I wrote this piece for the Fall issue of "Crossings," the CDSP newsletter. -DM
I can't remember his name, afterward there would be too many others; but every other detail of that night is fixed in my mind, outlined in fluorescent. The pager buzzing me awake at three in the morning, the cool darkness of the CPE on-call room, the worry in the eyes of the night-shift nurse, the family weeping in fear and exhaustion from their vigil, and finally, him, the one whose name I can't recall. They had just decided to place him on comfort care, they told me, the morphine drip opened wide to cancel out the pains that ravaged his body, to apply a final panacea to the AIDS that stole the life of this twenty-two year old man, dying in front of me. The rasping, shallow gasps from behind the oxygen mask told the story plainly, and each time he skipped a beat, each mind in the crowded room thought, but never said, that it might have been his last.
In my own weariness and exhaustion I fumbled foolishly with the prayerbook, praying silently that two years of seminary, systematic theology, church history, field education, would somehow prepare me for this terrible space of suffering, grief and death. I placed my hand on his forehead and I began to pray, the words feebly filling the space between our two bodies: “...a sheep of your own fold, a lamb of your own flock...” Words that sounded more confident than their speaker, bursting with the promise of life everlasting: “Receive him into the arms of your mercy...”
Fredrick Buechner says that all religion is “wishful thinking.” I think that's another way of saying “faith.” It's faith that bread and wine are Body and Blood. It's faith that words printed on tissue paper can change the world, it's faith that what is unseen is more important than what is seen, and finally, it's faith that my shaking hands and bleary eyes and quivering voice can find service in the Kingdom of God. Seminary helped me find the faith, hard-won and wavering though it sometimes is, to get out of the way and let the Spirit do its work.
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This is an illustration of a time when nothing we can say is adequate. All that we can do is be: be present, be full of sorrow, be available to help with minor needs. I've heard the "be a light" response, but it seems self-righteous to me. I can ache for this young man and his family, but I cannot imagine how any of them feel. The Spirit can do it's work with us or without us. With is better.
ReplyDeleteIt's often better, I think, to allow the space for grief, to uphold it and embrace it as normal and natural. In the words of St. Paul: "Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn"
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