This afternoon, I attended a memorial service for a 48 year old man who was my friend. I met him while I worked as Chaplain in a Psychiatric Hospital. He was a long term patient, a man who suffered from schizophrenia. He was pleasant, quiet, soft spoken, friendly and industrious. All the time I knew him he worked on the "Outside Gang," doing the gardening, lawn care and snow removal. He loved being outside and useful, He died of complications after surgery. His name was James.
He and I shared a little joke every day. If we met in the hall, him walking one way and me walking the opposite way, we would meet and I would say, "Good afternoon, James." His response: "Good afternoon, James," with a smile and a nod. Both of us got immense pleasure out of this greeting of equals.
I frequently had coffee with him. We'd sit together and not talk, both staring out the window, two comfortable introverts, sitting with a friend. At the memorial service today I learned that James remained an important memory of his family till the day he died. His mother was in long term care in Ponoka, and he visited her two or three times a week. Regularly, family members took James out for drives, or all the way to the family farm, a five hour drive away. He got to fiddle with farm machinery, and ride a dirt bike, pleasures from his youth, thirty years ago. When he was a lad, he took an interest in rockets, and would send one up now and then - a rocket he had made. Once or twice year, James' brother would drive him home to the old farm, and help him build a rocket, which they would then "send up." The memorial service picture display showed many photos of James with his family members at every stage of his life. The whole thing was touching, and very sad for me, because I have lost a friend.
Less than two weeks ago, I was visiting in the Red Deer Regional Hospital, having coffee in the atrium before I left, when James sauntered by. We connected, he sat down, and after pleasantries, we stared out the window together. It was a lovely, companionable time - old friends comfortable with each other. James asked if I would buy him coffee - he was wearing hospital clothes, so had no money with him. I was embarrassed that I hadn't thought of it, and got him coffee. The kind of thing one friend does for another. After a brief time, I had to go, he had to go, and we parted. Who knew that less than two weeks later, one James would be dead?
I shed tears at the simple memorial service today. I was surprised by them. I realized that James was my friend in a deeper way than I had realized. He had started out as a patient to whom I ministered, and then, I became his friend, and he mine. I will miss him, as I know the people who work with him at the hospital will miss him. He was worth nothing, damaged, and warmly human. Like the blind beggar, or the poor widow with her "mite," like the countless people who called out, "Teacher, help me!" James never called out to me that I heard, but he worked his way into my heart. And, I hope that I worked my way into his. James P.: R.I.P. Gone, but not forgotten.
He and I shared a little joke every day. If we met in the hall, him walking one way and me walking the opposite way, we would meet and I would say, "Good afternoon, James." His response: "Good afternoon, James," with a smile and a nod. Both of us got immense pleasure out of this greeting of equals.
I frequently had coffee with him. We'd sit together and not talk, both staring out the window, two comfortable introverts, sitting with a friend. At the memorial service today I learned that James remained an important memory of his family till the day he died. His mother was in long term care in Ponoka, and he visited her two or three times a week. Regularly, family members took James out for drives, or all the way to the family farm, a five hour drive away. He got to fiddle with farm machinery, and ride a dirt bike, pleasures from his youth, thirty years ago. When he was a lad, he took an interest in rockets, and would send one up now and then - a rocket he had made. Once or twice year, James' brother would drive him home to the old farm, and help him build a rocket, which they would then "send up." The memorial service picture display showed many photos of James with his family members at every stage of his life. The whole thing was touching, and very sad for me, because I have lost a friend.
Less than two weeks ago, I was visiting in the Red Deer Regional Hospital, having coffee in the atrium before I left, when James sauntered by. We connected, he sat down, and after pleasantries, we stared out the window together. It was a lovely, companionable time - old friends comfortable with each other. James asked if I would buy him coffee - he was wearing hospital clothes, so had no money with him. I was embarrassed that I hadn't thought of it, and got him coffee. The kind of thing one friend does for another. After a brief time, I had to go, he had to go, and we parted. Who knew that less than two weeks later, one James would be dead?
I shed tears at the simple memorial service today. I was surprised by them. I realized that James was my friend in a deeper way than I had realized. He had started out as a patient to whom I ministered, and then, I became his friend, and he mine. I will miss him, as I know the people who work with him at the hospital will miss him. He was worth nothing, damaged, and warmly human. Like the blind beggar, or the poor widow with her "mite," like the countless people who called out, "Teacher, help me!" James never called out to me that I heard, but he worked his way into my heart. And, I hope that I worked my way into his. James P.: R.I.P. Gone, but not forgotten.
No comments:
Post a Comment