Miracle

"Nothing is esteemed a miracle, if it ever happen in the common course of nature."

David Hume (1711-1776), philosopher

Tomas Crisp, 65 and dying of cancer, stirred in his sleep, the I.V. tubing and wires attached to the monitoring electronics made it difficult to roll off his back and onto his side.  He coughed, and the cough led to another, and then another deeper cough which developed into a full-blown coughing fit that finally woke him from yet another of this afternoon's short naps.  The drugs just weren’t working.  He was in pain and he just couldn’t get any meaningful sleep.  With all of his money, he couldn't beat what ails him.  He looked around the small hospital room as he pressed the dosing trigger for another hit of morphine.  The room was dimly lit, medicinal and stark, no flowers or cards, no evidence of family or friends.  At the age of 65, Tom would die alone, and this was fine with him as he had lived a good life; lonely, but good.  He felt a warm rush as the drug took effect; his eyelids slowly dropped him into another fitful nap.

Tom turned his head while he slept and was facing the door to the small, private, hospital room.  His eyes fluttered and the right one opened just a crack.  His vision was trying to focus out of the drug-induced slumber.  He thought he could see someone sitting in a chair next to the bed, so he squinted his eye to try and blink it clear of fog.  He lifted his head a bit as he finally focused on a woman.  She was slender under her one piece taupe colored habit and had a natural linen scarf covering her head and draping down her shoulders.  She was sitting upright with good posture, hands one atop the other and resting on her lap, with knees and feet together.  He thought back to the Catholic orphanage he had been subjected to.  The nuns would have called her "prim and proper."  Tom, on the other hand, looked a fright with dark bags under his eyes, his short gray hair needed a brush, and he had cotton mouth from the painkillers which meant his breath could all but kill.  Oh joy, he thought, a visitor.

He stifled a yawn, worried about his breath, and managed to croak out a gruff, “Who are you?”  His throat was dry and he needed a drink.  The woman seemed to interpret his need and lifted a glass of water from the stainless steel tray which was parked alongside the bed.  She leaned forward and tilted the straw so he could take a sip.  Water dribbled from his lips to the pillow, and with a clearer voice, though still gruff, he said, “Thank you.”  The woman smiled and put the glass back.  Tom closed the left eye, the one next to the pillow, and tried to focus on her fully with his right.  He repeated his earlier question, “Who are you?”

She folded her hands together on her lap and smiled again.  In a soft, almost whispering voice she explained, “Father sent me to comfort you.”

Tom snorted, “Sister, you can go back and thank the father for his concern, but I haven’t believed in God for a long time and nothing I’ve heard or seen so far is going to change my mind.  There are no ooey-ooey miracles, no miraculous cures, no rising of the dead, and no fu…., uh, freakin' afterlife.  You priests and nuns amaze me.  All of you “people of the cloth,” wandering around giving folks false hope, especially when they’re dying.”  He snorted again, turned his head away while giving a dismissive wave with his hand, wincing as the movement jostled the I.V. needle taped into the back of it.  All of his movement was loosening the grip the tape had on the needle.  The woman’s brow furrowed in concern as she felt his pain and reached out to gently press the tape back into place around the needle.

Tom felt the gentleness and warmth of her touch.  It was strangely soothing to him and he felt the pain subside as she left her hand resting over the needle, to steady it.  He glanced sideways at her, still facing away, "Thank you, sister."  She smiled again.

She took her hand from the back of his and leaned forward so he could hear her soft voice as if she were unable to speak louder.   "Your belief in God is desired, Thomas, but not required.  You have faith, regardless of your belief.  The good you have done, with all of your wealth, you have done privately and without want of recognition.  You have played the "Scrooge" at great cost to your personal life, and always pushed people away for fear of being close.  No, Tom, you deny the Lord and yet you follow His path.  Like Judas, you do his bidding, and, like Judas, you also deny the silver you've earned for doing it."

Another snort, he did not turn to look at her as he spoke.  "It was not my intent to follow any path, sister," he spat out "path" as if in anger, "I gave of my wealth because I had more than any one man could spend, that's all.  If it did some good, so much the better.  The orphans could sure use it.  Much better than giving it to Uncle Sam!"  He smiled at the thought of his ability to always screw the government out of it's due.  He noticed he hadn't coughed for a while.  Maybe he could get some sleep, finally.  "It would be better if the orphanage taught children more about survival and less about a God that abandoned them.

"Has survival served you that well, Thomas?  It has turned you bitter.  Yes, the orphans needed those donations.  You deny your feelings, but you do care.  You made sure the charities you give to spend their money wisely, like the orphanage." she said, folding her hands back on her lap.  "Being an orphan yourself, you know how much they needed every penny of what you gave."  His head snapped toward her and he felt the blood rise into his cheeks.  He didn't yell, but his anger was evident.

"Who the hell told you I was an orphan?  No one knows that!  Did that damned priest check up on me?  What, he couldn't just take the money?  Did he have to make sure it was clean?  What?"

Her smile disappeared as she averted her eyes downward to her hands, not wanting to see his anger.   She whispered, almost pleading, "He has his ways, Tom.  Please do not be angry with the Father.  He always means well."  Tom looked away again, as he rolled to face the window.

"What's the old saying sister?  The path to hell is paved with good intentions?"  Another snort.

She looked up again and spoke to the back of his head, "If there were a "path to hell" Tom, it would be paved with cobblestones of lies, hatred, and spite that are held in place with want and desire; not with good intentions.  If there is a hell, your path does not approach it."

Tom let out a deep sigh.  "Sister, I need my sleep.  I'm sure you'll understand if I ask you to leave?"  She smiled and stood, her robe falling into place around her slim figure.

"You cannot sleep yet, Tom.  You have a few more visitors waiting."  Her voice was melodious and it felt as if she were willing him to look.  He turned his head enough to watch as she walked to the door like a dancer would float, reaching for the handle.  The door began to open before she touched it, and the night nurse for the cancer wing stuck her head in.  The look on her face said she was expecting his usual gruff manner. 

"I know its dinner time, Mr. Crisp, but these folks out here were insistent on paying their respects."

He let out another exasperated sigh and said, "Oh, my god!"  The sister smiled again.  "What are you smilin' at?  It's a figure of speech, is all."  The nurse responded, obviously not having seen his other visitor, "Mr. Crisp, I can guarantee you, I am not smiling!"  Tom rolled his eyes.

"Oh, show them in, for God's sake!  And, show the sister out!"  The nurse closed the door without the nun in tow.  He could hear the nurse in the hallway saying something to the others, and he heard giggles.  "Oh, great," he said quietly but with a note of frustration, "Fricking happy visitors.  Does the joy never end?"  He looked at the sister who was still smiling as if enjoying his discomfort with the happenings around him.  He let out another sigh, "I guess you're gonna stay then?"  She just kept smiling as the door opened and 15 small children, ages from 5 through 12, filed into the small room.  The sister backed up to the wall, making room for all to stand in front of the bed.  Tom thought the children a bit rude.  Didn't they see the sister backing up to the wall?  They should show a bit of respect!

The sister spoke from her position across the room, her almost whispering voice clearly audible to him.  "I have to go, Tom.  You have been always looking for a miracle to prove God."  she spread her hands to indicate the group of children, and he looked at them as she continued, "These are not a miracle, Tom.  These are your children, want them or not, they are yours."  She spread her arms wider as if to introduce them all.  "Here before you stand doctors, philosophers, and scientists.  Children which will, with your continued support, rid this world of illness, starvation and, possibly, even war.  They are children of God, like all children, and they need you, Thomas."

Tom's head sank into his pillow as if to escape from her.  The nurse pressed the button, bringing the back of the bed up so he was almost sitting.  His tired eyes looked up at the sister in resignation as he responded in the voice of a strong man finally beaten down at the last seconds of his life, "I'm dying, damn it!"  The nurse shot him a scolding look, then smiled and scolded him in a playful voice, "Not just yet, Mr. Crisp!  Not just yet!"  The nurse leaned in closer, whispering, "And, watch your language, there are children present!" 

He noticed the nun was smiling again.  They didn't see her.  Hell, they didn't hear her!  Not once have these people shown any sign they even know she is in the room.  Tom felt like he was losing his mind.  She raised her right hand and touched her heart with her fingertips.  "The Father loves you, Mr. Crisp, as does the Son.  You will live to see the youngest of these children with children of their own.  Only then will the Father welcome you."  He felt a lump grow in his throat as a subtle glow slowly began to envelop her.  "My miracle?"  he quietly asked, looking at the children.  The children and the nurse seemed not to notice the interaction between him and the nun.  She continued, "Remission happens, not common, but also not a miracle.  You have been given time to believe, Tom, and time to learn, to learn to love these children standing before you, and guide them.  You are a good man, Thomas.  Now, be a good father."

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, shaking his head slowly back and forth for a few seconds until the words burst forth from his mouth. "Mother of Christ, forgive me!" He opened his eyes and she was gone. The children were still there, staring at him as though his mind had taken a vacation, the nurse assuming a moment of drug-induced insanity. He could imagine how he must look; eyes wide as saucers, tightly gripping two fistfuls of bed sheet, perspiration beading across his forehead. All he needed was a drool cup to complete the picture. Bring on the straight jacket! The nurse had one hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with concern. Everything was quiet.

A small girl broke from the group of children and came to the side of his bed, climbing onto the chair and sitting with her hands folded in her small lap.  "Mithter Crithp?"  He couldn't help but smile at her lisp.  "We've come to thay, thank you.  Thank you, tho much, for everything you've done!"  She reached out and gripped his big hand with her small one.  It occurred to him he was feeling no pain and had not felt pain since the woman had covered his hand in hers.  He didn't want to cough.  He felt...good.  No, he felt young!  He smiled, and the children came forward to stand around his bed.  He looked at all the young faces, and he began to cry.

Miracles happen, Mr. Crisp.  Merry Christmas!

Editor's Note

(Re: disclaimer cum "get out of jail free" card)

Before you go getting your panties in a bunch, it is essential to understand that this is just an opinion site and, as such, can be subjected to scrutiny by anyone with a differing opinion. It doesn't make either opinion any more right or wrong than the other. An opinion, presented in this context, is a way of inciting others to think and, hopefully, to form opinions of their own, if they haven't already done so. This is also why, occasionally, I will present an "opinion" just to stir an emotional pot. Where it may sound like I agree with the statements made, I'm more interested in getting others to consider an alternate viewpoint. 

It is my fervent hope that we keep open and active minds when reading opinions and while engaging in peaceful and constructive discussion, in an arena of mutual respect, concerning those opinions put forth. After over twenty years with military intelligence, I have come to believe engaging each other in this manner and in this arena is the way we will learn tolerance and respect for differing beliefs, cultures, and viewpoints.

We all fall from grace, some more often than others; it is part of being human. God's test for us is what we learn from the experience, and what we do afterward.

Pastor Tony spent 22 years with United States Air Force Intelligence as a planner, analyst, briefer, instructor, and senior manager. He spent 17 years, following his service career, working with the premier, world renowned, Institutional Review Board helping to protect the rights of human subjects involved in pharmaceutical research. Ordained 1n 2013 as an "interfaith" minister, he founded the Congregation for Religious Tolerance in response to intolerance shown by Christians toward peaceful Islam. As the weapon for his war on intolerance he chose the pen, and wages his "battle" in the guise of the Congregation's official online blog, The Path, of which he is both author and editor. "The Path" offers a vehicle for commentary and guidance concerning one's own personal, spiritual, path toward peace and the final destination for us all. He currently resides in Pass Christian, Mississippi, where he volunteers as lead Chaplain and Chaplain Program Liaison, at the regional medical center.