Many decades ago, back before I was a doctor, I worked the night shift as a nurse at the hospital, and I often remember a janitor I worked with by the name of Carl. Carl was a tall, slender, rough-looking man with the gentlest soul I have ever known.
I remember him telling me about his life--about how his father passed away when Carl was 12 years old, and Carl had to leave school to go to work to help support his mother and six brothers and sisters. He regretted that he was never able to go back to school to complete his education.
It was Carl's job as a janitor to go from room to room emptying the trash, sweeping the floors, and generally keeping the hospital clean and tidy. Each night I would watch him slowly lumber up and down the hallways, then walk into each room in turn. He always took a moment to look at the patient lying in the bed; he would stop and go to the bedside to touch the person's hand. Often, he would give a sweet, gentle greeting: "How are you feeling today, beautiful?" Coming from anyone else this might have been taken as being too intrusive or inappropriate, but everyone could tell by Carl's genuine presence that his comment was full of love, and no one was ever offended. In fact, most people were laughing at one of his jokes by the time he had dumped the trash and was ready to walk out the door.
I remember one patient specifically who had been in a terrible car accident. Her son had died as a result, and she was unconscious, with many broken bones. That night, when she finally woke, I was the one to explain to her that her son did not survive. I held her as she sobbed uncontrollably, and I felt her heart break. I had never felt such grief. Every night that she was in the hospital with us, Carl would come in and hold her hands, praying with her and letting her cry on his shoulder.
As the doctors and nurses were busily taking care of the medical things that needed attention, Carl quietly stood by and took care of the patients' souls. Over the few years that I worked with him, I began to realize that Carl healed more patients in that hospital than any doctor I have ever known. He didn't have just a job; he had a calling. He didn't live his life; he lived his destiny. Everywhere he went, every life he touched, became better simply because of who he was.
I've come to realize it doesn't really matter what we do for a living--whether we're a brain surgeon, car mechanic, nurse, librarian, or janitor, we all touch people's lives. Every single day we have the opportunity to heal--with our words, our touch, and our actions--and we also have the ability to wound with those same things. We have a choice in every moment: to promote healing or to promote disease, not only in others but also within ourselves.
Every morning I wake up and think of Carl. He has set the bar for me to live up to. Can I do something today to make someone's life better? Can I do something to help relieve suffering? Thank you Carl, wherever you may be today. Knowing you has connected me more deeply to my heart.
May your lives today be touched by someone like Carl.
Blessings,
