Here's the deal. God is sneaky.
I’m not the only one who has come to that conclusion. Sister Helen Prejean, author of “Dead Man Walking,” says had she known a simple request to write a letter to a prisoner would lead to visiting him on death row, much less witnessing his execution, she would not have been so quick to agree. But Sister Helen did not know. One step led to another, events unfolded, and she found herself in a place where she would never have chosen to go, but in the end, was grateful to be. And, she found she had strength she didn't know she had.
I’m not the only one who has come to that conclusion. Sister Helen Prejean, author of “Dead Man Walking,” says had she known a simple request to write a letter to a prisoner would lead to visiting him on death row, much less witnessing his execution, she would not have been so quick to agree. But Sister Helen did not know. One step led to another, events unfolded, and she found herself in a place where she would never have chosen to go, but in the end, was grateful to be. And, she found she had strength she didn't know she had.
In my case, rather than a slow unfolding, God went straight for the big guns, and like Sister Helen, I didn’t see it coming. I guess God knew it was time, as the saying goes, for me to get back on the horse I fell off of, and only one thing could help that happen.
My minister called saying she was side-lined with the flu and asking if I would be willing to make a chaplain's visit to a parishioner, a young woman, who had been admitted to the hospital. I knew the honor and privilege she offered me, but I did not want to go. I had not been back in a hospital since I walked out of one the night my daughter Tara died and after I baptized her baby Alden in the neonatal intensive care unit. Years had passed, but memories were fresh. I asked myself, "How hard could it be?" In the end, I agreed, thinking I would go "just this once."
My minister called saying she was side-lined with the flu and asking if I would be willing to make a chaplain's visit to a parishioner, a young woman, who had been admitted to the hospital. I knew the honor and privilege she offered me, but I did not want to go. I had not been back in a hospital since I walked out of one the night my daughter Tara died and after I baptized her baby Alden in the neonatal intensive care unit. Years had passed, but memories were fresh. I asked myself, "How hard could it be?" In the end, I agreed, thinking I would go "just this once."
Standing in the corridor by the door of the young woman’s room, I prayed for strength and silently repeated my long-neglected mantra for courage before entering a hospital room:
“I go because my Jesus goes with me. I go because he is waiting for me there.”
“I go because my Jesus goes with me. I go because he is waiting for me there.”
What are the chances I would walk right back in to what I walked out of—the same symptoms, the same problem, the same possible outcome? My minister failed to mention the young woman was pregnant and not doing well.
I listened to the young woman speak of rising blood pressure and blurred vision. Fear and sorrow returned as bitter as the night Tara died. I glanced at her mother who sat in the corner of the room near the window. I hoped my pounding heart would not betray my desire to flee.
I listened to the young woman speak of rising blood pressure and blurred vision. Fear and sorrow returned as bitter as the night Tara died. I glanced at her mother who sat in the corner of the room near the window. I hoped my pounding heart would not betray my desire to flee.
“They are going to do a cesarean in a few minutes," her mother reported, almost cheerfully. "Then everything will be OK again. Everything is going to be fine.” I wondered if that were the doctor's prediction, or if she were trying to convince herself. In spite of the mother's upbeat declaration, I knew on the inside she trembled.
“That is great news," I said, attempting to sound as if I believed my own words, "but you must be concerned for your daughter." She lowered her eyes. We both knew that was the understatement of the century.
I moved a plastic chair to sit beside the mother and held her hand until orderlies wheeled her daughter away to surgery. I dared not speak for fear of exposing my own struggle for composure. We waited in silence for what seemed an eternity until a doctor returned and pronounced everyone OK.
“That is great news," I said, attempting to sound as if I believed my own words, "but you must be concerned for your daughter." She lowered her eyes. We both knew that was the understatement of the century.
I moved a plastic chair to sit beside the mother and held her hand until orderlies wheeled her daughter away to surgery. I dared not speak for fear of exposing my own struggle for composure. We waited in silence for what seemed an eternity until a doctor returned and pronounced everyone OK.
Retreating to the privacy of the hall outside of the room, I leaned against the wall to steady myself. My heart raced, my hands trembled, my breathing came in gasps, and I was angry. I doubted the experience had been a coincidence.
“God, that wasn’t funny!” I said.
It definitely was not funny, but it was healing.
It definitely was not funny, but it was healing.
I would not have gone to the hospital that day had I known what I would find when I arrived, but I did go, and for that I am grateful, because I discovered what I suspect God knew all along. If I could endure what I had just experienced, I could survive anything I might encounter upon future visits to the hospital.
Prayers for strength and courage had been answered. The miracle of healing continued to unfold, and a day came that I thought would never be. I could be a chaplain again.
But. . .like I said. . .sneaky.
Reflections:
For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. (Isaiah 55:8)
"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware."~Martin Buber
"Ministry means the ongoing attempt to put one's own search for God, with all the moments of pain and joy, despair and hope, at the disposal of those who want to join this search but do not know how."~Henri J.M. Nouwen
We need to be
angels for each other, to give each other strength and consolation. Because
only when we fully realize that the cup of life is not only a cup of sorrow but
also a cup of joy will we be able to drink it." ~Henri J.M. Nouwen
-Am I called to be present with others?
-Have experiences in my life led to increased compassion for the suffering of others? If so, what are they?
-How might God want to use my brokenness?
-Am I being healed? If so, how?
Prayer:
Spirit of God, water of life, you are the tears of God. Help me weep with those who weep, as well as rejoice with those who rejoice. Help me be less afraid to mourn what I have lost in my own life so that I can keep others company in theirs. In keeping company with them I will be with Christ. From him will come the comfort that he has promised when the time comes." Amen ~Martin L. Smith, A Season For the Spirit
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