AGNES MARTINKO Lessons happen by chance

Chance encounters can result in profound personal or spiritual experiences. When you least expect it, your attention can be drawn to someone or something that changes your perspective.
Steven Spielberg created such a moment in his film "Schindler's List." The film is in black and white with the exception of one spot of color. In a scene where a group of new arrivals are being lead into the concentration camp, he had the coat of a sweet little girl colored red. Suddenly, the group ceased to be a group and you saw them as individuals with their own personal history.
On a trip to Russia one summer, our tour group visited a Young Pioneer Camp. The children were between 8 and 12. Since we didn't know each other's language, we took turns singing folk songs. The children would sing a Russian song, and we would sing something like Old MacDonald's Farm. Then the camp leader asked us to join hands with the children, and she would teach us a Russian folk dance.
I reached out to one boy, but before our hands could clasp a girl came from behind me and took our hands. I looked down at her and didn't remember seeing her in the group. She was very thin with deep, sad eyes and was not very pretty.
Haunting image
The children knew the dance well and laughed as the American adults stumbled around until we got it right. Each time I glanced at the girl to my left, she was looking up at me with those sad, sad eyes. When it was time to leave, I bent down to give her a hug and she held me so tightly that I thought she'd never let go.
Perhaps the camp counselor would have given me Erica's address if I had thought to ask, but I didn't. The image of her sad face still haunts me and I wonder how she is. I'll never know what made her so sad or if she ever found happiness.
A trip to Australia produced another memorable experience with a young child. I started to have abdominal pain a few weeks before the trip. It was similar to what I experienced earlier when my sigmoid colon had to be removed but I dismissed it as just stress before the trip. I was to be a delegate to a conference at Melbourne University on teleministries where the program was originally developed. We know the program locally as Help Hot Line or Contact. I did not want to miss this event.
By the time we reached Hawaii, I was quite ill and had begun to hemorrhage. There was a 36-hour stopover and we were taken to our hotel overlooking Waikiki beach. I was traveling alone but under a packaged plan with other delegates. My options seemed to be: get treatment here, leave the group and return home, or continue with the trip. It was late, so I climbed into bed and postponed the decision until morning.
Headed to church
I slept through the morning and didn't awake until two in the afternoon. I felt somewhat better but still couldn't decide what to do. It was Sunday. I dressed and asked at the desk if there was a church nearby. There was one a few blocks away which happened to have a four o'clock mass. Even though the church was nearby, I took a cab, as I was feeling weak.
At the entrance to the church there was a small museum off to the side. I was so surprised to find that this church had been the first cathedral on the island and was where Father Damien was ordained and where his funeral mass was held after he contracted leprosy and died after ministering to the lepers on Molokai. The museum contained his artifacts, pictures, and a chronology of his ministry.
After mass, I walked back to the hotel and enjoyed the smell of the tropical flowers. My decision was to continue the trip.
The flight to Australia would be l2 hours. I was lucky to get an aisle seat to stretch my legs. Across the aisle and two rows forward were a young mother and a toddler. The baby was crying. Eight hours later he was still crying. The stewardesses and almost every passenger in our section of the cabin had tried to comfort the child. I don't know what the problem was, but he never stopped crying.
The aggravation of the crying made my own pain intensify and I doubted my decision to continue the trip. I kept thinking about Father Damien and his lepers. I remembered reading that lepers don't feel pain. The nerves cease to function in the afflicted area so the brain does not record the pain. The flesh begins to rot and even exposes the bone yet there is no sensation. It is the smell of rotting flesh that is the hardest to endure.
I kept telling myself, "Pain is good. It lets us know something is wrong."
My turn
A stewardess walked by with the crying child and slid him onto my lap as if to say, "Now it's your turn."
I wiped the perspiration from his face and hair and nestled him in my lap. He was very warm and I felt the heat deep into my abdomen. Slowly our breathing synchronized and I guess we both fell asleep. The next thing I remember was the pilot's wake-up call in preparation for landing. The mother thanked me profusely in French and collected her child.
Later, I realized that my pain and hemorrhaging had stopped and never returned. This time I wrote to the airline with the flight number and seat number of the mother and child and asked for her name and address. I wanted to know if the baby was cured of his illness as well. There just seemed to be some curious connection between us. The airline never responded to my request.
XDr. Agnes Martinko is a member of St. Edward Parish.