When, in 2010, we left St. John’s parish in Gloucester, Massachusetts where Dick had been the rector and I the Sunday Priest Associate for thirteen years, we moved to North Cambridge, Massachusetts into a lovely townhouse. I was thrilled. I grew up in a much bigger city, but still felt the lure of the urban in my bones. Also we couldn’t wait to ride the famous T—in and out and all around the big city of Boston.
Retirement happened in stages. I found it hardest to say goodbye to one particular counseling client I’ll call H, who had been homeless on and off, depressed and, according to a psychiatrist I consulted, with “too many diagnoses for a clear treatment plan.” He admired my willingness to stick with this client of whom I’d grown fond but who never really made much progress. I admired H’s incredible survivorship—moving about, never settling, and somehow staying alive. When I said goodbye to her I expected her, despite all the advanced notice I’d given her, to blow up, rage at me, and maybe throw some at-hand “weapon.” It was 2010. I never thought of guns. But H was calm. She parted peacefully with a few tears and a hug I accepted.
A few years later we, like Charlie on the MTA, were riding the famous Red Line subway into Boston when I suddenly spotted H entering our subway car. I wasn’t quite sure it was H, but with a few brief hard looks without staring I recognized her. She looked frail, small, with scraggly graying hair. Instinctively, I looked away and hid behind my newspaper or some book. She wore a bright hot pink raincoat—full length to her ankles. I don’t think it was raining that day, but H was prepared. I grinned.
As the conductor called out the various stops, the T shook and bolted along towards the big city. I glanced over at H and suddenly realized that her hot pink raincoat was mine—had been mine! I’d loved it, but when we moved, I gave it to the parish annual rummage sale. I’m not sure quite why except I was sorting sifting and getting rid of as much as possible. H always hung out at rummage sales, and ours was no exception. She looked smashing in my coat; it covered her small fame with elegance.
I can’t tell you exactly why, but it was a Pentecostal moment—unexpected, uplifting, very funny, childlike, and, yes, Holy Spirit resplendent.
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