An Unholy Mission

by Judith Campbell

  Once a year since the time that Paul, his pre-ordination partner and lover, had died, Jim took off his collar and traveled to Provincetown on the tip end of Cape Cod. There he served out free Thanksgiving dinners in the basement of the Unitarian meeting house and remembered a man he had lost to AIDS. His was a private pilgrimage, and this was the first year since Paul’s death that he had not made the trip. What he shared with Olympia and Frederick over the weekend was that while he’d come to a place where he needed to go on medication, the good news was that the disease could now be managed. But it was not his physical health that was his greatest concern. Yes, he did need to guard against overworking himself, and yes, he needed to maintain a healthy balance of food, exercise and adequate rest. Jim’s crisis was not so much medical as spiritual. He needed time away from St. Bartholomew’s and Catholic Allston College. He needed to work out in his own mind and heart how he could be a gay man, infected with HIV, and stay within an institution which considers him and his kind to be abhorrent to God.

  Frederick, prince of kind hearts that he was, sat with him and listened with none of his characteristic English banter. When Jim finished describing the true depth of his anguish, Frederick put his hand over Jim’s and said simply, “You’ve come to the right place. We’re here whenever and however you need us for as long as you want to be with us. I’m not going anywhere, my friend, and I hope that neither are you.” There was nothing more to say after that.

  Olympia drained the last of her hospital coffee and looked at her watch. She needed to get moving, but instead of going directly to the maternity floor, she turned in the opposite direction and went up one floor to the hospital chapel situated in the old wing of the building. No one was keeping count of her hours, and it was not as though she had to be there at a specific time. Her need for spiritual reflection and personal introspection was greater than her need to clock in at a specific time.

  Later, in the conference room, Joel Silverstein presented his most recent case study. In it he described his pastoral interaction with an elderly woman whose comatose, brain-dead daughter was being mechanically kept alive on hospital life support. The mother wanted to discontinue medical intervention and let her go, but the daughter had not filled out the necessary legal forms before she had the accident that left her in this condition, so the mother was powerless to intervene. When Joel finished, all were in agreement that he had handled the situation as well as any one of them could have done themselves. Even Sister Patrick had nothing to add other than to say she was sure that he had been a great source of comfort to the poor woman at such a difficult time, but when she finished, it was clear that something was still bothering him.

  “Is there something you’d like to add or ask us, Joel?”

  The troubled man nodded and looked slowly around the table at his colleagues. “Is it that obvious, Sister? The truth is, I’m deeply conflicted by this whole experience. I know that saving lives and improving the quality of human life is what we swore to do when we took the Hippocratic Oath, and as a rabbi I’m called to honor and serve the Holy One and to understand His word and holy law as written in the Torah. The commandments tell us that we shall not kill, but are we not playing God when we extend human life beyond its ability to sustain itself? What are we doing when we choose to consign a human being to prolonged and expensive agony simply because we have the scientific ability to keep the heart beating?”

  Sister Patrick nodded as she listened but did not interrupt.

  “Oh, I know I’m not the first person ever to say this, but the painful, messy truth of it all completely overwhelmed me today. People in so-called less advanced societies seem to understand that human life has a natural beginning and a fairly predictable ending. They are no less bereaved when a loved one dies, but somehow they seem to be so much more able to accept death as a natural part of the human experience. I suppose this will be one of the core struggles of my religious calling. I guess I thought that by becoming a rabbi I would be better prepared to help both the dying and those who are about to become the bereaved, but right now it seems that the questions keep multiplying, and I’m not finding any answers.”

  The whole time Joel was speaking, he was rhythmically swaying back and forth in his chair--davening, he would later explain—a graceful, gentle movement some Jewish men use to accompany their prayers.

  Sister Patrick put her two hands to her lips and blew a long sigh through her fingertips.

  “This is one of the reasons we’re here, Joel, and why we come back again every day—to look at this question and the myriad other questions that continue to spiral out of it. What is life? When does life begin, and when does it end, and what means should we undertake to preserve it? And when there is no hope of recovery, when do we stand aside and pray for a safe and gentle passage? We stand in awe and wonder at the miracle of life, and we work tirelessly to understand the science of what makes us human. As professed religious, we ask ourselves over and over again, what is the meaning and value of this life, and who are we to interfere with the natural process of the human journey? We in the medical profession agonize over whether to continue a pregnancy that we know will produce a hideously damaged baby that will suffer every minute that it lives, simply because we are medically able to do it.”

  She paused and rubbed the bridge of her nose before continuing. “It’s no help to tell you that I struggle with this almost every day that I come in to work. My religion says I must do everything to preserve life, but my human, compassionate self is sometimes at odds with the teachings and doctrine of my church. It’s neither in my power nor within my authority to give you answers. The only thing I believe I can do is to help you clarify the questions for yourself. In our various ministries we will confront this again and again, and each time the outcome will be different. This is why you are here, and this is why I am here, to keep asking the questions and re-examining the answers.”

  She stopped speaking and looked around the table at her diminished flock. Two were gone, and four were still present, taking in every word. She, too, carried a heavy burden, one she couldn’t talk about with them. She drew a deep breath before continuing.

  “This, dear colleagues in faith, is pastoral care at its most challenging, being present when the only thing in heaven and on earth that anyone can do is to be present. Just because we do it over and over again doesn’t mean that we ever get used to it. We can only pray and believe and trust our way through … and start all over again the next day.”

  There was nothing to say when she finished speaking. Each of them knew they had just been told the absolute truth about what they were taking on as clergy and future clergy. A profound silence settled over the chaplains at the table, and they simply sat with it, letting it embrace them, each pondering the power and verity of what he or she had just witnessed.

  It was Sister Patrick who finally spoke. “I think we all have a lot to think about. I’m going to let you go early so you can get home before the driving gets too bad. I don’t think any of you noticed, but it’s been snowing for the last hour.”

  Outside in the hallway Jenny Abelard caught up with Olympia and asked if she could possibly give her a ride back to the shelter.

  “I usually take the bus, but I got lucky with some food donations from the cafeteria, and I can’t carry it all.”

  Without hesitation Olympia changed direction and followed Jenny down to the cafeteria kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, loaded to the eyeballs with several bags and two large boxes, the two of them staggered through the garage to Olympia’s car.

  “I’ll just need to give Frederick a call and let him know I’m going to be late. If I don’t, he’s going worry about me driving alone in the snow. It’s not like I haven’t been doing this kind of thing for thirty-plus years or anything, but it is new having someone who cares. I guess I’m still getting used to it.”

  “I’m happy for you,” said Jenny. “He sounds like one of the good ones. Hey, if you want, you could stay on fo
r supper. That way, any snow that does fall will have melted off the main roads by the time you leave—and you could meet some of my women. I’ve told them about you.”

  Olympia chuckled. “I hope you haven’t told them too much.”

  “Nah, I just told them you’re someone I work with at the hospital, and you helped me out big-time when I needed it. These people are very loyal. If they know that you’ve done me a favor, they’ll do anything for you, and I mean anything.”

  Before getting into the car Jenny paused and lit a cigarette, taking great care to blow the smoke away from them. Olympia didn’t know quite how to respond. She really liked Jenny, but she was unprepared for such a declaration of trust. But the more she thought about it, the better it felt.

  “Thanks, Jenny. It’s always good to have people you can call on when you need it, and staying on for supper sounds great.”

  The snow was coming down fairly steadily, but it was the big, wet, sloppy kind that would soon turn to rain. The weather forecasters on the TV that morning had been unsure which way it would go, and at the moment it was a little bit of both. This meant the roads were wet, and traffic was slow, but the driving wasn’t all that bad. By the time they reached the shelter and parked, it had pretty much gone over to a dismal, intermittent rain.

  Because of the weather the dining room was already filled to capacity with a second dinner sitting waiting in a communal living room. The smell of wet clothing, overlaid with the scent of boiling potatoes, reminded Olympia of cooking supper for her boys on winter evenings. She peeked through the door and saw various sizes, ages and shades of women clustered around a tinny-sounding television set. Some were talking to one another, and others were simply staring in the direction of the noise. One woman was huddled in a corner, guarding an array of plastic grocery bags piled around her feet, and another was rocking back and forth and picking at the frayed cuff of her jacket.

  Jenny stopped in the doorway and yelled over the general din, greeting them all and telling them she’d brought her friend, Olympia Brown, to join them for supper. This was greeted by a general murmur of greetings before they collectively turned back to the color and noise spewing out of the corner of the room.

  Jenny turned to Olympia and smacked herself on the forehead.

  “Oh, crap. I just remembered that you’re a vegetarian. Lemme see what I can come up with. Monday is always meatloaf and mashed potatoes, but we always have some kind of salad. Maybe I can find some cheese.”

  Olympia placed a still, cold hand on Jenny’s arm. “Don’t worry about it; I’m fine with potatoes and salad. A little cheese would be lovely but only if there’s extra. Don’t worry, I’ll make up for it later. Um-m-m, what did you say was for dessert?”

  Jenny laughed and showed her where to put her coat and warned her to hang on to her purse before leading her off to the steamy kitchen. Later, as Olympia was preparing to leave for Brookfield after dinner, Jenny asked if she could beg another favor.

  “Seeing it’s you, sure.”

  Jenny scuffled her feet before speaking. She found asking for things difficult, and Olympia knew it.

  “Um, I was wondering if maybe you could come in and help out with the Christmas Eve service we do here? I mean, they don’t give us too much holiday training in the big house, and I sure as hell didn’t get any when I was a kid, unless you include selling off my Boston Globe Santa Christmas presents to buy dope.”

  She shifted from one foot to the other. “If you can’t, it’s okay ’cause I know you got family and everything, but I just thought I’d ask. No harm in that, right?”

  By now she looked acutely uncomfortable. Her face was a mottled shade of pink with embarrassment and discomfort.

  “As it turns out, I’m not preaching anywhere this Christmas. My kids are planning to be with their father on Christmas Eve, and because of my work at the hospital, I really hadn’t planned very much at home. So the answer is yes, and I think it would be lovely to do something worthwhile on a holiday that is so often stretched way beyond its true meaning.”

  Jenny coughed a couple of times, blamed the smoking, and then playfully punched Olympia on the shoulder.

  “You’re the balls … uh, I mean…”

  “Well, not exactly,” laughed Olympia, “but I get the picture. Give me a time, and then we can work out the specifics of what you want later on.”

  “Christmas Eve, any time from four on,” said Jenny. “For some reason that’s always when it’s the worst in here.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Say, I’ve got another idea. Do you want to ask Timothea to join us?”

  “She’s the right color,” said Jenny, “and that’s not me bein’ prejudiced or anything either. It’s just that we got a lot of black ladies in here and too many white women tellin’ them what to do. I think Timothea would be great.”

  “That’s why I suggested it. Why don’t we ask her first thing tomorrow?”

  “Um, will you ask her?”

  Olympia smiled and shook her head. “Nope, kiddo, this one’s all yours.”

  As Jenny had predicted, the driving when she left was not difficult, and Olympia made it home in a little over her usual time. When she came through the door, Frederick and Jim were finishing off the remains of a Chinese take-out. At their feet the cat was finishing the last of his own portion of shrimp fried rice, and over on the kitchen counter, she could see the red light blinking on the telephone answering machine.

  “Somebody missed a call?” she asked, pulling off her jacket and shaking the raindrops out of her scarf.

  “We were in the middle of our supper,” said Frederick. “and I didn’t want to talk with my mouth full. Besides, any calls to this number are going to be for you. I think you’d better listen to it, though. It was your daughter. She wants you to call her. Something about Christmas, I think. I couldn’t quite make it out. The baby was crying.”

  Olympia still couldn’t think about her daughter without a surge of emotion. It was different now that they’d finally reconnected, but that connection was still so tenuous. The two of them were still feeling their way through the newness of it, and neither had a reliable roadmap.

  Olympia hung her jacket on the peg next to the kitchen door. “I’ll make the call in the bedroom. That way I won’t bother you.”She didn’t see the knowing smile that passed between Jim and Frederick, her two men, but she would have loved it, had she done so.

  When she returned Frederick and Jim were putting the last of the paper plates into the trash, and Jim was making noises about who wanted coffee and who wanted tea.

  “I’d better have tea. Otherwise, I’ll be up until the wee hours,” said Olympia.

  “What did your daughter want? Is everything all right?” asked Frederick.

  “I think so. She wants to bring the baby and spend part of Christmas here with me—with us, really—but she doesn’t want to hurt her mother. It was a tough conversation. You can imagine how much I want to have her here. I just told Jenny Abelard that I’d come into the women’s shelter on Christmas Eve and help out there, so that eliminates Christmas Eve. There’s no way in hell I’d go back on my word to Jenny.” Olympia paused and chewed on her lower lip.

  “She could come on Christmas day, couldn’t she?” said Jim.

  “No, she’s spending Christmas Day with her adoptive parents.”

  “What’s wrong, then?” asked Frederick.

  “Maybe nothing.”

  “What exactly did she say?”

  “That’s just it. She’s conflicted, too. She wants to come spend time with me and get to know me, and at the same time she doesn’t want to hurt her adoptive parents.”

  “I have a thought,” said Frederick.

  “Leave the country and go to Greenland?” quipped Olympia.

  “Funny you should ask. Actually, my dear, I suggest we leave Christmas exactly the way it is, and the guest list exactly the way it is, just us and the boys. I suggest that you invite your daughter and granddaughter
for the day after Christmas and ask the boys if they’d like to come back again and join us. That way, the boys have a choice, Laura gets to spend Christmas the way she always has, and with an Englishman in the family now, we can begin a new tradition of our own starting with this coming Boxing Day, December twenty-sixth.”

  “Brilliant,” said Jim.

  “Who’s a clever boy, then?”

  By then, almost giddy with relief, Olympia dropped onto the nearest chair. “That’s perfect. Frederick, you are an absolute saint.”

  “Not even close,” said the Englishman, twirling an imaginary moustache and winking in her direction.

  Luther Stuart managed to convince himself he was feeling stronger. The time he had taken off to rest over the long holiday weekend had benefitted him. He needed to remember to pace himself if he was going to complete his mission. After all, God could only do so much. The rest was up to him. That was the agreement.

  Twenty-Two

  With only a week left before Christmas, weather forecasters were predicting three to five inches of snow along the coast and more inland. Olympia was delighted. A moderate snowfall that would be pretty, but not too inconvenient, would be most welcome and the perfect touch for the holidays. There was, they said, little question regarding the approaching storm. It was all a question of the amount of snow and where it would fall. The TV weather people were hedging their collective bets by saying that it could change to rain if the wind shifted. Amounts would vary according to location, and everybody should take proper precautions just in case.

  So much for accuracy, Olympia mused, but this is New England, after all.

  Olympia always felt like a little kid when snow was on the way. She had never outgrown her love of snowstorms, and to this day she harbored the gleeful hope of an unexpected day off if the storm was big enough. One could only wish.