Broken but Beautiful

Once or twice a month Diane and I are privileged to minister as on-call chaplains at our local hospital here in The Villages, Florida. This involves being available for a 24-hour period, and spending a few hours during the day visiting the newly admitted patients. In most instances the patients we visit have been hospitalized for surgery or other procedures, or for treatment of injury or illness. After a few days of healing or treatment, the majority of patients recover and return to their homes or perhaps go to a local rehab facility. Of course, we live in a retirement community, so some patients must deal with terminal illness, and many of these, depending on the progress of their illness, will enter hospice.

On occasion, and so often these calls arrive late at night or early in the morning, we are asked to minister to the dying or to the families of those who have just died. Inevitably, when the phone rings at 2 a.m., I wake up grumbling in my own uniquely human way, "Oh, great!! There goes my night's sleep." But then, as the hospital operator relays the situation and the need, my heart melts and I know Diane and I are being asked to take Gods merciful love to those in real need of it. 

We try to offer spiritual comfort and hope to the dying, perhaps share a prayer with the family, and just listen as family and friends struggle to cope with the loss of one who is loved. But about the last thing a family needs at this time is for someone to preach at them. Over time I've come to realize that so often it simply means being quietly present. I suppose for many our presence in some way assures them of God's presence. We are just a sign of God's real, enduring, loving presence, especially at a time when God can seem so distant. I believe that often enough it's in the silence that God manifests His presence, and like Elijah at Horeb, we must draw away from the noise and distractions of the world and listen for God's "still small voice."

Recently, though, I've been the recipient of that voice thanks to Nancy and Joe, our dear friends from South Carolina. For the past few months, Diane and I have been their on-again, off-again hosts at our home here in The Villages, Florida. As I mentioned in a previous post, this has involved my driving them to Tampa so Nancy can receive frequent treatment at Moffitt Cancer Center.

While Nancy is being examined, poked, prodded, treated, and transfused with blood and platelets, Joe is usually with her. This leaves me to spend considerable time in one of the many waiting rooms. Thanks to my trusty iPad, I can take work with me and usually do. But occasionally my aging brain refuses to cooperate and the Spirit leads me to strike up a conversation with someone seated nearby. And, believe me, chatting with cancer patients has been an enlightening experience.

Unlike the waiting rooms of my dermatologist, eye surgeon, and primary care physician, the waiting rooms at Moffitt are populated with cancer patients, family members, and caregivers. I guess I'm among the few exceptions since I fall into none of these categories. In truth Nancy and Joe insist on calling me their "driver." And a happily content driver I am...and surprisingly patient too since I spend so much time putting the wait into waiting rooms. And thanks to those waits, I have learned much about courage, and faith, and thankfulness, and hope, and fear. 

Here I am, 74 years old, reasonably healthy, and certainly not focused on, as Nancy calls it in true disco fashion, "Stayin' alive." But on every visit I find myself in the presence of some truly wonderful people. The hope, faith, and courage, and yes, even the fears, are there, plainly evident in the faces of those seated around me. But all are so courageous in their own unique ways, and for many their faith just overwhelms the fear. Interestingly, the courage and faith of the patients also seem to dampen the fears of family members, especially that of spouses.

As I chat with these good people, they talk about their families, their illnesses, their faith, but not about their work or their jobs, and never, or rarely, about the past. For so many people today their work is life-defining; but for the seriously ill cancer patient work is all but forgotten, replaced by something else, something truly life-defining. It's all about relationships with others; in a sense it's all about communion.

And here I sit, secretly thankful that I don't suffer from this dreaded disease, but quietly wondering whether such suffering might help me find the path to the salvation God wills for me. And so I pray, and ask you to pray with me. I pray for Nancy and Joe. I pray for all those patients whose names I don't know, all those broken by illness but beautiful in faith, all those who taught me as I waited. And I thank God for every day He has given me, for today, and for every day I have yet to live.

Praised be Jesus Christ...now and forever!