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Archive Number 3571 | ||
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Date: Sat, 17 Jan 2004 10:58:49 EST
MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Hello Mary. This story may speak to the subject you raise. One night some years back a distraught and disheveled fellow stumbled into our weekly storytelling circle half begging and half asking to be heard. He was allowed the floor. He proceeded to tell a terrifying tale about his friend being wrongfully accused and arrested for murdering his wife .... the press had lied, distorting the truth; justice was being trashed. The man in front of us was clearly unstable, breathing heavily, looking frantically around the room, wanting something that we, his stunned and somewhat shanghaied audience, could in no way provide him: solace and dispensation for his friend. We shifted uneasily in our seats, not knowing which way to turn or look, wondering if there was a back way out we might have missed before. There was a person present, however, who saw what was needed in this moment. He stood up and went to the man, putting an arm around trembling shoulders and pointing heavenward with the other. In a deeply calm voice he asked if there were any among us who felt afraid. Many of us timidly raised our hands. "Be not afraid" he said softly, while making eye contact with as many of us as would meet his intent gaze. He tightened his grip around shaking shoulders. "We have been given an opportunity this evening that is rare. We are privileged to share this man's sorrow, to help him bear the burden of his friends' suffering." The disheveled man would have sunk to floor weeping had not he been so firmly held upright. "Is there anyone here who would like to respond to this story?" One or two brave souls expressed compassion for this man's pain; another spoke about having faith in our judicial system. The strong thin arm did not loosen its grip. Within about five minutes the tension in the room had dissipated and the man's tears subsided. "What time is it, Ruth? Are we ready for the break? All right, dear ones, don't forget to come back in ten minutes for the feature, and don't forget to check the plumbing!" Dr. Hugh Morgan Hill, arm still firmly around his charge, lead the way to tea and coffee. 'You hungry, man? No?" Slowly up the stairs they headed together. "Come on, man, let's get some fresh air..." Brother Blue's voice drifted back gently through the door. Had we been assaulted? Some thought so. Could anything have been done to prevent it? We didn't know. There were those among us, however, who agreed that we had, indeed, been given a rare opportunity. We had witnessed compassion transforming confusion, pain and terror into something akin to grief. Some of us felt that while we had been momentary hostages, we had also been healed and become vicarious healers by virtue of our presence, our proximity, our silent participation, in a healing story as it unfolded. Ann ------------------------------- To Unsubscribe from Healingstory send the message: unsubscribe healingstory to: listserv@maelstrom.stjohns.edu ------------------------------- | ||