Dear Readers,

As you may know, I have been out of the loop since mid-March.

For some strange reason, much of that time was spent at Maine Medical Center in Portland where the skilled docs, nurses and assorted professionals treated an infection I can’t spell and want no more part of — ever again. Then, they sent me to Central Maine Medical Center to recover, rehab and testing to see if I was a proper candidate to come back home.

As such, the usual sources I rely upon to bring me the news were shut off, thus, I have no opinion on the topics that jump off the front page, the political chat shows, and even the gaggle of balderdash populating the internet claiming we face everything from the promised land to perdition.

So, let me take a minute to tell you a personal tale from one evening while I was recovering at CMMC. It was well after midnight, the last time Nurse Lizzie administered the final dose of meds for the cycle. The floor had quieted down as patients slept in their beds and attendants saw to their needs and nurses caught up on their paperwork. I was wide awake, looking out a single window at a brick wall holding up a metal roof. An occasional siren whizzed by on the street below as a first responder hurried to his/her next assignment. My feet were cold, my throat hurt. It was, to put it lightly, a miserable time, a time when I questioned everything, wondered why I was in that situation, and felt myself sliding into despair.

Around 3:15 a.m. I thought I heard a tune broadcast throughout the outside courtyard. It sounded sort of like an electronic piano playing one note at a time. It went something like this: Da, da, daa. Da da, daa. Dada,da/da/dada/dada. The phrase repeated itself then disappeared into the darkness. What was that? I recognized the tune, or thought I did, but the name and the rest of the melody eluded me. The familiar tune distracted my effort at self-pity and sort of pulled me out of my slough of despond, and I guess I dozed off for a while, until I heard it again.

The clock said it was 4:15 a.m., and once again the tune floated around the outside of the crowded campus, and I finally recognized it. You would have, too. It is one of the most familiar pieces of all classical music, a lullaby written by Johannes Brahms some 150 years ago.

About when I heard it, Nurse Liz slipped in to the room to check on me and the guy in the next bed. I asked her what it was about. She turned and smiled. “We play that tune whenever a baby is born in our hospital.”

For an instant, my pain, real or imagined, disappeared. A baby had been born. A new life had arrived to take its place in the human race.

My mind flashed back some 50 years ago when I remembered the wry grin on my late bride’s face moments after she delivered our daughter. I could still picture the caring nurses wrapping her tiny form in a blanket, then holding her up so I could see her wrinkled face for the first time.

As the melody disappeared once again, I lay back in the bed, noticing that my self-inflicted incident of despair had vanished. And I smiled. A baby had been born. For once, the world seemed right. Now, we all know all the rest of the story. We know the potential troubles facing the parents and the new infant as they begin the familiar lifelong journey we all have experienced.

But for one moment, the thought of ailments and beeping medical devices, national/world politics, and the rest of my current medical/mental condition disappeared as I enjoyed the thought of a new life being cuddled in the arms of a loving parent. A baby was born in Lewiston.

We all recognize the tune. Here are the words to the familiar tune that banished my despair that night. "Lullaby and good night, Thy mother’s delight. Bright angels around, My darling, shall stand. They will guide thee from harms, Thou shall wake in my arms."

Happy birthday to all the new ones, their parents, their relatives and us all.