Flesh
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
62 Stories For Cycle B
Uncle Patrick came to live with us after Gram died, in the fall of my senior year. I had hoped that the big room behind the stairs, with its convenient outside entrance, would be mine, but Mom said I would have to wait. Uncle Patty, as we all called him, needed a place to live. He was her only brother and my only uncle. Dad had all sisters in his family. He was reluctant to have Uncle stay with us, but Mom insisted. "It will only be for a little while," she said, "until his disability comes through from the government." Uncle Patty was disabled because of his weight and a chronic heart condition. To say that he was a big man would be a gross understatement. Uncle Patty was huge: six foot three, 420 pounds: a hulking mass of quivering, flabby flesh. The whole house quaked and creaked whenever he moved about in his room. The mattress and springs on Gram's big four-poster bed were soon sagging all the way to the floor. He used to open up his shirt and show us kids his massive stomach. It looked like an unruly sack of feed when he picked it up in both hands and let it spill out over his belt. "It's all paid for," he always said. And then he would laugh, that deep, gutteral, fat man's laugh that we all came to love so dearly that year he was with us.
Mom told us that he had always been fat, even as a small child. She said the kids at school used to taunt him with "fatty, fatty Patty" and "Pat's so fat he can sit on his own lap." Uncle Patty learned to shrug it off. He told me one time, during one of our late night walks down by the river, that the first couple of years of high school were the worst, until he came to realize that everyone is handicapped in some way. His was just more obvious than others. He said he made a conscious decision when he was sixteen years old to befriend people who had been hurt as he was hurt and to try in some small way to help them feel better about themselves. That was probably why he was one the most loved persons in town. Uncle Patty was caring and sensitive in a way that didn't draw attention to himself. People just liked him. He had a warmth about him which I now recognize, as I look back with the perspective of some years, as a healing presence. Spirits were lifted whenever he came into a room. You knew that he would say or do something that would be uplifting to everyone. I'm not trying to say that he was the life of the party; Uncle Patty in no way fit the stereotype of the jolly fat man. He was a gentle, nurturing soul, gifted with an exceptional intellect and a discerning perceptivity about the meaning of relationships and events that set him apart from most other men and women of his time. The enormity of his obese frame, which repulsed most people upon first meeting, and caused children to point and stare whenever he went about in public, made no difference whatsoever to those of us who loved him. His physical ugliness was part of his glory. To me he will always be the very incarnation of grace and love.
Uncle Patty was one of the few adults I knew in my late adolescent years who treated me as an equal. He listened seriously to what I had to say. And he didn't spare my feelings if I acted foolishly or said something stupid. He always told me exactly what he thought. To this day, whenever I am in any kind of trouble or wonder what to do in a difficult situation, I ask myself, "What would Uncle Patty think about this?" And then it is almost as if I can hear his voice and see his face through the fog, just as I did when he found me that cold December night, bleeding and half dead along the river road.
I had been at a dance with some friends on the other side of town. Uncle Patty had let me drive his 1949 Chrysler Saratoga Coupe - the silver anniversary model. Oh, what a car that was! Uncle bought it used from the Fuller Brush man, but it was in mint condition. It had a hemi V8 engine, a hydraulically-operated transmission, gyrol fluid drive, hydralizer shock absorbers, and safety level ride. It could go from zero to sixty in ten seconds, and it had fold-back seats. My friends were impressed.
When we arrived at the hall, one of the guys announced that he knew someone who could get us a couple of six-packs. We all chipped in, and after only a few minutes he came back with the beer. We drank a round before we went in to the dance, and we had a couple more each when the band took their break near the end of the evening. I had been warned about drinking and driving, but I thought a couple of beers wouldn't hurt - and it would have been awkward to turn down a drink in front of my friends. I felt fine when we started home: a little tired, but certain that my driving abilities were in no way impaired. I dropped my friends off at their homes and had made the final turn on the river road, just a half-mile from our house, when I suddenly lost control of the car. I have never been exactly sure what happened, whether I was going too fast as I came out of the curve or if I hit a slippery spot in the road. The last thing I remember was the car rolling over the embankment toward the river. I thought, this is it, and then I blacked out. They told me later that I was thrown from the car before it went into the water. I don't know how long I laid there in the snow before Uncle Patty found me. When I came to, he was kneeling over me, saying my name.
"Buzz, are you all right? Are you okay?"
"I don't know," I finally managed to say.
"Well, you're alive at least," he said with some relief in his voice. Then he wrapped me in his coat, picked me up, and carried me all the way to the house. Somehow he was able to get me into the back seat of Dad's old Studebaker without adding to my injuries. Then I must have passed out again. I woke up in the hospital bed a few hours after the surgery. Uncle Patty was there with my folks. They all seemed greatly relieved that I was alive and that I would have no permanent disabilities. Nothing was said about my drinking and driving until I was almost well enough to go home. Dad simply told me that I would have to face the music in court and would likely lose my license until I was 21. He suggested that I take the lumps I had coming and learn from it. No one said anything about the car. I knew how much Uncle Patty loved that big Chrysler. When I offered to pay it off, bit by bit, by working extra hours after school, he shook his head and said, "I'm just glad you're okay." I'll never forget that, but it was what he said and did later that left the biggest impression.
It was on Christmas Day, my last day in the hospital. Uncle Patty got there about an hour before the rest of the family arrived. He said, "Buzz, you know that what you did was inexcusable. Drinking and driving is a sin against the community. You risked not only your own life, and those of your friends, but the life of everyone else who was on the road that night. You could have killed someone, or several people, including yourself. The fact that you didn't makes you no less guilty than a criminal who attempts to murder someone with a gun or a knife. To drink even one drop of alcohol, or to take any other kind of drug that reduces your physical and mental abilities while driving, is inexcusable - but not unforgivable."
Then he smiled at me and said, "If we all got what we deserved, life would be unbearable. I once did exactly the same thing you did. Your dad was with me. No one ever found out about our little accident. But he remembers it as well as I do. And now he and I both are kicking ourselves because we didn't prevent you from making the same mistake. Maybe we all have to learn our own hard lessons."
I have never forgotten what Uncle Patty said to me that day, or what he did just before Mom and Dad and the rest of them came into the room with my Christmas presents. He leaned over the bed, put his big flabby arms around me, drew me in close to his massive frame and hugged me with all of his might. I knew then that everything would be all right.
____________
Author's note:
This story first appeared in Life Stories: A Study In Christian Decision Making, by John Sumwalt and Jo Perry-Sumwalt, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio, 1995.
Mom told us that he had always been fat, even as a small child. She said the kids at school used to taunt him with "fatty, fatty Patty" and "Pat's so fat he can sit on his own lap." Uncle Patty learned to shrug it off. He told me one time, during one of our late night walks down by the river, that the first couple of years of high school were the worst, until he came to realize that everyone is handicapped in some way. His was just more obvious than others. He said he made a conscious decision when he was sixteen years old to befriend people who had been hurt as he was hurt and to try in some small way to help them feel better about themselves. That was probably why he was one the most loved persons in town. Uncle Patty was caring and sensitive in a way that didn't draw attention to himself. People just liked him. He had a warmth about him which I now recognize, as I look back with the perspective of some years, as a healing presence. Spirits were lifted whenever he came into a room. You knew that he would say or do something that would be uplifting to everyone. I'm not trying to say that he was the life of the party; Uncle Patty in no way fit the stereotype of the jolly fat man. He was a gentle, nurturing soul, gifted with an exceptional intellect and a discerning perceptivity about the meaning of relationships and events that set him apart from most other men and women of his time. The enormity of his obese frame, which repulsed most people upon first meeting, and caused children to point and stare whenever he went about in public, made no difference whatsoever to those of us who loved him. His physical ugliness was part of his glory. To me he will always be the very incarnation of grace and love.
Uncle Patty was one of the few adults I knew in my late adolescent years who treated me as an equal. He listened seriously to what I had to say. And he didn't spare my feelings if I acted foolishly or said something stupid. He always told me exactly what he thought. To this day, whenever I am in any kind of trouble or wonder what to do in a difficult situation, I ask myself, "What would Uncle Patty think about this?" And then it is almost as if I can hear his voice and see his face through the fog, just as I did when he found me that cold December night, bleeding and half dead along the river road.
I had been at a dance with some friends on the other side of town. Uncle Patty had let me drive his 1949 Chrysler Saratoga Coupe - the silver anniversary model. Oh, what a car that was! Uncle bought it used from the Fuller Brush man, but it was in mint condition. It had a hemi V8 engine, a hydraulically-operated transmission, gyrol fluid drive, hydralizer shock absorbers, and safety level ride. It could go from zero to sixty in ten seconds, and it had fold-back seats. My friends were impressed.
When we arrived at the hall, one of the guys announced that he knew someone who could get us a couple of six-packs. We all chipped in, and after only a few minutes he came back with the beer. We drank a round before we went in to the dance, and we had a couple more each when the band took their break near the end of the evening. I had been warned about drinking and driving, but I thought a couple of beers wouldn't hurt - and it would have been awkward to turn down a drink in front of my friends. I felt fine when we started home: a little tired, but certain that my driving abilities were in no way impaired. I dropped my friends off at their homes and had made the final turn on the river road, just a half-mile from our house, when I suddenly lost control of the car. I have never been exactly sure what happened, whether I was going too fast as I came out of the curve or if I hit a slippery spot in the road. The last thing I remember was the car rolling over the embankment toward the river. I thought, this is it, and then I blacked out. They told me later that I was thrown from the car before it went into the water. I don't know how long I laid there in the snow before Uncle Patty found me. When I came to, he was kneeling over me, saying my name.
"Buzz, are you all right? Are you okay?"
"I don't know," I finally managed to say.
"Well, you're alive at least," he said with some relief in his voice. Then he wrapped me in his coat, picked me up, and carried me all the way to the house. Somehow he was able to get me into the back seat of Dad's old Studebaker without adding to my injuries. Then I must have passed out again. I woke up in the hospital bed a few hours after the surgery. Uncle Patty was there with my folks. They all seemed greatly relieved that I was alive and that I would have no permanent disabilities. Nothing was said about my drinking and driving until I was almost well enough to go home. Dad simply told me that I would have to face the music in court and would likely lose my license until I was 21. He suggested that I take the lumps I had coming and learn from it. No one said anything about the car. I knew how much Uncle Patty loved that big Chrysler. When I offered to pay it off, bit by bit, by working extra hours after school, he shook his head and said, "I'm just glad you're okay." I'll never forget that, but it was what he said and did later that left the biggest impression.
It was on Christmas Day, my last day in the hospital. Uncle Patty got there about an hour before the rest of the family arrived. He said, "Buzz, you know that what you did was inexcusable. Drinking and driving is a sin against the community. You risked not only your own life, and those of your friends, but the life of everyone else who was on the road that night. You could have killed someone, or several people, including yourself. The fact that you didn't makes you no less guilty than a criminal who attempts to murder someone with a gun or a knife. To drink even one drop of alcohol, or to take any other kind of drug that reduces your physical and mental abilities while driving, is inexcusable - but not unforgivable."
Then he smiled at me and said, "If we all got what we deserved, life would be unbearable. I once did exactly the same thing you did. Your dad was with me. No one ever found out about our little accident. But he remembers it as well as I do. And now he and I both are kicking ourselves because we didn't prevent you from making the same mistake. Maybe we all have to learn our own hard lessons."
I have never forgotten what Uncle Patty said to me that day, or what he did just before Mom and Dad and the rest of them came into the room with my Christmas presents. He leaned over the bed, put his big flabby arms around me, drew me in close to his massive frame and hugged me with all of his might. I knew then that everything would be all right.
____________
Author's note:
This story first appeared in Life Stories: A Study In Christian Decision Making, by John Sumwalt and Jo Perry-Sumwalt, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio, 1995.
