The Day Christ Came With A Smile

New York City

1977-1978

Marcus was seven-and-a-half years-old. He loved Tonka trucks, cartoons, teddy bears, ducks and puppies. He had a soft spot for Clifford, The Big Red Dog.

For one so young, he left all who knew, who were with him in those days, with the unforgettable memory of every minute spent with him.

Every minute.

All children were always special. Always have been, always will be.

They’re known, especially, for handling serious illness with great courage and an amazing compassion toward those charged with their care.

And so it was with Marcus. He had a condition known as aplastic anemia. This, back then, was a dire condition. And now you can see where this is going, except, no. You really don’t.

For Marcus was, you see, very abused. So the condition inflicted on him was twice the tragedy. Twice the pain and suffering.

It, the disease that is, can be treated with stem cells and things I can’t remember now, but back in 1978, the doctors fought an inevitable conclusion. One that often leaves both doctors and nurses with emotional pain they also cannot cure.

Many times I’ve been told that a detachment must exist between medical professionals and their patients, and it is the truth. If it didn’t work, men and women would be so filled with grief that they would never stop crying. It would come from every pore. So much suffering and death does one see that there are, however, exceptions to the self-discipline rule of distance.

For the treatment team of Marcus, he was an exception.

Doctors visited him just to make visits. Nurses played with Tonka trucks with him. They sat and watched cartoons with him. And he loved to draw. Ducks and puppies, of course.

While he was in the hospital, Marcus grew on everyone. And yes, children do that to professionals more than you think. They were always amazed at the courage children have when sick. Often, the sicker, the more courageous.

One nurse bonded with him, a special bond. She promised to be present when he was scheduled for a spinal tap. For anyone who doesn’t know, that’s the extraction of spinal fluid straight from the space around the spinal column, and it bloody hurts. I knew a guy who had spinal meningitis and even coughing made him “see stars”. But nothing he was going through, nothing in his entire life had hurt like the spinal tap. It’s also called a “Lumbar Puncture” which even sounds painful.

The nurse kept her promise and talked him through it. He said, “It hurts, it hurts, it HURTS!”

But he did not cry.

He did not scream. My friend, a grown man, screamed. Marcus told the nurse, “I can’t scream. I’m not a girl.” No doubt a speech his abuser had imprinted and imposed on him. Predators don’t often like screaming.

But courage of that type has its rewards. One day, Marcus said, “I see them. They’re real.”

“What’s real,” someone asked.

“Angels. They’re talking to me.” He was smiling.

And with a child’s faith, as his organs were failing, the day came when he told the nurses, “Jesus is here.”

He told them, “Don’t cry,” and looked at the nurse who had bonded so much with him. She knew it was happening. Perhaps she didn’t want to let go. Surely she didn’t want to see him die.

She may just have wanted to know: “What’s he look like?”

“He looks very nice. He’s smiling at me.”

Marcus lost consciousness. Five minutes later, he died.

He had a smile on his face.

Two of the nurses present saw what happened next. Something very bright, mist-like, arose from his body. Then, the room became very bright.

Yeshua, Jesus Christ, had come for brave Marcus, who had suffered a life of pain yet believed with a child’s faith. Had come for him with a smile, and Marcus had met him with a smile.

Faith is not the same for everyone. It is debated whether faith alone, or baptism, or repentance is also necessary for true salvation. And I cannot answer questions like those. I am not qualified; I don’t know.

I cannot judge someone, however, whom I believe in my heart to have had the simplest faith of all, who must have been innocent, without mortal sin. To have been overjoyed at being the center of attention despite his pain, because he had never known any attention so caring before in his short life.

A child, with a child’s faith.

People can debate salvation all they want. But I never cared for those who used rules and the threat of eternal damnation to keep people in line and keep them coming to church, and keep them tithing their income. Hypocrites! Religion, the belief in a higher being, is supposed to comfort people, not frighten them into unloading their purses while the preacher speaks words he’s forgotten the meaning of. You won’t find penance by giving ten percent of your annual income to a building run by men who exclude women, who molest children, spend church money on themselves. No debauched man can give you salvation.

Only the Father, through his Son, can do that.

Perhaps it is best, then, to tell the story of a boy with faith and courage, who never went to confession but was happy and pure and who told everyone he knew he was going to Heaven.

A boy who, despite his own pain, told others he loved, “Don’t cry.”

Because he reminds us, even now, the way to Heaven is best seen through the eyes–and faith–of a child.