Keep Us Forever in the Path

We were in the doctor’s office waiting for our appointment with the surgeon.  This was the day he would explain the upcoming procedure scheduled for my young son. After being called into the examining room, the nurse went through the preliminaries (DOB, height, weight, blood pressure, temperature).  She then ushered us into his office.  A minute or two passed before our  doctor, a big smile on his face, entered.  He greeted my son first, chatted with him about sports, school, told some jokes; then turned to me, shook hands (we could, back then) and asked me about myself. More friendly talk followed. This man seemed to have all the time in the world.  (As I said, it was a while ago!)

Before we got to the specifics of the procedure, I was already half in love with this doctor, the likes of whom I had never encountered before. I could tell he was the right choice for my young son.

He walked us through the preparation, operation and recovery times gently and clearly, in words that a ten-year-old could understand.

Then he turned to me and said, “Since you’re a pastor, I’d like to tell you something.“  I wasn’t sure where he was going. A confession?  To me, a Protestant female pastor?  Surely not that!  I was also aware that my son was still in the room.

Pulling his chair closer to mine so that our knees were almost touching, he leaned forward and told the following story:

“When I was in medical school at Boston University in the 1950s, a friend and I used to take our lunch out to the square in front of Marsh Chapel along Commonwealth Avenue. He was in another graduate program at BU so we’d exchange insights from our respective disciplines which all grad students are absolutely sure that they are the very first to discover! We’d chat about campus life, politics and just generally shoot the breeze.

On one of these occasions in early spring, he turned to me and said, ‘You see that stoplight on the corner? As soon as the next car pulls up there, go over to their window and ask for directions to somewhere, like, say, Fenway Park.’

Okay, I answered, I guess I can do that, but I’m not sure why I should. ‘Doesn’t matter, he said, Just go.’ So I did. When the car stopped at the red light, I motioned to the woman in the passenger seat to roll down her window and asked if she knew how to get to Fenway Park. She pointed ahead and told me where to turn. I thanked her and walked back to the chapel.

‘Now what was that all about?’ I asked him.

‘Just wait,’ he said, ‘When the next car stops at the light, I’ll go over and do the same thing.’

A car stopped. He went over toward the light.   As he approached the window, the passenger noticed him, rolled up the window and the car took off.

My friend came back. ‘You see, he said, that’s the difference between you and me.’

My friend was Martin Luther King, Jr.”

The doctor looked at me with tears in his eyes. “That, Polly, was the first time I realized that just because of the color of my skin, I could manage to do such a simple thing as ask for directions without a second thought.

Martin and I stayed friends until the day he was murdered. His soul is with me even now. Because every time I operate, I ask for his presence when I walk into the room. And I sense him right behind me, his hand on my shoulder.”

My son, I knew, would be in very good hands.

“Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod, felt in the days when hope unborn had died; yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet, come to the place for which our people sighed?

 God of our weary years, God of our silent tears, God who has brought us thus far on the way; God, who by your might led us into the light, keep us forever in the path, we pray.

 Shadowed beneath your hand, may we forever stand, true to our God, true to our native land.”         (James Weldon Johnson 1921)