| "Let
The Children Come To Me" a poem written and read by Steve Nolan (accompanying music by Dennis Parrish) click on the title to play, or to download, right-click the title and select "save target as..." Let The Children Come To Me 
Maj. Steve Nolan, 55,
is the youngest son of World
War II Army field hospital nurse Katherine Nolan. (from Mark 10:14) All week there'd been commotion at the clinic, an unexpected appendectomy, a one-year-old burned by an exploding kitchen stove, the Afghan soldier who discharged his weapon accidentally shooting himself through the shoulder, the little boy with the spiral-fractured femur, and the old man's severely lacerated leg — an old nasty-looking wound, now infected. It was early morning and I was sleepy, needing a cup of coffee, as I stomped the snow from my boots and stepped through the entryway to the Medical Aid Station. Sitting on one end of a raised litter was a middle-aged man with rust-colored skin and loosely fitting Afghan attire. Beside him sat a little girl, his daughter? Rarely did parents bring their own children to the clinic, a mystery we were trying to solve. Was this her uncle, grandfather, or just a neighbor? On a nearby table, the girl's older brother was treated for a separated shoulder. She turned her head toward me, her eyes brightened, and the broadest smile of joy spread across her face. I was surprised, but flattered — surprised because so few Afghan people smiled at me in greeting (and never had it happened in the clinic), flattered that she chose to smile at "me." I almost turned around to see if there was someone at my stern, but the door had closed behind and I could feel it pressing on my rucksack. Her smile was like a smile of recognition that one reserves for close relatives or special friends. I smiled back and she seemed to take delight in this — smiling even wider and more radiantly than before, which I would not have thought possible. I was instantly affected and felt connected to this child in some strange way. My own smile grew and no doubt showed my gratitude, basking in the light projected from those brown, innocent, dancing eyes. I looked at the man next to her, he was perhaps my own age — fifty-something. He was weather-beaten and his eyes were dull. He looked at me with neither anger nor disgust, neither joy nor sorrow, but with complete indifference, a detachment that one only feels when cultures clash so plainly, language can't be bridged, and their is no incentive to break down those chasms. Finding no warmth there, I looked again at the little girl and saw nothing but interest — no, on second thought, interest would be the wrong word, because there was no gulf between us in which to cast the hook of interest. There was communion in the most delightful, simple joy of two souls meeting with a smile, a mimicked nod, a playful glance. Why this child was capable of transcending age and gender, I know not. How she saw past nationality, ethnic features, or religious creed, I cannot say. But, of this, I'm certain: if man could plumb the reaches of the thoughts which sparked that smile, there would never be a need for war.  |