Audio of Glen's reading of "The Colonel" (You might want to open this link in a "new window" so that you can read the text below while you listen.)
The Colonel
from Beth
I was in the middle of my rounds at the nursing home, having delivered Communion to a dozen or so residents, when I began thinking about how I could speed up the rest of my rounds. "Don't rush. You should spend time with them, in fact, you should spend extra time with the person you least want to be with." Hmm, that was certainly an unwelcome thought that had come to me. There were a few residents who liked to talk a lot, and when I was in a hurry I dreaded going to their rooms. But the person I most wanted to avoid came quickly to mind -- the Colonel.
I knew his real name, but everyone called him "the Colonel" because he was a retired army colonel. I had visited him many times before. He was often sleeping when I arrived. He usually lay with one leg tucked up beneath him in such a contorted way that I mistakenly thought he had lost it from the knee down in a battle. Sometimes he would wake up long enough to figure out why I was there and wave me away dismissively. If he said anything at all to me, it was in a brusque, irritated voice that told me I was not welcome. In all the times I had visited him, I don't ever think he actually took Communion from me. The Colonel was most definitely the person I least wanted to spend time with. But still I headed to his room.
I could see him from the doorway lying on his right side, facing away from the door as he often did when he slept. I was relieved.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"I'm here to give Communion."
Nothing.
I turned to leave when something in my mind said, "Try again."
Moving close to his bed, I could see his eyes were closed. Again, relief. "Colonel?" Nothing. I was already at the door when I thought, "You're supposed to spend time with him. Are you really trying?" So I moved closer than I have ever been to him.
"Colonel?" I was startled when he sat up and looked at me. "Would you like to receive Communion today?" was all I could come up with.
In a strong, full voice came his response. "I love God so much! He saved my life. Every single day he saved my life. Every single day. Did you know that? I don't want to do it anymore, but I have to. For my men and for my wife. I just love Him so much!" I hope he didn't notice the shocked look on my face. After receiving Communion, with tears in his eyes, he thanked me.
The next week I returned to the Colonel's room, this time without trepidation. The room though was empty.
I probably should have expected it. Sometimes very sick people rally right before they pass on. I wasn't expecting it. My first thought was, "Isn't it great that he was able to receive Communion one last time? I almost didn't wake him last week. I only did it because that inner voice was troubling me..."
I have thought about that encounter many times, and my understanding of it keeps evolving. I'm beginning to see that, while it was certainly a blessing that he was able to receive the Eucharist before he died, I was the one who really benefited from that exchange. I'm the one who needed healing that day. Healing from my indifference, from my fear, from my blindness.
When we talk about ending life intentionally -- to relieve the pain of one who suffers, who is terminally ill and must have a miserable quality of life -- do we really know what we are saying? Do we truly understand what is happening in the internal world of that person? Is she undergoing a conversion that will prepare her for eternity? Is he strengthening his connection with God by participating in Christ's suffering? Is she repenting for actions taken and opportunities missed? Is he sharing memories of his best moments with Jesus? Is she letting go of her attachments to this world in order to transition to the next?
And why are we even interested in hurrying this process along? Are we uncomfortable with the sights and smells and sounds? Have we somehow mistaken suffering with a lack of dignity? Have we forgotten that inside that broken, dying body is the soul, that is immortal?
Masked by a guerlous demeanor and a twisted, frail body, the Colonel was still a loving husband, a protective leader, a grateful, loving child of God whom God "saved every single day."
Who are we to end that? To decide that, "Today, I will be God and 'save' this poor man"?
Ps 37:23 reminds us: The steps of a man are established by the LORD, And He delights in his way.
Click here for another inspirational message from Glen's "Story Corner."