Those social media stories seemed to drip with the sweat of loneliness and emotional pain. They grabbed my attention and reminded me of an experience of loneliness I had several years ago. My story was, by no means, comparable to the pain these two young people felt but it reminds me that the journey of loneliness and social isolation can lead to real pain.

It was late autumn, 1960. My 26-year-old wife, Norma, passed away less than two months earlier. I had no immediate family left in Jamaica. They had all emigrated to the US and lived in New York. They all returned home after the funeral. I was alone.

Although friends said I was coping well with my loss, I knew otherwise. Deep down, I was grieving the loss of Norma and felt trapped and empty. It was and emptiness that only the bereaved can fully understand. In a moment of desperation, I booked a flight from Kingston, Jamaica, to Miami, Florida, without much thought or any plan. Totally crazy, but that’s what I did. Emotional pain can prompt unpredictable behavior.

I arrived in Miami, with no plans and no reservations for a place to stay. I thought I’d find a hotel and a beach where I could unwind for a few days so, I took a taxi from the airport and asked the driver to take me to a reasonably priced hotel by the beach.

As we traveled, I shared with the driver my reason for being in Miami. “Even more crazy” you are probably thinking. I agree! Everything I had done to that point, was reckless and crazy. It must have been that the hinges of my mind needed lubricating.

I had not told anyone in Jamaica of my plans. No one really knew my whereabouts. My family in New York City had no idea that I had left Jamaica. I just knew I needed to get away and unwind. Taking a trip overseas seemed like the perfect thing to do.

The cab driver took me to a hotel in what appeared to have been a reasonably average neighborhood, and the building appeared to have been more than acceptable. I checked in and began looking forward to an evening with dinner, my bible, the radio and the evening’s newspaper. Those were the days when the newspaper was still the primary source of the day’s news.

I had hardly settled in when there was a knock on my door. There, standing outside my door, was a woman I did not know. It did not take long for me to figure out what was happening. I was furious as I asked her to leave. Clearly, the cab driver had misread my interest. I called the front desk and reported my disappointment and disgust. They apologized profusely and swore they were unaware of who the stranger might be. I turned my evening over to the Lord and did not even bother to go for dinner.

Early the next morning, I checked out, called a taxicab and headed to the Greyhound Bus station. I bought a ticket to New York City where my family lived. I did not call to say I was planning to visit, so they had no idea I was headed that way.

The overnight, 18-hour trip brought me into New York’s Grand Central Station well past midnight. I was in the Big Apple. Although it was after midnight, New York was still ablaze with lights, awake with people rushing, vehicles dashing. My head buzzed with Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.”

“I want to be a part of it
New York, New York. ….

I want to wake up
In a city that doesn’t sleep
And find I’m king of the hill,
Top of the heap....”

But for me, that morning, I thought: “I don’t want to be part of it.” There were people everywhere, but I was alone in the busiest city in the USA. Scared best defines how I felt.

After a few minutes in that state of mind, I thought: “Audley, it’s time to cash in on the treasury you possess. The Holy Spirit and all of God’s inestimable resources are yours.” Jesus said, “...And I will pray the Father and He will give you another comforter that He might abide with you forever; even the Spirit of truth whom the world cannot receive....” (John 14: 16-17.) That brought relative calm but the reality of no human connection among all those people registered in my mind.

Light rain started as I got on the #2 Subway to Brooklyn, a forty-minute trip to Kingston Avenue & Eastern Parkway, where I got off. After the ten-minute walk in the rain at 2:00 am, I arrived at 2 Virginia Place, home of my mother, father and siblings. I rang the doorbell, but no one responded. Anxiety began to set in. By now, you’re asking, “was he out of his mind? These things only happen in comic books and mystery novels.”

After about six minutes of doorbell ringing and door knocking, desperation began to breed panic, but I kept my cool. Cell phones were not part of the solution in 1960. They had not been invented yet. So, with suitcase in hand, I headed out into the chilly morning toward the nearest pay phone at the corner of Kingston and St. John’s Avenues, about three blocks away.

I called home, and for five torturous minutes I tried to convince my mother that I really was in Brooklyn and had been at her door just a few minutes earlier. Finally, she was convinced that it was not just another of my crazy pranks. I made my trek back to 2 Virginia Place. Finally, I was not alone. Although I lived in Jamaica, this was my home away from home. No longer alone; safe at last!

When I think of my experience of loneliness on that morning, I’m reminded of what the Gospel of Mark records of Jesus’s feeling. He wrote these words concerning Jesus: “He was moved with compassion, because they were as sheep not having a shepherd.” (Mark 14:14)

The compassion that Jesus had was translated into care that works. He carried that caring love all the way to a criminal’s cross at Calvary. There He laid down his life for lonely, broken people. He rose from the dead to assure believing hearts that He is available for their healing and eternal life. He left behind a lengthy record of broken hearts He had mended. He has not abandoned that role, and I am one expression of a lonely, broken heart he mended.

Jesus invites lonely, hurting and broken people to come to Him and He promises friendship, fellowship and everlasting life. He said He came, not to call the righteous but sinners to repentance. Repentance and faith in Him are the only qualifications anyone needs. He invites sinners to repent, trust Him, and by faith, claim the everlasting life He offers. There are millions of lonely people in all the crowded cities of the world as well as lonely people in remote and rural areas of every country. It was for people like these, and people like you, and people like me, that Jesus came. He gave His life, was buried and rose from the dead for lonely people whose lonely voices cry out for help.

There are lonely voices crying in busy cities, in crowded classrooms, and yes, in homes where everyone is just too busy to listen, too self-centered to care.

My experience during that long ago morning in New York brought sharpened insight into the challenges faced by individuals experiencing pain and isolation. These lonely people are everywhere. Are you alone in a crowded city or even in a well-manicured suburb or sitting at your mahogany desk in your well-appointed office? It does not matter where you are in life, on “skid row” or in the corporate boardroom, Jesus sees your hurting heart. He wants to comfort you, forgive you and accompany you through life.

Jesus invites you to come to Him by repenting of your sin and asking Him into your life as Savior and Lord.

“For God sent His Son into the world, not to judge the world, but to save the world through Him. “(John 3:17) You can receive God’s great gift of love and forgiveness right now.

ADDEDED FOR PERSONAL USE. DO NOT INCLUDE IN SUBMISIONS TO PUBLISHERS:

If you have questions or would like help in making your decision to follow Christ, I will be happy to help. I can be reached at: audleymclean@aol.com or phone: 352-216-5899

Audley F. Mclean

I sat on the long, narrow verandah of the maternity ward of the natal hospital in Cross Roads, St. Andrew, just north of Kingston, Jamaica. In front of me were the hospital gardens. The June rosebushes (crepe myrtles) stood high and flowerless, as though remembering the better days of spring and summer. A sprawling Poinciana tree kept vigil over the overgrown lawn, along with various weeds that seemed to have taken over.

As I gazed skyward, I could see the clear blue sky dotted with soft, floating clouds.

All seemed so serene and peaceful, so full of innocent anticipation. Behind me was the open door to room number five. I looked in and saw all of Norma’s belongings, just as they were the night before. Just as when I left her twelve hours earlier. There was her Bible and the ever-present Scrabble set on which we played before I left for that long, lonely night at home.

By that time, it was just a few minutes past 9:00 AM., and Norma had been gone for about one hour. For a few brief moments, I reflected on the events of the night before. I remembered how, as I was leaving to go home, she beckoned for me to come back and kiss her one more time. She reminded me that she had thoroughly beaten me in the Scrabble game we played that night. Then, with tears in my eyes and hers, I said good night and promised to be there bright and early next morning to see our newborn baby. In those days, there were no Sonar 2 pictures to tell the gender of the baby, so we would wait for our surprise.

The time had come. I was there, awaiting the good news, but Norma had still not returned to room number five. Suddenly, a sullen, anxious feeling swept over me. A frightening thought came into my mind. What if Norma never comes back to room number five?

Quickly, I dismissed the frightening thought. Everything is all right, I tried to tell myself. Norma will soon be back with our little bundle of life.

I began thinking of Norma’s reassuring words to me that it would take about twenty minutes plus prep and post-op. And she should know, I thought. She was an operating room nurse and had taken part in this kind of operation. The frightening thought of her not coming back to room number five began to haunt me. I just could not shake it.

I sprang to my feet and walked nervously to the office of the hospital’s head nurse, Sister Sarah. I did my best to appear calm and controlled, but I was rattling on the inside as I approached her. “Aren’t things taking a rather long time, Sister?” I asked. “Well,” she responded, “news has come that the baby has been born, Mr. McLean, but sometimes it does take a little while to complete the suturing. I’ll go see how things are coming. You just wait here.” I waited. It seemed like hours had passed, although I knew it could have been only several minutes. Then Sister Sarah returned. “I think things aren’t going too well, Mr. McLean, and Dr. Parbosingh wants to talk with you.”

I immediately felt like I had been plunged into death and darkness and quickly shocked back into reality before I began to walk across the lawn towards the operating room. My steps were swift and my heart pounding with fear and great anxiety. I tried to reach for hope but the shelf seemed empty.

Then came a scene which is still etched in my memory. To say I was frightened, shocked, is putting it lightly. Before I had reached very far into my walk toward the building that housed the operating room, I saw Dr. Parboosingh emerging from the building and walking toward me. He was dressed in full surgical garb, with blood splattered apron. My heart sank even more deeply. Instinctively, I knew whose blood it was.

As we approached each other and stopped outside the building, my eyes read the countenance of Dr. Parboosingh, a frightened, terrified man. He began to speak: “Mr. McLean, the operation was successful, then when we were sewing her up, your wife stopped breathing, but we are still trying.” Somehow, by the grace of God, I managed to remain on my feet and I asked him, “How long has it been since she stopped breathing?” He replied, “About a half an hour.”

“Then you mean she is dead, don’t you?” “Well, we are still trying,” he replied.

It was hopeless now. He knew that. I knew that. Norma would never return to room number five.

I tried to be brave. I asked if I might see her body, my chest pounding, my heart about to burst. The nurses tried to restrain me from entering the operating room, but there was no earthly force strong enough to hinder me. I walked into the operating room and gazed at the still frame of the great and beautiful woman I loved. But before I could reach close enough to kiss those lovely lips I had kissed 3

the night before, those lips which just over twelve hours earlier had formed the words, “Remember, Audley, whatever happens, I love you,” something within me gave out, and my pent-up emotions exploded into a Niagara of tears and uncontrolled sobs.

I did not make it over to the operating table where the lifeless body of my darling Norma lay. The nurses led me back outside the room where, for several minutes, I just sat there and wept. Thoughts rushed through my mind like a freight train racing through. Reality was sinking in. She was really gone.

I must be honest. My first thoughts were not that Norma was now with her Lord, whom she loved and faithfully served. I only knew my Norma was not here. She would not be going home with me. She would not be bringing home our baby. The bedroom suite we had designed and crafted by the best custom furniture maker we could find would not be home to Norma and our baby.

At those moments, all I knew was that the baby was alive. I had not heard whether I had a girl or a boy. I learned later it was a darling girl. Norma and I had decided that if we had a girl, she would be Ruth and would have Norma’s middle name, Constance. If we had a boy, he would be named Timothy Audley. But still, I had not been able to see baby Ruth, who was placed in an incubator. It was hours before I was able to see her tiny frame. I could not hold her. With the congenital condition called an omphalocele, her abdominal wall was wide open and her intestines and other organs were hanging out I was told. That just magnified my trauma.

Before I had time to focus on my loss, I was introduced to Dr. Henry Shaw, a noted Surgeon and asked to sign permission documents, for him to perform life saving surgery on my four-hour-old baby. Although Ruth was over full term, my newborn daughter weighed only just over four pounds. That was the first of what

turned out to be several surgical procedures over the next several years, the final one being when she was eight years old.

Ruth not only survived but is now a healthy adult with a grown daughter of her own. Thanks be to God.

As I reflect upon the very first set of feelings I had, I admit that in addition to grief, there was a sense of anger. Over sixty years later, I’m still not able to tell you exactly what it felt like. All I can tell you is that I had a deep, hollow, hurting feeling. I felt I had been robbed. But that was not the whole story, nor was it the true picture. The real story was that the Lord of heaven and earth had seen fit to take His Norma home to be with Him. That notwithstanding, I still asked the unanswerable question. ‘Why me, Lord?”

Norma Constance Wilmot was born on March 5, 1933. At the age of thirteen, she trusted God for salvation and became a true disciple of Christ. She followed Him forever after.

My relationship with Norma began in the late nineteen-forties, while we were both teenagers and pupils in Sunday School at Galilee Gospel Hall in Kingston Jamaica. Norma caught my attention during her senior year at Merle Grove High School. I was one of a group of teenage boys who were seriously committed to Christian discipleship but not so committed that we did not have our eyes and ears open to the most attractive girls in our lane. Norma fitted that qualification. She was however, not just attractive. She was intriguing, quietly brilliant.

In those days, none of us owned an automobile. That meant we rode our bicycles, took the bus or walked everywhere. Her love for poetry and elocution made her increasingly attractive to me. But I was not sure the attraction was mutual.

Even so, I began by offering to walk her home from church. Eventually, I made it that far. Nothing concrete developed but I began to feel there was a chance for me.

Soon after Norma soon graduated from High School and started her first job as a government clerk, I left Jamaica for Bible College in Canada. She soon after that entered Nursing School at the University of the West Indies. We exchanged letters during my almost four years abroad but it took several months after my return to Jamaica for me to feel I had made significant progress in pursuit of Norma’s

attention. It began to become clear in our little circle that this relationship was developing and beginning to blossom. In late 1956 I proposed and she accepted. On July 6, 1957, a year after she graduated from The School of Nursing at the University of the West Indies, we were married..

We wanted a baby but Norma miscarried three times in the first two years. Only during the cesarean operation did the Doctor realize that her uterus was malformed and would never be able to deliver a baby. Norma suffered from a congenital malformation that restricted the space in which the baby should have developed.

Eventually, she did not miscarry but suffered severe pain during her pregnancy.

On October 4, 1960, she brought our darling daughter, Ruth Constance, into the world, and she moved on up to the home she frequently spoke about, sang about, and wrote about. For thirty-nine wonderful months, I lived and loved with this extraordinary human being. [Margarita1.1]She had learned to live with eternity’s values in view. Norma taught me how to sense the reality of heaven. She had often expressed her feeling that she would make the journey before I would. She did.

As I reflect upon my time with Norma, I think of the multi-faceted person she was. Lover, poet, passionate Christian witness, skilled nurse and then this next activity will address the breadth of her imagination and the reach of her aspirations.

After we had been married for a couple of years, I as an insurance salesman, would often travel to find clients out in distant parishes and often return late at night or be gone for long hours and she, with her shifting hours of duty, would make us almost miss each other for whole days. One day, as we sat at breakfast, Norma said to me: Darling, our different careers is almost keeping us apart too much. Norma proposed we turn our big backyard into a vegetable garden and chicken raising area. Before long, we started a large garden and she contacted the

small farmer’s department at the department of agriculture at Hope Gardens and had them visit out place, test the soil, etc. And off we went into small farming and selling our produce to local stores and to individuals who came by to purchase eggs and vegetables.

We had a large backyard and our neighbor’s backyard was similarly large. One evening when I came home from work, Norma invited me to go to the backyard. To my surprise and amazement, I saw that the mesh wire fence that separated our property from the neighbor’s was not there. Norma had negotiated with our neighbors to allow us to cultivate their backyard as our own. In exchange, they could help themselves to as much produce as their family needed. (Sharecropping, I guess).

Here’s a bird’s eye view of the multi-faceted person Norma was: In addition to wanting to be a mother, for which role she was so thoroughly suited, she was a nurse and entrepreneurial farmer and the other thing about which she was truly passionate was that she wanted to write, and she did. But Norma didn’t want to write just anything. She wrote about something that would touch the lives of young people for Christ. Norma’s writing days are over, but in a very real sense, her life was a book that remains written in the hearts and minds of those with whom she interacted.

Norma lived out her passion in our home. She undertook the task of editing and publishing the monthly Galilee Young People’s Group newsletter/magazine. Our living room became the headquarters for printing and publishing the monthly magazine. She corralled the young men of our church to come over and crank the handle of the old Gestetner copy machine and staple the pages together, punctuated by breaks to enjoy her homemade cookies and tea until all eighty five copies were done. That sometimes lasted into the wee hours of the morning.

I want to pass on the inspiration she left behind. That is why, on this sixty-third anniversary of her home-call, I am sharing this story with you. Perhaps just one person reading this will hear the Master’s call.

You may be that one person. May God help you to surrender your life to Christ, receive His everlasting life, and begin to share His good news.

“Now, on to broader fields of holy vision; on to loftier heights of faith and love. Onward, upward, apprehending wholly, all for which He calls you from above.” (Unknown)

Audley F. McLean

October 4, 2023

Nothing matching that possible location came to mind, but in my imagination t felt like an experience of my childhood that matched the dynamics of East of bridge Village and across Muddy Trail. It takes me back to the summer of 1939, just before the start of World War ii. I was seven years old, heading for eight in three months. We lived at 22 and a half Mountain View Avenue in Eastern Kingston. My step father Kenneth “Bam Bam” Weekes was in England with the West Indies Cricket Team for a Test Match series against various English County teams. My mother, Viola, was a member of a women’s community social club and they organized a picnic, with a bus load of people in the community. I just happened to be the youngest person in the bus load of about sixty people. Destination, Castleton Gardens in the parish of Saint Andrew. Castleton Gardens was a government owned and operated experimental botanical garden, with exotic tropical plants from all over the world.

Castleton Gardens, although less that 30 miles from where we lived, was about and hour of drive time, partly because of the twists and turns and the mountainous terrain. We had to make the ascent from Constant Spring to Stony Hill, and then the decent, past Golden Spring before we had some level roadways and on, into the village of Castleton, and the gardens. All of that was compounded by the speed limit of thirty miles per hour. Thankfully, traffic jams were not part of the problem in 1939; there were not nearly enough automobiles on the roads. The aroma of of home-made delicacies filled the bus. Curried goat, oxtail, salt fish and ackee, fried dumplings, potato pudding, corn pone and on and on went to list. I must admit that all that food didn’t turn me on. I was not a foodie, but I was looking forward to the potato pudding and other deserts.

We arrived at the gardens mid morning and before long, games were organized and small groups gathered to play dominoes and checkers. There were other children playing games but my interest was peeked by what some teenage boys were doing. They headed for the river bed, and began leaping on rocks to cross over to the other side where there were rose apple trees. So, unknown to my mother, I slipped off to follow the big boys. I tried to leap from rock to rock as I attempted to follow them, but there was a problem. My legs were not long enough and my leap not strong enough to keep up with them. Yes, you guessed it. I slipped and down into the river I fell. Fortunately, I fell into shallow waters. The older boys, some of whom did not realize that “the little nuisance” was following them, turned and rescued me and returned me to my not so happy mother.

Of course, being soaked and mother, not having brought a change of clothing for me, and confident that I would get a deadly cold, frail as I was, took me back the bus where she had a change dress for herself and promptly forced me to change into that woman’s dress. That was the end of my fun for the day. Even food and deserts no longer appealed to me. I just wanted to go home.

To me, that day’s experience which remains etched in my memory after 87 years is even more even more complicated than East of Bridge Village and across Muddy Trail.

Ma 10, 2026