Hospitals are not happy places, especially for those who say goodnight and stay put after visiting hours are over. Like airports, hospitals are often characterized by two opposite extremes: working and waiting. In both places, where activity must coexist with inertia, only employees have a guaranteed time of departure. Everyone else can do little more than watch and wait.

Sad to say, hospitals also aren't homey places - no lacy or handmade quilts, no fireplaces or fishbowls. We all know what calms the spirit helps cure the body, so you would think decorators would work with doctors to create a relaxing environment like a cozy English cottage. In fact, we see the opposite. In the hospital, few things are familiar while everything is ordered for efficiency. Even the very air itself is unfriendly. No scent of fresh bread or flowers, just the hostile blend of antiseptic and acrid odors which can only be described with one word - "hospital."

If extended bed rest was the preferred medical prescription of the past, it is certainly no longer the case. Today's more modern health care prefers tests over rest. Poor patients are awakened at the oddest hours to be prodded, pricked and wheeled about. Midnight cleaning crews squirt and scrub away like it's midday. During waking hours it's television time whether you like it or not. One could only suspect a secret master plan at work to keep everyone anxious and on the edge of exhaustion. Surgery isn't the only reason why patients return home from the hospital looking like dry rung-out rags.

If indeed, hospitals are neither happy or homey places, they can be places where one can encounter great hope. I must admit, in my twenty three years of religious life, some of my most spiritually engaging moments have not happened in churches or chapels but beside hospital beds. The injured, the elderly and infirm have taught me not only the resiliency of the human spirit, but the workings of divine grace. I have encountered the peaceful resignation of the dying and have witnessed small children carry adult size crosses without even a whimper. In the hospital unsung heroes abound. The nursing profession has won my deepest esteem since I have seen nurses sometimes singlehandedly bring patients back from the brink. What doctors begin, nurses finish thanks to their expertise in using an increasingly rare and almost magical elixir called "T.L.C."

Hospital visitation is a traditional Franciscan apostolate to which I was introduced early in my religious life. In the fall of 1978, together with eight other novice classmates, I was invested in the brown Capuchin habit. Back then I was far more slender and smooth skinned. I looked every bit like you favorite statue of Saint Anthony. I only needed a baby and a Bible to complete my ensemble. During our novitiate year, we rarely left the property so we novices would joke among ourselves saying, "all dressed up and nowhere to go." We couldn't wait to begin our apostolic work, and we were more than willing to help anyone with anything, especially if it took us off the property. No doubt, our novice master knew our "apostolic zeal" was actually a serious side effect of prolonged cabin fever mixed with a tinge of spiritual pride. In time we were told our apostolate would be visiting patients in a hospital off the coast of Boston Harbor.

Today, off shore islands are places where cities dump garbage. At the turn of the century, it was where they dumped people. Apparently, the maxim, "out of sight, out of mind" was very popular back then. The mentally ill, the infected and incurable got first class seats on boats which never brought them back. Although the hospital complex we were to visit was renovated and refurbished over the years, evidently its many facelifts did little to affect its wounded soul. When we arrived early one Friday evening, the entire island looked eerie and abandoned. I remember the air was laced with a distinctive admixture of sea salt and skunk spray. As we walked towards the buildings, our anticipation quietly turned to anxiety, but being guys, it was well under wraps.

The drama of the evening only deepened after a prayer service in a church which was as dark as it was cavernous. We were then led along down depressing olive green corridors and through many sets of squeaky swinging doors. The maze ended as we entered a very large room, an old fashioned hospital ward complete with cracked dirty windows, wooden floors which creaked, and rows upon rows of iron beds. The whole scene looked like a set from an old Clark Gable movie. In the corner of my eye, I saw one of my classmates looking pale and almost frozen with fear. I went over and whispered in his ear, "Relax, you'll make the patients feel worse!" I laughed, he didn't. When we decided to break into teams of two, he immediately latched on to me like a magnet to metal. Before we began I advised him, "It's important that you smile. Remember, the sadder the person, the brighter the smile!" Throughout the entire evening, he followed me like a lapdog, wearing a silly smile looking every bit like a Howdy Doody doll. I think he threw up when the whole affair was over.

As the weeks progressed, all of us became quite confident and even my fearful classmate waded into the wards on his own. One evening while visiting the women's wing, I walked into one of the smaller wards, a room with only six or eight beds. Being elderly, most of the women were asleep, and the room was now dimly lit and very quiet. I tip-toed from bed to bed to see if anyone was awake. That's when my eye caught someone sitting upright in a bed far in the corner. She was wide awake but sat motionless staring into space. She was propped up with big very white pillows and tucked in tightly with a brightly colored afghan. Her arms rested almost listlessly on her lap. She looked well cared for and content. Although she didn't appear sad, she certainly wasn't smiling so I approached her bed, I "clicked on my brights" giving her the best smile I could muster. She turned her head and looked at me. To my complete surprise she beamed back even brighter.

"Hi, my name's Brother Glenn. I'm one of the Franciscan brothers who come and visit every Friday night." She replied, "Hi Brother Glenn, my name's Sophie." Putting together her name, face and inflection, I surmised she was Jewish. Sophie had a certain dignity and wonderful grace about her. Her gray eyes matched her silver hair which was tightly braided about her head. Although her body remained motionless, her eyes danced. She was full of life. "So, Sophie," I said casually and with an air of authority, "How long will you be with us? When will you be going home?" Looking almost amused she tilted her head ever so slightly and softly said, "Brother Glenn, I'm not going home, I am home. I've been here 17 years."

So, there I stood speechless. Now it was my turn to wear the stupid smile. I honestly didn't know what to say. I felt like a phony. My holier than thou habit began to feel plastic, like some cheap Halloween costume. I wanted to tear it off and burn it at the foot of her bed. If I were a statue, by this time I would be a pile of plaster on the floor. I felt small, very small. It's like your primadonna choir member who thinks he's so great, only until Mr. Pavarotti slips into the pew. Yes, we all become "Brand X" next to someone bigger and brighter, don't we?

Well, as the weeks went on, not a Friday night would end without my visit with Sophie. No matter how good or bad I felt, I always left her bedside not just feeling better but being better. She never complained, spoke ill about anyone, or made any reference to herself and her paralysis. She appeared only eminently interested in others, including myself. While I suppose she had her down days, she never once thought of herself as being on the bottom of the barrel.

Some people just make you wonder. How is it they can be happy with so little while we're sad with so much? Why have I seen more smiles, toothless though they be, in the impoverished hills of Honduras, than in the posh buildings of Park Avenue? The answer is quite simple - some people count their blessings while others count their burdens. Isn't this the real reason why we are often sad and never really satisfied? We get annoyed at the smallest and stupidest things. We're quick to find fault in others, even in ourselves, while being completely unaware of all the good God has given us. Sad to say, many of us are like accountants with Alzheimer's, oblivious of our assets.

In my 17 years in the priesthood, I have heard almost everything in the confessional. Yet, I don't recall anyone ever saying: "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I'm spoiled rotten!" Infidelity and injustice are grave sins of omission. So, if insomniacs count sheep and dieters count calories, we, the depressed and discouraged, ought to count our blessings!

For example, the mere fact you can read this article already tells me you have received two big blessings: your eyesight and education. Stop grumbling, be grateful! If you're reading this at home, look up. Give yourself a point if you have a roof over your head - half point for corrugated tin, quarter point for plastic tarp. Now look down. Is your belly distended due to starvation or snacks? (Better give yourself another fat point.) Do your kids go to camp during the summer or live in one all year round? You see, what we have, many, many have not. This is our sickness, indeed our sin. We grumble about junk mail while others don't have an address, get upset with our boss when people are unemployed, and complain about our pastor when many haven't even a priest.

While God is a mystery to us, perhaps we're a mystery to Him. Could it be He doesn't even understand our garbled prayers? Yes, most of us suffer from an all too common malady which rarely afflicts the poor - it's called "Silver Spoon Syndrome." Why I was born in Brooklyn and not Bangladesh is beyond me. While my family is far more blue collar than blue blood, I inherited a veritable fortune. I have been blessed with loving parents who provided, loyal brothers who protected, and a now nameless army of religious who educated and instructed me. I have never been homeless or hungry, penniless or friendless. I only know about famine and floods and war from the news, not my neighborhood. Yes, people like me who complain deserve to be escorted outside and stood before a firing squad - without even a mask or last meal!

Well, like it or not, the hospital I visit today may one day be my home. Will I enter unexpectedly, with my stretcher crashing through the emergency room doors, or be ushered in quietly, with my bony and blue veined hands trembling off the arms of a wheel chair? I don't know. But this I do know: if everything was taken from me this very moment, I couldn't complain. Because both St. Francis and Sophie have shared a very special secret with me. Namely, that true happiness is found in neither wealth nor health but in giving God today what He desires and deserves, and that is nothing less than a grateful heart.