All his life he made the choice
To forsake more earthly goals
This little man with the glove
Had touched ten thousand souls.
And all his life he had that glove
And yet had told no other
That this one thing he held so dear
Had always been his brother’s.
It haunted me to understand
How in spite of all the strife
He never failed to joyfully follow
The compass of his life.
Oh little man what held you up
Against the storms and thunder
That the ever changing tides of life
Could not wash you under?
How was it that you found the joy
To measure out your day?
Whatever made you so content
To be this jar of clay?
The next morning the room was clean.
He was no longer there.
I learned that he had been discharged
And gone to hospice care.
Three weeks more would come and go
And then late one day.
The Father came to tell me that
The old priest passed away.
He held that old tan baseball glove
And put it in my hand.
But from my face he clearly knew
I did not understand.
“I think he liked you very much.”
Was all that he did say.
Then he smiled and shook my hand
And turned and walked away.
And still I wondered at his life
And all he held so dear.
And as I grew to understand
One simple truth came clear.
He had no children, had no wife
And likely died alone.
But he had a hero all his life
One that brought him home.
Because of him I simply vowed
To live not just as taker.
But make a difference in a world
In need of difference-makers.
That other’s needs are not expense
And self should not hold sway.
But find joy in the present tense
And not some future day.
The glove sits on my mantel now
The leather cracked and plain
And friends ask who and what but I’m
Not sure I can explain.
I knew him only for a day
But I’m the better for it.
So when they ask I simply smile
And say, “My brother wore it.”
Jeff High, R.N., in the hallway of the 3rd floor OR.
