A Crucifix

Chapter 1

“Dr. J.”

As our lives draw to a close, the disposition and equal distribution of our belongings becomes an issue for our family.

What should I to do with the crucifix that Dr. J gave to me?

Tom and I had just finished breakfast and were sitting on our back screened-in porch.

Then the phone rang.

Rather than write his real name, I’ll give him an assumed name: “Dr. J.”

“Dr. J.” asked if I would be home, as he wanted to bring me something.

I said, “Yes.” It would be nice to see him, although I hardly recalled his name, but I did remember his wife. I’ll use a pseudonym, “Iris.” However, “Iris” and I had many differing beliefs about the abortion, living will, and doctor-assisted-suicide issues. I am pro-life, and Iris is pro-choice on most medical ethical questions.

When Dr. J. arrived at our home, I honestly didn’t remember his thin, bent-over osteoporotic appearance, but then I hadn’t seen him in years, except I knew he was a revered Delaware pediatrician.

My husband, Tom, and I invited him in, but he wanted to sit on our screened-in porch. He talked for a few minutes, but neither Tom nor I can remember our conversation; it was so short.

He reached into his pocket with his slender hands, pulled out a blue jewelry box, and opened it to small fragile black box inside. It was then he lifted this delicate crucifix, attached to an antique necklace, and tenderly handed it to me.

Dr. J. gently said, “My family gave this to me, and I give it to you.”

I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say, except, “Thank you.”

Of course, I smiled as I carefully took the crucifix from his hand to mine. I was going to put it on, but Dr. J. stood up and once again gave his hand to me, as he moved to the screened-in porch door.

I wanted to run after him and ask him, “Why me?” but Dr. J. left, as he obviously didn’t want to engage in any further conversation. He stated that he wanted to give me his “family crucifix.” On the back of the crucifix was etched “BM 1827,” and on the left were these words, etched in French, “Gage D’amitie.” Searching on Google, I found the meaning of “Gage D’amitie: “token of friendship.”

The crucifix was approximately two inches by an inch and half in size and solid gold with a black enamel inset.

Inside the box that held the crucifix and chain on a green folded piece of paper were these words:

“Cross given to, Countess Rehbender [Unsure of spelling: could be Rchbender] Berlin.”

Then was the name of “Dr. J.” in 1942 and “Given to Marlene Walters by Dr. J. 1994.”

I searched through Ancestory.com for the name of Countess Rehbender, but neither that name nor Rchbender was anywhere to be found.

Then, a few months after Dr. J. so kindly brought his precious gift to me, I found his name in the Wilmington News Journal’s obituary page.

I couldn’t believe it. Dr. J. had died, and I didn’t know him. He called my house, came to my home, and presented me his family crucifix.

He had to know me.

Why would Dr. J. give me his precious heirloom, a crucifix? Why, indeed?