Experiences
Sometimes, in encounter, we feel the solidarity of the human race, a key component of Social Justice based on the dignity of the human person. ‘Christians moved by the Spirit’ describes Holy Humanism.
Last year, I endured the heartbreaking loss of an incarcerated man I had worked with for over a decade. Our journey began in a court-ordered diversion program, where we studied English to prepare for the GED. Anyone who read or heard my eulogy could sense the deep connection I had with Billy. Tragically, he passed away at the age of thirty-two while fishing on the riverbank. He was a dedicated fork truck driver, and his colleagues adored him. After the funeral, his family revealed that he had accidentally broken his phone at work and had been trying to reach me. Billy had finally achieved his dream of owning a red car, which was his favorite color and his nickname; he wanted me to know. He had a great girlfriend, and maintained regular contact with his mother and his three brothers.
His mother asked me to conduct the funeral, and I did so, sharing many of the memories we had created over a decade together. Among them was his diagnosis with hyperlipidemia. That was just one memory; we had shared family vacations, my seminary experiences, family camping, I taught him to drive and relentlessly quizzed him until he got his license, sat with him through the GED, went to his mother’s on Christmas, Thanksgiving, and birthdays, witnessed his marriage, his first and second babies, visited amusement parks and state parks; I was there for him during his times in jail and during his father’s illness and death.
His wife discovered his initial condition when he had golfball-sized lipid deposits that resembled tumors on his elbows and knees. There were also flaps of lipids all around his eyes. Billy’s wife realized that he would often comply with my requests. Together, we took him to the doctor, who diagnosed him and referred him to a rare blood disease specialist in Indianapolis. This led to numerous visits to doctors in the city before Billy received a license for testing of various kinds.
I frequently found myself called at the seminary to drive Billy to his third shift job at the steel foundry. During these trips, we spent quality time with his wife and eldest daughter, and we even became regular patrons of restaurants, movie theaters, and malls. As my seminary days drew to a close, Billy insisted on accompanying me on two field trips to the big city, one three hours away and the other two hours away, to purchase the necessary tools for my trade. Despite the fact that I often played the role of his protector, Billy saw himself as the one who protected me.
A few months after Billy’s passing, my brother asked me how he was doing. Billy had been working weekends for my brother to earn extra money. I informed my brother about Billy’s passing, which was shocking news to him. My brother vividly remembers me telling him that if he didn’t take the once-a-month blood treatments, which were only available four hours away, his life expectancy would be reduced to a mere eight years. At the time of his diagnosis, Billy didn’t own a car or have a driver’s license. The blood scrubbing treatments were even unavailable in nearby cities. It’s rare for only one in every 250,000 births to be affected by this disease. Both parents must carry a rare recessive gene. My brother and I reminisced about the time when Billy had owned the power-washing business, which was ten years ago. Surprisingly, Billy lived two years longer than the doctors had predicted without the treatments.
At the time of his diagnosis, I promptly sent all the relevant documents to his mother and wife, who subsequently informed the rest of his family. Although Billy was not particularly vocal about his condition, I persistently reminded him about the medication. However, over time, particularly after he had been living on the streets, everyone, including Billy (I believe), gradually forgot about his illness. During the funeral, I brought up the diagnosis, and several individuals mentioned that they had forgotten about it approximately ten years earlier. Despite having informed his entire family and provided them with the doctor’s papers, Billy possessed an extraordinary zest for life. He was young, physically strong, and exceptionally athletic. It was simply easy to overlook his condition.
In any case, his wife emailed me the day after Christmas, inquiring if I knew the names of the doctors we had consulted in the big city because his death certificate was incorrect. I informed her that my records did not extend that far back, but apart from the two nationally renowned specialists in the big city who had treated him twice, I had also taken him to local heart doctors five times. During these visits, they conducted extensive tests, including ultrasounds of his heart and carotid artery, and visited the health clinic for the poor, possibly ten times. It’s important to note that lipids are proteins, and their accumulation closely resembles cholesterol buildup, tenfold. All these visits occurred before he obtained his license. Eventually, he received his license and a car. We always discussed our current lives in the moment, and we never even mentioned his health. After obtaining his license, he underwent a few short stents while in jail and spent some time living on the streets. During this period, he never mentioned his disease to anyone and never sought medical attention again.
Billy lived his life the only way he knew how, as a survivor. Despite knowing his prognosis, he never allowed his illness to define him. His love for life was unwavering, and he was quick to laugh, continuing to live even in the face of the systemic odds stacked against him due to his past of poverty. The death certificate listed his cause of death as ‘chronic drug use.’ However, my family and I know that he was clean when he passed away. He had successfully completed drug court, was in a relationship with a drug-free woman, and had even been named ‘Employee of the Month’ two months before his passing at a drug-testing company. All his co-workers attended his funeral to mourn him, which really moved his mother.
Billy succumbed to natural causes, a heart attack triggered by the buildup of lipids in his veins due to hyperlipidemia, as predicted by the specialists. However, the lipids weren’t confined to his veins; they also accumulated in large, lumpy formations around his eyes, on both knee joints, and both elbow joints. The lipid flaps around his eyes were particularly extensive, numbering in the dozens. Any competent doctor could have observed these physical manifestations of the disease and consulted medical literature. The coroner, considering Billy’s young age and lockup history, made a judgment without even conducting an autopsy or exploring alternative causes. It is disheartening that the voiceless, especially the deceased, lack a voice. While the coroner’s decision was flawed, who will gather the necessary evidence and retain legal counsel to challenge the death certificate?
This situation deeply troubled me, leaving me feeling powerless. Billy’s ex-wife wrote to the coroner requesting a reconsideration, and he promised to review the matter over thirty days. After Billy’s cremation, it will require diligent effort from the coroner to verify the account of his death with his medical records the coroner has a right to see. Perhaps, you think it would be an obligation, but the reality of the matter is that not all public officials take the time to truly investigate and avoid the stigma of judging. Justice is getting what one is due, but I am uncertain whether justice or injustice will ultimately prevail with my friend who has passed from this reality to the next. *
*My favorite service assistant and I often make short comments to each other. He is one of these guys and gals that looks at their watch at the beginning of each sermon; I notice this whenever a person sits near the front. One day during communion as we sat on the side bench, I asked him, “Do you know the difference between a good sermon and a great sermon?” He replied, “No.” I said, “The great sermon is less than six minutes.” A few weeks later, after that day’s sermon, during the next portion of the service, I said, “How long was it today?” He smiled and said, “Five minutes and fifty-nine seconds.” I smiled right back. The following week, it was the turn of a more verbose preacher to preach, and I leaned over before the Scripture reading and asked him, “Are we taking bets between good and great today?” Smiling, he said, “No.” Nonetheless, I saw him glance at his watch (It was a good sermon). The following week as we entered the church and got to the front, Even though I knew the answer to the question and had planned accordingly, I said, “Now how long is that great sermon?” Without missing a beat, he said, “Five minutes.” My mouth gaped open…quick, that fella. Afterwards, I told him if he was going to switch up the rules on me, I’d appreciate a little notice. *
All that being said…
My audio blogs are longer than sermons or reflections as they include the Scripture readings used, my musings, and are sometimes the amalgamation of more than one sermon on the same topic.
One of the grade school students approached me after service. Looking up, she asked, “Are you going to the rock show next Friday night?” I replied that I didn’t know there was a show. I asked her, “Are you sure it’s Friday night?” She said, “Let me ask Dad, and off she went.” A bit later, she returned and said, “Yeah, Dad says it’s Friday. Can you go?” I was puzzled. I told her I would have to check my calendar. What puzzled me was that this particular rock show was the same one I had seen a year earlier. I concluded that it seemed likely that this child or her father had seen me at that show. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have any reason to ask me about this specific show.
When I returned home, I visited the ticket website to check if there were any single tickets available in the first row of the balcony, which is my preferred seating area. From there, I can comfortably sit down whenever I want and still enjoy the show. Surprisingly, there was one seat available, which I interpreted as a positive sign. Subsequently, I opened my daily calendar and noticed that I had a commitment to attend a teen retreat that evening. Upon seeing the little girl at school, I informed her about my plans.
The following weekend, her dad approached me after the service and said, “My child was disappointed that you can’t go to the show.” I told him, “I would much rather go to the show then to the retreat, but sometimes ya gotta do what ya gotta do.” He smiled and agreed.
During seminary, one of my classes discussed social justice. Someone behind me remarked, “Why can’t these people pull themselves up by their bootstraps?” My face flushed, and I felt hot around the collar as I firmly and forcefully replied, “They don’t have boots.” Later that evening, a Vietnamese student asked me, “Why do you keep swimming upstream when everyone else is going with the current?” I pondered this for a long time and mentally filed it under “Unanswered Questions.” I mulled this over for years. After recounting the story to a close friend, I was told that I received a “great compliment.” Mentally, I moved it into the “Questions Answered” file.