Monday evenings have become a late night donut run tradition with one of newest bestest buds. We pile in the car (tonight my dogs included) and travel down the road, soaking in the nighttime sky, catching up about our days and laughing at the latest joke we have heard.
This evening as we traveled down the road we talked through our days, per usual, we shared sighs and laughs and then began to talk about a television show (old but good) that has captivated us both as of late. What show matters not- it matters that I was informed by my friend that one of the main characters was going to die in the next season (Thanks Netflix for allowing us the joy/mental disservice perhaps of binge watching our favorite shows at least one night a week) from breast cancer. No. I told her no. I objected- there was no way, she could not die because she was important and if she died it would be sad and the show would be messed up and the lives of those who loved her in the show would be messed up. It was not feasible for her to die.
Soon we were going through the Krispy Kreme line (something I should reflect more on- I think we keep them in business at lease once a week, whoops, but tonight I will blame the trip on my need for clean water as there was a water main break in my neighborhood today and my water is not suitable to drink yet) I decided that I needed to just youtube the clip.
I needed to see if she was going to die, I needed to have an answer. Granted googling this clip means I missed part of the season before but I did not care. I needed to know.
Sure enough- she died. Her partner left the room and went on a walk and she died. She said she loved her before leaving the room and then came back to her loved one lifeless on the bed, the doctor reciting a line of , "we did all we could do." I know what you are thinking- this is just a television show. You are right. That is about the only thing that kept me from falling into a puddle on the floor of my friend's car (that and my donut).
But the show, that scene, propelled me back into the intense room of a woman who lied lifeless on the bed as her family gathered in the ICU waiting room just down the hall. I was the chaplain on call and was paged to this scene and had no idea how I might answer or help in this situation. She had been fine that morning and after a quick diagnosis of a brain bleed it turned out she had a blockage and the wrong medicine led to bleeding and brain damage that was not reparable: in a matter of 12 hours she went from fine to pronounced brain dead. Dead.
I walked into this story at the will of the family: they paged me, they thought I could help. I walked in, shaking on the inside and no-doubt looking like a dear in head lights on the outside, into this sacred space. I met the family and prayed and did all I could do, all they seemed to need: I made connections to doctors, I helped with sorting out information about organ donation, I brought tissues and coffee and was making my way out of the door when I saw the woman's youngest son (12 years old) sitting on the floor outside the hustle and bustle of the family in the waiting room. In tears. He sat, crying. I walked over- knowing he was the son- and told him who I was. Soon we embraced and with no words he just melted onto my lap as I tried to contain my silent stream of tears floating down my own face and into his blonde, curly hair.
I did not know what to say and thankfully he did not need to me say a thing. About twenty minutes later he told me he had not told his mom how beautiful he thought she was and he wanted to. So we walked down the hall. Nurses unhooking her ventilator as we walked into the room and he wiped her face with his tear-filled hands. He wiped her brow, he brushed her hair and said, "Mama, you are beautiful."
His dad soon piled in the room along with other family and doctors and he glued himself to his aunt's leg. I left the room at the sound of another page, after being given the eyes of approval from this young boy, with a prayer and a hug and a promise (at least to myself) that God's grace was in the misery.
That night I got to leave the hospital.
I got to walk out into fresh air and see the clouds of the day removed and replaced by twinkling stars.
I got to hug my mom and write a paper and sing songs in my car.
But even as I did these things the face of that young boy, the memory of him cherishing his last moments of touching his mother, stuck with me. Throughout the rest of my year and the next year of div school this memory came back and forth and I fought it off and did not know what to do with it. I found myself reflecting on it in sermons and it brought to tears (that should have been a good reminder that I was not over the moment myself… in my own defense, how could I be anyway?).
Tonight as I sat in my friend's car- pulled off the road to stare at the screen of my phone together watching the scene of a beloved character die in utter disbelief this moment came rushing back into my head and my heart. Where is that boy now? How is is family? I hope he knows God's love. I hope he can know how he shared that love with me as he told his mom of her beauty.
In the uncomfortable and embarrassing silence that followed us watching this scene I began to play music, anything to switch topics. Hold yourself together, Meg.
But, I am not sure I can ever forget that moment in the hospital- and as painful as it is I am not sure that I want to forget. Sure the sounds and the conversations will drift away but the way time stopped and love enveloped us all in the midst of tragedy will not leave me soon.
I still think about how I might have been a better chaplain- I wonder about how I could have improved in that situation- I pause and hope that anything I did, or really didn't say, did not send the beloved child of God running in fear.
Lately in church we have talked a lot about the church and how all are welcome and all gifts are valued and how the one real rule we need to stick to is to love our neighbor fully. Loving all my neighbors is hard- can I get an amen- especially when they do something to challenge me or frustrate me or make me angry but in thinking about how I love my neighbors I would like to think that the tear-filled face of a twelve year old boy resting on my lap is one way- just as sitting in a car and eating donuts watching a youtube television show scene is another.
Loving our neighbors is hard, I think, because in loving we are beckoned to see the whole person, to love the whole person, to listen and care and nurture and support the entire person.
Loving our neighbors is hard, I think, because in loving we are begged to realize the face of God in those that remind us of our worst qualities, in the worst situations and in the hardest challenges. When we fully love our neighbors we are pressed towards a reality in which all stories can be heard and all people can be named beautiful. Even when their beauty is fleeting, in standards of the world, and death is 'knocking on the door.'
I am quite certain that I will struggle with that call, that hospital visit, for a long time. I am certain the faces will not soon wipe from my memory, the names from my mind, the emotion from my chest. I just hope that as I continue to reflect I can realize that my open lap was a form of love for my neighbor. I pray for a heart that can move from sadness into rejoicing that I was allowed into a sacred space, scared and shaky, to love my neighbor with all I had: my presence, my being and the knowledge (somewhere deep within me) that the love of God was not fleeting.
Tonight I cry tears of joy and sorrow as I recall that moment. As I feel the weight of that room all over again. As I say 'Thank you, God," for your love that lets me try my best to wholly love others.
If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in. - Frederick Buechner
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