By Rabbi Ben Kamin
SAN DIEGO — No one will ever really know what goes on in the basement laundry of the children’s hospital in question. That’s part of what makes “the blessing of the hands” so miraculous—it doesn’t involve publicity agents, news anchors, or RSS feeds. But what I saw will never be forgotten: While visiting the facility, I met an aged but vibrant Catholic sister performing a decidedly priestly function that likely has helped saved many little lives.
Without fuss or fanfare, she routinely enters the windowless room and speaks quietly to the predominantly Mexican workers. They are responsible for cleaning and sterilizing the surgical instruments before the scalpels, scissors, and such are antiseptically delivered to the doctors and nurses above.
These skilled professionals then operate on children with cancer, congenital heart problems, cystic fibrosis, and a myriad of other dreadful conditions that have flanked childhood. It’s to the physicians that we anoint the well-deserved credit for so often saving young lives. But the quiet workers down below deliver instruments free of bacteria so the sister blesses their hands before they soak, steam, and purify. That’s it—no coverage, no drama, no frills. The woman blesses their hands. They look forward to it and when asked, one of them explained to me, “We don’t need anybody to know. We just need to have our hands blessed so the knives will be clean and the children will live.”
Forget about all the big wonders of 2008, the election of an African-American president, the successful completion of the Beijing Olympiad without terrorism or environmental asphyxiation, the survival somehow of the American economy, the proliferation of HD television, the transformation of Britney Spears back to lean and viable. When I saw the sister bless the hands, I realized again how insignificant I really am, and that was actually the best miracle of all.
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Rabbi Kamin is a freelance writer based in San Diego. He may be contacted at ben.kamin@sdjewishworld.com