How clearly I remember looking at all the people walking around as though it were all normal, and wanting to scream at them for acting as if nothing had changed when it seemed as if everything had changed. At the time, writing about it was a balm for my soul, a way of processing the grief that I inadvertently internalized and held onto. Over the next two years while I continued growing as a chaplain and moving toward ordination, I realized that writing about it made it such a powerful memory that it became indented in my mind. The Creole Creamery is an ice cream shop that attracts people from around the entire USA, and perhaps the whole world, given the number of tourists that visit New Orleans every year. The richness of the treats it offers should always be a positive thing. However, it became apparent to me that every time I went there, I always recalled that Ash Wednesday in 2010 when I allowed grief to consume me. I moved on from New Orleans, spent time at another hospital in chaplaincy, and then moved to the San Fernando Valley in Los Angeles to serve as a hospice chaplain. This was the position that afforded my church congregation the opportunity to approach our denomination and formally request that I be ordained to the ministry. With delight I returned home to New Orleans in February 2014 to celebrate this milestone with my church home here and with my family, who all came to New Orleans for the first time and fell in love with “The Big Easy” as easily as did I. My father in particular was seduced by the Creole Creamery, so much so that the family requested we visit the place for dessert every night they were here. The evening after I was ordained, we all sat here enjoying a treat, I with my “A Chockwork Orange” and my dad with “Chef’s Perfect Chocolate”, and as I stared at the CVS across the street, I looked upriver at the Chase Bank and the Thai restaurant on the corner and the memories returned. I wondered if they would ever change.
My life has taken some rather bizarre turns in the past eighteen months. I spent two years with that wonderful hospice in LA, then moved to Arizona to care for my aging and infirm parents (who needed elevated care) for about four months. Once they began improving, I started seeking another position and, lo and behold, discovered one in the very hospital in New Orleans where I’d received so much training and learned so much. I have been back here almost exactly one full year, and while much has changed in the past five years, much has stayed the same – until this afternoon.
After church, I went to make groceries (note: this is how it is expressed in NOLA: one does not buy groceries, one ‘makes’ groceries) and decided on the spur of the moment to visit the Creole Creamery just downriver from Whole Foods. The shop accepts only cash, which I have always known, but I have a change purse filled with about $10 in change so it did not concern me. I waited patiently while a family of about six decided what they would buy (“are you sure, Jimmy? You want Red Velvet AND Creole Cream Cheese?), then decided on a scoop of Roasted Pistachio after a taste test. A cone is $3, so I reached into my shoulder bag to get out my change purse….and found it missing. I realized that I’d left it on the kitchen table this morning when I removed it to make room for my checkbook so I could pay part of my pledge to the church. The young woman offered to keep it in the freezer for me, but I live a good 10-15 minutes away now, so I apologized and jokingly said, “this must be God’s way of telling me I don’t need it!”. With no hesitation, the woman behind me in line said, “I’ll pay for it. Don’t worry about it.” Flabbergasted, I said, “are you sure?” and she said of course. For some reason, I felt compelled to explain that I really hadn’t realized I did not have my change purse with me but she was not the least bit bothered. As I looked at her face, there was such a serenity that I immediately ceased protesting and offered a very sincere and what I hope was a gracious thank you. Walking out the door, I looked across the street at the CVS; then, as I always have in the past, up at the Chase Bank and the Thai restaurant. And for the first time in seven years, instead of the grief I’d had to process on that awful day, I felt humbled by the kindness of a person I’ve never met, and joy filled me at the realization that now this memory will always share space with the other. I often tell my patients’ families that it’s all our memories, both good AND painful, that taken together make the framework of our existence, and that the diversity of memories is what makes it a good life.
Seven years ago, I wrote these words in response to that awful day: “Putting others first…doing everything possible to bring life to the moment, to share in that life, to be a part of that life as long and as deeply as he is able. I believe that’s what it means to live as a good man.” I will add the addendum that weaving together the results of bringing life to ALL our moments into one secure tapestry offers us a beautiful landscape as the base for our existence. It is my hope and prayer that with such a solid base, I will find it that much easier to picture a beautiful future.
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