The Gift of Love

 Don’t look for the big things; just do the small things with great love and great faith.

                                                                                    -Blessed Theresa of Calcutta

I’ve known I am supposed to become a doctor since second grade; I’ve known God has called me to become a doctor since I was eighteen. Despite my desire to come to Williams in order to prepare for medical school, it wasn’t my main focus once I got here. Within the first month I became so wrapped up in baseball that I began to devote eighty percent of my mental energy and time to it. More than anything I wanted to play professionally for a couple of years before eventually applying to medical school. In January of my sophomore year my goal of pitching professionally looked hopeful – I had two tryouts scheduled with the Red Sox and Reds. The day of my tryout with the Reds I pitched well, but with a 103* fever that ended with me in the hospital. Even though this should have been cause for concern to take it easier on my body, my focus and determination was only fueled. For the next month I added two a day workouts in order to prepare for the upcoming season, further ignoring the classes that should have been preparing me for medical school.

The work paid off, as I saw immeasurable improvements. The first time on the mound in February I was at my best. It also would be the last time I pitched. As I stepped off the mound it felt like a knife was stabbed through my elbow and forearm. The smallest movement caused searing pain to course through my entire arm. I feared the worst, but I was still hopeful. North Adams General Hospital diagnosed me with a stress fracture in my elbow. The doctor said I would be back throwing in six weeks, but after twelve I still was unable to pitch so he suggested that I take the spring off to prepare for my summer in California, where I had been planning a trip to stay in Palo Alto in order to play in a competitive summer league. In my mind, it was the perfect opportunity to improve my chances of pitching professionally, and the chance to intern at a medical lab at Stanford gave me the peace of mind that the summer wasn’t just for baseball.  And so on May 26, 2013 I flew to California to stay with my good friend, Alex Marshall, and her family.  The summer held so much promise, so much prospect.  

When I first walked into the Marshall’s home I looked to my left and saw a Cross. I looked straight ahead and met eyes with a life sized wooden carving of St. Augustine, the confirmation name I took not two years earlier when I became Catholic. A sense of peaceful purpose overcame me, and I knew that in fact God was confirming that His plans were for me to be in California. I didn’t know it wasn’t to play baseball. I spent the first two weeks biding my time in the lab, and rehabbing, but without pitching I was feeling incredibly unfulfilled and useless. One evening Alex’s mother, Anna, and I were talking about the many Catholic books that laden her bookshelf when I asked if she knew of any volunteering opportunities in the area. She said she would contact her father, who was good friends with Mother Theresa before her passing, and that he would probably be able to offer some suggestions.

The next day Anna mentioned that her father had gotten back to her with a recommendation to call the Gift of Love home in Pacifica, CA, a hospice home for patients terminally ill with AIDS run by the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Theresa’s Catholic Order. But for weeks I did nothing to follow up; I wasted my free time sunbathing by a country club pool as the slip of paper with Gift of Love’s phone number became lost under a pile of books on my bedside table. I kept hoping that my arm would heal, but as the days turned to weeks, despair set in. As I ignored the urge to call and continue to linger by the pool, intense thoughts of dying and an anxiety so strong that it could have dragged me into the pool crept into my heart and began to fester.  What would I say to the God of the Universe when He asked how I had spent my brief time on Earth? Would I tell Him that I really wanted to play professional baseball and was happy I spent so much time preparing to do so? I realized I could no longer live so apathetically, so selfishly. I woke up the next morning with an overwhelming burden to call Gift of Love.

No answer. I felt the Spirit telling me to try and call once more and if no one answered once again, I was to drive the forty minutes and do it in person. No answer. And so off I went, with my worship music playing, and rosary beads in hand, but still full of intense feelings of anxiety and despair.  Just as I summited the mountain drive before descending into Pacifica I was struck with one of the most spectacular views of my life: the Pacific Ocean with all of its tranquil grandeur and vast opulence enveloped me. I was overcome by feelings of love, peace, hope – feelings of consolation usurped my feelings of desolation as quickly and completely as the cascading water impacted the shoreline. All at once, I knew the Spirit was leading me.

I calmly pulled into the driveway of the home and just as I entered the house, a man with the most peaceful, serene blue eyes unexpectedly came through the door to my right. He asked, “Can I help you.” I told him why I was in California and asked if there was any need for another volunteer. Calmly, he replied, “Ah, yes, we’ve been praying for you. Our last volunteer just returned to Canada.” I left in disbelief, and the next day I got a call from Sister Faustine, the head nurse of the house, and a woman of small stature, but great vitality and energy and with as sharp a wit as anyone I’ve met. She told me to come after my game was over, so I arrived with my jersey and baseball pants, not knowing how much I was to change.

The first two weeks of volunteering were incredibly tough on my heart and soul. The home housed about nine residents throughout my time there – most of who were going to die there within a short period of time. When, in the middle of the night, James would wander the halls unsure of where he was, I would sigh as I tried to get him back to his room; and Gary constantly crying out in need of new bandages for his swollen legs led me to take extended breaks in the kitchen, passively avoiding the care he so desperately needed. I was exhausted, and felt there was nothing I could do to make any difference. No matter what I did, they were going to die. As I traveled between the residents’ suffering and poverty and the opulence and wealth of Palo Alto, I began to despair. I felt as if there was nothing I could do to reconcile these two lifestyles. How could I go back to the luxury of Palo Alto every day knowing that these people were suffering so much?

As I was folding sheets one day, Sister Faustine stopped me and said, “Dylan, I have been praying for your ‘conversion.’” I looked at her very puzzlingly as I had in my mind made it very clear that I converted to Catholicism a little over two years ago.  When I didn’t respond, she pointed to a picture of Blessed Mother Theresa and under it read, “every act of love is an act of peace, joy and unity.” She said, “You see, Dylan, when you are in despair and you feel as though there is little you can do to help the residents of this house, you are not loving. When we perform acts out of love we feel at peace, we feel joy; we find unity with that person. We all must pray for conversion every day.” Sister Faustine gave me homework that night. She wanted me to watch a film, a long one she said. Three and a half hours long. When she handed me the case and I read the title, “St. Giuseppe Moscati: Doctor to the Poor” I felt urgent in needing to watch it.

Back at the Marshall’s, I sat down in my room, closed my door, and turned on my computer. As Dr. Moscati looked out over the infirmary, eyes melancholy, as he identified the immense suffering that surrounded him, I finally felt something. Watching how this doctor, amidst so much suffering and poverty, cared so deeply for his patients, and with such humility led me to start thinking about the residents of Gift of Love and my own interactions with them. Seeing how his knowledge of medicine and how quickly he was able to diagnose and treat the desperately sick, I thought about how careless I had been with my studies over the past two years – how completely unconcerned I was with the people I would eventually be treating. And as he knelt by the Mediterranean Sea gazing towards the empty sky with tears in his eyes and a small boy in his dying moments wrapped in his arms, I lost it and couldn’t stop the tears. I professed faith, but I knew very little what it meant to love my brother, my neighbor. In that moment God began to create within me a deep, burning love and passion to care for the least of these brothers of mine. The way Dr. Moscati went to the chapel and gave everything to God in his anger, his sadness, his grief – his tears became my tears. I knew that God was calling me to live in this same manner and in that moment I made a promise to God that I wouldn’t waste a day in striving to become the best doctor I could for His children, my brothers.

Over the remaining weeks of the summer, as my heart continued to undergo deep change, I thought more about what conversion actually meant in relation to it’s Latin root, ‘converto, convertere’ which means, “to turn round,” or, “turn back.” I realized that each time I turn towards something I renounce something else: that conversion is not so much as a moment of profession, but a lifelong process of turning away from the world, and turning towards Christ. A conversion of heart required a reorienting of my heart towards the will of God for my life. God’s will for my life became very clear that summer: to love. To love Him, to love the residents of the house, to love my family, to love my friends, and most especially to love those who can offer me nothing in return. My mind was turned to The Gospel of Matthew as it reads, “’For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, ill and you cared for me, in prison and you visited me; ‘Amen, I say to you, whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me’” (Matthew 25:35-36,40). It was not just the residents I was caring for; it was the reflection of the face of God in them. God’s work started in watching Saint Giuseppe Moscati, but it through the summer in bathing James with a loving and gentle hand, changing and cleaning Gary’s wounds as I sang to him, or carrying Tim to his bed at three in the morning to administer his medication. It was no longer just James, Gary, or Tim gazing into my eyes as I cared for them, but it was Jesus gazing back at me, healing my soul, molding my heart.

As I was getting ready to leave California, I got news that my original injury that had kept my from pitching the last six months was misdiagnosed, would require surgery, and would keep me from pitching for the next twelve months. What would have been devastating news five months earlier gave me hope, for I knew that God wanted to use this time to give me continued perspective and show me how much more there was to my life than baseball. I knew God wanted me to cherish and treat my time at Williams differently. What I do now will affect how I treat my first Gary, a man with late stage terminal pancreatic cancer, or my first James, a young boy suffering from a rare form of leukemia, his hands and heart cold from never knowing the hand of a mother – both of these brothers too close to death, and too far from feeling loved, and me with the opportunity to allow God to pour forth healing, both physically and spiritually. With this healed perspective, only two things mattered: giving myself to God to pour into me each morning, and giving myself to others in the full-heart pursuit of my studies, becoming a complete physician in mind, body, and soul. When it came time to leave the Gift of Love I couldn’t hold back the tears. The jersey and baseball pants I arrived in juxtaposed with the white coat and scrubs I left in, I can honestly say that this injury has been a gift, a gift of both spiritual and emotional healing, a gift showing me that my treasure lay not in my prospect of playing professional baseball, but in giving myself fully to God’s mission of healing. My treasure lies in a simple, yet profound gift – a gift of healing, a gift of love.