Good Medicine Junior YearChapter 65 Developing A Relationship
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Good Medicine - Junior YearChapter 49: A Servant’s Heart free porn video
December 3, 1983, McKinley, Ohio
“What can I do to help?” Clarissa asked as we walked into the church.
“Check the answering machine, please. It’s in the church office. Just write down any messages on the pad next to the machine. If the phone rings, please answer with the name of the parish. You can answer the two most likely questions — yes, we’re having Vespers tonight, and that Father Deacon Grigory is undergoing bypass surgery at University Hospital. Anything else, other than something like service times or directions to the church, which are on the laminated sheet next to the phone, come get me, please. I’ll be in the nave or altar. I need to fill and light the oil lamps, and prepare the books for tonight.”
“Got it!”
She went to the office and I went into the nave, venerated the icon of my patron, who was also the patron of the parish, said my simple entry prayers, and then began the process of filling the lamps with olive oil, trimming or replacing the wicks and floats, and then lighting them. I had just finished when Clarissa came into the nave.
“There were about a dozen messages, all of them asking for an update on the deacon.”
“For now, just let it be. I need to finish here, then I’ll figure out what to do about the calls. I’m actually hoping one of the ladies who works in the office will show up, because I know next to nothing about how Father wants these things handled.”
I heard the phone ringing and Clarissa scooted to answer, while I began setting out the books that the choir and chanters would use, as well as a loose-leaf-bound copy of the Vespers service, as led by a Reader. Clarissa was back a moment later to tell me that it was an inquiry about the service. When I finished setting out the books, we went to the office and I reviewed the messages. I returned one of them immediately, without even thinking — from Deacon Vasily.
“Subdeacon, how is Father Deacon Grigory?” he asked.
“He should be in surgery by now,” I said. “Multiple bypass. Vladyka was able to anoint him before the surgery.”
“Very good. Do you know how long it will be?”
“Several hours, but I don’t actually know,” I said. “I didn’t speak to the cardiologist; he spoke privately with Matushka Anastasia and John. The basic information I have is from Doctor Evgeni Petrov, who’s a member here.”
“I know Doctor Evgeni,” Deacon Vasily said. “He’s a good man. What precisely did he say?”
I repeated what I had been told, and promised to call with any updates. Before he hung up, he put Tasha on the line and we confirmed she’d be in McKinley on Sunday as planned.
“I’m not sure about any of the rest of these,” I said to Clarissa. “I suppose I’ll return each one and just relay the most basic information that he’s in surgery.”
“That probably makes the most sense,” she agreed.
I began at the top of the list and returned each call, deflecting any detailed questions with the repeated refrain that Father would have something to say at the Divine Liturgy in the morning, and that I would ensure he knew the person had called. When I finished the list, the phone rang immediately and after listening to a complaint about the parishioner hearing a busy signal for fifteen minutes, I repeated the basic information and politely ended the call.
“We need some way of telling the whole parish,” I said. “A ‘phone tree’ or something.”
“What happens while the deacon is recovering?”
“I’ll help as much as a subdeacon is permitted, which means, for example, singing the litanies now that the bishop has given his blessing for me to do that, but honestly, my job is to be the ‘Hand of the Bishop’ during hierarchical services. Otherwise, I’m simply an acolyte. And a similar thing is true for deacons, who can’t do all the things a priest can do, and priests, who can’t do all the things a bishop can do. But you never lose your lower ordination, so there is nothing I can do that a priest, deacon, or bishop couldn’t do.”
“How does it work with monks and nuns?”
“About the same — there are various levels, with the abbot or abbess being in control. They’re under the authority of the bishops, but mostly allowed to determine their own practices. Some monks are deacons or priests as well, and mostly they serve in parishes, though some do stay in monasteries. Vladyka ARKADY was a parish priest until our previous bishop died, which was when I was about two. He was elected by the synod, based on the will of the people. From what I hear, the vote was unanimous.”
“I think I can see why. So he never married, right?”
“Correct. He elected to receive ordination to the diaconate without marrying. There is no chance on this planet, or any other, that I will EVER allow that to happen to me!”
Clarissa laughed, “No kidding! But he chose that voluntarily, right?”
“In as much as any calling is voluntary, but yes. I suspect you don’t have the right reason why I wouldn’t do that.”
“Not sex?”
I shook my head, “No. I’d be afraid some idiot would try to make me a bishop!”
Clarissa laughed even harder.
“Is his job that bad?”
“Are you kidding? Would YOU want to try to play peacemaker to several dozen churches full of old Russian men and women? I sure wouldn’t! I’d be pulling a Santa Claus versus Arius about every five minutes.”
“You lost me. Santa Claus?”
“Santa Claus comes to us through the Dutch ‘Sinterklaas’, who is based on Saint Nicholas of Myra. Legend has it that Saint Nicholas slapped Arius at the First Council of Nicaea in AD325 because Arius was making stuff up and claiming it had always been taught. I once said to my mom that if HER church wasn’t cool enough to have Santa Claus punching heretics, that wouldn’t be MY problem!”
“Legend?”
“Remember what I said about answering those kinds of questions? It depends on the context. There is no contemporaneous record that he was even AT the council. But that doesn’t make it false. So I can say to you, here, in private, that it’s a legend. What I say during Sunday School or in the nave during services, would affirm the truth of the events, as depicted in the icons or reported in the hymns.
“To me, the truth does not lie in the contents of the story, but in the meaning of the story. I always like to say that it doesn’t matter if there actually WAS a ‘Good Samaritan’ because the truth there is not found in the details of the story as if it were news, but in the truths being taught. As Vladyka has said — let the Protestants and their scholars fight over the literal truth of each word, while we worship the undivided Trinity who has saved us.”
“I’m curious, what’s your opinion of research into the origins of the texts?”
“I have no difficulty or any concern with that kind of research, and neither does the bishop. I find it interesting, from an intellectual point of view. Ultimately, though, it doesn’t matter, because the texts which were canonized are the ones we have. Whatever their source, whatever their promulgation, the earliest Christians recognized the books, in the form we’ve received them, as those that ought to be read in the churches. The one exception is the Revelation to Saint John which is included because it was written by Saint John, despite never being read in church. That said, the imagery in Revelation is represented in the church at every service, with smoke rising from the altar, and so on.”
“It’s really strange because you simply dismiss as unimportant questions I hear people argue about all the time. And your answers are so simple.”
“Not mine,” I said gently. “Two thousand years’ worth of worship has provided those answers. To admit one cannot know the mysteries of God is true humility, according to any number of Church Fathers. Disputation does not save anyone; worship and witness do.”
“Somebody tell the preacher on campus. And a host of others I’ve run into.”
“I’ll leave that to the theologians. But guess what a true theologian does? He prays. We have saints called ‘theologians’ and they are men of prayer and devotion, not PhDs working in scholarly institutions.”
I heard voices in the hallway and got up see who it was. I was very happy to see Mrs. Semenov, one of the ladies who worked in the office one day a week. I greeted her and asked if she would please take charge of the office. She agreed, and Clarissa and I went to sit in the nave so I could mentally and spiritually prepare for the service.
When the choir director and head chanter arrived, we conferred on the order of service, the hymns of the day, and the specific parts which would be skipped because there was no priest. We began the service promptly, and by the time we sang O Gladsome Light the nave was full, which was not common for Vespers. When the service ended, I read the prayer for the sick, minus the benediction, and, as everyone filed out, I helped put the books away while the acolytes snuffed the oil lamps.
“Now what?” Clarissa asked.
“Let’s stop and have a quick bite to eat, then head to the hospital.”
We stopped at a small diner where we had a Lenten meal, then headed to the hospital. I put on my cassock and we walked into the lobby where we saw a number of parishioners gathered. As we headed towards the elevators, a candy striper stopped us.
“We’re supposed to limit who goes up,” she said.
“I’m a member of the clergy and my bishop is upstairs,” I said. “I’m supposed to return after leading the services at our church.”
“Go ahead,” she said. “Miss?”
“My wife,” I said, knowing exactly what I’d just walked into.
“OK.”
We got in the elevator and the doors closed.
“So, wedding night tonight, is it?” Clarissa teased.
“No ‘Dance of Isaiah’, no marriage!”
“There are both a priest AND a bishop here!”
“Ah, but an Orthodox marriage has to be performed in the temple!”
“So, then honeymoon first, wedding second!”
“Please don’t say anything to anyone upstairs,” I said. “I’ll get in major trouble.”
“I’d never do that!” she protested.
“Sorry, I just need to be super-careful.”
“You know I’ll never betray you.”
“I know,” I said, quickly squeezing her hand before the elevator doors opened.
We walked over to where the small group was standing, and I asked for the bishop’s blessing.
“Do we have word?” I asked, once he’d made the sign of the cross over my upturned hands and I kissed his hand.
“No,” Father Nicholas said. “Not yet. Was everything OK at the church?”
“Yes. There were perhaps a dozen messages on the machine. I returned the calls, and except for a longer conversation with Father Deacon Vasily, I simply said that Father Deacon Grigory was in surgery. I saw a number of people in the lobby, but I guess they aren’t letting them come up.”
“There were about ten people here besides us, and that filled this waiting room completely, so they asked everyone except for clergy and family to leave. Of course, Doctor Evgeni has privileges here.”
Just then, a disheveled Doctor Washington came out through a double set of doors and took Matushka and John into the consultation room. It was about ten minutes before they came out, and he came over to us.
“Mrs. Minsky gave me permission to share what happened. Her husband had a tough time on the table, but we got him through the surgery. It’s going to be a long, difficult recovery due to damage to his heart, but rehabilitation is possible. We’ll have a better idea in three or four days.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Vladyka ARKADY said. “When can we see him?”
“Call it six to eight hours, and one person at a time. I’ll write the orders for his wife, his son, and you.”
“Thank you, again Doctor.”
“You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a hot shower, some clean clothes, and a nap.”
He walked away, and I turned to my priest and bishop.
“What shall I do in the morning?”
“As we discussed, Subdeacon,” Father said. “Unless Vladyka thinks otherwise, I think you should go back to the school and get some rest. If, for whatever reason, I can’t be at the church tomorrow, please serve the Typika. I’ll try to get in touch with you if that’s the case.”
“I believe that is wise,” Vladyka ARKADY said. “Mischa, if I am at church tomorrow, it will just be a regular liturgy, not a hierarchical one.”
“Yes, Vladyka,” I replied. “Will someone call me if there is any news?”
“Of course,” Father Nicholas said.
I asked for, and received, the bishop’s blessing, said goodbye to everyone, and then Clarissa and I left the hospital and returned to campus. We went to my room, I tossed my bag in the corner, and then collapsed on the bed. Despite not physically exerting myself, I was beat.
“Let me go find Glenda,” Clarissa said.
“Bring her here, if you want,” I said. “And if you see Sophia, Robby, Lee, Rebekah, and José they can join us as well.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I know, but for some reason, I just want my friends around.”
December 4, 1983, McKinley, Ohio
I’d slept soundly and when I woke on Sunday morning, I felt refreshed. My friends had spent about an hour with us before I decided I needed to get to bed. Clarissa had gone with Glenda after making sure I was OK. I’d confirmed I was, and I was asleep almost at the instant my head hit the pillow.
I got out of bed, showered, dressed for church, then went out into the hall where I saw Clarissa waiting in the lounge. She got up, walked over to me, we exchanged a hug, then walked to the elevator.
“Doing OK?” she asked as we got into the elevator.
“Yes. I think adrenaline kicked in without me realizing it and when it wore off, I was just ready to collapse, but I’m glad we had our friends with us for an hour.”
“Tasha will be here, right?”
“Yes. She’ll be at church for Matins. I’m not sure what will happen this afternoon, but most likely we won’t go to Doctor Blahnik’s house.”
“Vladyka,” she said in a silly voice, “I need to be excused for a few hours so I can fuck the OTHER Deacon’s daughter to whom I’m neither married or betrothed; would that be OK?”
“I think that might get me in more than just a bit of trouble,” I replied with a grin.
We left the elevator when it reached the lobby, then headed out to my car for the drive to the church. When we arrived, I put on my cassock, unlocked the church, and began preparations. Clarissa checked the answering machine for me and took down two messages, and just after I’d completed preparations, Tasha arrived.
“How is he?” she asked.
“He had a tough time in the surgery, but they got him through it. I’m not quite sure what that means, though I suspect the doctor said something more detailed to Matushka Anastasia and John. It was going to be at least 3:00am before even his wife could see him. We may end up doing a Typika this morning. I put out the prosphora, but I left it wrapped in case I need to put it away again.”
“Do you think Father Nicholas and the bishop stayed up all night?” Clarissa asked.
“It’s certainly possible, but I won’t know until someone comes from the hospital.”
“My dad would like you to call him, or have someone call him, to let him know when it would be OK to visit.”
“I’ll let Father know and he can make that decision. Only the bishop was allowed to see Deacon Grigory before the surgery.”
“With chrism?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Mike,” Clarissa said, “I’m curious.”
I smiled, “No, the chrism isn’t magic. But it symbolizes the grace of God and the power of the Holy Spirit to heal our spiritual infirmities.”
“Not the physical ones?”
“God gives grace to doctors to do that,” I grinned.
“But that’s not right!” Tasha protested. “The oil may heal our bodies!”
“Magically, Tasha? Or does God work through the doctors and nurses and drug companies? Remember, it’s synergy.”
“Yes, of course, but miracles are real!”
“Yes, they are, but which is more common? That a doctor, who uses the gifts God has provided, heals the sick? Or that chrism brings forth a miracle? Personally, I’d rather have the cardiologist and the chrism, than the chrism alone!”
Tasha gave me a curious look, and I knew I’d have to explain myself, because she, like many Orthodox, tended towards mysticism just a bit too much. There was nothing wrong with her thinking, in and of itself, so long as it didn’t cause her to reject sound scientific practice in favor of mystical belief.
“Do you believe in miracles?” Clarissa asked. “I mean truly believe they happen?”
“Do things which have no scientific or medical explanation happen? Yes, of course. But think about the procedure they just performed on the Deacon. Opening his chest, stopping his heart, replacing blood vessels, and then starting his heart again. To me, that is as powerful a demonstration of God’s grace as any you can name. Just because the surgeon’s hands do the work, doesn’t mean the Holy Spirit isn’t involved.”
“That’s not really an answer,” she protested.
“It’s the best one I have. I suppose the short version is ‘yes’, but I’m not going to forgo using the skills and abilities God provided all of us in favor of waiting on a miracle! Have you heard the story of the man who was at home when a flood was forecast?”
“No.”
“He prayed for God to save him. A military truck came by, and he refused to go with them, because he was relying on God. The floods began, and a boat came by, and they offered to take him from the second-floor window to safety, and he said he was relying on God to save him. The waters continued to rise and he had to climb onto the roof. A helicopter came by and offered to rescue him, but he refused, saying God would save him. The water continued to rise and he drowned. He went to heaven and complained to God that he had prayed and not been saved. God asked ‘I sent a truck, a boat, and a helicopter! What more did you want?’.”
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