A Remembrance by Dr. Judith Coats:
Can I answer the question, “Why did this particular place draw me when I was seventeen?” It just did–that’s all. Alone with my own thoughts—walking back to my favorite rooms—my favorite paintings—my favorite displays. It was a normal, weekly routine for me to finish volunteering at Hartford Hospital during my senior year of high school, travel by bus over to the city museum, and pass time until my dad could pick me up after he made his way from Vulcan Radiator Company through rush hour. My hospital experience was organized by my school to prepare me for a future career. My greatest interest was to be a surgical technician. I wanted to complete that degree and then head off to Bangladesh in medical missions. If you know me now, you definitely know that is not the road that God had for me. In fact, fast forward a few years, and I tried to go to Bangladesh on a missions trip during college, but God closed that door due to political unrest in that country. It is so true that we devise our way, but God directs our steps.
Back at the museum, the polished, marble, tile floors looked cold even though my bare feet never actually touched them. I could see my reflection in each of the shiny squares. My soft-soled hospital shoes washed over them in silence as I scanned each room as if I had never seen its displays before. Not many people vied for the chance to be there with me. The quiet afforded clear and flowing thoughts to run through my head. The Hartford museum was an oasis. An ever-present suit of armor at the end of a grand hall guarded the entrance of the museum. You knew when you saw him that you had passed through a time warp into a maze of various art forms–sculptures, modern pieces, religious paintings, quilts.
Just at the foot of a set of bulky, white, curving stairs hung a huge painting of two figures. I still see the frightened eyes of a boy looking up at the lamenting eyes of an elderly, bearded man. The title of the painting was simply this: Eli and Samuel. I was stunned by their faces. Apparently, Eli was a priest in the Bible; he had taken Samuel (the boy) into his home to train him in the “ways of God.” Eli’s sons were supposed to follow Eli in his priestly service, but they had been extremely rebellious. God had determined that they were unsuitable for the holy calling.
Subsequently, one night as Samuel lay on his bed, he heard a voice saying, “Samuel, Samuel!” The Bible tells us that Samuel jumped up and ran to see why Eli was calling in the night. Eli was surprised and assumed Samuel had been hearing things. Samuel climbed back into bed and fell fast asleep. Once again the voice came in the night. I can only assume that it was a deep, clear voice in the darkness. Samuel ran to Eli again. Suspecting that God was calling, Eli told Samuel to go back and respond, “Speak Lord, for your servant hears.” God told Samuel to go back to Eli to tell him that since Eli’s sons had sinned, that God was removing his blessing from Eli’s house and ministry. What a terrifying truth to relate for such a young boy! This moment was the essence of the painting: Eli’s receiving of this bad news.
Captured in the painting, Eli’s eyes spoke profound sadness upon learning that God no longer looked on his family with favor. Eli understood that Samuel was to step in and become a great prophet of God. I Samuel 3:19 says, “And Samuel grew, and the LORD was with him, and did let none of his words fall to the ground.” I stared into Eli’s mournful eyes, and I remained a statue on the marble tiles of the museum. Honestly, I never wanted to see that kind of sadness in my dad’s eyes because of something I had done. I was definitely not a saint, but I did want to please my dad.
In reflection, as I remember my dad on what would have been his 90th birthday, I return to 1991 when my dad passed away very suddenly. After a telephone call with the news, when I arrived at my parents’ home, without prompting or thought, I ran to his closet, grabbed a bundle of my dad’s shirts in my hands, buried my face, and smelled his clothing to be close to him once again–I wanted to sit just one more time in the car on the way home from Hartford to have one of those regular days and simple chats with him—those simple times of visiting a museum and then traveling home having mundane conversation. From forty-two years ago, as a seventeen-year-old, a simple pleasure has resurfaced for me presently as a frozen moment from my past, reminding me of a father in a painting and the father in my life.
So touching … thanks for sharing Judi …. 💕