I was like a blind man. Still am at times - - like Bartemeus. The blind beggar who sat beside the road day after day.  The road that leads from Jerusalem to the Jordan and Jericho. It’s downhill all the way.  Pebbles and sand.  Hot and dirty. He wore a long dirty band wrapped around his head covering his eyes. There he sat, a knotted staff in one hand, a little cup in the other.  Hoping for a coin or two from some kind pilgrim passing by.

One day, it must have been about noon, he felt the heavy sun above his head. He heard something. He was so attuned to many sounds that surrounded him he could tell what it was and where it came from. It was a muted kind of rumble. It grew louder. It was the sound of people mumbling, praying, shouting.

Bartemeus stood up. Dropped his staff and lunged toward the noise. He reached out and grabbed someone, anyone. 

"What’s going on? What is it? What’s happening?"

The man he grabbed shook himself free. "It’s Jesus of Nazareth. He’s going to the Jordan."

"Jesus, Jesus," Bartemeus shouted. 

"Shut up! He can’t hear you with all this crowd." But Bartemeus yelled louder. As loud as he could, "Jesus! Jesus! Son of Man.  Have mercy!"

Despite the tumult, Jesus did hear him - - heard his plea for help. He said to his disciples, "Bring him to me." And they did.  Bartemeus tore off the band that covered his eyes.

"What is it you want?"

Bartemeus knelt in the dust feeling for Christ’s robe.

"Lord, that I might see!"

And Jesus had mercy on him; he extended his hand and helped him to his feet.  And Bartemeus saw.

That I might see too, Lord. That we, all of us might see - - behind and beneath the surface exterior. See the pain and loneliness, the hidden anguish.

And Lord that we might hear. We are like the deaf man the Lord healed. Lord let us hear, not just the surface words but the soundless cry for help, for compassion, for understanding; the unspoken cry for mercy.

Then if we see and listen and act - - do the best we can to give our most precious gift - - two precious gifts: our presence and our time.

I remember the story of a little girl; it was just before Christmas and her mother took her to see Santa. He asked, "What would you like for  Christmas?" She thought for a moment and then said: "I don’t want anything for myself. But I’d like you to bring my daddy some "time."

"Time," said Santa. "Why do you want me to give your daddy some time?" She hesitated and then whispered: "Because whenever I ask him to play with me or read me a story, he always says, "I haven’t got time."

We pray to Jesus that we might see. And that we might hear. To see and hear the ones who need our gifts of mercy - - the gifts of our presence and our gift of our time.

What if sometime next week we go to a nearby rest home and ask the person at the desk if we can visit for awhile. Go into the common room and sit next to someone - - anyone.

There will be no need for us to make conversation. To entertain, to read stories. We will just give him or her the gift of our "presence" and the gift of our "time." After we’ve been there for a while, we might be brave enough to take the person’s hand.  And when he or she turns to look at us, we’ll know - - just for a moment - - that we are looking once again into the tired, the lonely, the bewildered eyes of Christ.

God love you!   Fr. Bob

Fr. Robert McQueeney, 1919 - 2002
Spiritual Director
The Padre Pio Foundation of America, 1982-2002