Seeing Susan

We all have images chiseled into our consciousness—memories that are frozen in time. We close our eyes and see fragments of scenes or hear snippets of conversation that are as vivid as the moment they first transpired.  Most are no more than coincidences of recollection and have little bearing on the overall scheme of life and death.  Why we remember them at all is mystery. But occasionally an image is etched into our memory and imprinted onto our soul for the purpose of hope, healing and grace.

I remember little of the journey home from the hospital where my daughter Tara died. We left behind in neonatal intensive care her three-day-old daughter Alden.  Her twelve-year-old son Spencer traveled with us.  My spirit groaned under the burden of his pain and mine. I have no recollection of the familiar landmarks between Tara’s city and mine.  It is impossible to see when your sole focus is trying to breathe in and breathe out.

But God has a way of breaking through blindness.  

When I arrived home, the first sight to penetrate my misery was of Susan standing in the driveway. 

Susan must have realized her visit coincided with our return.  Perhaps she didn’t wish to intrude upon what she knew to be sacred time. Perhaps she was at a loss for words.  She lowered her head, averted her eyes, and stepped across the grass to the curb where her car was parked. Susan drove away before I had a chance to speak.  Inside, she had left a gift--a small, jeweled cross in a gold frame.  I keep it near to remind me of the power of presence and to never forget the promise of resurrection.

I doubt that Susan knows God spoke through her presence that morning.  When I saw Susan, gentle words-- soothing words—silent words-- settled into my heart.  It had to be God.  It felt like hope.

“Bunny, do you see Susan?  She is standing, and living, and breathing, and coming to see you! Do you remember the last time you were together?  Look at Susan, Bunny. You are going to be alright.” 

The last time I had been with Susan, her daughter had died.

On the days when I questioned the possibility of healing and doubted my ability to survive, I held tightly to that memory of grace. I would close my eyes, remember God’s voice, and once again, see Susan.  

Reflections:

"My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."
Psalm 73:26

“They won’t remember what you said, and they won’t remember what you did, but they will always remember how you made them feel.” ~Maya Angelou

"Let us not underestimate how hard it is to be compassionate. Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering. What we desire most is to do away with suffering by fleeing from it or finding a quick cure for it."~Henri Nouwen

"If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito."~The Dalai Lama

-Do I have a memory that I perceive to be a moment of grace? What happened? What role did it play in my faith journey?
-Do I find it difficult to reach out to others who are "weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken?"  Why? Why not? 

-Is there someone who's presence was meaningful to me during a difficult time in my life?

Practice:  Reach out in compassion to someone who suffers. Remember the power of presence.