As the saying goes, the Lord works in mysterious ways. When I graduated from Davidson, I had no idea what city planning was or that it even existed as a profession. But by chance I had been able to take a couple of planning courses at Columbia and then work for a year in the Department of City Planning in New York City. My assignment was to work in one of New York’s most distressed neighborhoods in Bushwick where I staffed the small outreach office where neighborhood residents (mostly very poor) could come in and complain about rats in their basement and leaky roofs. I loved the job and loved the course work at Columbia. So, in the spring of my senior year, I decided to apply to city planning schools. I did some research, applied to the “top five” and got accepted  with a fully paid “social policy fellowship” by the School of City and Regional Planning at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. They also offered a job to Embry as a computer programmer, who would be assigned to work for a faculty member doing a big research project on transportation. Now how lucky was that! So off we headed to Chapel Hill in the summer of 1968.

At last, the inklings of a possible career path not as an ordained Episcopal priest appeared out of the shadows.

We lived off campus in a modest house in a modest neighborhood where we were the only White people, rode our bikes to the campus, and immediately made lots of new friends, who were a lot like our Union friends but without the angst and brooding about religion and the Christian faith. And how refreshing that was! Both of us by this time had had enough of that angst, which I believe was responsible for our “religious exhaustion.” We mutually declared a respite and for the first two years that we were in Chapel Hill did not darken the door of a church or religious institution. I loved the classes at the planning school. Embry loved her work. We loved our new friends. And we loved Chapel Hill. And best of all on November 28, 1968, Thanksgiving weekend, Embry gave birth to a baby girl (by natural childbirth), whom we named Katherine Lindsay Howell. Allard Lowenstein, the famous activist and Congressman from New York City, and his wife Jinny were sleeping on our sofa bed in our tiny living room when we rushed off the hospital in the middle of the night.

And how we both loved Katherine, especially Embry! There is a special bond between mother and infant that I believe we men are not capable of feeling. The story of our second year in Chapel Hill is really the story of Katherine. Like most parents, I suppose, we thought she was cutest, smartest, and most adorable child in the world. We were able to find excellent childcare in the home of a kind woman who took care of the infants of several planning school parents. And all was right with the world. Until it wasn’t.

When Katherine was a few months old when she exercised on her contraption that hung from the ceiling sort of like a tiny swing, we noticed that she turned slightly blue and seemed to have trouble breathing. She seemed ok after that and for the next few months. Then when it  happened again and was more pronounced, we took her to the UNC hospital immediately; and after running a few tests, the hospital referred us to a child cardiologist, a kind and gentle person, who performed more tests. His conclusion was that she had a heart defect, though probably not serious, and which, if necessary, could be corrected by a fairly routine operation called a “Blaylock-Taussig Shunt.” He suggested that we wait a couple of months to see if the situation cleared up by itself, which he said was often the case. When it didn’t, he scheduled an operation for late October about a month shy of Katherine’s first birthday. He assured us that the operation was now routine and that the chances of success were very high. The surgeon who would be doing the procedure had the highest rating as a heart surgeon. Of course, we were apprehensive, but were relieved when the cardiologist appeared smiling following the surgery and told us it had been a success. He suggested we go out for a meal and check back later in the evening, but for now we could relax. Good friends had invited us to a quiet evening dinner at their home, which we had accepted pending good news. At last, we could relax and enjoy a quiet meal.

At nine o’clock just before desert was to be served, their phone rang. I was handed the receiver. It was the hospital. We should come there immediately. Suddenly the mood shifted. We thanked our hosts and drove in panic to the hospital not saying a word to each other. There we were met by the cardiologist whose earlier smile had faded into a disturbed frown. He was uncertain of the details, but the procedure had not gone well. He would keep us posted. We slept in the waiting room until around seven the next morning, awakened by the cardiologist who delivered the news: Katherine had not made it. As we sat there in stunned disbelief, the surgeon who performed the operation charged past us, did not look at us or say a word.

What happened next is still a bit cloudy in my mind. So many people needed to be notified. So many plans had to be made. My parents flew the next day from Nashville. Embry’s parents arrived a couple of days later, having to abandon a cruise in the Mediterranean.  Food began appearing on our doorstep. Planning school friends stopped by. More food came. We sat among friends in our small living room, most of the time in silence. The chair of the UNC Planning School and his wife came as did so many of our close friends. What a difference that made!

The cardiologist was also a steady presence, and his kindness helped ease the pain. One thing he said I will never forget: “I know what you are going through is extremely difficult. There is nothing harder than losing a child but keep this in mind. Katherine had a good life. She was deeply loved. Yes, it was tragically short, but in the big picture of things, human life on Earth is short for all of us. The love is what counts.” In some circumstances one might consider this comment to be a cheap shot, but not with him. It was genuine, sincere, and so true.

The funeral was held a week later in Davidson, just under a three hour drive from Chapel Hill. We anticipated a small gathering followed by a burial in the Davidson cemetery where the Martin family plot was located. When Embry and I arrived in Davidson and entered the living room of her parent’s house, we were stunned to see my entire planning school class of some 25 people seated on the floor and spread out across the house. I was speechless.

Shortly after Katherine’s death, the cardiologist asked if we had any religious affiliation or connections to a church. At that time after four years of intense religious involvement at Union and at St Mary’s Church, we were taking a breather and had no church connection. He then asked if he should let the hospital chaplain know and I consented. Afterall, having served as a hospital chaplain two summers before, I understood that there was a role for chaplains. The next day a self-assured, middle aged man in a gray suit appeared on our front porch carrying a Bible and smiling. I offered him a cup of coffee and a comfortable chair. Embry was not home.

He got straight to the point. “Mr. Howell, are you aware that God is all powerful and all good? Whatever happens is God’s will and you have to accept it. That is the essence of Christianity. If you don’t believe that, you are not a Christian.”

“Oh no,” I said to myself, feeling my heart pounding, “How did I get this guy? ” I managed to regain my composure and responded that I did not understand what his point was and asked if he was implying that it was God’s will that our daughter died.

He answered, “To be a Christian you must accept the truth that God is both all powerful and all good. That is what the Bible says.”

“Excuse me…”

“Mr. Howell, that is the way it is. That is the truth.”

“That it was God’s will that our daughter died? Really?” I raised my voice almost to a shout.

“That is what you learn in seminary. And God probably has his reasons. Have you examined your own life and what you or your wife might have done to anger God?”

“Well, that is what you learned at your seminary but not at my seminary. And by the way, I also have served as a hospital chaplain where we did not go around telling patients that their misfortune was God’s punishment!”

I stood up and showed him to the door.

To his credit, the chaplain called me up the next day and apologized, offering to come back for another talk. I told him that that would not be necessary.

It would be a couple of more years before Embry and I gave up our exile in the wilderness and gave organized Christianity another try. But who is to argue that the experience of losing a child is not a deeply religious experience whether you are a devout Christian or a religious person or not. God was present in the support and love we received from our friends and family, from the wisdom and support from the cardiologist, and from the courage and strength given to us that allowed us to get through the ordeal of losing our first child. This is an experience which I believe points to a universalist religious world view and the first hint on how and why  I now call myself a “Universalist Episcopalian.” How that happened will be the subject of the final two blog posts.