Sadness, a lack of purpose, acceptance.  God gave so much in my first bedside vigil, a man whose life contained an abundance of meaning, experience, and personality.  A pleasing handsome engaging man gifted to my first mission.  Last night, I encountered emptiness, a lack of personality, an empty room, a man of foreign race stripped of identity, no belongings, no sign of family, nothing, simply a patient, a human being suffering.  Unresponsive yet eyes open, we prayed together, doing some one-way talking.  His eyes, always perceptively filled with fear, marked me deeply.  Morphine took the fear away, yet detachment assumed its place.  The medical personnel dressed in sanitary gowns.  Warnings were supplied regarding contagious conditions.  Absolutely no touching.  A tracheotomy symbolized brutality, physical suffering.  The poor man, pitiful in condition, was distant.  A nonsensical escapist movie, superheroes fighting, alienation, and the Hulk, sound turned down, occupied the man’s visual focus.  During moments of prayer and speaking, he did turn his gaze to me.  I think something effective occurred.  I tried my best.  I struggled not to fall asleep, failing for a short period.  It was awkward, while filled with love.  Hope existed, yet did not overwhelm.  I do not want to go back as there were no sweet consolations, which only makes me conclude I must go back.  He is there deeply within my consciousness, a sense of trusting in God carrying concern and absorption into the saving of souls.  God is the master creator.  Driving home, late into the night, I found myself speaking to my father, pleading with him to pray for the man.  If glorious moments are lacking, if there are no wondrous stories to tell, if barrenness is my reward, can I carry forward with invigorated faith, hope, and charity.  I know I can.  I must for it is the path of the saints.  I notified the Hospice that I am willing to return to the gentleman’s bedside.  If God wills matters into being, I will return.  The Hospice just called.  I am not kidding, right after typing that the Hospice called.  My services are requested.  I see his face, and those eyes filled with fear in my internal vision.  My friend I will return and sit with you again.  I will find something to read to you, since there is nothing in your room, nothing aside from medical supplies and facility decorations.  You are a man alone my friend.  I will be there to offer fellowship, to allow you to know I come to you voluntarily.  You are someone unique, alive, special in birth, and loved.

Captivating image from the foreign film: Horse Money

What an odd, yet charming gathering Joan hosted. The dinner party was splendid, a communal Rosary and hymns amongst the occurring. Joan’s home is incredibly nice, large, well decorated and immaculately maintained. The feast proved plentiful and savoring in good taste. A delightful time was had by all. I learned not only is she the mother of fourteen (now a widow), yet time has advanced to make her the grandmother of forty-two. Her family gatherings consist of nearly eighty people. With absolute tenderness and care, it was obvious the majority of those gathered today were mentally handicapped. Joan seems to collect a certain type as a part of her mission. One of the gentlemen would not leave me alone, constantly insisting upon conversation. He is quite sensitive, openly honest about being hospitalized over the years for various mental difficulties. In life, he has struggled, getting himself into trouble as he says. The man’s trusting and innocent nature, his obvious need for my approval, left me defenseless. I could only cater to his demands. To give him rapt attention came easy and natural. Joan informed me his troubles were never serious, nothing criminal nor ethically compromising to a serious degree. Obsessive, his most serious offense consisted of financial recklessness through compulsive shopping, spending beyond his means, purchasing endless and useless items from the home shopping network. He asked me if I wanted a nice flat-screen television. It seems he purchased half a dozen and now does not know what to do with them. I could only laugh and say no, excusing myself from involvement by confessing I did not watch television. I am not sure where he gets the money, owning a home, however another man told me it took a large U-haul truck and a dumpster to empty his home of all the stuff he had collected over the years. I thoroughly enjoyed his company. What a character, a childlike and simple trusting soul. I offered to do some electrical work on his home.

Spiritually, Chris, the gentleman who walks with the cane, presented himself in intimate conversation. He is profound, working at a highly refined level of development. The man possesses a serious and severe spiritual maturity. Joan, myself, and Chris spent over an hour together, speaking alone after everyone left. The interaction will only deepen with time. He has made some suggestions, listening to me as well as discoursing. Together, I am convinced the future will hold further collaboration. I like his mysterious, hidden, nature; an absolute complete intention to be left alone dominates his disposition. He knows who he is spiritually, with no concern for attention, nor the need to convince others of anything, in any regard. Manipulation, the hunger for power, possesses no control over him. Impressing others sincerely means nothing. His sensitivity is coarse, an overly sensitive nature not a part of his faith. He is not self-conscious, nor insecure, nor is he put on guard by others possessing spiritual proficiency. His advanced spirituality is not tainted by a desperation aimed at establishing himself as a spiritual scholar, nor dependent upon a self-esteemed based upon a delusional, or real, higher intellect. He has no interest in being smart, possessing superior knowledge, nor being correct through the negating of others. He is all about being holy. He is a man of prayer.