grimace, a groan, a wave of nausea distorts her face. It is some time before she is able to compose herself. I ask her about the “spells.” She answers, short, concise, to the point.
Well, Mrs. Day, may I take a look at you, check you over?
Ok.
The bedrails are up, creating an uncomfortable barrier to contact, to touch. In the struggle with them, the clanging metal is sharp, stark in this room of stillness. The daughter hovers. The silence builds.
Just going to take your blood pressure.
I lean over, the bed invites me to sit with her tiny frame. The hand on the dial registers her blood pressure, her eyes stare unwaveringly at my face.
Ah, Mrs. Day, you are something. Let me listen to your heart.
Her hand freed from the blood pressure cuff suddenly moves, the long nails reach toward my face, the one glancing off my cheek.
Missed your face, she says and settles her open palm on my cheek.
Her hand is warm, rough, gentle, waiting, on my cheek. I smile. It stays there as I listen. She slides it to my waist and the memory of a mother patting her daughter brings tears to my eyes. Pat, pat, pat, pat. I listen, I touch and brush the wisps of hair from her face and return the gentle caress to the worn and wrinkled face. Her eyes close.
She’s falling asleep, the doctor’s here and she’s falling asleep.
I think she is just resting. Pat, pat. Pat, pat.
She knows. She hears. She keeps her eyes closed. Her daughter slips out.
Are you in pain?
No.
Do you have these spells often?
Sometimes.
Would you like me to give you something for them?
Yes.
We “set” then, she and I, and silence joins us, giving space, and place to be before You, Lord, God, what a space, what a place.
Mrs. Day, I often ask my patients if they would like me to pray for them. Would you like that? If you would prefer me not to, well, that would be just fine also.
Yes, she nods. I take her hand, she closes her eyes and You, O Lord, bathe us in Your love.
Thank you, she murmurs.
I touch her cheek. May I come back to see you?
Yes.
Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls.
All Your waves and breakers have swept over me By day, You, O Lord, direct Your love
At night, Your song is with me.
A prayer to You, O God of my life.
Deep calls to Deep.
(adapted from Psalm 42, NIV)
Jesus, You Know
How are you, sir?
He sits in a wheelchair alone at the edge of the common room, sitting tentatively, shoulders tentative, face tentative, hands, hands held tentatively, poised as if he did not belong. He looks up startled, eyes wide. He has a gentle open face, almost like a deer’s face caught in headlights except that there is no fear, not really, just surprise and tentativeness.
How are you, sir? I ask gently again.
Sitting slowly on a nearby low table, I come alongside him and wait. He stares at me a long time. We sit in silence; we are bathed by a quiet tentativeness. I am full of Your Hope, O Lord, and he, he is tentative. He cocks his head:
You know why I am here? He half states, half asks.
I smile, shake my head no. He is surprised. He stares ahead, then away, and pauses a long time. He begins to speak. I can barely hear him. My glance at the unending noise of the huge TV in the corner catches his eye. He quickly goes to turn it off. The movement allows a shifting of position and poise. He settles into his wheelchair more.
I am not accustomed to being listened to. I was a teacher and I listened a lot but … his voice trails off.
But rarely did anyone listen to you?
He looks at me then full on, eyes intent upon me and nods.
That is right. Where are you from?
We talk a little then about who we are, visitors to the nursing home. He shakes his head.
Nowhere, his head inclines, where are you from?
I laugh. Oh, my background?
He smiles at my answer. He nods and continues to gaze at us, then he gazes at those around us. I wait gently with him.
You were about to say something?
He nods and remains silent. We wait with him.
Something is on your heart?
He looks up and away. There are no tears in his eyes but I sense them in his heart. The silence of his loneliness fills our space.
Bow down Your ear, O Lord, hear me;
For I am poor and needy. Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer;
And attend to the voice of my supplications.
In the day of my trouble I will call upon You,
For you will answer me.
(adapted from Psalm 86, NIV)
He shakes his head. He whispers:
I cannot believe you are sitting here waiting to listen to me.
We sit in silence then, a long silence, punctuated only by occasional soft sounds beginning in the back of his throat. It is too hard. He struggles, it is too much.
It is too hard right now? I ask.
He nods, trembling.
How ‘bout if we pray?
He looks then directly at me, gaze open, heart quiet in stillness and silence. He nods and we pray: Lord, Your Holy Spirit provides the praise and worship and the pleadings of this man’s heart. We lift him up in his agony of loneliness, his fear, his sense of abandonment, his grief and loss. We pray Your hope, Your grace, Your love to bring him to You for Your healing mercy. We acknowledge that by Your dying and rising, taking whatever has broken his heart and nailing it to the cross, he is a freed man in You, Jesus, a freed man in You. And Your call upon him is to:
Come, come, ye who are weary and heavy burdened,
And You O Lord will give him rest.
You ask that he take Your yoke
