STB-FE82
Music by Brother J. L. F. Mendelssohn
TO GIVE IS TO RECEIVE
by
Ill. C. Fred Kleinknecht, 33ø,
Grand Secretary General
The Supreme Council, A.& A.S.R., S.J.
Anyone who has experienced a visit to a
hospitalized friend can relate to the feelings expressed in this Short Talk Bulletin. We thank Brother
Kleinknecht for sharing these thoughts with us. He
has yiven us all a challenge and a basic lesson in
Masonic thinking.
It is a bit out of the way, but you decide, in
a fit of self-congratulation, to take the next
turn and go the several blocks to Ihe hospital.
The parking lot is hot, and there are, to your
surprise, plenty of open spaces. The walk to the
main entrance is a bit long--and uphill. The
quickening of your breath as you get to the top
makes you wonder if you should not have
resisted that sudden surge of fraternal spirit and
forgotten this long-promised visit and gone, instead, about your busy schedule. Still, you
made it this far. You might as well go in.
The first breath of hospital air, the airconditioning barely masking the odor of
medication and disinfectant, causes a momentary, involuntary shudder, but you go on, inquire at the main desk, then at the floor desk,
and, finally, of a young nurse rushing down the
hall, medicine trays balanced. She, slightly irritated at the interruption, points to the darker
end of the hall, "Last door on the right!"
You pass several rooms. The music of a
"soap" comes from the television of one room.
There is a sob from another, and you, unwill-
ingly, catch a glimpse of a twisted, anguished
form on a neat, hospital-tucked bed. In another
room, three visitors (the limit allowed) chat
quietly while a child sleeps. Balloons, cards,
toys and cut-out flowers cover the walls. You
note, however, that most of the rooms you pass
are empty of visitors. Quiet. Neat. Sterile.
Blank-eyed patients--sitting up or Iying
down--stare at you. You hurry along and,
finally, find the room.
The Brother is asleep. You haven't seen him
at Lodge for several weeks. Or is it months? He
used to be a regular. Until this happened. The
last time at Lodge he was more quiet than
usual, withdrawn, a little pale and thin. He
seemed to watch and listen intently as if he were
memorizing something, engraving on his
memory the walls, the words, the faces of the
Brothers who greeted him.
There was a hope after the first operation.
He was returning to the hospital only for a
checkup, just to be sure. That was--you can't
remember exactly when, but it must have been
awhile ago. He is thinner now. There is a blue
palor to his skin. Tubes run here and there: his
nose, his arm, from under the sheet draining to
a rectangular plastic bag hooked to the bed's
frame.
He is alone.
There is one flower in a bud vase, but it is
wilted, browning, dry. The get-well cards are
piled up, and their edges, like those of the
flower, are crinkling a bit. Over the foot of the
bed, there is a silly doll hung from the ceiling by
a long, thin spring. Its carrot-red hair, goggle
eyes and wide grin bob slightly from the draft
of the air-conditioner's steady breath. Its
respiration is smooth, a continuing cycle of air
sucked in and pushed mechanically out.
The Brother's breath, however, is shallow,
short, irregular and from his partially opened
lips. His sheet-covered foot shifts, and you
wonder how he can rest in that position with all
those tubes. He can't, and, after you steel
yourself to sitting down and waiting for 10
minutes (no more) for him to wake up, his eyes
flutter open. He's awake, or almost so. You
smile, say "Hello," using his name. He
focuses. Stares. Wonders who you are. Then
remembers. You greet him, again, cheerfully
and want to exchange the Masonic Grip, but
can't. Those tubes. You ask how he is getting
on. (That is clear enough.) You apologize for
not coming before, ask if you can help, tell of
your business that day, the Lodge last week, the
weather, the new plans for a shopping center
nearby. Only the Lodge matters seem to click,
and together you reminisce about past Reunions, parades, visitations, programs and projects.
But it is clear that the visit, though
welcome, is tiring. The nurse comes in to check
a bottle's drip rate. "She's a nice girl," the
Brother says after she has left. "Not like the
other one," he adds. The subjects to discuss
seem fewer, harder to find, less easy to .sustain.
The Brother listens, saying less and less. He
seems to drift off; then comes back.
"The medicine," he apologizes. "the
pain. "
You nod.
"It's a mess," he adds, shifting his eyes
toward the needles and devices keeping him
alive.
"No hope," you say--but only in your
mind .
It is time to go. The Brother seems genuinely pleased you came, urges you to return, but
then he slips away, hazily, just as you are going.
You step out quietly. This end of the hall is
reserved for "regulars," the terminally ill who
wait for the hospital's nursing to ease them,
gradually, toward death with a minimum of
pain.
Reaching the fresher air of the outside, an
air seemingly alive with sound and heat, you
breathe a sigh of relief. "Glad that is over."
The day is getting on and your schedule now
doesn't seem so important after all. You decide
to take the rest of the day off, go home. The
visit nags at you. You did the right thing,
however late, and you are glad you did. You
will be back again, soon, this time planned and
with a small gift, a flower, something. The
Brother really appreciated the visit--but there
is more.
You learned something.
In Freemasonry we say we are Brothers. We
are. We share this sense of fraternal unity in
our Lodge programs, the degrees and special
activities. Through these we benefit others and
ourselves. We expand our sense of Brotherhood. But this is only one side of the coin of
our Craft. It is the brighter, more attractive
side. But what of the other, the side of shared
grief, sorrow and sickness? This side benefits
both, too. In comforting the bereaved and
visiting the ill, we are similarly enriched. Go
vislt these afflicted for their sake, but go to visit
for your own sake, too.
Death, illness and isolation are as much a
part of existence as life, health and community.
Share in these. Give true Masonic Relief to
those in need. The bridge of compassion so
built goes both ways. You will give comfort,
but you also will gain, and gain deeply, in
understanding and simple humanity. Too often
our lives are insulated from the harsher realities
of life. The ill are segregated in nursing homes
and hospitals. The dead are hidden under
blankets of flowers and the grave by boards
covered with mats of bright green astroturf.
How can we appreciate the wholeness of life as
taught by our beloved Craft if we do not experience and relate to that unity in its totality?
The next time illness strikes a Brother or he
enters the portals of death, give of yourself.
Recognize your basic bond of Brotherhood by
going out of your way to pay a visit. Give him
the respect you would desire. Extend your fraternal spirit wholly. You, then, will be richer in
heart and soul for this effort. The Relief of our
Craft offers comfort and insight to all and expresses the eternal truth that to give is to
receive.
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