera and Bluetooth wireless technology. We sat enthroned in comfort as this man, barefoot, his pants falling to his ankles as he wrestled with his circumstances. The man walked away, returned, insisted—repeat repeat, repeat—but he wouldn’t go away. “Go away or I’m going to call the cops,” my friend insisted equally. I made no effort to exit the fortress, get into my own truck and drive away. It was the proverbial train wreck, and I was on the front row.

As the drama unfolded, the man moved to the sidewalk in front of our truck. Up and down the walk, he stumbled, clutched for his beltless, oversized pants, half talked to himself, perhaps reaching out to some presence he sensed deep inside. Compromised by alcohol? Drugs or the lack of appropriate drugs? As we waited for the police, a second call having been placed, I suggested that the man really needed an ambulance—that he couldn’t go into the tank in his condition. My friend assured me that the police would do the right thing. Finally, our angel in disarray collapsed to the pavement, his head near the curbing. “Did he hit his head?” my friend asked, and then he heard the guy moaning and crying in his misery. “He’s not unconscious,” he added. Oh, I’m thinking, what do I know? I did know that the man was now nested up against the front left tire of my truck, which was parked to the immediate right of our fortress. One of his legs rested tucked under the driver’s side of my truck.

I had spent a warm, fine evening in the company—indeed, as a guest—of a man for whom I already had high regard, and now the evening had come to a close with two humans being asked to be their best. As it turned out, I was just a passenger who felt safe in someone else’s charge. After the police finally arrived, and I made a move to get out of the truck, my friend advised, “You stay put.” From the comfort of the fortress, I watched the policeman and my friend, remembering what he had said a few minutes earlier, frustrated because he really wanted to get home and attend to his animals...”I’m a doctor. I can’t leave him.” I had told him that there must be a reason for this guy entering our lives—really, his life at this point—this modern-day medicine man. He asked for the reason, but I couldn’t give one at the time. He took care of things, as I watched. This morning, I’m smiling, a little, as I reflect on last night, even knowing that a man in distress went down, as two pilgrims were asked to be present. I, the innocent for this insulated moment, served only to witness, to observe, and to feel safe myself in the presence of someone else taking charge, so obviously capable. Finally, reassured by my friend that this persistent soul in crisis would be going to the emergency room, rather than into the tank, I left for home. Now, I have time to think again about reasons, chance encounters, causes and results, and missed opportunity. As I sort it out, one thing remains clear: the meaning of Wednesday evening, November 19, 2008, is not lost on me.

Angel in Disarray—Santa Fe, New Mexico (November 20, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

The Opportunity to Get It Right

I was in a hurry on this Friday morning, even though I had awakened in plenty of time to make my way to Morning Prayer by 7:30. I look forward to Friday mornings, mostly because of what happens during Bible study following a relatively solemn worship. No bunch of Bible thumpers are we—we who gather for Bible study. We simply read the scriptures appointed from the lectionary for the day. It is the discussion that unfolds in this group of earnest pilgrims that makes the morning.

As life would have it, especially in this place where cold weather necessarily calls attention to the plight of those who, seemingly shut out for whatever reason, stand waiting for someone to acknowledge them. Yes, for a welcoming hand, perhaps a humane word, they stand waiting. Such was my journey this morning. A grizzly-looking older guy, not unlike me probably, stood well away from the entrance to the donut shop, beyond the two or three metal stands set up for the daily newspaper and a couple of alternative papers that are popular here in Santa Fe. “Can you spare some change for a cup?” he asked. With a sigh, once again, I confronted a dilemma that shouldn’t even be a dilemma. You either give the guy some change, or you don’t. What he does with it is not my concern. I could have bought him a cup of coffee and a donut. I even considered asking the person behind the counter if the store’s policy allows them to give coffee to panhandlers. I didn’t give change, I didn’t ask, and I didn’t buy a cup of coffee or a donut. As I walked out the front door to my warm truck, shortly to be informed by the radio that our low reached 10 degrees this morning, I one more time ignored the call of the guy, “Can you spare some change for a cup?” I suppose he didn’t know that he and I had already failed each other.

During Bible study, our discussion finally came around to the scripture that reminds us: “For the poor always you have with you…” (John 12:8). I had already been reminded of this sad truth in a message from a friend in Texas yesterday. What that message from Texas didn’t address is what we are supposed to do about this truth. Today, the answer was offered by the priest who, along with his wife, leads us on our Friday morning journey. “For unto whomsoever much is given, of him much is required.” (Luke 12:48) There it is. If you want to quote scripture, pointing a finger at one of the saddest truths about our lives, essentially blaming the bereft for their own plight—it’s all about choices some love to say—then remember the whole story. And we might as well throw in one more oft-quoted phrase: “There but for the grace of God go I.” Apparently not from scripture, the exact origin of this scripture-like expression is not known.

I’m always ready to work over myself, quick to do the mea culpa on my failings—in this instance, specifically the plight of the homeless. I failed the guy standing well away from the front door of the donut shop. And not that it made any difference in the outcome, one person this morning pointed out that I had received the gift of recognition. For a moment in front of that donut shop, I was asked to suspend judgment. I was asked not to wonder about how this guy got into his predicament. I was asked for a moment to remember that there but for the grace of God go I. "If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her….Go now and leave your life of sin." (John 8:1-11)

I’m not so sure that I want to be let off so easily. Yet, it doesn’t do me or anyone else any good if my words of compassion do not get translated into action. I can hope to do better at the next opportunity. I don’t have to wait for someone standing with outstretched hand. “I tell you with certainty, since you did it for one of the least important of these brothers of mine, you did it for me.” (Matthew 25:40)

My Sunday morning habit before heading off to church is to read the sermon found on the Episcopal Church website. A couple of weeks ago, the Rev. Sister Judith Schenck, who is a retired priest and a Franciscan Poor Clare solitary in the Episcopal Diocese of Montana, laid it down, plain and simple:

“So what does it mean to love your neighbor as yourself? Do we want to have enough food and shelter for basic human survival? Do we want medical care? Do we want an education? Do we want our children to flourish safely and develop into all they can be?

To love our neighbor as ourselves usually requires two things in our culture: a pocketbook and a suspension of judgment.

If you own a house much larger than you need, and you know there are people being evicted in your hometown, what does that mean in terms of loving your neighbor as yourself?

If your closet is full of new or adequate coats, hats, and shoes, and you know there are children in town without warm clothing, what does that mean in terms of the gospel?

If you buy a new car when the old one still works and others can't even buy gas, what does that mean in terms of your total love of God?

If you eat steak and or dine out in restaurants, and you know a third of the world is starving to death, what does that mean in terms of loving your neighbor as yourself?

The list can go on and on. And we fall short.”

(from a sermon authored by the Rev. Sister Judith Schenck, found on the website www.episcopalchurch.org for Sunday, October 26, 2008)

I believe from the deepest part of my being that, if we are paying attention, all day long every day we have the opportunity to realize, to be reminded, of what life expects of us. Don’t worry about religious beliefs. Don’t worry about religion at all. Walk into the donut shop for a cup of coffee, pick up a newspaper, turn on cable television, watch a movie, sit in the park on the plaza of what some call one of the most magical places in the United States. Dig down deep for your sense of humanity, for your sense of goodness, for your moral center. Yes, get over yourself. Ever ready to be touched by how I choose to entertain myself, I was reminded earlier this week of our spirit to make things better in a film set in England during WWII. In the film, the protagonist, a wealthy English widow, observes: “I can’t bear feeling helpless. I always feel there’s something I can do. Sometimes, of course, there’s nothing. (from “Mrs. Henderson Presents”) I do fall short, and I will fall short. But thanks for the gift of recognition and the opportunity to get it right, opportunities presented over and over and over.

The Opportunity to Get It Right—Santa Fe, New Mexico (November 6, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis