NO COINCIDENCE

Here’s a story that might convince you in my new belief that there are no coincidences in life. It happened last week and began with a late night e-mail.

“Mike, I cancelled our tee time for tomorrow (Wednesday) afternoon. Looks like rain,” wrote my avuncular buddy Mario.

I’d been feeling a bit guilty about putting my mediocre golf game ahead of Jean de Brebeuf ever since our friend Sharon, a resident at St. Bernard’s Convent, had invited Terry and I to attend a special Mass in honour of the feast of the Canadian Martyrs.

Although Terry was tied up with her weekly yoga class, I was now free to attend.

The day turned out to be sunny and bright (so much for Mario playing weather man). As Mass was at 6:15 pm, I left the house at 5:30 pm allowing time for the usual rush hour snarls. Much to my surprise, traffic was extremely light. Only later did I find out that the fluid traffic along Bathurst Street was due to the fact that it was Yom Kippur, the holiest day in the Jewish calendar.

As I neared my destination, it became apparent that I was going to be much too early.

“Did I really want to hang out with golden oldies for at least twenty minutes before Mass?” I thought to myself.

There, I’ve said it.

My aversion to spending time with old people is a new thing for me. Maybe it’s because I recently got caught in the elevator of my mom’s retirement home with six white haired ladies who kept calling me sonny; or maybe it’s because I feel the gap between me and the folks who like watching Lawrence Welk reruns on Sunday afternoon seems to keep shrinking; I’m not sure.

In any event, instead of driving straight to the convent, I decided to pull into the parking lot of the library just across the street from Branson Hospital and listen to the radio for a few minutes. I always have time for Bob McCown.

As I parked beside a black sedan, I felt some remorse for shirking my social duties in favour of my own comfort. I knew had Terry been with me, she would have insisted we take this window of opportunity to spend a bit of time with Sharon and the octogenarian sisterhood.

“Mike…Is that you?” came a call from across the parking lot. Looking up, I saw a short man walking toward my car.

“What a nice surprise to see you,” I shouted back as I stealthily turned off the radio.

It was Thomas, a former Brebeuf grad now in his early forties whom I hadn’t seen since my retirement party almost three years ago. His was the black sedan parked right next to mine.

“What are you doing here?” I called as he neared, hoping he wouldn’t ask me the same question.

“Been having a few health issues,” he replied. “Just had some tests done at Branson.”

Thomas needed to talk: about his diabetes, about the fact that his dad had just suffered a heart attack three days earlier, about his brother’s recent job loss. It was an intense conversation but before long, I knew I had to get moving to be on time for Mass. For a third time that day, I felt guilty, this time for rushing off on a burdened friend. I fully expected to hear a cock crowing as I drove down the hill to St. Bernard’s.

When I arrived home later that evening and told Terry about meeting Thomas, she was quick to ask,

“And when are you seeing him again?”

“What do you mean?” I answered in confusion.

“Don’t you see?” she chided. “The series of circumstances that led you to be alone in that parking lot at that particular time is no coincidence. You were meant to meet Thomas.”

I felt foolish for not putting it together myself, for not seeing the bigger picture.

I called Thomas the next day.

We’re going out for coffee this Saturday morning.