One more memory, please, just one more

Tuesday, June 9, 2026

(click here to listen to or read today’s scriptures)

One more memory, please, just one more

The brook near where Elijah was hiding ran dry because no rain had fallen in the land …

 A grassroots effort in the 1890s by citizens of Austin, Texas, led to the opening of the Seton Infirmary on May 26, 1902. The citizenry asked the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul to construct a Catholic hospital to take care of the sick and poor.

Over 100 years later the one 42-bed hospital, originally known as “Seton Infirmary” and located at 600 West 26th Street in Austin, Texas, has grown to serve a population of more than 1.8 million, with a special regard for the sick and poor. A Catholic health organization, Seton provides millions of dollars in charity care for the uninsured every year.

Like everyone, they struggle to maintain their commitment to Jesus’ Golden Rule. There are specifics on the wall:

Service of the poor -generosity of spirit, especially for persons most in need

Reverence – respect and compassion for the dignity and diversity of life

Integrity – inspiring trust through personal leadership

Wisdom -integrating excellence and stewardship

Creativity – courageous innovation

Dedication – affirming the hope and joy of our ministry

So, on to my own specifics.

Ann picked me up at home in her very-safe-very cool Volvo SUV, and the seats were air conditioned. I loved that ride, to the hospital through normal 8 am traffic, straight to the man-in-charge-of-cars, Harvey, who took Ann’s keys and promised to take care of her car.

Inside the door, we found Jea who helped me finish the forms before the pre-op appointment set up before my surgery date was changed last week.

She took us through the coded door to Rosie (whose accent seemed identical to our Grace friend Adriana’s, who is a UT professor that in the last two weeks has insisted that Margaret and I put our actions where my mouth has been, and so now we have a timeline. Action items replaced the I’ll-get-to-that-soon”s).

Rosie took a bunch of blood, corralling my rolling vein, and poked me only once. She took an EKG which took less than five minutes, and the patches pulled out ZERO hair and skin.

Ann and I sat and waited. We shared stories that began with God’s touch and ended with God’s double-touch. Our nurse Judy walked in and quickly filled the room with joy. We talked a bit about Marc and Evie’s big dog Bear , and Martin Luther, and last rites for non-Catholics. She  explained the work I had in store for me at home the next few days, especially the night before surgery a week from today. When she left, she hugged me. She said, just listen to your heart … WWJD … What would Judy do?

Just so,

 your light must shine before others,

that they may see your good deeds

and glorify your heavenly Father.

The last thing this morning was a chest x-ray, and for this we were transported from the magic carpet of personal attention to a small waiting room filled with quite a few relatively large people, waiting for their labs. They made room for us. One of the folks waiting his turn began telling us stories of his life, and his wife’s life. She’s a viola player in the San Antonio Symphony; he’s a history professor with a long history himself. Their daughter lives three blocks north of Margaret and I on Jollyville Road.

Their free spirits turned the tiny waiting room into a party room. But it was quickly over when for some reason they called my name before all the others, and I skipped the line. Didn’t feel quite right, but I leaned on my red Wonder walker and followed “Handy” down the hall. She finished her x-rays in five minutes. She promised to look up the story of W.C. Handy before the day was out. Father of the Blues? Musical genius, blinded and continued composing in Braille? Taker of x-rays? She’s in for a Wikipedia treat.

We walked toward the exit, a little lost, Ann feeling our way through the corridors. We almost weren’t lost. Huge photographs of wildflowers on the wall, a spreading red field until the big Texas sky, and a vast meadow of bluebonnets in the spring. The colors seemed brighter than they could ever possibly be.

Margaret’s experiences in this hospital, which seemed to go on forever but which left her physically healed, also made her reluctant to go back. Call it PTSD, which it probably is.

My memories flashed too. But Margaret was the one with tubes and monitors and constant “attention” 24 hours a day. That might be coming soon for me, but now I was remembering people and the miracles God kept throwing at us five years ago. The stories in that book we wrote – Finding Her Way Toward Healing, slid into my mind, piling up like endless delicate layers of a honey-covered, heated slice of baklava. The here-and-now blended with the here-and-then.

Again as so often lately, I was overwhelmed with joy. Ann’s own stories of God and goodness rising like the balm of Gilead over evil in her life, much of it happening in hospitals, made our time together more rich than rich. God was always in the corner, watching.

And all the time, she was vigilant in watching over me.

Outside Austin’s heat hit us. Harvey’s white stubble on his black skin shone. He looked for Ann’s black SUV, and there it was a step away. Would you like to sit on an air-conditioned seat? Of course! Ready to head to Rudy’s for some barbeque to share at home with Margaret.

Harvey smiled. See you next week. Bright. Early. 4:30 am. I’ll be here, waiting for ya. I’ll leave the light on …

Whoa! This is really happening. And I’m feeling the presence of angels, or something. Call it the Beauty Way, as the Navajo’s do …

Today I will walk out, today everything evil will leave me,

I will be as I was before, I will have a cool breeze over my body.

I will have a light body, I will be happy forever,

nothing will hinder me.

I walk with beauty before me. I walk with beauty behind me.

I walk with beauty below me. I walk with beauty above me.

I walk with beauty around me. My words will be beautiful.

 

In beauty all day long may I walk.

Through the returning seasons, may I walk.

On the trail marked with pollen may I walk.

With dew about my feet, may I walk.

 

With beauty before me may I walk.

With beauty behind me may I walk.

With beauty below me may I walk.

With beauty above me may I walk.

With beauty all around me may I walk.

 

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty,

lively, may I walk.

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty,

living again, may I walk.

My words will be beautiful. – Paul J Howell

 

(1 Kings 17, Psalm 4, Matthew 5)

(posted at www.davesandel.net)

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