Read without ads and support Scribd by becoming a Scribd Premium Reader.

Language:

Download

Go BackAdd Note

Link

Embed

Save for later

WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES

WHITE ROBED ANGEL

The patients knew she was an angel – that white robed figure who slowly and silently movedthrough the dim night hours in Ward Eight of Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. Some people do not believe in angels, and I understand why they do not. But I do!Angels come in all shapes and sizes. Their existence does not depend on whether people do or donot believe in them. Most think of angels as diaphanous spirits floating down from heaven tominister to people in times of need, before returning to ethereal realms. This angel was notvisiting from heaven. She was an earthling, who did not know it, but was on her way to paradise.The angel’s name was Norma. We had been married for almost thirteen years when she becameill. Initially it seemed to be nothing more serious than a sore throat. She took a turn for theworse, becoming hoarse, tired, and weak. I drove her to the hospital, insisting that a doctor examine her. The doctor ordered tests and x-rays.The test results and x-rays came back. The young physician was taciturn, avoiding my gaze. “Ithink we’ll keep her in,” he said. “We need to do further tests.” I wheeled her into the receptionward, hugged her long and hard, and left for home. When I returned with her necessities, she wasin bed in Ward 8.She was gratified that something was being done and after some rest, she was more like thehappy, laughing woman everyone knew. I spent each day with her and she had many visitors.Friends and neighbours flocked to see her, bringing her flowers, fruit, chocolates, and themandatory energy drinks.Her happiest day was the Sunday three of her four surviving children visited. They spent the daytalking, remembering, and laughing. She loved to laugh, but her greatest attribute was her impulse to loving service. Although now enfeebled by disease, she obeyed the divine impulse toserve others, shuffling painfully through the ward, seeing to the needs of others.A young girl, struggling to come to terms with life, lay listless and morbid. Tattooed, pierced, her arms bearing the scars of frequent self-mutilation, ostracised by her fellow-patients, brooding, anddepressed. Norma encouraged her to think positively about herself and the possibilities of her life.In the bed across from Norma was an old lady. Everything she ate came back. Norma soothedand comforted, encouraging her to take a little nourishment to get strong enough to fight theillness that was sapping her vitality.One elderly Indian woman spoke little English. She had many visitors at one particular time of each day, but for long periods after that, she was alone and unable to join in conversations.

WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES

Norma, who spoke no Urdu or Gujerati, sat on her bed and painstakingly made contact. Sheunderstood how important it was for people to have human company if they were going to feelgood about themselves.Many others, scattered throughout the large ward, were grateful recipients of Norma’sministration. She was often up in the night, comforting those who were feeling lost, or lonely, or who were anxious, or unable to sleep. It was not easy for her to move around, because her illnesssapped her strength, and made walking difficult. However, it did not stop her from visiting andhelping. The nurses and doctors praised her enterprise, appreciating the value of spiritual supportin healing.In the next bed was a woman in her thirties. It was she, more than any other, who attracted Norma’s most profound compassion. She was a tender little thing who apologised every time sheopened her mouth. She was so anxiety laden that it was painful to hear her. If she dropped acrumb onto the bed covers, she apologised, looking as if some ogre was going to punish her. Sherepeatedly complained that she was being a nuisance, and felt that she caused trouble for the staff.One night, she called for a commode. After using it, she began to cry that she was sorry, that shewas sure she had made a mess. Would they forgive her? Norma assured her that everything wasall right. She spoke softly and encouragingly. The woman came and sat on the edge of Norma’s bed. Norma took her hands in her own, looked her in the eye and spoke softly but directly. “Youhave a Father in Heaven who loves you.” These were the last words she heard. She smiled, theonly time Norma had seen her smile, then died. How fitting that the last words she heard inmortality were words of love, assurance, and hope.The White Robed Angel had performed her ministry. Three weeks later, she was herself called toa better place where, I do not doubt, she continues to minister to fragile souls who need to learnthat through all the disappointments and anxieties of life, they have a Father in Heaven, and heloves them.

WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES

COME BACK DEREK HARROWBY,ALL IS FORGIVEN!

As a child, I had an almost pathological dislike for red hair. The origin of my distaste is hard todetermine. Red haired people did not figure large in my childhood, so I am at a loss to understandhow my aversion began, and why it continued past my teenaged years.One boy in my class at school had red hair. His name was Derek Harrowby. Our paths crossedinfrequently, except in my last year when he decided to take over bullying me.I didn’t like bullying. Probably because I was an easy target. A smallish lad with no fight in him.The fight, if I ever had any, had evaporated before the power of all the grown-ups who haddominated my life since the first stirrings of my memory.I first went to school when I was two-and-a-half years old. Then, due to the tragic event that took place in Europe in September 1939, nursery school was immediately suspended, and I stayedhome until the following January, when my fifth birthday qualified me to attend infants’ school.I have few distinct memories of those early years. Of some classes, I have but a single memory:of others, none at all. Yet, though the events have slipped out of my mind, the pain of alienationand oppression I felt remains distinct.I should add that I did not suffer a lot of bullying. Most of the time I was merely treated withdisdain, as though I was invisible. That was less painful than the physical bullying that Iexperienced from time to time. However, these episodes did not last long. Principally, because Iusually collapsed in a heap before the onslaught. The ‘cave-in’ invariably ended the attack.I was bullied by a variety of boys. Some of the smaller boys did so under the tacit approval of their bigger, more fearsome friends, who stood near in case I ever fought back. I never did. I donot recall suffering any serious injury other than loss of dignity in front of my peers, and the smalldeath that occurred unseen and unheard inside me on these occasions. Many others suffered at thehands of the ferocious and bold who seem to have been regularly fed on raw meat. No smallaccomplishment in war time.To be fair, Derek Harrowby was not a regular bully, only an occasional one. It was a surprise,therefore, to find myself being pushed backwards through the school playground one lunch time by this ginger-haired lad. Surrounded by bloodthirsty boys, calling to see my blood, he poked and prodded me into retreat until he had me trapped in front of the schoolhouse door.Then, something inside me snapped. I will never forget his look of triumphant satisfaction as heexulted in his absolute power over me. Nor will I forget the look on his face when my fist shot