All Saints and All Souls

“This is the will of my Father, that everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life.”  John 6:40

In 2007, world renowned classical violinist, Joshua Bell, secured a prime location inside a Washington, DC subway entrance.  Dressed in casual street attire without fanfare, he opened his violin case at his feet for passers-by to toss in a bit of appreciation, not unlike other street musicians.   During the hour, hundreds of people, many passed by and few paused to listen as Bell played his $3.5 million violin.  When Joshua Bell performs, he draws a $1000 a minute.  On this day in the subway, he collected $32.

Joshua Bell pictured at left

What a disguise? Being yourself?  Think of the risks; guards down, vulnerabilities exposed, perhaps childlike exuberance abounds.  Maybe we’ll find a miracle in the “ordinary.” Though I enjoy the kids, costumes, yard parties and Halloween cheer, the skeletons and graveyard displays bring the reality of death uncomfortably close.  During the late fall, nature reluctantly slides into a cloak of death.  Winter wheat often referred to in scripture begins to die.

Loss has a way of bringing Reality our direction.  Halloween quickly recedes into the shadows of Saints and Souls.  I appreciate the Masses of All Saints and particularly that of All Souls.  In the craziness, the distractions of daily life, I lose focus of those who have touched my life and gone before me.  Fortunately, for me, I’ve made a personal commitment, an intentional remembrance in time spent with them.  I find welcome, comfort in our spacious church dimly lit with candles aglow.

I find saints hidden in the “ordinary,” those special individuals in my life, not to be taken for granted, not to be overlooked, not to be forgotten, honored for having been precious gifts in my life.  I sit in the silence and the light of their designated candles.  I’m always in awe of the Holy Spirit restoring visions of those who’ve escaped my recent memory.  One soul, an elder I’d met in a nursing home from decades ago emerged in memory.    

I was in fifth grade during a school visit.  Tongue-tied, I shyly presented my carefully crafted Thanksgiving turkey.  He joyfully accepted it and taped it to his window.  Confined to a wheelchair, he welcomed me, a stranger into his space.  Though school only expected us to visit one time, I continued to drop in a few times a week during my walk home after school.  I’d wheel him outside to the back patio to enjoy fresh air or to pick up a copy of Life magazine.  We liked the pictures especially the Parting Shots.  He’d tell me funny stories about the people I did not know.  He gurgled when we laughed. 

Three months later on a February afternoon, I stopped in to find a vacant bed and no wheelchair.  Fresh linens wrapped the bed.  My friend had died.  My turkey remained taped to his window.  I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.  I’d probably been tongue-tied, lost as to what to say, but I wasn’t given a chance.  With no pictures, I raced home to plant his face in my memory.  So I’d never forget, I attempted to draw a picture of him sitting proudly, jovial in his wheelchair.  One can imagine it looked nothing like him.  However, on this eve decades later, I could see his sheepish grin and a Life magazine in his lap. 

I sat quietly in the church amongst the candles honoring ordinary souls.  I never know when a saint in my life might drop by.  A peaceful smile seizes my soul in the blessed silence.