Luke
After
completing my theological preparation, I was assigned to my first parish. It was a
small church in middle Alabama - south of
Birmingham and north of Montgomery.
When
I first met Luke he was dusting the sanctuary of the church, throwing away left
behind bulletins from the previous Sunday
worship, and generally tidying up.
He
was over 65 years old. A thin short
statue African-American man, with flecks of gray in his
hair, and a friendly smile.
I was an Euro-American man, barely 24
years old, about his size, also with an endless smile.
“Are
you Luke?” approaching him, I asked.
“Yes, Rev I am Luke,” turning to look at me,
he replied.
“Nice
to meet you Luke.” extending my hand as he reached for mine. We shook hands and
chatted for a moment. Shortly he went on about his work. I retired
to my office to work on my sermon
for the next Sunday.
Luke
continued to be the sexton for the church. I continued as the pastor. Over the years we
casually greeted each other, always shaking
hands.
Three
years later, I learned Luke was sick and a patient in the V A hospital in
Montgomery.
I
drove to Montgomery to check on Luke.
He
was a patient in a four-bed ward. He was
clearly not well.
“Hello
Luke. How's it going?”
“Hello
Rev. Not so good.”
“What's wrong? Why are you here?”
“Rev
they tell me I got the big C,” his eyes
beginning to fill.
“Cancer?”
“Yes
sir.”
“Oh
Luke I am so sorry.”
“Thanks
Rev.”
“Anything
I can do for you Luke?”
“You
can pray for me.”
“I
will.”
“Rev
can I tell you something?”
“Sure. What is it?”
“You
remember when we first met at the church right after you came?”
“Yes.”
“You
shook my hand.”
“Of
course.”
“You
are the first white man that ever shook my hand.”
Robert Morris
Robert
Morris has published fiction and nonfiction. His professional background
is as a clinical hospital chaplain in both community hospitals and academic
hospitals. This story recounts an event prior to working as a hospital
chaplain. It’s a true story, but painful to share with you.