Becoming Simon

The ringing of the phone broke the silence as I sat staring out my window, tea in hand, admiring a warm spring morning. I picked it up on the second ring. "Hello."

"Hi, Simon", came the reply. I knew the voice. It was Judy. I would have known just by the fact that she called me Simon. Simon is not my name. And there is a story behind why I am sometimes called Simon by a few of my closest friends.

The call was brief ... to remind me of a meeting. I returned to the window, tea in hand, and once again admired the way the pale blue sky with scattered white, puffy clouds was reflected in the near-still water of the harbour. My thoughts drifted back to another warm spring day, a few years earlier, a few hours' drive from here, and the story behind the name ... Simon.

I had set out that morning at about 7:00am on a three hour drive to visit a friend who was parish priest in three rural communities. He spent a few days each week in each community. I had known him when he was a parish priest here in the city and when he moved away, I visited him a few times each year.

A visit to "brother Father", as I usually call him because we belong to the same Order, always involved going to visit some of his elderly and shut-in parishioners. And maybe that was why I went there. I learned more about him and even more about who I am in the visits we made to those people. And they loved to see us come. For some of them, brother Father and whomever was with him that day, would likely be the only company these people would ever have drop in.

My visit with brother Father on that particular spring day would start out like most other visits. I sat at his kitchen table. We had tea, muffins and conversation about how things had been for each of us since my last visit. As I walked to the sink to place there my empty dishes, he asked, "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes." I was ready to go.

The first stop we made was at a small general store. He pulled a small note out of his pocket, quickly grabbed a few items off the shelf, paid for them and we headed off to visit a very old woman. We stayed there only long enough for him to give her the store-boughten items and his blessing, and we headed off to the next stop. This one would be a visit like none I had ever made before.


As we drove along the road following the winding shoreline, we talked about how the area had once been a thriving mining community but like many of those communities, the mines had closed over half a century ago and all that remained were the remnants of a time gone and almost forgotten and a small number of people, mostly elderly who, for various reasons, had chosen to stay there and die there. The man we were going to visit had lost his wife, although neither of us knew how long it had been. Rumor had it he was missing her very deeply and not doing well.

We had driven only a few kilometers when we turned into a driveway. The house was typical two storey, with a few small out-buildings, and the nearest neighbor a considerable distance away. As we drove in, a man came out of of the woodshed. He was small in stature. I guessed his age to be late sixties. He held a piece of wood he was carving and a knife.

Brother Father was out of the car first. He greeted the man and introduced me to him. His name was Harry. We talked about his wood carving and I came to realize I had heard of him previously. He was well known as a wood carver.

Harry invited us in and we sat at a small cafe sized round table by the kitchen door. Harry started a kettle of water to make tea and sat at the table with us. We made small talk about how tough things are for people living in the area. Harry was obviously very sad. He got up to make tea and then sat with us again. After a bit more general talk about life in rural Nova Scotia and the state of the world, brother Father sat back, looked at Harry, and said, "Tell me how you are doing, Harry."

Harry stared at his tea cup for what seemed like an endless moment of silence. Tears filled his eyes. Then in a broken voice, he told us today was the first anniversary of his wife's death and he was missing her terribly.

Perhaps brother Father was more accustomed to such moments but I was not and it hit me like I had run into a brick wall. I felt the weight of the world crush my heart as Harry talked about all the years he and his wife had been together, the good times, the bad times, the hurts and joys ... but mostly about how empty his life was without her. For perhaps the first time in my life, I had nothing to say.

Brother Father suggested we pray silently for a few minutes. We all held hands over the small table, closed our eyes and prayed. I had never experienced such deep pain. My heart felt like it was going to burst. I wanted that I would be able to say something ... anything ... words that would somehow console Harry but there were no words. In that time of silence, there were only tears ... many tears ... and much pain.

I became frustrated. How could there be no words that could make it better? How could there be nothing I could say that would make any difference? It was a feeling of utter helplessness and it was not a feeling I accepted easily. I was still young enough and naive enough to think that for everything there had to be a simple answer... or at least words of consolation. I was wrong. I was speechless. Moreover, I knew it was pointless to hope for words. It felt strangely right that there was only silence.

After a few more minutes, brother Father broke the silence by assuring Harry that daily he would pray for him... that in remembering all the times he and his wife had shared, he would find peace and consolation. He added that he believed Harry's wife was waiting for him, preparing a place for him, so that in time, he could once again be with her and the next time together would have no end. As for me, I was still very much overwhelmed by the situation and found I had nothing to say. We prayed the Our father and then slowly, we drifted back to conversation about other things including carving wood.


Eventually, it was time to leave. As we got up from the table, I placed my hand on Harry's shoulder and simply said, "I will continue to pray for you." We all walked back to the car and Harry thanked us for being there. He said we had helped him get through the hardest day of his life. With heavy heart, I had no doubt he was right. It had been the hardest day of his life and I felt his pain.

On the drive back to the rectory, brother Father and I talked about when I might be able to come back again. He asked me if I wanted to stay for the evening but I told him I needed to head back home. It had been, as like every visit with brother Father, a day not to be forgotten any time soon. And that was undoubtedly one of the reasons I made the trip as often as I could.

I headed back to the highway. I must have cried the entire three hour drive home. I wrestled with every emotion a person can experience but mostly what I felt was anger... anger that life is unfair... cruel... and I had to admit maybe there were times when there were no words. But I did not understand it yet.

When I arrived home it was early evening and still a warm spring day. I was completely exhausted, decided to skip eating. I could not eat. I stood there and stared out the window for a long time, looking at the pale blue sky with scattered white, puffy clouds reflected in the near-still water of the harbour. Over and over, around and around, the thoughts swirled in my head. It made no sense. After a time, I lay on my bed and fell asleep.

It was weeks before I started to piece together what had happened at Harry's kitchen table and every time I tried to tell the few close friends I spoke to about it, the tears and emotion came back as intensely as they had in that moment on that warm spring afternoon. I was unable to speak about it.

One day, I was finally able to tell my friend Judy. It took a while to get through the story of what had happened and what I had felt. When I was finished speaking, she touched my hand and said, "Simon." I stared at her ... puzzled. She said, "You were Simon." I told her I had no idea what she meant.

Judy continued, "Remember Simon of Cyrene? He was called upon to help Jesus carry his cross. He must have felt just like the way you felt when you were called upon to help Harry with his cross. Think about it... how Simon must have wanted to help Jesus... how he must have known how unfair the situation was... and how horrible he must have felt that nothing he could do or say could change the destiny of Jesus on that day. All he could do was be there and help carry the load. Imagine how heart-broken Simon must have been when they nailed Jesus to His cross ... how completely helpless he felt."

And then finally I understood what had happened that day at Harry's kitchen table. It was then that I understood that in many situations in life, we will not have answers. Sometimes there are no answers. Sometimes, no matter how profound we think the answers we have are, we simply can not change anything. Sometimes all we can do is be there for the person ... to somehow help carry the load with them. Sometimes that is all we can do but it is still everything. Sometimes, we are called to be Simon.

© David Chiasson