The Refectory Manager

The refectory . . . A place to nourish the soul. A place to share the savory comestibles, the sweet confections, the salty condiments of the things that matter. A place to ruminate the cud of politics. A place to rant on the railings of religion. A place to arrange the flowers of sanguine beauty. A place to pause in the repose of shelter. Welcome, my friend. The Refectory Manager

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Location: College Place, Washington, United States

Sunday, April 22, 2007

You will live forever in my mind.


The words were reflective, comforting.

It is Earth Day. The worship service is the celebration of life. The Spoken Meditation.

And so the words. They were so reflective, so comforting. Heads bowed. Eyes closed. The closest thing a UU church ever comes to a formal corporate prayer.

The words were so reflective, so comforting. The praise and thanksgiving of life itself.

Boom!

Instinctively I ducked. Then glanced to the spotless glass wall just to my left.

I knew what had happened. And so I looked down.

Stunned! Humiliated! Lying there on his right side. Motionless.

Then his beak opened. That gasp for air. That gulping for air. The closing, the opening, the closing, the opening of his beak. The sun reflecting off the tear in his eye. The legs pulled up into the fetal position.

And the gulping for air stretched into his eternity.

My fist was clenched. “Go Man!” I whistled under my breath. “You can do it!” Fight it, My Man! Your down! But you are not out! Get your wind! Collect your wits! My Man! My proud little man! You can do it!”

The Spoken Meditation ended. Something about the words of life.

There was imminent death in our congregation.

“My Man! My beautiful Man! Don’t let this happen to you! You are proud! You are tough! You CAN do it!”

His gulping became shallower.

He’s getting his wind. He’s going to make it. Praise Be! He’s going to make it.

For he has a journey to take. He is on his way to make love. To share his touch of love with another. Far north in the confines of Ontario . . . his life will be yet fulfilled with the experience of love.

The Celtic ensemble continued with the music of the Spirit of Life … the whistle, the fiddle, the hammered dulcimer, the flute, the bass, the earthy soprano voice . . .

“My Little Man, you’re gonna’ make it yet! Hang in there. Get your wind. Get your wits. Remember your Destiny. You too are part of this thing we call life.”

And there was motion. A valiant effort to orient himself in a dignified up-right position. And with a mighty heave, he flipped onto his left side.

And the gulping, the panting, the fetal position, started all over again.

“See, My Man! You can do it! Something deep within you. Something as strong as the essence of life itself. That indefinable will to live. My Man! You’re gonna’ make it!”

And the gulping, the panting, the opening, the closing ... the movement of the beak slowed.

And then. Again. A mighty thrust with his wings. A super-avian feat of indescribable shear will.

And he flopped onto his back.

The beak closed. Resting. Trying to catch his wits. The sun reflecting in the tear in his eye.

His legs were now extended. Just like they would be if he were to be proudly perched in his familiar habitat.

“Go Man! Get your breath! Get your wind! Rest but a moment! One more thrust and you will be righted with the world!”

But the morning sermon droned on.

And the visions of dead people filled my mind. Students at a university. Soldiers in the most stupid war in America’s history. Infant-Mortality-statistical-babies in Mississippi.

The dead.

On this day of the celebration of life.

The pre-mature dead.

And my heart was filled with angst.

Did these individuals of senseless killing experience love. How many have experienced the loving, intimate, touch of love.

How many experienced the soul-mate bonding of love?

The McNeil NewsHour on PBS . . . the showing of the faces of soldier dead. So young.

And I wonder . . . did that young man ever experience the experience of love?

Did that young woman ever experience the intimacy and security of heart-to-heart bonding?

And I look at My Little Man lying on the cement.

My Little Man. Had you ever experienced love?

For what is life, if there is no love.

For what of love . . . if there by no life.

My Little Man! My humble little sparrow with the white throat!

You too are still a part of life.

You too are still a part of love.

For you have enriched my life today. I met you. You taught me.

You participated in that awesome circle of life.

You will live forever in my mind.
The Refectory Manager