Communion Calls. Frank Campisi
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And what if he spits out the Communion?
What do I do, then?
I need to leave; NOW!
I will consume all these hosts and tell Jackie I became sick on the way to the facility...
I started to sweat. I began to panic and pace outside of Scott’s room. Behind the door, I could hear him grunt and shift loudly in his hospital bed. That made me even more nervous. I opened the pyx in my hand and looked inside.
Jesus, I know you sent me here, but I’m afraid; I am unworthy and I cannot deliver you.
What can I do? Please help me.
I closed the pyx and stood there for what seemed like hours until a staff member happened to walk down the hall towards me.
“Can I help you with something? Are you here to see Scott? He should be in a good mood, the Phillies won last night,” she said, and without another word, went on her way.
The Phillies?, I thought. Scott watches the Phillies? Scott comprehends baseball?
Yes. Scott was a man, with interests. We had common interests. There’s that word again. In my shortsightedness, of only seeing Scott’s infirmity, I was blinded to all that he was. And having that internal dialogue again with Him and with a renewed sense of strength and purpose, I said:
“Thank you Jesus, I can do this.”
I finally entered, and to my surprise, Scott was not in his hospital gown; but rather in a Phillies tee shirt and pajama pants.
“Hey Scott,” I called to him.
He quickly went from staring at the television screen to staring at me, almost as if he seemed to not recognize me from last time.
“I brought Jesus to you. Would you like to receive Him?”
The wide smile that I remembered from before slowly crept onto his face, and he opened his mouth wide to receive. I placed a tiny piece of the host gently on his tongue. He became still again, eyes closed just like before. I watched intently. It was a minute or two before he opened his eyes, reached out for a handshake and said either one of two words.
It sounded like “Frreeeehh.”
Was that friend, or Frank? It didn’t matter either way.
He took his twisted arm and twisted hand and put it to his chest, over the Phillies logo. “Yes, they won last night, and play again today,” I told him. A big smile again from Scott.
That was it. We communicated. We were in communion.
I finished the rest of the visits that day and left feeling like I had been given a real gift in this new ministry. I repeated this the following week, the last week I had to, as Jackie would be returning from her pilgrimage by the next week. This time, I looked forward to seeing my new friend Scott.
Sadly, I found him asleep in his room and remembered that, from a discussion at my training, that this was a common occurrence due to patient medications.
Before walking out, I just whispered, “Sleep well, my friend.”
I would never see Scott again. Or so I thought.
Years later, as an ordained deacon, I saw a man that looked oddly familiar while I served communion at another nursing home. I asked the staff about him, and they told me that his name was Scott. Apparently, he had been a long-time resident of this particular facility. Although I had visited this facility many times, this was the only time I had ever crossed paths with him. It was good to see him. I know he did not recognize me, as we both had grown older, but his infectious smile was unmistakable.
After all that, my takeaway from my first meeting with Scott resonated with me, as it says in the Scripture, “Be still and know I am God.” Ps 46:11
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