After weeks of hearing me talk about them incessantly, a friend came with me to visit Earl and Sarah. Their place really looks fantastic; a church group from Ohio came down for YouthFest and we were able to do a huge clean-up in the yard and paint the trailer. The results were remarkable, and Earl, Sarah and their family were thrilled with them. And I was thrilled to have been able to help them to obtain something that they wanted so badly.

My friend is a great story-teller, and I couldn’t wait for him to get to talk to Earl. Entering their home is always such a treat for me, and I was eager to share the experience with a member of my Jackson House family. Anything that’s worrying me outside their door melts away with Sarah’s bear hug and Earl’s kiss on the cheek, and I settle myself in for a visit filled with genuine warmth and hospitality. On this particular day, their son, Marshall, was over. He was freshly home from the hospital after nearly dying; he’d had a heart attack, and if his brother hadn’t found him in time, he wouldn’t have been with us that day. He filled me in on the details of his near-death experience. Forty-five years old, Marshall had almost a child-like quality about him. Despite his goatee and buzzed white-blonde hair, his perfectly round eyes and earnest manner in recounting the story reminded me of a kid trying to explain his way out of a broken window, baseball bat in hand.

We stayed for about an hour; Earl could have easily talked to my friend about his truck-driving days all afternoon, but we had a few more stops to make before night fell. Earl and Sarah gave both of us big hugs, asked us to come again soon, and walked outside to bid us farewell. As we were pulling away, I saw Marshall with a cigarette in his mouth. “Marshall,” I yelled out the window with a grin. “You just had heart surgery, dude. You gotta quit those things. They’ll kill you.” He smiled sheepishly, saying, “I know, I know.”

A week and a half later, I attended Marshall’s wake.

He was clothed in a white, polo shirt. His casket was very simple, with artificial flowers adorning the foot of it.

I received word that Marshall had passed late in the afternoon when Sarah called Family Advocacy – she’d apparently misplaced my number – and asked them to pass the message along, saying that she really wanted me to be at the viewing. I pulled into the funeral home’s parking lot, and was greeted with the sight of a huge group of people standing around outside the building. I walked toward the crowd, and spotted Sarah at about the same time she saw me. I saw her draw in a sharp breath, and she began to elbow her way out of the middle of her guests.

“There you are! I was afraid you wouldn’t get here!” She finally got to me and threw her arms around my neck.
“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” I spoke into her gray hair.
“Thank you, baby. He ain’t sufferin’ no more,” she replied, looking up with sad eyes. “Let me introduce you to the rest of my family.”

She took me around the parking lot, and I shook hands with the children I hadn’t yet met. Then she brought me inside to see Earl.

He was sitting against the wall, staring at the floor in front of him blankly. I’d only ever seen his eyes when they snapped with a bright blue flame in conjunction with a witty remark. Or when they endeavored – unsuccessfully – to hold back a sparkle under his hawkish white eyebrows in anticipation of a good story. Now, they were torn by an immeasurable pain that dwelled deep within them. It was as if I could see his broken heart through those eyes, and they caused my heart to break, too. He saw me, stood up, and hugged me. I told him how sorry I was, and his response was to ask about my friend, to say that he thought the world of him, and to tell me how much he and Sarah loved me. Even at his lowest point, Earl took it upon himself to teach me about love.

Once inside the temporarily empty chapel area, I spent a few moments with Marshall and said a prayer for him and his family before the parking lot crowd began to make its way inside. While I was still at the front of the room, Sarah came in and slipped her arm around my waist. And that’s where she kept it as people began to filter into the room. At first, I was a little uncomfortable; I figured that her family would want to be next to the casket with her, and that I had no business standing there as she greeted the mourners. On the contrary, though, as each person came up to pay their respects, Sarah would hug them with her left arm – her right arm still firmly around me – and would say, “This is the CAP lady who painted my trailer. She’s my baby.” In between guests, she would rest her head on my shoulder, hold me close to her, and murmur all of her “why” questions into my sweater.

Earl came in to check on Sarah at one point, and he put his arm around her, holding onto my wrist which was resting on her shoulder. The three of us stood there in a familial embrace, the two of them exchanging looks full of hurt and worry for one another, and my heart threatening to burst at having the privilege of once again bearing witness to their simple and overwhelmingly authentic love story.

As the evening wore on, I came to understand that my role there wasn’t “transient volunteer.” It wasn’t even “CAP lady.” For some beautiful reason that continues to be beyond my understanding, Earl and Sarah had made me a part of their family. I didn’t have to ask for it, and I didn’t even know it was happening until I was already in love with them. They allowed their broken hearts to expand to include me. And for that, I consider myself to be incredibly blessed.

Bridget McCormack is a long-term volunteer in CAP’s Elderly Services program. She lives in Jackson Volunteer House.

“The sky was clear – remarkably clear – and the twinkling of all the stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse.”

- Thomas Hardy, Far From the Madding Crowd

This past Thursday, I’d mentioned to a few of the students that, if they wanted, I could take them up on a hike that evening to the rock above camp. We’d finally had a beautifully clear day after a week of cloudy skies, and I wanted them to see the stars. Almost all of them decided to come, so my housemate Lucas and I set out with lanterns and flashlights up the hill. The students were good sports; they kept us laughing the entire way with repeated outbursts of “BRIDGET, WHERE ARE YOU TAKING US?!” We promised them it would be worth the minor struggle.

It was.

We got to the flat top of the rock and picked our spots. We hadn’t been there long when one of the WorkFest groups came up and joined us. It was crowded, but there was enough sky for everyone. The heavens were heavy with brilliant stars, and the inky black branches surrounding us twisted their way toward them achingly. It looked as if they’d pierced the suede canopy of deepest blue above, leaving pinholes that let the universe shine down on us with the glorious exuberance that has inspired stargazers since human beings first thought to look up.

“Isn’t it crazy to think about how long that light has been traveling from those stars to us?” I mused. “For all we know, some of these stars are probably…”

“…dead,” Lucas finished.

After a few minutes of silence amid the chatter of the students, Lucas turned to me and said, “Do you think we could be like stars? You know, having the impact of our actions last after we’re gone?”

I can say this to every person who has come to work with CAP through WorkFest or the University of Scranton these past few weeks: you are stars. Your enthusiasm, energy, and willingness to go the extra mile have not gone unnoticed and they will never be forgotten, neither by the participants you helped nor by the volunteers with whom you worked. The time you spent here may have been short but, I promise you, the effect of your presence in eastern Kentucky is a priceless blessing that won’t go away. So, thank you for shining your light so radiantly.

A quick shout-out is in order. Erin, Terry, Regina, Christy, Kirstin, Tricia, Lindsay, Caitlin, Megan, Emily, Johnson, Nicole, Barb, and Marilyn. It was such an honor to get to know you and to work with you. You’re all amazingly talented, passionate individuals, and you kept me laughing (and snorting) all week. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Come back any time. Sooner rather than later.

Bridget McCormack is a long-term volunteer in CAP’s Elderly Services program. She lives in Jackson Volunteer House.

“How’re ya feelin’?” I asked as I approached the trailer.

“Mostly with my fingers,” he replied with a grin that was barely noticeable on his mouth but that twinkled in his eyes.

I met Earl and Sarah at the home of one of my participants last week. They aren’t a part of the CAP elderly program, but they had requested that I come by their place to see if we’d be able to bring some YouthFest volunteers to help them out. They admittedly are the kind of folks who hate to have to ask for help, but they need it badly right now. Earl has cancer and a limited amount of time left here, and he wants to leave his wife with as light a burden as possible.

Earl is a handsome older gentleman with the posture of a military general and the easy-going manner of your favorite uncle. He wears a bright plaid shirt, dark blue jeans, and an old trucker cap. His face is long and square, and it would be stern if the corners of his mouth didn’t twitch upward and his eyes didn’t light up at the telling of a joke. He’s a born story-teller, a retired semi driver who’s traveled the country, experienced the lonely romance of the American road, and who has decided that his hollow is the only place in the world worth living in. The first time we met, we talked like we’d known each other for years. He told me stories about his travels to New York, slipping in funny anecdotes and close calls. At one point, Sarah walked by, and his wry humor gave way to genuine emotion. “That’s my world,” he said to me, looking straight into my eyes. “I could have spent my whole life looking and I’d never have found another woman like her.” He spoke with the self-assuredness of a man who is completely aware of his own mortality. Not only is he resigned to it. He’s at peace with it.

I stopped by their trailer for the first time today. I probably would have missed it if they hadn’t come out to greet me, flanked by three friendly mutts; I thought it to be abandoned. The place is in pretty rough shape. It doesn’t have a bathroom or running water. The yard is littered with debris, and the trailer itself is in a total state of disrepair. My stomach twisted into a knot as I thought of how difficult it must have been to stay warm there this winter, and how they would never have thought to complain or to ask for help before now.

Earl strode up to me, excusing himself to see a friend who lived up the hill. The effects of his recent surgery were painfully evident; the tip of his nose was gone, replaced by gnarled stitches and dirty gauze. Sarah smiled and invited me inside to sit with her and her son and to discuss what the YouthFest volunteers could handle. In keeping with their personalities, Sarah and her son didn’t ask for much. Only for the yard to be tidied a little bit. Perhaps the kids could dig to find the water line that had been covered up by run-off from a rainstorm. That’s all.

They showed me around the property, pointing at different areas that needed particular attention. Sarah extended her arm and swept it across the yard, saying, “This is the homeplace. He refuses to move. He was born here, he was raised here, and he’ll die here.” I smiled and told her that I was sure that the volunteers would love spending time with her and Earl, and that they would be more than happy to give the couple a hand. I explained that, while the work itself would be both challenging and rewarding, the kids would gain so much from conversations with the two of them.

“Earl’s such a great story-teller,” I told her. “He’s a wonderful person.”

“I know it,” she said with a sad little smile. And she really did.

As soon as I’d gotten out of range of the trailer, I cried. I can’t even tell you for sure why, exactly, I was crying. The situation itself is undoubtedly sad, but there was an emotion stronger than sadness working in my heart. I felt overwhelmed by Earl and Sarah – in a good way. Their life is one of extreme material simplicity. Earl’s been handed a slow and painful death sentence, and Sarah’s condemned to watch him go, only to be rewarded by a new kind of poverty, experienced by herself and not with her soul mate. But they smile. And everything about their relationship with one another speaks of love, respect, and gratitude. With the house literally falling down around them, they focus on each other, and they’re happy.

I can’t wait for the YouthFest volunteers to meet these two. They’re in for a treat.

Bridget McCormack is a long-term volunteer in CAP’s Elderly Services program. She lives in Jackson Volunteer House.

This past week, my housemate Jordan and I visited a couple in the Elderly Services program – Ed and Anna. Ed is sixty-five and Anna is sixty-four, and they grew up together in a hollow not far from where they live now. I’d met Ed last week at the commodities food distribution, but this was my first time seeing their home and meeting his wife. He greeted us on the porch as we walked up to the house. Ed’s a tall man with a big mustache and a mess of silver hair on top of his head. He wears large eyeglasses that magnify the size of his eyes, and I haven’t seen him yet – in person or in pictures – without a pair of dark blue overalls. The huge smiles and warm welcomes we get never fail to make my heart jump up in my chest.

As luck would have it, they had three of their grandchildren visiting that day. The house was a flurry of activity, with “Dora the Explorer” blaring in the background and a play-kitchen being put to some serious use. Their grandson looked to be about eleven, and their two granddaughters were somewhere around seven and four. They regarded me shyly while their grandmother asked me questions about my home and their grandfather sat in a chair next to me, grinning broadly. The youngest granddaughter was absolutely beautiful; she had big blue eyes, and golden curls framed her chubby little face. When she laughed, it came out in a joyful little giggle, and dimples imprinted themselves on her cheeks as she played on her brother’s lap. I didn’t even notice the braces on her legs until her grandfather made me aware of them.

She was in a horrible car accident recently with her brother and her father. I’d heard about it the week before, but I hadn’t made the connection. I’d been told that she’d been partially paralyzed. It broke my heart; this lively little girl would struggle with that injury for her entire life, and it didn’t even appear that she truly understood that yet. There wasn’t any time to feel sorry for her, though.

“Wanna see her walk?” Ed looked at me hopefully. My eyebrows raised a little. I looked over at the girl, then back at Ed. “Sure,” I said. Ed jumped up excitedly and took the girl’s hands. The little trooper slid off her brother’s lap and onto her wobbly feet. With Ed holding her hands up high, she took one shaky step, and then another. I could see the intense concentration on the girl’s face. Ed walked her all the way down the hall and back, while the rest of us watched. When she finally sat back down, we all gushed excitedly, congratulating her and telling her that she’d done a wonderful job. And Ed looked about ready to burst with pride.

Life is a dizzying mix of trial and triumph. Our characters are partially defined by our reactions to these incidents in our own lives, but I think the truer test is how we react to those of others. We are called to celebrate this life with those around us. And it is as much of a blessing to extend a hand to get someone back on her feet as it is to take that hand and walk forward. That is the miracle of love.

Bridget McCormack is a long-term volunteer in CAP’s Elderly Services program. She lives in Jackson Volunteer House.