Today, Our Lady of Lourdes, World Day of the Sick. The patient is served, fine. This is something we have to declare very loudly against the tendency to underestimate, to "disable" by definition the patient. We do well to remember, if for no other reason, at least for the unquestioned reality that each of us, if not, has been or will be sometime in the future surely someone sick, that is, a participant in such bitter conditions.
markedly We link the disease with the disability with inability, with the void. However, even in the disease a life can be fruitful, bear fruit. Even indirect and involuntary. I put some little ones and one large examples.
The tiny example of my friend is the MC; nursed her father in "vegetative" state (quotation marks because it seems that our knowledge is always fully capable of settling the border between consciousness and unconsciousness) for six years until he died. Sometimes I wondered how I stand, what did that man in that state, "keeps me company," she said.
tiny Another example is that of my parishioner Mrs. P. He suffers from delusions of persecution for a long time. He says the chase for political reasons, the spy has no phone because it punctured, they open the mail, watch it when it comes to shopping, etc. While his mother lived (old and sick, but lucid), still retained a glimmer of opening a window into balance. Since that apparently nonagenarian useless old woman died, Mrs. P. overflowed: you come home when she is not, you have stolen the documents of his doctoral thesis, I have changed the doctor for a party, the Savings Bank has withheld income tax return ...
The big example: a few days ago the 30 th anniversary of the death of Marta Robin. Meto Friday parentheses their passion or their diet almost exclusively of the Eucharist (I leave it to the arduous and sometimes disturbingly unhealthy curiosity seekers supernatural phenomena, let him also for those who, on the other end, contemptuously despise what ignoring). I limit myself to that for her sick bed, where for over 50 years he was bedridden, went to visit thousands of people, most of them receiving the visit of comfort or the question of the absolute. I limit myself to Foyers de Charité scattered around the world.
The disease can only be a bloody disgrace. Or maybe, as well as a disgrace, an occasion of grace and service.
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