Just three days after our retreat in Chicago with Thich Nhat Hanh, I received a late-night phone call from my mother. My dad had been rushed to the hospital, his skin sickly pale for lack of oxygen. Mom sounded convinced that Father was going to die. His 35 years as a Chicago fireman, plus his nicotine habit, had given rise to a lung disease that was rapidly reducing his ability to breathe, and a vinyl tube down his throat was his lifeline. I did my best to reassure Mother, and I packed a change of clothes for what I guessed might be a long evening or series of evenings. There was nothing to do but breathe, smile, and be patient.

A rank novice at hospitals, I didn't understand anything that was going on, but I did manage to calm myself by breathing with the rhythm of my father's ventilator, using the sound of its humming and clicking as my anchor. There was no alternative but to look deeply. Inspired by Shariputra at the bedside of the ailing Anathapindika, I spent many hours just listening, observing, and empathizing with Dad. It was hard to discern his facial expressions because there was a piece of tape over his mouth where the tube entered, but his eyes smiled when I talked about his grandchildren, especially when I offered tales of my ten-year-old son's little league baseball team. After just six days, he was once released, and he remains at home in good spirits.

Life continually offers to teach us, to open us up. We can help others with our presence, and what better place to experience this than in our families? Although success is never guaranteed and we may not have the opportunity to use Shariputra's exact script, appropriate skillful means do seem to present themselves when we look at suffering deeply as suggested by the Fourth Precept of the Order of Interbeing.

Jack Lawlor
Evanston, Illinois