Keeping Watch
Illustration
Stories
Keep awake, therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming. (v. 42)
I kept a daily journal for many years in which I jotted down some of the interesting things that occurred in my life as a pastor. I was aware that what I was doing was a great privilege, that to be able to be with people during some of the most significant moments of their lives is no small thing. But I am more humbled now as I look back at these holy moments.
One day in Kenosha, in the early 1990’s, I visited with Jenny Brandalese about a month before her 90th birthday. She told me about the eight years of war she saw in Italy during World War I. Jenny told me she was just 15 years old and her hair turned white from the poisoned gas. She was imprisoned for a year. After the war, her family came to the United States, first to New Mexico and then to Kenosha. She had twin daughters and when they were three years old, one became quite ill with convulsions. The doctor thought she was going to die. They were Catholic in those days, so Jenny said she called the priest. He refused to administer last rites because they weren’t church members and because they couldn’t pay. So, Jenny said, she called Father Busacca, as she called him, though he was the protestant pastor of the evangelical church. He came over, prayed for her daughter and baptized her. She said her daughter went into a deep sleep for 24 hours and recovered. And they became members of First Evangelical Church.
Another home visit in Kenosha that I will never forget was the day I stopped at Joe and Bernice Book’s trailer home. It was one of my favorite places to visit. There was always a cup of coffee and good conversation. Sometimes we talked about their daughter, their only child, who had been killed in an auto accident when she was a teenager. Joe was a retired watchmaker and he had a wonderful wit. One day as I was getting up to go he said to me, “I’ll see you when I get straightened out.” I looked at him with a blank face, and he added, “You know, laid out in front of the altar.”
On another occasion, three ladies from the church, Velma, Atha and Marjorie, invited me to an impromptu party to celebrate Joe’s 90th birthday. We all sat out in front of the trailer in the sun, ate cake and ice cream, and listened to Joe talk smart. Bernice told me later that it was the first time Joe ever had a birthday party. Not too long after that we were all together again with Bernice in her kitchen on the day Joe died. Bernice had on a sweater she had knitted for Joe years before. She said wearing it helped her feel close to him. Velma stayed with Bernice the rest of the day, and Atha came back that evening with warm soup for supper. Bernice told me later, “Atha stayed all night, slept on the couch.”
Years later, when I was serving in New Berlin, a woman called the church and said her mother was dying and wanted to speak to a Methodist minister. She said she picked our number out of the phone book. So I went. When I came into the small bedroom of the tiny ranch-style house, I felt like I was entering a painting of a classic deathbed scene. An old woman, who I learned was the dying woman’s sister, was hovering over the bed. The dying woman, covers tucked up to her chin, was lying on her back, perfectly still, her eyes looking out beyond at something seemingly outside the room.
I introduced myself as the local Methodist minister. The dying woman told me her name and a bit about her life. Then something told me to ask to speak with her alone. And after her sister was gone, and the door closed, she told me she was ready to go: that she had made her peace with everyone and was so thankful to be in her daughter’s home. “I feel safe here,” she said, and then added, “I expect to go to heaven.”
I asked her if she had seen any of her loved ones who are in heaven. “Yes,” she said. “Two nights ago, my husband appeared and smiled at me.” I told her this was not uncommon, that people we love often come to meet us as we prepare to cross over.
There was peacefulness and a sense of joy in that room that I cannot put into words. I only know that I understand more of the mystery of life and death than I knew before I received the call from that dying woman’s daughter.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 27, 2022 issue.
Copyright 2022 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
I kept a daily journal for many years in which I jotted down some of the interesting things that occurred in my life as a pastor. I was aware that what I was doing was a great privilege, that to be able to be with people during some of the most significant moments of their lives is no small thing. But I am more humbled now as I look back at these holy moments.
One day in Kenosha, in the early 1990’s, I visited with Jenny Brandalese about a month before her 90th birthday. She told me about the eight years of war she saw in Italy during World War I. Jenny told me she was just 15 years old and her hair turned white from the poisoned gas. She was imprisoned for a year. After the war, her family came to the United States, first to New Mexico and then to Kenosha. She had twin daughters and when they were three years old, one became quite ill with convulsions. The doctor thought she was going to die. They were Catholic in those days, so Jenny said she called the priest. He refused to administer last rites because they weren’t church members and because they couldn’t pay. So, Jenny said, she called Father Busacca, as she called him, though he was the protestant pastor of the evangelical church. He came over, prayed for her daughter and baptized her. She said her daughter went into a deep sleep for 24 hours and recovered. And they became members of First Evangelical Church.
Another home visit in Kenosha that I will never forget was the day I stopped at Joe and Bernice Book’s trailer home. It was one of my favorite places to visit. There was always a cup of coffee and good conversation. Sometimes we talked about their daughter, their only child, who had been killed in an auto accident when she was a teenager. Joe was a retired watchmaker and he had a wonderful wit. One day as I was getting up to go he said to me, “I’ll see you when I get straightened out.” I looked at him with a blank face, and he added, “You know, laid out in front of the altar.”
On another occasion, three ladies from the church, Velma, Atha and Marjorie, invited me to an impromptu party to celebrate Joe’s 90th birthday. We all sat out in front of the trailer in the sun, ate cake and ice cream, and listened to Joe talk smart. Bernice told me later that it was the first time Joe ever had a birthday party. Not too long after that we were all together again with Bernice in her kitchen on the day Joe died. Bernice had on a sweater she had knitted for Joe years before. She said wearing it helped her feel close to him. Velma stayed with Bernice the rest of the day, and Atha came back that evening with warm soup for supper. Bernice told me later, “Atha stayed all night, slept on the couch.”
Years later, when I was serving in New Berlin, a woman called the church and said her mother was dying and wanted to speak to a Methodist minister. She said she picked our number out of the phone book. So I went. When I came into the small bedroom of the tiny ranch-style house, I felt like I was entering a painting of a classic deathbed scene. An old woman, who I learned was the dying woman’s sister, was hovering over the bed. The dying woman, covers tucked up to her chin, was lying on her back, perfectly still, her eyes looking out beyond at something seemingly outside the room.
I introduced myself as the local Methodist minister. The dying woman told me her name and a bit about her life. Then something told me to ask to speak with her alone. And after her sister was gone, and the door closed, she told me she was ready to go: that she had made her peace with everyone and was so thankful to be in her daughter’s home. “I feel safe here,” she said, and then added, “I expect to go to heaven.”
I asked her if she had seen any of her loved ones who are in heaven. “Yes,” she said. “Two nights ago, my husband appeared and smiled at me.” I told her this was not uncommon, that people we love often come to meet us as we prepare to cross over.
There was peacefulness and a sense of joy in that room that I cannot put into words. I only know that I understand more of the mystery of life and death than I knew before I received the call from that dying woman’s daughter.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 27, 2022 issue.
Copyright 2022 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
