A MAN WITHOUT GUILE

"Harold" was one of a kind. This dear parishioner passed away last week having attained the more than respectful age of 85. Harold never married, was a jewelry maker, and somehow made his way to central Florida from the great State of Massachusetts.

And like so many others among us, yours truly included, Harold was a singular character.

He was, as the phrase so aptly describes it, ‘tongue tied.’ Even having gotten used to interacting with this dear man on a weekly basis, I was only able to decipher about half of what he said. (Otherwise, I had to ‘wing it’ on the rest). When I couldn’t quite make out a word, or phrase, but the jest of his verbal syntax indicated whatever he was saying was narrative, (rather than quisitive) I would just smile and nod my head. I think if I (or anyone else) had consistently interjected, “What was that” or “I don’t understand you,” it would have only embarrassed him.

Harold was, as the Gospel writer described Nathaniel, “a man without guile.” What you saw is what you got. He was, perhaps, the most humble man I have ever met during the course of my almost 70 years on this planet.

And as the word, ‘humble’ described him well, he might have just as well be characterized as devout. It was not unusual for Harold to spend a few minutes at the altar prior to the beginning of the a.m. and p.m. Sunday worship services. At other times, he would sit on his center aisle, second row seat, pull a song book out of the rack, and quietly sing one of the old hymns of the Church. Speaking of singing, during the song service, Harold would often gesticulate with his hands; having apparently, somewhere along the way, learned American sign language.

From time to time, Harold would ask the pastor whether he could sing a p.m. special, and more often, than not, Pastor K. would acquiesce. And almost as often as Harold stood behind the pulpit, and “waxed eloquent” in song, he did so without the benefit of accompanying instruments. I suppose I heard the old fella sing a vocal selection all of eight or ten times during the past decade.

As Harold proceeded to sing, “Rock of Ages,” or “Crown Him With Many Crowns,” or “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” he was suddenly easier to understand, and his words became more intelligible. Not unlike those Scottish, or Cockney, or French songsters who, when they begin to sing, do so without so much as a trace of an accent.

Harold was a handshaker. Any of my fellow parishioners would immediately vouch for that. He would catch you before the service. He would follow up during the meet and greet, (or what I refer to as the ‘Howdy Doody’) time. And he would catch you on your way out the door. I always wondered whether he remembered whose hands he had previously shaken, or whether his nature was just so amiable that he simply didn’t care; since he took such great pleasure in “pressing the flesh.”

A couple years ago, I sat with this good man at a church dinner, and I recall remarking, “Harold, you look years younger than your years, and you seem healthier than the average man your age.”

However, when Harold began to decline, he declined on a rapid basis. His gait slowed, and he had a habit of getting up during the service and heading out the side door; which led to the bathrooms. Ultimately, our ailing friend required the use of a catheter. And whereas, this development might have kept some people home, he was not to be denied.

Harold began wearing a green canvas bag on his hip to catch the liquid contents of the drainage tube which ran down his pants’ leg, and back up to the plastic receptacle. (You had to give him credit for his commitment to God, his beloved church, and his fellow parishioners).

Harold was, it might be said, simple, humble, and devout. A man without guile.

During the church service today, Pastor K. uttered a statement which could not have been truer, and which absolutely embodied the thoughts of his parishioners.

“Sometimes you don’t appreciate someone ‘til they’re gone. We loved Harold, and we will miss him terribly.”

By William McDonald, PhD. From (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 80. Copyright pending


If you wish to copy, share or save this blog, please include the credit line, above