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Fr. Bartlett W. Gage copyright Hounds of Heaven Publishing
Here are some observations from my heart for you on your pilgrimage of faith in the real world. They are the comments of one who has walked the trails of intensive graduate scholarship (ll years), entrepenurial business (20 years), and pastoral ministry (13 years). These reflections are meant to ease the way for those of you of a questioning nature. I hope they will be helpful. If not, then join Ben (my Black Lab) and me on a stroll through imagination's fields and have a good time. Fr. Gage
Matthew 10:34-42 She was black, and I was white. She was a woman, and I was a man. She was twenty-five, and I was fifty-five. I had been stopped by the head nurse. "Would you please go in and see the young woman in the next room? She is a recovering drug addict, was pregnant, and has just lost her baby." The young woman's gaze met mine as I entered the room. Her eyes were filled with anger. No apprehension here, just plain rage. I introduced my self as a priest from the local parish. After a moment or so, I told her that I was very sorry about her loss. I sat with her for a few minutes, while she glared at me. Words failed me. What could I possibly say? She was poor, and I was well off. She was an addict, and I was not. She worked the streets, and I had a nice office. She was uneducated, and I had three university degrees. She was at the bottom of the social order, and I was way up. She was marginalized, and I represented "the system." She was "girl," and I was "the man." She had lost her baby, and I had two healthy sons. The gulf between us was huge. I realized that in spite of my education, training, and experience, there was nothing I could say. The hostility in her eyes was unrelenting. Finally she rolled over and faced the wall. I left. That afternoon, evening, night, and the next morning I thought and prayed about this young woman. I knew I must stop in and see her when I made my rounds, but I hadn't a clue as to what to do or say. On impulse, as I entered the hospital, I went into the gift shop and made a purchase. Then I walked up to the young woman's room, knocked, and entered. She looked up. Less anger now and lots of apprehension. I walked over to her and said, "Here. This is for you." She reached out, and I handed her one, long stemmed, red rose. She nodded, and I left. A week later, I received a letter. It said, "No one ever gave me a flower before." Jesus said, "And whoever gives to one of these little ones even a cup of cold water because he is a disciple, truly, I say to you, he shall not lose his reward." (Matt. l0:42. RSV) Does a rose count? Amen.
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