Many years ago, in 1978, before I married or lived in Magnolia, I had a minor stroke and a Near Death Experience in which I was told that I had "too much to do" before I would be allowed to die. Although I am inclined to think that my wife Rise`'s subsequent interpretation -- that what I had to do was IMPROVE MYSELF, MORALLY -- was the correct one, some other things did occur which could qualify as things left to do.
One was my effort to evangelize to a client I'll call Joe Doakes. When I was appointed by the Court to represent him, I knew immediately, from my experience with other clients, what I was looking at -- a male who had been sexually abused by his father when he was young. When I told his paramour this, she roared with laughter and said I was wrong. Years later, she called me and told me that Joe's brother had shocked her by confirming that I was right.
I ended up representing Joe in about 10 cases. We did pretty well in those cases. Joe, however, was one who did not know to not bite the hand that fed him. On one occasion, on returning from court, I found him inside my home, removing my favorite china closet from the living room after falsely convincing my son that he had bought it from me!
On another occasion he stopped by my house to borrow $50 from me. A heroin abuser, he was obviously in withdrawal. I said, "No, Joe. I'm not going to subsidize your habit. However, take advantage of your withdrawal. Instead of feeding the habit, let's get you into a program now -- today." He said, "Pete, that's a good looking station wagon you have there," implying that if I didn't pay him, he'd steal it. "Joe," I answered, "Don't do that to me. That's so low."
As soon as he left, I drove to our local car parts store and bought The Club, that heavy hardened steel bar for steering wheels. That night I had to represent someone in night court in a neighboring town, and did not return home until 1:30 a.m. I sat in the family room and stripped down to my knickers to prepare for bed while I watched late night TV. At around 1:45 a.m. a car with its headlights on pulled-up outside my house, and I heard several male voices arguing. I looked out the window, and saw about 5 men standing around the station wagon, pointing at The Club on the steering wheel. I jumped up and clad only in my jockey shorts threw open the door and jumped off the front stoop and started screaming like a lunatic. The thugs, more aware of the dynamics of the situation than I -- if I caused their arrest, they would have someone do something like burn down my house, right? -- just ignored me. Then I heard Joe Doakes in a car stopped on Warwick Road, in front of our house, screaming, "Steal it! Steal the f-----g car!," obviously unaware of the problem of The Club on the steering wheel. The thugs decided that The Club made the car too hard to steal, got into their car and drove away. Then Joe Doakes drove away.
A few years later, Joe called me from a hospice in Burlington County and said that he was dying of brain cancer. He had always insisted, to his paramour, that he was "Catholic" whenever she tried to entice him into her Protestant assembly. So, I asked Joe if he wanted me to arrange for a priest to give him Last Rites. "Sure!" he said,
"In addition to an anointing, it involves a final confession and receipt of the Eucharist," I explained. "Don't worry -- the priest'll help you through the confession. But I have to warn you about something, Joe. The confession is no good, and what the priest does has no effect, unless you tell him your worst sins, the ones you're really ashamed of. You know what I'm talking about. Otherwise, you're giving evil a place to hide in you. I'll send you a priest who is a friend, and you let him know how you'll need help with your confession. Okay?"
"It sounds great, Pete," he responded.
I sent Fr. Jerome Romanowski, who is dead, now. He later told me, "Obviously, Pete, the Seal of Confession prohibits me from revealing any details, but I can tell you that Joe's confession was the most amazing confession of my career." I thought, "Good! Joe swallowed his pride and did the difficult thing in making his confession!"
And Joe died shortly thereafter.
The other incident in which I think I had spiritual impact was a case involving a deathbed will. My typist, whom I can not identify because her name is so distinctive, referred to me her sister-in-law Linda, who lay dying of cancer in Garden State Hospital. After the will signing, I asked her my client if she was Catholic, and did she want a priest for "Last Rites."
"I'm not Catholic," she said, "but I'll talk to you."
I explained that "Last Rites," in addition to an anointing, involved a combination of a final confession and apology to God, followed by receipt of the Eucharist.
"Can you help me with the final apology to God for my sins?" she asked.
"Absolutely," I said. And I had her pray privately for help from the Holy Spirit to be mindful of her sins, and sorry for them, and I had her repeat the words of the Catholic Act of Contrition after me -- an invalid substitute for the Sacrament of Reconciliation if a priest is available, if one is Catholic, but a good alternative, surely, for those outside the Catholic fold.
After the Act of Contrition, I left Linda alone. Her sister-in-law, my typist, passed me going up to Linda's bedroom as I was leaving the hospital.
The next morning, as my family sat at the breakfast table chomping on our cereal, my middle son Reid, who was about 5 at the time, excitedly said, "Mom, Dad, did you see the bright light outside our windows!? My shade was up, so that it lit up my entire room! I looked at the clock beside my bed after it went away. It was about 1:15 a.m."
When I went upstairs to check, I saw that only Reid's window shade had been up that night.
A little later that morning, my typist called and said, "Pete, I was with Linda when she died last night. She was in great distress trying to stay alive. I whispered into her ear, 'Linda, let go. God is waiting for you.' And she did. She died in front of me."
"What time?" I asked.
"1:15 a.m."
So, here's the question: Did Linda stop by the house, on her way up, to say "Thank you?"
I think so.
