The Random Thoughts of Henry Holloway
Having just come back from doing my little bit of duty as a blood donor, I have a slightly swelled head. It is a wonderful thing to feel that somebody you don’t even know will be helped by something you gave and hardly even missed. The cup of tea, after the little operation, was jolly good. They must teach these nurses how to make tea as well as nurse the sick. And when they were not holding the patient’s hand, they were knitting most industriously. Take a hint, you bachelors!
What worried me was the awful thought that my bad habits might be transmitted to somebody else. Some unfortunate body might suffer badly from some of us if that were true.
They used to tell a story about a Scotsman who volunteered to give a transfusion to an Englishman. The Englishman was so grateful that he made a present of a handsome cheque to the Scotsman. At a later date the Englishman needed another transfusion. The Scotsman duly obliged and was duly rewarded - with a smaller cheque. On a third occasion the same thing happened. This time the Englishman sent the Scotsman a letter of thanks.
Several years ago the Rockefeller Foundation told the story of Asibi, a West African who supplied the blood from which the vaccine for yellow fever has been derived. After Asibi became ill with yellow fever and recovered, some of his blood became the source of all the yellow fever vaccine manufactured since 1937. The original strain of virus obtained from this humble negro has since gone from laboratory to laboratory, offering immunity to millions of people in many countries. The story closed with these words: ‘Through the creative imagination of science, the blood of one man in West Africa has been made to serve the whole human race.’
During the Second World War a bomber was badly hit and the order came to the crew to bale out. One by one the men baled out, but one of the crew, a young fellow, was trapped. It was obvious that he could not be released in time. The sergeant went over to him: ‘Take it easy, kid’, he said, ‘We’ll take this ride together.’ Somebody carries in their heart to this day the memory of a man who could have saved himself and refused. Don’t ask me for the explanation of it all but, in a way, that is part of the meaning of Good Friday. In this case it was written: ‘He saved others, Himself he could not save’.
Throughout his life a man had spent rather more time than most spend on doing good. Someone asked him once why he seemed to be so concerned to do more than his duty. He said, ‘A man once died for me’! It seemed that years before his life had been saved by another man at the cost of his life. Ever afterwards he felt he had to do double duty. Because we can all say that in a higher sense, ‘A man died for me,’ we should make Good Friday a day of dedicated service.
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