The Nickel

     Back in 1959, the medical trend was to remove children's tonsils at about age seven.  I was in the second grade when my parents admitted me to St. Luke's Hospital for a week of antibiotic treatment before the tonsillectomy.  This was my first time away from home, and although my parents came to visit me every day, an institution was just different from my home.
     The children's ward was a nice place and I made some friends, but it wasn't  home.  For some reason, I didn't want to use the bathroom, perhaps it was a privacy issue, I don't recall.  Because I held it for a few days, I became constipated and it was painful.  A nurse asked me how long it had been, and I said, "Four days."  She said that she would have to administer an enema tomorrow if I didn't go.  I knew about enemas and I wanted no part of them, so off to the toilet I went.  I had to work and strain, it was painful, but finally relief came.  I told the nurse.

      On the day of my surgery, I was wheeled into the operating room and the doctor told me that if I counted to one hundred, he would give me a nickel.  A cloth mask was placed over my face as they dropped ether on it and told me to breathe.  This was anesthesia in the 50's.  I was a fast counter and I know I made it to one hundred.
      I remember starting to loose consciousness.  Life--being conscious--was all I knew of existence since I was born, and I felt it slipping away beyond my control.  I thought my very life was being taken from me and I couldn't do a thing about it.  This was the most frightening experience of my life.  I was desperate and so scared.
     Suddenly, in a dream, I saw a very vivid image of Jesus, who said, "Don't worry, Scott, I'm here."

  
     The fear was gone when he spoke to me and I drifted off to unconsciousness in peace.  I was helpless, weak, desperate, frightened and he was there for me when I needed someone.  I had learned about Jesus in my catechism before receiving him in Holy Communion.  At this tender age, faith was near and belief in God was a given.  Children don't doubt.  That's why we must become like little children to enter the Kingdom of God.
     And that doctor still owes me a nickel.

Marian Dream / Part 2 of 2

     About two weeks after the first Marian dream, I had another one.
     I found myself kneeling in the side yard of  Good Shepherd Christian Church in Killeen, Texas, where I served as an associate minister for a time in the 1980's.  I was facing east just a few feet from the education wing of the orange brick building.  The white "X" locates the spot.
     Just above the ground, from the east the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to me.  She approached me in a way that I cannot fully describe, levitating, yet moving. Her motions were extremely graceful, meaningful and unlike any movements I have seen before.  I can only describe them as holy and not of this world.  I was in awe of her splendor.

   

Our Lady was holding in her hands another cylinder, the same size as the stone cylinder in the first dream, only this one was made of ice.  I could see through it, for the ice was clear, and I was aware that the cylinder was empty.

                                                

     I looked at our Lady's face and a great sadness came over it.  She placed a pale-colored veil over the ice cylinder and the turned to the south and went away in great sorrow.

      After she had gone, I awoke and  instantly I was given the interpretation of both dreams, and it is this:
      The cylinder is the human heart.  A heart can be like the stone cylinder-heavy and hard-but in its innermost chamber there can be sweetness, for in this heart there is hope.  The cylinder of ice is a heart that is cold and empty.   Heaven was grieved, and so Mary covered it with a fleshly robe, and removed it because it was unfit for the kingdom of God.

Marian Dream / Part 1 of 2

     Seven years ago I dreamed I was standing before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary inside Ss. Simon and Jude Church, the parish of my youth in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania.  I had no particular devotion to Mary at the time, but had recently returned to Catholicism after a long relationship with the many forms of Protestantism--The Jesus Movement, Evangelicalism, Fundamentalism, Nondenominational and the Charismatic movements.  I had run the gamut of American Christianity and found myself returning (reverting) to the Catholic Church.  I am now convinced that The Catholic Church is the Church founded by Christ and continues to the present without interruption in her teaching, liturgy, scope and authority.  I refer to the Church as "her" because she is my mother, and I love my mother.

  
     The statue looks like the figures carved into the facade of Chartres with carefully pleated robes.  Our Lady's statue came forward from it's altar and grew to the height of ten feet.  The statue began to move and speak and faced the main altar and the tabernacle.  I looked up at her face and I said in a very familiar tone, "Hi, mother."  After I said this, I regretted my flippant manner as if I had insulted royalty.  She looked down at me, paused, smiled and said, "Hi."  I felt relieved and pardoned.

  



 Our Lady's appearance changed from the the wooden image into the iconic figure, the Theotokos portrayed in Byzantine art.





     I looked to the right of the altar and for a moment she appeared as Mother Angelica of EWTN seated in the chair of the priest.

She then transformed herself into a woman dressed in blue and scarlet, as we depict her in Western sacred art.

     Mary was dispensing graces and healing to several people, some couples, some individuals in the sanctuary in front of the main altar.  I felt unworthy and didn't want to interrupt her work so I dismissed myself.
     I found myself outside of the church next to a stone footbridge which straddled a small stream.  Our Lady approached me from behind, and as I turned, she handed me a gray stone cylinder about eighteen inches long and about eight inches in diameter, closed at both ends.  The heavy cylinder was split in the middle.  I rotated each half and pulled it apart and found a smaller cylinder just like the outer one also with a seam in the middle.  Again I pulled each half of the sleeve apart and looked at its contents.  There, inside each piece of the inner chamber, was honey.
     I awoke and did not understand the significance of the dream, so I prayed, "Holy Spirit, what does this mean?"

A Place for Me

     Mother carried my baby brother and held my sister's hand while I walked behind.  She had run out of hands so I got to walk by myself.  At 3-1/2, the oldest of three small children, I knew I'd better stay close or I'd loose my freedom.
      Shopping at Leh's Department Store with three small kids in 1955  must have been a challenge for mom.  It was time to leave so we made our way to the ground floor.  Walking toward this silver staircase,  mom stepped upon it with the other two kids as I stopped and stared in horror.  The staircase is moving!  What's happening?  I see the bottom step had disappeared.  What will happen to us?  I don't know what to do.  How do I step onto a moving stair?
      Where's a place for me?!"  I screamed.
     Mom let go of my sister's hand and she reached up for my arm and lifted me onto the step behind her.  As we descended, for now at least, all the steps were moving together.
     "This is an escalator, she said, and when we get to the bottom, you can step off with me."
                                                  >>>>>>>><<<<<<<<      
     Half a century later my wife, Cheryl and I asked our real estate agent, Mary Ellen Quinn to find us a home.  We looked at several, but none of them seemed quite right.  We had to vacate the condo we were renting within a month and time was running out.  Fear came knocking at the door.  It was time to pray.

     The escalator-bot reappeared in my mind, but this time there was calm.
     I asked my Father, "Where's a place for me?"  I somehow knew he heard the cry of his child.
     Thirty buyers had inquired about the raised ranch in the two days the seller had put it on the market.  A "For Sale by Owner", they were overwhelmed with the cut-throat haggling and incessant phone calls.  Mary Ellen approached the seller.
     "I have a qualified couple who will pay asking price for your home and you can stop all the insanity", said Mary Ellen.  They met us and we shook hands.  Twenty days later we moved in.
      God has blessed us in this neighborhood for the past 7 years.  This is the place...

                                                                                
     Thank you Father in heaven for your goodness.
                                                                          

Saint James

I had just come from the dentist and stopped by the library to find a book.
Sitting at a table was James who smiled warmly as I approached.  James was a young man with a slight mental disability which affected his speech and coordination.  Always friendly, we spoke occasionally as we would meet around town.  Now we spoke in hushed tones, after all, this was a library. In those days you dare not drop a book lest you receive an over-the-glasses stare from a matronly bun-haired librarian.  Nowadays librarians seem to be the biggest offenders of the quiet rule.
James accompanied me to the front desk where I asked the librarian, "Um loookin' fur uh buhhhk." My tongue, upper lip and right cheek were deadened from the Novacaine! And that was the best I could muster. She looked at James, and then at me, and said to her co-worker, in a voice not quite soft enough, "This one's yours."
I was speechless, and not because of the drug. She had treated me with disrespect because of my impaired speech. (My hearing was not affected, Ma'am.)
"Les go, James," I said.
For a brief moment I entered James' world, a lonely place, an arena of second-class treatment with cruel and subtle mockery. I wondered, "Have I ever treated the less fortunate so?"
I'm thankful for James and the life lesson he taught me that day.

Just Passing Through

      A poncho-draped sentry at the Fort Hood East Gate waved me through with an OD flashlight.  The wipers on my red '65 Mustang were working overtime as I peered through the night at my new surroundings.  Assigned to 1/9 Cav Hq/Hq Co 1CavDiv, I was told to take the main road to the end.  Half a mile down this road I came upon two hitchhikers, a common sight in 1973.  The pair of lean soggy soldiers slipped into the small back seat.

     "Where to?" I asked.
     "We'll tell you." one said.
     I thought, maybe I picked these guys up so I could tell them about Jesus.  I did a lot of that in those days, living with the Jesus People in Southern California prior to being drafted.  I didn't always feel comfortable about "witnessing" as it was called, but had this compulsion to do so.  I think it was guilt.  Perhaps I was trying to pay Jesus back for what he had done for me.  Or was I trying to sell Jesus?  Anyway, it was awkward and scary.  Oh well, here goes...
     "Do you guys know Jesus?  He's the one who died for you."
     A quick shot in my rear view mirror and I noticed them glance at one another. Silence.  The rain on the white rag top seemed awfully loud and I hoped we would arrive at their drop-off soon.
     I thought, "Maybe I should shut up sometimes."

  

     Coming to an intersection, I had the green light at 30 mph and suddenly I looked out my driver's side window to see a pair of headlights inches from my door approaching me at about 30, and this guy wasn't slowing down.  Certain that we would be T-boned, I instinctively turned toward the passenger side and raised my left arm to shield my head.  Suddenly, through the passenger window, I saw the taillights of this same car moving away from us at 30 mph.  No time to brake, no time to swerve, no reason to slow down, I continued to drive.

  

     The other driver ran a red light and I can't call the MPs because there was no accident.  If there was, I wouldn't be calling anybody.

     One of the silent ones spoke up in a somber voice, "He should have hit you."
      My heart was racing faster than a mustang's and I said, "Fellas, I think you just saw a miracle."  More silence.
     "You can drop us off at the next corner," said the other.
     It's been 37 years since that rainy night in Texas and just recently I reflected on a New Testament passage in the 13th chapter of Hebrews, "Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares."
      Hmm...

My Dad

     I was fifteen.  The yellow pine in our yard was ancient and needed to be taken down before it attacked our slate roof in the next Pennsylvania windstorm.  One Saturday morning, my father had asked his buddies from the club to come and help take down the tree, and he asked me if I wanted to help.
Feeling so much like a man, I said, "Sure."
     The men showed up about 9 A.M. as the sun chased the chill from the April dawn.  Someone fired up a chainsaw and the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa echoed off the houses.  I still love the smell of 2-cycle smoke and pine sap in the morning.
     The wood chips flew and I was determined to get into their stream.  They looked great on my blue tee.  My job was to hold the rope while someone else cut the branches.
     Everyone was busy except for this one man who just seemed to watch and do very little.   After a while, we all took a break and I remarked privately to my father, "Dad, that guy didn't do a damn thing."  (That was the first time I used the 'damn' word in his presence).

Delford C. Hesener, Sr.
by Fred Bees, pastel. 1966

     My dad looked at me and said, as-a-matter-of-factly, "Oh, Scotty, he was wounded in World War II."   His tone was not demeaning, but understated and concerned that I be given the information I lacked.

     Enough said.
     The man I criticized was a hero.  He sacrificed himself so that I could enjoy my family, my home and my freedom.
      I was fifteen.  That spring day I had my rite of passage.  My dad showed me all about manhood in a few powerful words and the way he spoke them.
      I learned another lesson that day--wear gloves when handling pine sap.

Spiderman

  

     "Pop pop, let's play Spiderman," said four year old Brady.  He had been busy beneath the three windows of our rented condo for about half an hour.
     "OK", I said, as I walked to the windows.
     "These are my spider webs.  Psssshhht."  Each of the three blind cords had been tied into a Gordian knot.

     "Did you do this?" I asked as I inspected his handiwork.
     "No, I'm just Spiderbrother, said Brady.  The real Peter Parker did it when we were at the beach."
     "Well, I said, if you see Peter Parker, tell him not to do it again."
     It was late and my daughter had whisked Brady and his twin sister off to bed, so we didn't get to play Spiderman.  As I lay on the floor after a hard day at the beach, I assumed the job of untying thin knotted cord since I had left my sword at home.  I spent twenty minutes on each knot.  Oh yeah, Peter Parker had done it right.  The last single knot was so tight, a toothpick was needed to undo it.
     For me, there is no better time for contemplation, than lying on my back with a simple task at hand.  I recalled how someone once explained to me that absolution was like untying a knot and solving a problem.
I then thought about the most beautiful words spoken on earth, spoken by Jesus himself through the priest in the confessional, "I absolve you of your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."
     "Amen."