My younger sister, Esther, underwent coronary artery bypass surgery this August. It should have been me. Esther weighs about 110 pounds, runs 4-6 miles daily, plays tennis, eats a healthy, mostly plant-based diet, doesn’t smoke or drink alcohol, and has no adverse health conditions. Her angiogram showed severe and diffuse multivessel disease.
Two years apart, Esther and I have always been close, as we navigated life together. With shared experiences comes an integration of memories and values, a reminder of where we come from, who we are and what matters.
Memories descend, gracefully drifting like leaves from a tree. Memories unplanned and unexpected, whose power is only recognized years later. Memories such as walking home together from elementary school carrying our musical instruments and books, speaking of the day, thrilled with expectations of the future, content in the moment. Or riding a wooden sled, built by dad, down a snowy hill. Enduring interminable sermons searching for a point in our small church, giving grace to the speaker because they meant well, building our faith that it would eventually end. Esther has always been that sweet presence of encouragement to my soul, personifying a sustainable rhythm for life.
I hope you have a friend like that.
Helen Keller was just 14 years old when she met Mark Twain in 1894. They became fast friends. He arranged for her to go to college at Radcliffe where she graduated in 1904, the first deaf and blind person in the world to earn a Bachelor of Arts degree. She learned to read English, French, German, and Latin in braille and went on to become practically as world-famous as her friend, writing prolifically and lecturing across the country and around the world. Twain called her “one of the two most remarkable people in the 19th century.” The other candidate was Napoleon.
Keller shared memories of Twain in an autobiographical book she published in 1929. In that, she recollects her last visit with him in his home.
“Mr. Clemens stood with his back to the fire talking to us. There he stood—our Mark Twain, our American, our humorist, the embodiment of our country. He seemed to have absorbed all America into himself. The great Mississippi River seemed forever flowing, flowing through his speech.”
When Twain took her to her room to say goodnight, he said “that I would find cigars and a thermos bottle with Scotch whiskey, or Bourbon if I preferred it, in the bathroom.”
One evening, Twain offered to read to her from his short story, “Eve’s Diary.” She was delighted, and he asked, “How shall we manage it?” She said, “Oh, you will read aloud, and my teacher will spell your words into my hand.”
He murmured, “I had thought you would read my lips.” And so that is what she did. Upon her request, Twain put on the “gorgeous scarlet robe” he had worn when Oxford University “conferred upon him the degree of Doctor of Letters.”
This is Keller’s memory of that magical moment:
“Mr. Clemens sat in his great armchair, dressed in his white serge suit, the flaming scarlet robe draping his shoulders, and his white hair gleaming and glistening in the light of the lamp which shone down on his head. In one hand he held “Eve’s Diary” in a glorious red cover. In the other hand he held his pipe. I sat down near him in a low chair, my elbow on the arm of his chair, so that my fingers could rest lightly on his lips.”
“Everything went smoothly for a time. But Twain’s gesticulations soon began to confuse things, so a new setting was arranged. Mrs. Macy came and sat beside me and spelled the words into my right hand, while I looked at Mr. Clemens with my left, touching his face and hands and the book, following his gestures and every changing expression.”
“To one hampered and circumscribed as I am, it was a wonderful experience to have a friend like Mr. Clemens. I recall many talks with him about human affairs. He never made me feel that my opinions were worthless. He knew that we do not think with eyes and ears, and that our capacity for thought is not measured by five senses. He kept me always in mind while he talked, and he treated me like a competent human being.”
“Whenever I touched his face, his expression was sad, even when he was telling a funny story. He smiled, not with the mouth but with his mind—a gesture of the soul rather than of the face. His voice was truly wonderful. To my touch, it was deep, resonant. He had the power of modulating it so as to suggest the most delicate shades of meaning and he spoke so deliberately that I could get almost every word with my fingers on his lips.”
“Ah, how sweet and poignant the memory of his soft slow speech playing over my listening fingers. His words seemed to take strange, lovely shapes on my hands. His own hands were wonderfully mobile and changeable under the influence of emotion. In my fingertips was graven the image of his dear face with its halo of shining white hair, and in my memory his drawling, marvelous voice will always vibrate.”
“It has been said that life has treated me harshly; and sometimes I have complained in my heart because many pleasures of human experience have been withheld from me. But when I recollect the treasure of friendship that has been bestowed upon me, I withdraw all charges against life. If much has been denied me, much, very much has been given me. So long as the memory of certain beloved friends lives in my heart, I shall say that life is good.”
I hope you have a friend like that.
I was struck by Keller’s words – “he smiled with his mind – a gesture of the soul.” It was the only smile she could see. Or hear. Communication beyond human senses - soul to soul. We have fuzzy ideas about what a soul is. Cartoon images come to mind like Daffy Duck run over by a truck and a vaporized image of Daffy rising. In the ancient world, that is not how the soul was understood.
We understand what it means to be a person. We have a will, an ability to choose yes or no. We have a mind, capable to think and feel. We have a body, mostly appetites and habits. We have relationships. We have senses.
The soul is what integrates all that into a single being. It is integrative. It is the part of us that relates to God. Much human behavior is disintegrative. We split off our values from our conduct. We disguise our face from what we are thinking inside. We’re dishonest in relationships.
A bible verse asks the question, “what does it profit a man if he gains the world but loses his own soul?” This is often interpreted that a person who gains great power or financial success by unethical means may spend eternity in hell. That may be true but I’m not sure that’s what Jesus meant. He was speaking of the pain of losing yourself at the deepest level. Losing who you are. The part that connects to God.
When the soul disintegrates, when its components are at war with one another, it is not possible to be at peace. Nothing one obtains will provide meaning. There can be no contentment. A good friend acts like a soul keeper. Lifting us up while challenging us to be honest. A mirror of authenticity. A measure of integrity.
I am so grateful Esther is doing well post-surgery. Her prayer is she does not develop dementia after this surgery as did our mother. My prayer is she outlive me because I don’t know I’m strong enough to attend her funeral. It will work out as it does. Neither of us will outlive our soul.
Another memory drifts down. One more leaf. Our small church singing together a hymn that begins “when peace, like a river, attends my way” and ends with this verse.
And Lord, haste the day when the faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll.
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.
I’m grateful to have a friend like that.
Tim Powell MD
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