Sometimes we’re a mystery to ourselves, or, perhaps more accurately, sometimes we don’t realize how much paranoia we carry within ourselves. A lot of things tend to ruin our day.
“What is that sound?” I asked, even as I realized that it was the buzz of books and knickknacks, plates and bowls, tables and, well, everything, rattling as the earth shifted.
My wife thinks it’s supposed to look like a ship. I suspect the church is meant to look like a clam. It has a half moon clam shape and a tilted ceiling that opens up like a clam. We’re visiting a sick friend who lives near the New England coast and clams are one of the local trademarks, like Steelers gear in Pittsburgh. I hope I’m wrong, but you never know with church architects.
For the longest time I always felt just another face in the crowd – unknown, unseen, easily replaced. I was pretty quiet in large groups and rarely voiced my opinions. It wasn’t for lack of having them; it was simply because I thought that people wouldn’t care.
During my years as a hospice volunteer, I had some very moving and meaningful experiences. One, in particular, stands out. I was visiting Theresa, a patient in a nursing home where visitations by family members or friends are few and far between.