First Fridays: Conversations About Spirituality in Later Life

By Dick Hattan

Have you ever wished you had written a book about your conversations with a colleague or close friend? Did you ever want to share your dreams or deeply held beliefs? In "First Fridays", you are invited to listen to the engaging and thought-provoking conversations between two gentlemen in their later years. Hear the emotion in their voices, the vulnerability in their ideas, and the other-worldly connections that they have experienced. Go deeply with them into your own inner psyche and tap into your own beliefs and feelings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669847533

Book preview

1

Sacred Grounds

A slice of a European patisserie provides a warm welcome, a comfortable cozy corner to read, write, or engage in the stimulating art of conversation. Pastries are featured from local bakeries displayed in a glass enclosed case. The sugary delights range from small, round, individually sized coffee cakes to bear claws and sugar cookies. Spanning the open-air space is a serpentine-shaped coffee bar where individuals and pairs of patrons consume caffeinated creations. Suddenly, the overhead sound system belts out Leslie Gore singing You Don’t Own Me, a throwback artist from a bygone era.

The black-clad baristas, adorned with nose and eyebrow rings, indicate this place is far from retro. Lattes and sub-Saharan-featured specialty coffees announce that the menu caters to a wide range of coffee connoisseurs. My friend Bill favored the Ethiopian Harrar bean, a strong, bold flavor with hints of berry chocolate, a taste that brings him back to the Peace Corps and his stint in Ethiopia during the 1960s. Large ceramic cups of latte feature the artistry of a labyrinthian cream design topping the hot black liquid.

A variety of individuals and groups have settled into their chairs or coffee bar stools. The computer guy is here, no longer annoying me with his buddies long gone and conducting his business against the back wall. The retired men’s group has come and gone. The Wall Street Journal reader is nowhere to be seen. The loud church leader from the evangelical church must have moved on or is settling into a new meeting place. The mother, who flirts with the male barista, and her son are off to school. An elderly woman dressed in a plaid coat and black jeans leans on the counter awaiting her order, while two twenty-something females meet to enjoy a casual conversation before beginning their workdays.

Sacred Grounds, our host for the past few years, is an independently owned community gathering place dedicated to promoting conversation and commerce. The place has a vibrant feeling with 1950s and 1960s records spun over its sound system. The music caters to the age of its patrons who find comfort and familiarity in its friendly environs. Coffee is the mainstay on the limited menu of pastries and breakfast sandwiches. A chalk board of roasted beans features coffees from distant parts of the world, from Africa to South America. But their house blend is the calling card that is served by the cup or bag of ground beans.

Tables are scattered throughout the L-shaped room where it is common for patrons to park and stay for hours, chatting with friends, studying, or engaging in commerce as independent entrepreneurs or home-bound sales representatives. But for Bill and me, our purpose was personal. We met as travelers on spiritual journeys. Our destination was uncertain, but we drank coffee together to illuminate the road ahead and be a walking stick along the way.

My journal keeps me occupied as the music changes to country and western, muffling the conversations around the room. As I sit waiting for inspiration, my eye catches a print near the rest rooms at the far side of the space. It’s a portrait of a silver-bearded gentleman dressed in a blue flannel shirt engaged in thought, fingers intertwined, held at his forehead as if in prayer. A loaf of bread, a cup of soup, and a voluminous book sit on the table with reading glasses resting on top of the volume. I identify with this man, engaged in thoughtful contemplation, giving thanks, pondering a dilemma, or resting before he consumes the meal. As I study this interesting-looking man, I wonder if he is giving thanks for the meager food and drink in front of him. Could he be taking a moment of silent thought after dealing with a traumatic event? Or perhaps he is homeless and has at last found a place to rest and gather his thoughts about the day ahead.

On each occasion when I visit, I’m struck by something new and different that catches my eye or delights my senses. Today it was the portrait, another day it was the framed burlap bags of Orangutan and Rosebud Atlas coffee bags. On another occasion, it was the coffee bar design manufactured in the shape of a question mark lying on its side.

The clientele here continues to arrive, to spend time reading, writing, or visiting, and then moves on. It was in this setting where Bill and I met each first Friday of the month. It was here where he challenged my entrenched belief system and allowed me to grow and mature in my faith and spirituality. Our conversations sparked curiosity and exploration, daring to think radical thoughts and pursue theories previously unexplored.

This was sacred ground. I wanted to remove my shoes and show reverence for the divine presence that joined us on those days. During the ordinary, I discovered the sublime. Seated among retirees and students, I was humbled by the knowledge that was exchanged. Among the aroma of coffee beans and sweet desserts, I tasted the sweetness of the divine.

What drew me to this place was the unhurried atmosphere it created. It was the launching pad for busy days at the office. For those engaged in sales and marketing, it provided the jolt of caffeine needed to initiate cold calls and follow up with new prospects. For me, it was an oasis between home and work where I prepared for my day, listed donors who I needed to reach and tie up loose ends, remembering who was depending on me to provide information or make decisions on current projects.

Because it was a local coffee shop, I frequently encountered friends, fellow church members, and local entrepreneurs doing what I was doing, preparing for the day and meeting others in a delightful, upbeat atmosphere. There was always a women’s Bible study sequestered around a small table with heads bowed, consulting scriptural passages, and smiling at the occasional insight that was shared or bursting into laughter for reasons known only to them.

The vibe was upbeat but unhurried so that a group of gray-bearded retirees expanded and contracted during the morning rush hour. They could be heard retelling war stories, sharing experiences about spouses, and catching up on sports and local events. It was a special place, an organic conglomeration of friends and colleagues that helped the coffee house earn its ubiquitous name, Sacred Grounds.

The coffee house was created by its owners, a local couple, who wanted to provide good coffee products with delectable desserts and sandwiches for the local community. This was their dream, together with an open, friendly atmosphere that would nurture conversation and provide a meeting and gathering location for residents of the surrounding community.

2

Meeting Under the Tent

Bill was a ninety-three-year-old retired Episcopal priest, married to his beloved wife, Cathy, for thirty-eight years. A World War 2 army veteran, Bill’s career in social activism began with Young Christian Workers, where he discovered his passion for teaching, organizing, and outreach. YCW changed how he looked at life, politics, and community. It was at YCW that he met Ellen, who would become his first wife in 1960. A chance meeting with a trusted colleague brought the idea of joining the Peace Corps, the new worldwide volunteer initiative started by Pres. John F. Kennedy in the early 1960s. Bill and Ellen were commissioned to Ethiopia, where Bill would recruit volunteers to build housing for families and office buildings for budding entrepreneurs. When he returned to the United States, Bill felt a call to the ordained priesthood in the Episcopal Church. He attended Seabury-Western Theological Seminary in Evanston, Illinois. Tragically, Ellen died in 1974, prior to Bill’s completion of his seminary education. After his ordination to the priesthood in 1975, Bill served several parishes in the suburban Chicago area. While serving at St. Bede’s Church in Bensenville, Illinois, Bill met Cathy, and the couple was married in 1982. After retiring in 1992, Bill and Cathy moved and retired to St. Charles, Illinois. This outline of his life forms the skeleton of the work this interesting man experienced. We would walk into each other’s lives at a pig roast, an annual fundraising event and kickoff to our church’s liturgical year. This would begin a fascinating journey of discovery, spiritual growth, and healing.

The pig roast was the event that initiated the church’s program year in early September. I had piled my plate high with pulled pork, fried chicken, salad, and potatoes and roamed the area inside the open tent looking for a place to sit. Feasting on the picnic food, I began a conversation with one of the lay leaders. I thought she would be a good person to ask about something that had been on my mind for over ten years.

Do you know anyone involved in healing prayer? I asked apprehensively. I was new to the church and didn’t want to open any taboo subjects or appear too eager to join anything. I had an experience a number of years ago where I participated in a spiritual healing, and I wanted to meet someone who could help me sort it out.

You need to talk with Bill. She followed up quickly on my question. He’s a member of the church and, in fact, is here today.

That was quick. Why did I fret about this and keep this question to myself for so long when there was someone nearby with whom I could converse on the subject? I was a bit hesitant, knowing that church members tend to exude an inordinate amount of enthusiasm, especially with new members. I wasn’t looking to get sucked into a volunteer assignment or a meeting about a new program addressing the needs of the poor. I was just curious.

Come with me, I’ll introduce you to him, she said emphatically. She took me across the church yard to a table where a group of people were seated, engaged in boisterous conversation. Bill, she said as she began her introduction, this is Dick Hattan, I think the two of you have something in common. With that, she turned and disappeared to rejoin her table guests.

Bill and I shook hands, and he offered me a seat at his table. It was a warm day as the sun baked through the tent canvas, but it was a pleasant seventy-two degrees under the canvas that kept people sitting and visiting, wanting to extend their outdoor time before their return to the chores and needs of their homes and families.

I struck up the conversation as Bill finished his lunch. I had a very moving experience about spiritual healing that I’m puzzled by and wanted to share with someone who is knowledgeable about healing prayer. Bill perked up; his antenna focused on my words.

I work at McNeal Hospital in Berwyn, where I’m a division director. One day Melissa B., one of the managers who reports to me, shared with me that her son had been diagnosed with a malignant brain tumor. He lived in California, and she wanted some time off to be with him and make end-of-life preparations, if necessary. I agreed to Melissa’s request immediately and told her to take whatever time she needed.

Later in the day, I walked across the street to St. Michael’s and All Angels Episcopal Church to attend the weekly Eucharist and pray for Melissa and her son. The service was a typical weekday service, but after the communion was distributed; the priest announced he would provide laying on of hands and healing prayer to anyone who was interested. I had never participated in this type of prayer and was a little skeptical since the healing prayer I had witnessed was conducted by a television evangelist dressed in a three-piece white suit. He called on people from the television audience who were pre-selected and who fell to the ground after he touched their foreheads and admonished them to heal.

Approaching the altar after communion, I knelt at the altar rail in front of the priest who asked, Do you know anyone who you’d like to receive healing prayer?

I would like to pray for Christopher who has a malignant brain tumor, I replied apprehensively. The priest laid his hands on my head and prayed with words I do not remember for the healing of this young man. I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t fall to the ground as I had seen on the television healing show where faith healers worked their magic. I got up and left the church and returned to work. The following day Melissa appeared at my office with a beautiful smile on her face. She had just spoken with her son who had returned from an appointment with his oncologist. The tumor was receding. Wow, what great news! It struck me that the improvement in the young man’s condition coincided with the healing prayer I had received on his behalf the day before. I was jubilant and perplexed by this formidable turn of events.

I decided to continue with receiving healing prayer for Christopher and learned that, over the course of time, the tumor had disappeared, and he was cancer free. This phenomenon is known as spontaneous healing in the medical world. Was the healing prayer I received a part of this healing? I wanted to believe it was.

I then asked Bill, Was I a conduit for healing this person? Did I have a gift I should explore more fully?

It’s very possible you were a conduit for healing, and you should explore this apparent gift you possess! We don’t really know for sure how God uses us, but we need to be open to God’s Spirit and allow healing to work in any way possible. I would encourage you to pursue this further. If you’re intrigued by this healing experience after ten years, then God is working in and around you in very special ways.

Bill moved forward in his chair and spoke with me up close. "Now let me tell you my experience of healing. I was serving in the Peace Corps and was assigned to Ethiopia to train and direct volunteers to secure suitable housing for homeless people in that African country. One day I visited a local community church to get acquainted with the pastor and learn the needs of his congregation. The church looked nothing like our church buildings. It was an open-air pavilion with benches that served as pews. As we began our conversation, I noticed that behind the church was a stone grotto with crutches, canes, and walkers strewn around the back and sides of the grotto. It captured my