On a busy street in New York City, a man hustles across an intersection and is just about makes it to the other side when he’s hit by a bus.
He lies dying on the sidewalk as a crowd gathers around.
“A priest. Somebody get me a priest!” the man gasps. “A priest, please!” repeats the dying man.
Then out of the crowd steps a little old Jewish man of at least 80 years.
“Mr. Policeman,” says the man, “I’m not a priest. I’m not even a Catholic.
But for 50 years now I’ve been living behind St. Elizabeth’s Catholic Church on First Avenue, and every night I listen to the Catholic litany.
Maybe I can be of some comfort to this man.”
The policeman agrees and brings the gentleman over to where the dying man is lying.
He kneels down, leans over the injured and says in a solemn voice: “B-4. I-19. N-38. G-54. O-72.” …
