Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room’s only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation.

Every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window.

The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance.

As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing on the street below. Although the other man couldn’t hear the band, he could see it clearly as the old fellow by the window portrayed its every detail with the most descriptive words.

Days and weeks passed. The afternoon peeks into the outside world continued. Bright, sunny days, but rainy days too. Dark clouds rolling in and intense lightning bolts descending on the park. Pedestrians running for cover as the rain came in sheets, blown by a howling wind. It would soon be winter, they said, as they speculated as to whether or not the pond would freeze hard enough for skaters. Maybe there would be a Christmas tree on the frozen lake, and carolers too. They wondered how much snow they might get this year.

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone.

Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the real world outside.

He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed.

It faced a completely blank brick wall.  

I was working at the local community college setting up short term job training for folks on public assistance, so I occasionally worked with the office staff of the various deans. The Dean of Instruction’s secretary had worked there forever and knew everything, so she was the one to ask if one wanted to get things done. However, she was not easily approachable and I found ways to get things done without her unless it was absolutely necessary. One day, she said something to me that not only changed our relationship, soon after it completely changed my life.

I came to work that day with a burn mark on my upper cheek. She noticed it and asked about it. So I said to her, “I had this big freckle on my cheek and I’d noticed that it was getting bigger over the last few years. The last time I asked a dermatologist about it, he said to ignore it, especially since removal usually left a scar that was even more noticeable than the freckle. Now that I have a new doctor, I asked again. He sent me to a dermatologist who said that I should get rid of it right away because these things tend to change into skin cancer. Before I could even ask him about a scar, he came at me with this blowtorch-looking thing and said he would remove it right now. So he went at me with the blowtorch and just burned it right off! (Demonstration and sound effects included.) Then he told me how to treat the wound and that was that. Now it just looks like a burn from a curling iron and it should heal soon and not leave a scar.”

The secretary chuckled at my story and commented that I was one of those persons who instead of just saying “I had a freckle removed” had to tell a whole dramatic story when answering a question. I had heard this about myself a few times and was aware of this trait but wasn’t sure how much it bothered people. I knew that sometimes I would still be talking and the listeners would have gone onto something else. I knew that often it took me a long time to explain things. On the other hand, I knew that when I had been an instructor this technique (or bad habit) worked well for illustrating concepts to learners. So I asked her what she thought about this tendency. Was it okay or was it something that bothered people? She answered, “We need people like you. We need people who can tell a story and make everyday life sound more interesting than it really is. My husband does the same thing.” That’s all she said, but it stuck with me. After that, I didn’t avoid her quite so much and I stopped feeling so self-conscious about how I explained things.

Within the year I had to leave that job to take care of my ailing parents. After my mother passed away I had some free time so I checked out the local storytelling guild and found a new calling. I was amazed – and still am amazed – that there is a place for people who answer questions with a story; that people actually want to hear me tell stories about everyday life; and that I can dig into the stories that I like to tell over and over again, find the kernel of Truth in them, and share that meaning with others. Now I’m telling my stories and writing my memoirs, I’m telling the stories of people who are gone or who can’t tell their own stories, and I’m helping seniors remember and tell their stories. All because I can’t answer a question without telling a story, and I finally claimed that as good.

I had just celebrated my 40th birthday. I had a mortgage, a family, 4 boys, a wonderful, supportive wife, two jobs, and a lot of people who enjoyed my paycheck. I was just finishing my 15th year as an elementary school teacher teaching the 6th grade at a small Oklahoma school. I was also getting ready to start my 5th year summer at my second job as a paramedic at a hospital-based ambulance service.

When I had finished my Masters degree, my summers were now mine. Since so many people expected a check every month, I started to look for a way to supplement my teacher salary. I happened to know a lady who had worked at school who was also a part time EMT with the county hospital. From visiting with her, I decided that maybe that would be something for me.

I took my first class, and I was hooked. I finished the class, and passed the National Registry Test and became a certified EMT. I got my first job at the service where my friend worked. I worked that summer as a fill-in for people on vacation. Then, when school started, I would work on weekends, as needed. Time went by, and the service I worked for began to advance their service to a higher level of care. So did I. The service soon became a Paramedic Life Support service. I went back to school at night and became a full-fledged Nationally Registered Paramedic.

I was getting ready to start my fifth summer, and standing there looking at a balding man who was becoming aware of the passing of time. I don’t think I was much different from any other man who finds himself facing the realization that as one gets older the years seem to shift to a higher gear and come faster than you ever thought they could. I believe it’s called a Mid-Life Crisis. I told my wife that when she turned 40 I would trade her in for two 20s. She said, “Honey, you’re not wired for 220!” I wasn’t the type of guy to buy a sports care, chase wild women, or dye my hair, or in my case, buy a wig. I was worried whether I had made the right decisions in my life.

As a teacher, I spent my first 10 year had been spent as an elementary teaching principal. This lasted until a budget crunch. My school went from 2 principals to one. I decided I would go to the classroom because I had a second job that paid as much as got for being principal. When the time came to go back to the principal job, the qualifications had changed and I was no longer certified. That was fine with me. I had advanced to a Paramedic, and I was able to keep the wolves away from my door. I was even thinking about going on in the ambulance service and maybe, even working full time as a director. As I said, time passes, and things change. My new principal at school felt threatened by the ex-principal, me. Medicaid cuts put the small hospitals and their ambulance services in danger of closing. So there I stood looking at the stranger in my mirror while my world seemed to be falling apart around my ears. This is also the time that I really started looking at my relationship with God. I was raised in a home where church was a very important part of our lives. When my wife and I married, we dedicated ourselves to do what God had planned for us. Don’t get me wrong, I have missed my share of Sundays that I should have been in church, but we were never far from God. He had been good to us, and we knew it. We had what we needed, and we were blessed. With everything that had happened, I wondered if I had made the right decisions in my life. Was I really doing what I had promised to do? I wasn’t afraid that God was failing me, but that I was failing Him.

The call came in as a “baby not breathing.” This is a call that a paramedic hates to get. A critical child call could go “sour” in a heartbeat. Adults we worked on often, and had reason to be confident in our skills. But a child was something else. It was a great relief upon our arrival that the child was breathing. This was not the first time that we had dealt with this child or her family. She was a twin and had been born way too soon. She and her sister had multiple problems. I had run on a call for her twin sister. She was transported to a larger hospital, and soon passed from this life. Now this very young couple was faced with the possibility of losing this baby too.

They were out at the bowling alley, one of the few places they could go and take her apnea monitor which sounded an alarm when her oxygen level dropped too low. That was what had happened, so they had called us.

This was a very sick little girl. If you have ever been around a child with her condition, you would notice the bluish tint to her skin. The skin is almost slimy with a thick sweat. There is an acidic type smell due to the body chemistry.

She was breathing, but not very well. The monitor was buzzing. The young mother was crying. She was saying that they shouldn’t have tried to go anywhere because they had already buried one baby. Would they also lose this one?

When you’re young and trying to take care of a sick baby, there are a number of things that make you feel guilty. What did I do wrong? Did I take something that made my baby so sick? Sometime the family is critical of the young parents trying to take care of a fragile life.

Not that this family was not supportive, but they were not in the hearts or the minds of the young parents desperately trying to hold on to their beautiful baby girl.

My partner that day was my favorite partner to work with. He knew the town well, and he told good jokes. We shared the opinion that very sick people need to get to the hospital and a doctor as quick as possible. We called it “Boogey Time.” This decision would be made without a word being said. A look was all that was needed from either one of us, and we were moving. Everything we did, we did on wheels. We started our oxygen, established our IV, got ready for intubation, if needed, and did our vitals. Now we’re in the truck. Color us gone! The boss wasn’t always happy with these methods since billing information wasn’t part of the “Boogey!”

The hospital was only about three miles away, and I wasn’t looking forward to trying to put that intertrachial tube into her little airway. I noticed that that wouldn’t be necessary because she already had a tracheotomy. Our oxygen monitor showed that her level had come up a little, and she seemed to be breathing easier. Since we were about three minutes out, I called in my report. They said they were aware that we were on the way, and they were ready.

The ER is usually kept informed by the pediatrician anytime we have a critically ill child. There are standing orders so the ER doctor wouldn’t have to contact the pediatrician before starting treatment. There are also orders as to how far to carry out resuscitation of one of these sick children.

I couldn’t see her face because of the oxygen mask. At the hospital we changed to a different mask. When I took the large mask off, I thought I saw a smile on her face. Respiratory therapy was called since the baby had a tracheal tube that she breathed through.

I went about getting my truck back into service. When I finished, I went back to check on my patient. By now the respiratory therapist had suctioned her out and her oxygen saturation had returned to normal.

That’s when I saw it. When she looked at me the most beautiful smile come onto her little face. It was a smile that can only come from a child, a smile that can melt the hardest heart, a smile that says, “Hi, I love you!” I went to her, and she took my finger in her tiny hand. Her eyes sparkled full of life. I talked and played with her until X-ray came to take her.

When they brought her back, I was busy with another patient. An ER nurse I had known since I had started working at the hospital came over and asked me what I was going to tell my wife. I asked her what she was talking about. She said, “What are you doing to tell your wife about your little girlfriend?” She said that the little girl’s eyes had followed me everywhere I went. I looked at her lying in the bed, and again that smile greeted me. It was the sweetest smile I have ever seen. This was the way it was every time I saw her.

Her name was Megan. Megan always had a smile for me. There were many other times that Megan was brought into the ER, but even during the worst times she always had that beautiful smile for me. I soon also got to know her parents. After all I was their daughter’s first boyfriend. They were feeling guilt, anger, hopelessness, fear, and pain. I shared some of their pain and the love of their little girl.

The end of the summer was the last time I saw my little girlfriend, Megan. Her dad had gotten another job in the next county. I just happened to have some friends who worked at the hospital in that county. I knew I would miss seeing her, but I also knew she would be well taken care of.

School started and I went back to working part time for the ambulance service. I decided I would only work every other weekend. I was getting my truck ready for my weekend shift when a unit from the town where my little girlfriend, Megan, had moved to brought in a patient to ER. As was our custom after they gave their report and off loaded the patient, we would help get their truck back into service. On this day the paramedic on the truck was also a part time paramedic for our service. We were exchanging shoptalk while the other medic finished his paperwork. She asked me if I remembered the little girl that we had run on when the family lived here. I said yes, and I was anxious to hear how she was doing. When I asked, she reached out and touched my arm. Softly she said, “I guess you haven’t heard. We lost her last week.”

Now medically speaking, it was no surprise. Megan had so much working against her. My friend said that the family was doing as well as could be expected. To tell the truth I didn’t know how to feel. I thanked her and went about my business.

Now I knew why one of my students and her sister hadn’t been at school that last week. You see, it just so happened that Megan’s aunt, Dusty, was in my class. She loved to talk about Megan. I had gotten close to the whole family. This happens in a small town.

When I went back to school I wasn’t quite sure what I would say to Dusty. When the class came in she came up to my desk. She said, “Mr. Armstrong, have you heard what happened?” I said I did, but I didn’t know in time to go to the funeral. Dusty said her sister asked her to do something. She wanted to apologize for not letting me know, but that so much was going on that they forgot to call. I told her that I understood. Then she took out a little picture. There it was – that beautiful little smile. Dusty said that her sister wanted me to have this picture. She also wanted me to know how much they appreciated my kindness to them and their little girl. I took the picture, and made up an excuse to step out of the room for a minute.

Today I look in my mirror, and I don’t see that old bald man wondering what his role is in the big picture of life. When I look in the mirror, I see a man blessed. I see a man who was shown what is important by a beautiful little girl and her young parents.

We all have a place in this world. We are each a piece of a beautiful picture. When all of those pieces fit together they paint a picture of God’s love for us. We are each an important part of that picture, caring and loving each other. This was what Megan taught me. She wasn’t here on this earth very long, but she was able to show me her part of the picture and mine. It has been said that when God takes a baby to heaven that baby becomes an angel. If that is true, then I carry an angel in pocket and always will.

Cliff was a participant in the senior adult day program that I manage in Shelton, WA, a small rural town whose economy is based on forestry and fisheries. Cliff had lived in Shelton his whole life. He’d operated a garbage service there. His grown kids worked in construction and shellfish canning. He was a little crusty around the edges, but we loved him. Sometime in mid-life he’d had a stroke that seriously disabled him. His wife had cared for him for many years and after she passed away his daughter cared for him. Somewhere along the way he’d started attending an adult day program that is designed for seniors with conditions that keep them from being independent.

Cliff’s whole left side no longer worked and he was stuck in a wheelchair. His mind was still sharp as a tack, though, except when medications or fatigue got to him. He always liked a joke or a story or a comment that was a little risque. (Maybe he liked them a lot risquÈ, but we never went there.) And he wondered about this work that I did, often asking why I was working here if I had a college degree and all that experience.

A couple of years before, I’d left my best-paying high-powered job. I’d left it to return to my parents’ home so that I could spend time with my Dad who was on that never-ending downward spiral caused by Alzheimer’s disease. Mom wasn’t sure I should come because it was so stressful to take care of Dad. And I agreed, it was stressful, but a different kind of stress than I had experienced managing a training program for a big company. Eventually Dad needed to be moved into a care facility and Mom passed away and I ended up working for Senior Services. That’s how I arrived in the presence of Cliff. Cliff who wondered what I was doing helping “old half-baked” people (his words) eat their meals, read the newspaper, go to the bathroom, tell a few stories, and crack a few jokes. Good question.

But it was easy. It was easy because I was one person connecting with one other person who needed me. And this happened with other seniors in the program,too. They needed me so that they could go on with their lives with dignity. They needed me to celebrate their rich and varied experiences in the past and to affirm their lives in the present. Sometimes they just needed me to help them do simple daily things.

Like the day lunchtime arrived and Cliff was hungry. The hot lunch from the Senior Center smelled good. But for some reason that day, Cliff kept sliding down in his chair and leaning to the left. My assistant and I repositioned him in his wheelchair, propped up his left side with pillows, did all we could to keep him upright, but he just kept sliding and leaning and couldn’t eat his lunch. So I asked if he wanted me to hold him upright and he said, “Yes, please.”

I stood there, propping Cliff up so that he could eat his lunch, wondering to myself, “What am I doing here?” And I knew. It was easy. It was easy to help this man who had lived so long and done so much and today just wanted to eat some lunch. He needed me and I could help him. It didn’t matter who I was, what my resume said, where I’d come from, how much education I had, or how much money I made. It didn’t matter if I’d reached my potential, if I was self-actualized, if I’d reached the pinnacle of success. It didn’t matter that this job is not valued by society. It did matter to the families who sent their loved ones to a safe and positive place so that they could have a break. But most of all it mattered to Cliff. He wanted to eat lunch.

Now, Cliff is gone from this earth, but I still remember him. I remember him as the person who helped me discover how easy it was to let go of all the reaching and striving that had driven me for so long, and just stand still serving another human being.

Copyright (c) 2006 Randi Moe

However, in the monastery there was a novice, the youngest of the monks, and the first of his family to enter the monastic life.

The novice was causing the Abbot a lot of concern and heartache, with his behaviour. He was not attentive in lessons; he was disobedient to the rule. But the Abbot saw, in the novice, the seeds of greatness; and this deepened his concern.

As the Abbot went about his daily routine, he was aware of the young monk’s presence within the community. He would hear of the novice laughing during meditation, sleeping late and not attending to early morning duties. He would see the young man distracting others, and yet at others times he was nowhere to be found.

Increasingly, the Abbot felt under pressure from other monks to deal with the young man: to ask him to leave or to teach him a lesson. The Abbot had tried everything he could think of, reflecting on his apprenticeship within the traditions of the order.

One night the Abbot dreamed of a way through. ….

The following day, before first light – before the darkness had begun to pale – he arose and went to the novice:

“Come with me” he said, to the sleeping form. There was no reply.

The abbot, moving closer to the sleeping form, took him by the hand and gently raised him

“Come with me” he repeated and led the boy from his sleepy place.

“Where are we going, Master?” the novice asked.

The master replied not.

They passed through the monastery gates and started the climb to their destination, the novice grumbling, cold and stumbling as he went.

“Why are we doing this?” said the novice and “I don’t see the point”.

The Abbot smiled, observing how the path passed beneath his feet, noticing the roughness of the stones, the dew wet grass sweeping his ankles. He observed the wild flower meadow, bathed in the soft early morning light.

They continued the climb, through to the edge of the forest

And as they continued forward the novice was aware of baleful eyes of a large Tiger staring from the undergrowth and could smell his feral smell

“Come” said the Abbot, “there is no fear here” and moved away

The novice was left wondering, but followed his master

“Why are we journeying?” (the novice asked). The Abbot paused and listened. The novice paused but could hear nothing other than the sounds of the forest.

They moved on and came to a clearing where the Abbot raised his eyes to see a magnificent cascading, rainbow-wreathed waterfall. The novice looked up, too, but the Abbot moved on, climbing up the side of the falls.

“Where are we going?” he plaintively asked.

The Abbot sat on a large flat rock on top of the mountain and looked all around, smiling at the novice he said “What is there here?”

“I can see the rock and the moss, but they are not as beautiful as the grass in the fields…. I can see the wild flower, but it is nothing to the flowers in the meadow…. I can see the mouse, but that is not as magnificent as the Tiger, and the small trickle on the mountain here is nothing compared with the torrent of the falls”

“And so in all this there is nothing? Is there no more?”, asked the Abbot

“The only other thing I see, Master, is our path”

Their previous teacher was a great support to me. She had been teaching Grade One for many years and her responses to each child in her class were almost instinctive. She was a kind, understanding woman who was generous in answering my questions and helping me establish myself in my new role as teacher.

In particular, her comments on each child’s record helped me understand them better. Her perceptions gave me a toehold, a base from which to start to understand each child. I came to rely on them as I struggled to know and help each child better.

There was one boy in the class, let’s call him Gary, who seemed different to the others. His face was bright enough, but closed. He didn’t smile readily and his eyes were always alert, like a small animal in the forest. He appeared to evaluate each lesson and only paid attention if the topic, to him, merited it. If he didn’t pay attention he was up and about, class clown, distracting the other children.

Puzzled, I consulted his record, written by this Grade One teacher who had become something of a mentor to me. To my shock, she described him as being nothing but trouble, almost impossible to control, one of the most difficult children she had ever taught. I was stunned. He didn’t seem nearly that bad to me – a bit of a nuisance, maybe, if my lesson hadn’t engaged him, but nothing worse than that. Yet I trusted this teacher’s experience and judgement.

Gary became something of a challenge to me. An obvious first step seemed to be that if he was only disruptive when my lessons didn’t interest him, then my lessons had better interest him. I took time to get to know him better and I found that, among other things, he seldom got enough sleep, often didn’t get regular nourishing meals, and had to take a lot of responsibility for two younger sisters.

I quickly found that he thrived on responsibility. I gave him a simple task to do and got a big smile for the first time. Well, there were lots more tasks in a new teacher’s classroom. He might have started by erasing the blackboard, but he soon placed himself in charge of my supply cupboard. Like magic, supplies were neatly arranged and given out and collected. I made fresh fruit available at recess time and got Gary into a lunch program.

It seemed so straightforward. Gary, like all the other children in the room, was so likeable, so eager to learn. Yet the Grade One teacher whose perception I had come to rely on had seen the child so differently. And I trusted her judgement. What was I missing? Where was I going wrong?

I mulled this over for days. Had I missed something important? Was there indeed something inherently bad in this child that would one day burst forth to shock me? It wasn’t until one day, when I had to send an important message to the principal’s office, that I got my answer.

Taking a bit of a chance I asked Gary to take the message. Because he was, after all, only seven years old I impressed on him that it was very important that he go directly to the office. He gave me his big smile – still so new to me.

“Yep,” he said, “You can trust me.”

And just as I knew right then that I could indeed trust him, I also knew that I could also trust myself and my own judgement.