I am not Catholic, however, I was raised as a shouting Baptist at the Concord Baptist Church in Brooklyn, and every week I was an ardent listener of Bishop Fulton Sheen who had an hour-long television program. I would sit as a young man and drink from his fountain of humanity and wisdom. There were also many Black mentors that strengthened my fabric and over the years, I became strong.
Bishop Sheen once told a short story about a man cleaning a Cadillac. He said, “You can polish a Cadillac all day and have it spotless from the inside to the outside and at the end of the day, it will not put its fenders around you and say, ‘I love you.’” He went on to say, “You must remember to love people and use things, rather than to love things and use people.” I have never forgotten that crystal-clear example. It has served me well in the field of medicine. I guess that’s why I made house calls and the pillowcase was changed for me.
I once went on a house call where an elderly gentleman was sitting in an oversized, stuffed chair for a period of a week. He ate there, urinated there and defecated there. His wife, who was very disabled due to arthritis, could not pull him out of the chair. They had no children or close friends in the apartment complex where they lived. They called me. After seeing the overwhelming situation, there was only one thing I could do and that was to call the ambulance. I tried to comfort his wife, who could not accompany him to the hospital; she cried and told me what a proud man he had been. As I was leaving the apartment, there was a picture covered with dust on the non-functioning television set. Picking it up and looking at it closely, it was the picture of the gentleman who I had just hospitalized. He was standing proudly dressed in a postman’s uniform with his mailbag slung over his shoulder. He had been a proud post office worker. It was quite ironic that he had served so faithfully bringing bad and good news and yet when he needed someone to help him, there was no one. Sad, but true.
While riding down on the elevator, I recalled a hymn that was sung Sunday mornings at my church. It was entitled, “He Understands, He’ll Say Well Done.” The third verse says.
“If when this life of labor is ended
And the reward of the race you have run
Oh! The sweet rest prepared for the faithful
Will be His blest, and final ‘WELL DONE’
Refrain:
Oh, when I come to the end of my journey
Weary of life and the battle is won
Carrying the staff and cross of redemption,
He’ll understand and say it’s ‘WELL DONE.’”