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-Titulo Original : With Head And Heart The Autobiography Of Howard Thurman
-Fabricante :
Mariner Books
-Descripcion Original:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. With Head And HeartBy Howard ThurmanHoughton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing CompanyCopyright © 1979 Howard ThurmanAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-15-697648-0ContentsTitle Page, Table of Contents, Copyright, Dedication, Illustrations, Acknowledgments, I Beginnings, II Years in Training, 1. Morehouse, 2. Rochester, III Launching a Career, 1. Oberlin, 2. Haverford and Morehouse, 3. Howard, IV Crossing the Great Divide-India, V The Bold Adventure-San Francisco, Photos, VI The Weaving of a Single Tapestry, 1. Boston: One, 2. Boston: Two, 3. Africa, VII The Written Word, VIII Mind-Grazing, IX The Binding Commitment, Index, CHAPTER 1BeginningsAt the end of my first year at the Rochester Theological Seminary, I became assistant to the minister of the First Baptist Church of Roanoke, Virginia. I was to assume the duties as pastor during the month that the minister and his family were away on vacation. I would be on my own. On my first night alone in the parsonage, I was awakened by the telephone. The head nurse of the local Negro hospital asked, May I speak with Dr. James? I told her he was away. Dr. James is the hospital chaplain, she explained. There is a patient here who is dying. Hes asking for a minister. Are you a minister?In one kaleidoscopic moment I was back again at an old crossroad. A decision of vocation was to be made here, and I felt again the ambivalence of my life and my calling. Finally, I answered. Yes, I am a minister.Please hurry, she said, or youll be too late.In a few minutes I was on my way, but in my excitement and confusion I forgot to take my Bible. At the hospital, the nurse took me immediately into a large ward. The dread curtain was around the bed. She pulled it aside and directed me to stand opposite her. The sick mans eyes were half closed, his mouth open, his breathing labored. The nurse leaned over and, calling him by name, said, The minister is here.Slowly he sought to focus his eyes first on her, and then on me. In a barely audible voice he said, Do you have something to say to a man who is dying? If you have, please say it, and say it in a hurry.I bowed my head, closed my eyes. There were no words. I poured out the anguish of my desperation in one vast effort. I felt physically I was straining to reach God. At last, I whispered my Amen.We opened our eyes simultaneously as he breathed, Thank you. I understand. He died with his hand in mine.My father had died seventeen years earlier, in 1907. Those moments in the hospital had rekindled the new memory of the hurt and fear of a seven-year-old boy. Death was well known in our community. We did not know the cause or cure of typhoid fever. All we knew was that every summer there would be a regular death toll of typhoid victims. The course of the disease was as familiar as the distant but steady roar of the Atlantic Ocean, sounding across the Halifax River: first, the sick feeling and the depression; then, mounting fever; finally, the smell of the sickroom. Doctors could do little, but we used many techniques to break the fever. Sometimes we bathed the body with cold wet cloths, or wrapped it in large leaves stripped from the Pomerchristian plant. When all of these ministrations failed - as almost always they did - the word was whispered that we will soon know one way or the other. A stillness pervaded the sickroom and settled round the entire house like a fog. Children were no longer permitted to play in the yard or in front on the street. Waiting. Waiting. Life came to a long moment of pause, for hours, sometimes days. Waiting. Waiting. Each was wondering, How long? How long?At last, suddenly, the children would start to play again, communicating the joy of recovery, or one heard the crying and wailing of the women as their men stood mute. Either way, the crisis had passed. But parents had still other dangers to worry them. Which of us would drown in the quarry, where we we
-Fabricante :
Mariner Books
-Descripcion Original:
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. With Head And HeartBy Howard ThurmanHoughton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing CompanyCopyright © 1979 Howard ThurmanAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-15-697648-0ContentsTitle Page, Table of Contents, Copyright, Dedication, Illustrations, Acknowledgments, I Beginnings, II Years in Training, 1. Morehouse, 2. Rochester, III Launching a Career, 1. Oberlin, 2. Haverford and Morehouse, 3. Howard, IV Crossing the Great Divide-India, V The Bold Adventure-San Francisco, Photos, VI The Weaving of a Single Tapestry, 1. Boston: One, 2. Boston: Two, 3. Africa, VII The Written Word, VIII Mind-Grazing, IX The Binding Commitment, Index, CHAPTER 1BeginningsAt the end of my first year at the Rochester Theological Seminary, I became assistant to the minister of the First Baptist Church of Roanoke, Virginia. I was to assume the duties as pastor during the month that the minister and his family were away on vacation. I would be on my own. On my first night alone in the parsonage, I was awakened by the telephone. The head nurse of the local Negro hospital asked, May I speak with Dr. James? I told her he was away. Dr. James is the hospital chaplain, she explained. There is a patient here who is dying. Hes asking for a minister. Are you a minister?In one kaleidoscopic moment I was back again at an old crossroad. A decision of vocation was to be made here, and I felt again the ambivalence of my life and my calling. Finally, I answered. Yes, I am a minister.Please hurry, she said, or youll be too late.In a few minutes I was on my way, but in my excitement and confusion I forgot to take my Bible. At the hospital, the nurse took me immediately into a large ward. The dread curtain was around the bed. She pulled it aside and directed me to stand opposite her. The sick mans eyes were half closed, his mouth open, his breathing labored. The nurse leaned over and, calling him by name, said, The minister is here.Slowly he sought to focus his eyes first on her, and then on me. In a barely audible voice he said, Do you have something to say to a man who is dying? If you have, please say it, and say it in a hurry.I bowed my head, closed my eyes. There were no words. I poured out the anguish of my desperation in one vast effort. I felt physically I was straining to reach God. At last, I whispered my Amen.We opened our eyes simultaneously as he breathed, Thank you. I understand. He died with his hand in mine.My father had died seventeen years earlier, in 1907. Those moments in the hospital had rekindled the new memory of the hurt and fear of a seven-year-old boy. Death was well known in our community. We did not know the cause or cure of typhoid fever. All we knew was that every summer there would be a regular death toll of typhoid victims. The course of the disease was as familiar as the distant but steady roar of the Atlantic Ocean, sounding across the Halifax River: first, the sick feeling and the depression; then, mounting fever; finally, the smell of the sickroom. Doctors could do little, but we used many techniques to break the fever. Sometimes we bathed the body with cold wet cloths, or wrapped it in large leaves stripped from the Pomerchristian plant. When all of these ministrations failed - as almost always they did - the word was whispered that we will soon know one way or the other. A stillness pervaded the sickroom and settled round the entire house like a fog. Children were no longer permitted to play in the yard or in front on the street. Waiting. Waiting. Life came to a long moment of pause, for hours, sometimes days. Waiting. Waiting. Each was wondering, How long? How long?At last, suddenly, the children would start to play again, communicating the joy of recovery, or one heard the crying and wailing of the women as their men stood mute. Either way, the crisis had passed. But parents had still other dangers to worry them. Which of us would drown in the quarry, where we we
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