A Kingdom Story for Maundy Thursday – Vic

I stood in the kitchen, one hand on a head of lettuce, the other holding a green knife. It’s one of those As Seen on TV items made entirely of plastic, with a fine serrated edge. Supposedly the plastic keeps the lettuce from turning brown after you cut it. My wife always insists I use it to cut lettuce. We’ve had it for years, but I still remember clearly the day I got it.

* * * * *

I pass the well-tended flowerbeds, into the old German-American style house, and find my way over the creaky floorboards. The house is quiet as always, but that’s not a reason for concern. It just means I’ll find Vic exactly where I expect him to be – at his desk, either reading the paper, or maybe a history book, or leafing through the mail.

I step around the corner to his office, the double glass doors permanently open, and find Vic exactly where I expect him. To one side of his office is a wall of military memorabilia from his years of service and beyond. Behind him are mementos of generations gone by, objects pulled out of a Norman Rockwell painting. The third wall is devoted to a woman, and if you study the pictures you can watch her grow through the years.

Vic looks up from his reading and his face breaks into a grin. He jabs a crooked finger at the air, saying, “There he is!” with his eyes twinkling, like he’s been waiting all day for me, but is still surprised that I came.

I sit at the chair across the desk from him. “How’s the day, Vic?”

“Couldn’t ask for better,” he says. “The sun is shining, and I had a chance to pull some weeds. Someone has to, or they’ll take over the whole garden!”

“Isn’t that the truth!”

“Say,” he says, “have I ever shown you this picture?” He picks up a framed black and white photo from the desk next to his reading, hands it over to me. In the picture, a young woman is helping a man try on a pair of shoes. You can see how she is consciously avoiding the camera, and even in the black and white, you can see her blushing. She’s beautiful, her dark hair in a cut fashionable for a young woman in the 50s, dressed in a short-sleeved sweater and long skirt.

Of course, I’ve seen this one before. More than once. It’s one of Vic’s favorites, although it usually lives on the wall. The ones on his desk, the ones he looks at all day, show the same woman many years later.

I hand it back. “Wasn’t she beautiful?” he says, taking it back gently.

“Yeah, Vic. She really was. Still is.”

“Oh!” His face breaks into a grin again, and he snaps his fingers. “That’s right!” He laughs and shakes his head. “Say, I have something for you!” He opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out an object that just looks out of place in this room of historical objects. It’s a green plastic knife, bound with little zip ties into a gaudy piece of cardboard with “As Seen on TV!” emblazoned in multiple places on it.

He hands me the knife. “These are really useful, let me tell you! Your wife will appreciate this!”

I take it from him with a smile. “Thanks, Vic. That means a lot.”

“Hey, we gotta take care of you young guys, you know.”

We talk a little longer about gardening, the news, and eternity. Eventually I pull out a box, and from it I serve him a wafer of bread and a sip of wine – and so much more. And joyful tears fill his eyes.

* * * * *

I sat in my car, music on shuffle and my mind distracted by all the to-dos. Having a seventeen-minute commute isn’t such a bad thing; it’s a good chance to think. But it’s also a good time for my stress level to elevate as I think of the things I have to get done. And all the things I want to get done. And whether or not I’ll have the years to do all I want.

Just as I was getting wrapped up in maudlin thoughts, a familiar song came on. An old hymn, reborn on the guitar and lips of a current artist. I remembered, then, a time I heard it played on a harmonica.

* * * * *

I pass flowerbeds that have seen better days, weeds surrounding the bright buds, into the old German-American style house, and find may across the creaky floorboards. The house is quiet as always, but that’s not a reason for concern. It just means I’ll find Vic exactly where I expect him to be.

I step around the corner to his office. Vic looks up slowly from his reading, and his graying eyes take a moment to focus. But then his face breaks into a grin. He lifts a hand and says, “There he is!” He gestures slowly for me to sit, his breath coming heavily.

“How’s the day, Vic?”

“Oh…” he sighs. “I wanted to get out and do something about those weeds, but… well, maybe my daughter will come by later and help.”

“What are you reading today?”

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“Just some old book.” He waves a hand. “History. Probably wouldn’t interest a young guy like you.”

“You’d be surprised. There’s a lot to learn from the past.”

He looks up at me, his mouth opening slowly in a smile like he’s trying to see if I’m joking. “Ahhh,” he says, shaking a finger at me. “Say, how would you like to hear some music?”

“I’d love that, Vic.”

He opens a drawer and pulls out several harmonicas. “I bet you’ve never seen someone play one of these before.”

“Well, sure I have, Vic! I’ve seen you play it!”

He bursts out laughing, passing his hands over one after another. For a moment his lingers over the one he made out of a mortar casing, but decides against that and takes instead the brass one that has “Hohner” printed on the side.

He lifts it to his mouth and plays. At first, it’s very shaky. He misses several notes, stops, frowns, shakes his head. Tries again. Eventually, the memory takes over, and he’s playing an old hymn. Maybe the harmonica isn’t the instrument of choice for sacred music, but would you call it anything less if you’d been sitting there that day?

Nearing the end of the tune, his eyes well up with tears and his hands begin to shake. He lowers the harmonica and his bent shoulders shake. “She loved that one best,” he mumbles. “I miss her so much…” he sobs.

I reach out a hand. He takes it, and clasps my young and firm hand in both of his wiry, gnarled ones. We just sit for a while, and then he lets go.

We talk a little longer about history, music, and eternity. Eventually I pull out a box, and from it I serve him a wafer of bread and a sip of wine – and so much more. And joyful tears fill his eyes.

* * * * *

I was sitting at my desk, working through a too-long list of emails, thinking about the week ahead. One email was about who would be helping serve Communion on Thursday, as we remember, proclaim, and participate in the death and resurrection of Jesus. As I sent a message letting my fellow staff members know I was planning to help serve, I couldn’t help thinking of Vic for some reason. And the last time I served him.

* * * * *

I walk past carefully manicured planters stationed just outside brushed aluminum doors that hiss open as I approach. The smell of sterile halls and hand sanitizer and filtered air surrounds me. I pass silently over linoleum floors and ride an elevator up to the Intensive Care Unit.

I slip past an open glass door into a dimly lit room.

“Hi, Vic,” I say quietly, not sure if he’s asleep or just dazed.

His eyes open, his head turns about in confusion for a moment as he lifts it off a pillow. He blinks several times in my direction. Then there’s recognition, and his mouth opens in a smile.

“There he is,” he croaks, and somewhere behind those gray eyelids is a twinkle.

I sit down next to him, take his hand in both of mine. I hold it for a few moments, just gently rubbing the gnarled joints between my palms, and he squeezes back.

“I’m ready to go home,” he breathes, so quietly you couldn’t hear it but for the silence of the room.

“I know, Vic. Soon.”

“Did you bring me the Lord’s Supper?” he rasps.

“Now, Vic… Do you even have to ask?” I hold up the little black box and tap one hand against it.

He wheezes out a laugh as though I just told the best joke he’d heard all day. He finishes with a contented sigh.

He doesn’t have much energy for talk, so I do all the talking, about truth, hope, and eternity. I serve him a wafer and sip of wine – and so much more. Hopeful tears fill his eyes.

* * * * *

Vic died just a few days later. I don’t know what he’s doing in heaven, if he’s gardening, making music, talking with his girl, or just staring at Jesus. I just know he’s there, and I look forward to holding his hand again someday.