The Name Does Not Make The Man

Take Edwin Thomas, for instance. Edwin Thomas Booth, that is. At age fifteen he debuted on the stage playing Tressel to his father’s Richard III. Within a few short years he was playing the lead in Shakespearean tragedies throughout the United States and Europe. He was the Olivier of his time. He brought a spirit of tragedy that put him in a class by himself.

Edwin had a younger brother, John, who was also an actor. Although he could not compare with his older brother, he did give a memorable interpretation of Brutus in the 1863 production of Julius Caesar, by the New York Winter Garden Theater. Two years later, he performed his last role in a theater when he jumped from the box of a bloodied President Lincoln to the stage of Ford’s Theater. John Wilkes Booth met the end he deserved. But his murderous life placed a stigma over the life of his brother Edwin.

An invisible asterisk now stood beside his name in the minds of the people. He was no longer Edwin Booth the consummate tragedian, but Edwin Booth the brother of the assassin. He retired from the stage to ponder the question why? 

Edwin Booth’s life was a tragic accident simply because of his last name. The sensationalists wouldn’t let him separate himself from the crime.

It is interesting to note that he carried a letter with him that could have vindicated him from the sibling attachment to John Wilkes Booth. It was a letter from General Adams Budeau, Chief Secretary to General Ulysses S. Grant, thanking him for a singular act of bravery. It seems that while he was waiting for a train on the platform at Jersey City, a coach he was about to board bolted forward. He turned in time to see that a young boy had slipped from the edge of the pressing crowd into the path of the oncoming train. Without thinking, Edwin raced to the edge of the platform and, linking his leg around a railing, grabbed the boy by the collar. The grateful boy recognized him, but he didn’t recognize the boy. It wasn’t until he received the letter of thanks that he learned it was Robert Todd Lincoln, the son of his brother’s future victim. 

Tim Kimmel, Little House on the Freeway (Multnomah Books, 2008)

Keep On Singing

Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on the way, she did what she could to help her three-year-old son, Michael, prepare for a new sibling.  They found out that the new baby is going to be a girl, and day after day, night after night, Michael sings to his sister in Mommy's tummy.  The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen.  But when it was time to give birth to the baby, complications arise.  Michael's little sister is born in serious condition.  The infant has to be placed in the neonatal intensive care unit at St. Mary's Hospital Knoxville, Tennessee.

The days inch by.  The little girl gets worse.  The pediatric specialist tells the parents, "There is very little hope.  Be prepared for the worst."

Karen and her husband contact a local cemetery about a burial plot.  They had fixed up a special room in their home for the new baby, but now they plan a funeral.  Michael keeps begging his parents to let him see his sister, "I want to sing to her," he says.

Week two in intensive care.  Things don't look good.  Michael keeps nagging about singing to his sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive Care.  Karen makes up her mind.  She will take Michael whether they like it or not.  If he doesn't see his sister now, he may never see her alive.  She dresses him in an oversized scrub suit and marches him into ICU.  He looks like a walking laundry basket, but the head nurse recognizes him as a child and bellows, "Get that kid out of here now!  No children are allowed in ICU."  The mother rises up strong in Karen, and the usually mild-mannered lady glares steel-eyed into the head nurse's face, her lips a firm line.  "He is not leaving until he sings to his sister!"

Karen tows Michael to his sister's bedside.  He gazes at the tiny infant losing the battle to live.  And he begins to sing.  In the pure-hearted voice of a three-year-old, Michael sings:  "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray..."

Instantly the baby girl responds.  The pulse rate becomes calm and steady.

"Keep on singing, Michael."  "You never know, dear, how much I love you.  Please don't take my sunshine away..."

The ragged, strained breathing becomes as smooth as a kitten's purr.  "The other might, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms..."  Michael's little sister relaxes as rest, healing rest, seems to sweep over her.  Tears conquer the face of the bossy head nurse.  Karen glows.  "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  Please don't take my sunshine away."

The baby is well enough to go home!  Woman's Day Magazine called it "The Miracle of a Brother's Song."  The medical staff just called it a miracle.  Karen called it a miracle of God's love.

- Robert J. Morgan, Preacher's Sourcebook of Creative Sermon Illustrations (Thomas Nelson, 2007)