Sunshine galore, a nice breeze, mid-afternoon, no work, it is a beautiful day for porch sitting, writing this entry.  Carter is back in town for the day so I will enjoy his company at my favorite Thai restaurant a stone throw away from home. Wait they do not open until four, a Groupon for Club Isabella at University Circle will do. Club Isabella closed, on into Little Italy, we ate. Looking like mobsters, the handsome Carter is fun. Entertaining the ladies, he will never concede his lady’s man image. Then it is off to a dinner party with the anxious holy woman, mother of fourteen.  I am intrigued she invited me to the gathering.  There is a man who attends St Paul Shjrine, he sat in front of Ann Saturday in mass, Chris is his name, who will be in attendance.  He walks with a cane.  I encounter the man time after time in my travels.  I like the distance he keeps, the silence and lack of attention he draws to himself.  His spirituality is mature.  He is a man of prayer.  Joan is the name of the mother of fourteen children.  I am fascinated by one of her daughters, a devout Catholic home-schooler, and the daughter’s children, grandchildren.  Joan insists that I must meet the Catholic people gathering at her home.  She has my rapt attention as her spirituality offers tools for unlocking myself right now.  The fact must be kept in mind that to witness this woman as a stranger is to be confronted with a woman seemingly out of her wits, mentally disturbed or emotionally troubled.  It takes an effort to advance past her social persona, the woman present at first sight, in order to reveal the holy woman she is.  The thing I identify regarding her spiritually that I feel is important to me is her concentration upon self-growth, the path of perfection consisting of a focus upon one’s self.  I adore her insistence not to engage in gossip whatsoever.  She will not participate in discussing the faults or shortcoming of others in the slightest degree.  In her overly scrupulous manner, if complicated talk arises regarding others she emphatically dismisses herself.  I told her of a saying tossed about in the electrical field, in the construction trade amongst union brothers.  It was noted that the best we could do for others was not to discuss them.  For heaven’s sake do not say negative things.  Do not present conclusions and analyses of your brother in the trade.  In fact, do not even say good things about your brother.  Just leave him alone.  There is great wisdom in the concept.  Do not even say good things about another when talking amidst a group.  Abandon idle chatter about the character, doings, and events of those you encounter along the road of life.  Joan is good for me and I look forward to dinner at her home.

St Paul Shrine may be presenting a mission involving the Hospice.  There is a gentleman, a fellow electrician, being struck down swiftly and harshly by cancer.  I admire the man, observing everything from a distance.  First, I would like to point out the wisdom of God, the recent focus upon Father Vann’s comparison of the pity offered to Jesus carrying the cross by Mary and the women of Jerusalem.  Profound with insight, the idea of true sorrow consisting of acceptance within silence, acquiescing to grief to the point of truly providing strength to the one suffering, the one needing strength in order to confront death.  I am noticing the wife of the man being stricken down being overwhelmed by everyone desiring to share condolences, express concern, demanding her attention, attempting to offer hope and a return to health for her husband.  They mean well.  They are good people, however they drain her.  Today in mass, she sat directly in front of me, clinging to a friend.  As she sat, preparing herself for mass, a gentleman approached inquiring about her husband, offering words of hope.  She is a woman short on patience, not afraid to be curt.  She responded, ‘He is not going to get better!  He is not going to recover!’  I knew I had to say something.  There was a reason she was sitting so close.  I whispered to her, informing her of my volunteer efforts with the Hospice, my admiration for the organization, suggesting she look into them.  She perked up, responding she was starting to work with them, watching a close relative utilize the Hospice, a wonderful experience transpiring.  Anyway, Carter waits for me to eat, she sat next to me during coffee and donuts after mass.  I was honored as everyone is cued onto her, demanding her attention.  Once again, the women of Jerusalem not offering strength, rather demanding attention through their lamenting and weeping.  The woman lives close, in the community next to me, Shaker Heights.  She expressed exasperation that her husband is too weak to drive and that he wants to get out to perform errands.  I supplied my number, insisting she understand how honored I would be to offer him rides.  She was delighted with the suggestion, taking my phone number.  It has been a feeling, a conviction since I heard of her husband’s grave diagnosis that I would be working with him.  I was patient, not approaching her.  Now let’s see what happens.  I have a feeling about everything.  All I will do is wait, drawing closer to God with my every breath, especially within the breaths I draw when I am laying alone in bed at night.  I sense my mission working with those approaching death is going to strike closely home, directly in the heart of my social world at St Paul Shrine.  There is no rest for the wicked.