It was early August, in Ohio, and the dog days of summer were upon us. Warm breezes swept over farm fields, while huge red barns, advertising Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco, held sway over acres of sweet corn and soybeans.
My husband and I were living in a small town on the outskirts of Toledo, in the midst of corn and soybean farmland. I belonged to Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church; I sang in the choir and I was a Eucharistic Minister. Each weekend, I would take communion to shut-ins.
Communion is a religious sacrament; it is the rite of receiving consecrated bread and wine, in remembrance of Jesus Christ. The rite is uniquely Christian and it is practiced in churches world-wide.
One week, my chorale director, Sister Rita Marie, asked if I would take communion to her list of shut-ins. Without hesitating, I said yes, never knowing that the decision would be life-changing.
The first shut-in I visited was an older woman who was suffering from mental illness (according to her husband). After I said a prayer and administered the communion, I started to leave and she begged me not to go. I stayed a bit longer, eventually leaving their nicely appointed condo.
Next, I went to the apartment of a man who had a neuromuscular disorder and it was extremely difficult for him to sit still, as his body jerked uncontrollably. I talked to him, to sooth him in my presence, and he talked to me in a very halting manner. Amazingly, he lived alone.
Another stop was at a very small house—about the size of a garage—the weeds in the miniature front yard were up to my knees. As I approached the front door, I could hear a not-so-friendly barking dog. A woman spoke from behind the front door and asked me to wait, then she opened the door. Inside this small domicile was a maze of stacks and stacks of magazines and newspapers as tall as my shoulders. I could hear barking from a room off of the kitchen; a thin wooden door separated us from the dog. The door was moving rapidly with each barking sound.
Lastly, I pulled up in front of a home with a long narrow sidewalk leading to the front porch. As I walked towards the house, the scent of urine hit me. I knocked at the door then I heard a cheerful voice say “Come in!” Then I saw her—sitting in a wheelchair—she had no arms or legs. I was in shock, but she started to make me feel comfortable by sweetly asking how I was doing and commenting about the hot August weather. After the communion service, I turned to go, having to leave her alone in the stifling un-air-conditioned home.
At the end of my day’s journey, and with perspiration pouring over my face, I stepped into my car, turned the key and blasted the air-conditioning. All at once, the experiences of the day overwhelmed me. With incredible clarity, I realized what a sublime life I was leading.
