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Continue reading Part 2

A possible meaning of the story:

The people of Gubbio didn’t easily get along with each other. In the opening, the narrator says, “They argued and said and did hurtful things to each other. But, as most people do, they pretended everything was okay. … sort of.”

They were more at peace with, and accepting of, each other when they began the shared activity of feeding the wolf (”their” wolf). They had a common goal. “Peace returned to Gubbio,” the narrator says. When the wolf died, they lost their common thread of community. “How shall we now feed our wolf?” refers to their loss of that common thread: ”How shall we now find peace among ourselves?”

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Apologia

I made a comic book for my eight-year-old granddaughter. Although I am not a professional cartoonist, and my printing borders on the illegible, I think it tells this St. Francis story clearly and, hopefully, interestingly. I’m publishing it here because so little on this web site is devoted to children, and children are such an important element and asset of a church.

There’s a fish in the story that isn’t in any of the versions of this St. Francis tale. I have taken creative liberty with the story in that respect.

Please, enjoy.

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When I was 57, I asked my doctor to schedule a colonoscopy for me. My first. I’m glad I did. The specialist found three polyps. He clipped two out but couldn’t get the third. “It’s in a fold and kept slipping away,” he said. “But I got a piece of it. We’ll send it to the lab and see what we’ve got.” When I saw him next, he wasn’t so chipper. “It’s pre-cancerous,” he said. “They grow slowly so we’ve got about a year, but the best thing to do is go in now for a procedure, have a portion of your colon removed and we’ll be done with it.”

Yeah, we’ll be done with it.

That scared me. I went back to my doctor. “This is a big deal, right?” I asked him.

“No, it’s not a big deal,” he said. “Open heart surgery, brain surgery, that’s a big deal. This is nothing. If you were my father, I’d recommend you have it done.”

I wasn’t convinced but I went to talk to the surgeon. He was not reassuring. He was cold and business-like.

“The procedure takes about three hours. You’ll be back at work in eight weeks. Oh, you need to know, there’s a slight chance of a heart attack or a stroke on the operating table.”

“Oh,” I thought. “And this is not a big deal?”

“One other thing. Your polyp is in a tricky place. There are a lot of nerves behind that section. So there’s also a small risk of damage to the prostate gland or permanent impotence. . . .  I operate on Fridays. I’ll be gone this Friday but I’m available next week. We can set it up now.”

I said I needed time to think about it. I thought about it all right.

Not a big deal? Not a big deal? THIS WAS A  #@**# BIG DEAL!

Now I was really scared. I did not want to do this.

I sweated for a month. I couldn’t make the decision, I couldn’t sleep, I was a mess.

One day I was whining to a friend who said, “Have you looked into alternative healing?” The light bulb went on. Of course. I had read of people who healed themselves through holistic health practices. And I lived in the San Francisco area, which was a hotbed of alternative . . . everything.

I went back to the specialist and told him I was going to take nine months to try and cure my condition. If it didn’t work, I’d have the surgery.

I could tell he was trying hard not to sneer. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

I didn’t know. “I … I’m going to meditate,” I said.

He couldn’t hold back the sneer. He also rolled his eyes. Again, not reassuring. I didn’t care, now that I had something to do. I dove into a regimen of healing practices that was an amazing journey, a quest to heal myself.

What exactly did I do?

I read a lot of books.

I had colonic cleanses (a lot of them), I worked with hypnosis, visualization and imaging exercises, acupuncture, reflexology, yoga, physical exercise, three or four different kinds of massage, I went on a vegetarian diet, I fasted, I did vitamin and enzyme therapy.

I took workshops on healing, intuition, breath work, self-hypnosis, meditation, even a workshop by Tony Robbins, the self-help guru. Yeah, I walked on fire, though I didn’t know if it helped.

That was the thing I struggled with. I had no evidence that any of this was helping. I couldn’t see the polyp. And the key to using the mind to heal oneself was faith. Unwavering belief and confidence.

Some days I had it. Some days not. Some days I couldn’t even quiet my mind enough to meditate for ten seconds. I was a mess.

My friends accused me of spending a lot of money. They were right. I did. I went into debt. They told me I was self-absorbed. They were right. I was. But they said it like it was a bad thing.

The cornerstone of my practice was two coaches that I had. Two. Not therapists, but sorta like. Not psychologists or psychiatrists, but sorta like. They didn’t have any formal credentials, but it was San Francisco. All I cared about was whether they could get results. They could read me like a book.

One grounded me on the earth, to counter my mind going off in all directions, the other was incredible at dream analysis, among other things. Both helped me break up old patterns in my thinking that were keeping me stuck. I loved these women.

One unexpected thing started showing up. My world started to crack open. I had the realization that this objective five senses, three dimensional reality isn’t all there is. There is a spiritual dimension that is equally, perhaps more important, and I needed to start living from a relationship with it. A deep relationship. I was surprised . . . and I was ready.

Still, late at night, I would lie in bed, terrified. What if I can’t make the polyp go away? What if I have the surgery and something really bad happens? What if I die?

I knew thoughts like this weren’t helping. I needed to be focused and confident. Unwavering faith. Right.

The day came when I went back to the specialist. I elected to stay awake. I wanted to be present for the whole thing. It was the day of the big game and we had front row seats in front of the big screen monitor. He worked the cable in with his little joy stick and we both watched the interior of my colon inching by. Then he said, “There it is. It’s shrunk, it’s only half the size. It doesn’t look an angry as it did before.” I was thrilled that it was smaller and disappointed that it was still there at all.

Then he said, “I think I can get it.” Really. I held my breath. Then, “Yes, I’ve got it. All of it.” He got it.

As he was reeling in the line, he said, “It’s funny, it wasn’t hiding this time. It seemed to present itself to me.” And then he said, “The first two polyps looked like lollipops, little stalks with bulbs on top. This one was shaped like a birthday cake.”

A birthday cake. I didn’t know what to make of that.

Later, I had the thought that the polyp hadn’t come into my life to kill me, but to wake me up. Once I woke up, it had done its job and it could go.

I choose to believe that.

So every year I celebrate the anniversary of the departure of the polyp. I make a birthday cake.