Charlie

It’s interesting how certain things hit you certain ways. 

I deal with death almost every day.  Terrible, violent, and sudden death that rips families apart.  Sometimes it is really gruesome, and sometimes it is subtle and underwhelming – and in the world of trauma, it is always unexpected. 

I like to think that I handle these situations pretty well.  While I can plainly (even robotically?) explain the situation to families, I also have enough emotion in me to show genuine empathy.  In fact, I think I have much more emotion than the average trauma surgeon – I’m just good at hiding it when I need to. 

The other day I got word that an old friend of mine had died.  I hadn’t spoken to Charlie in a number of years, honestly.  We had one of those friendships that was on hold – we grew up together, but after going our separate ways to college and adulthood, we just drifted apart.  We’d see each other on occasion, and when we did it was as if we had never left – we just picked up right where we left off.  And so to hear of his passing thrust me back to my boyhood. 

Charlie was a gifted musician.  We met in the magnificent Washington National Cathedral, where we sang as boys in the cathedral choir.  We spent A LOT of time singing together…we had multiple rehearsals a day, sang five services a week, and performed on countless other special occasions.  I could only keep up that pace for three years.  Charlie did it for four, and then sang an additional two years in the men’s choir.  Every time there was a big solo it was his – he had the best voice, by far, and we were all very glad to give him the spotlight.  And even after our Cathedral singing days were over, we sang together in the high school chorale – we just couldn’t let go. 

The best singing we ever did, though, by far, was at Christmastime.  Christmas is a very busy time at the Cathedral.  In addition to the regular services, there are numerous other services, and all of them filled with music.  We had very little free time, but starting in the 6^th grade (so…1991!) we joined in a tradition of caroling at local hospitals.  (And the two of us – and others – would continue that well into our 20s.)  So on Christmas Eve, before the big midnight mass, we’d grab our hymnals and make our way to the hospitals.  It was just a small group of us – 7 or 8 or so – and we just sang.  We sang hymns, and anthems.  We sang in harmony, and took turns doing solos.  I guess we were better than most of the carolers that come to hospitals at Christmas, because doctors and nurses and patients alike would stop what they were doing and just listen.  Of all my years singing, it was on these occasions when we could so clearly see the joy and peace that our music brought to those in need. 

Charlie’s parents often invited us all to their house before and after caroling.  One year – we were in college, I think – they had us over the week before Christmas for a little celebration.  We ate some cookies and then made our way to a local inpatient hospice center.  Here, it was clear, we would be singing for patients’ final Christmas.  We tried to be upbeat, but found ourselves singing Silent Night over and over again.  From there we drove to a local hospital.  We sang our usual pieces, and at the end of the night ended up singing in the nursery.  A local couple had just delivered – we gathered around the babe and sang Silent Night once more.  On the same evening, we sang for someone’s first and last Christmas. 

Charlie’s favorite Christmas hymn was “Lo, How a Rose E’rr Blooming.”  We would sing it over and over and over again…he loved it.  The hymn speaks of the promise of Christmas, and the joy of heaven on earth.  It ends “Bring us at length we pray, to the bright courts of heaven,/ and to the endless day!”  I pray that Charlie is now in those bright courts, singing his heart out, and bringing joy and peace to all who hear. 

And I am lucky to have heard.