“God frequently speaks to us from a ‘burning bush,’ in the fretful whimper of a feverish child, in the anxious questions of a preoperative surgical patient, and in the frail moans of a fragile elder.”
— Mary Elizabeth O’Brien
This is my wife’s story. She told it to me after an escort shift at the hospital and I felt compelled to share it.
It’s fall.
She’s lying in front of me on an uncomfortably thin mattress, flat on her back. The ambulance is taking us to get her FEES (fiberoptic endoscopic exam of swallowing) done at another hospital. She’s strapped down to the stretcher, looking out the rear window, past the tubing and assorted medical equipment that lines the walls.
It was her 91st birthday yesterday.
She has been really sick these past few days. Her charts tell me that she has been in the hospital for three weeks now. The difficulty she has had swallowing has made her unable to drink fluids and she has had nothing to eat; an IV is running to help hydrate her body while a feeding tube brings nutrients down her nose and into her stomach.
I’m looking at her. But, I soon realize, I’m not seeing her.
She’s got a nosocomial infection that she acquired while at the hospital. Essentially, she has terrible diarrhea. She reeks of it, and the more I look at her, the less appealing she becomes. Her teeth are stained blue from a procedure she had in her mouth. There’s a pail nearby in case she vomits — most likely caused by a feeding tube being advanced at too high a rate. Her frail, bent, arthritic hands are covered in skin-like tracing paper.
And I think to myself, “How does she reflect God?”
Not long ago I wrote a paper articulating my belief that every person is created in the image of God. Imago Dei: a profoundly meaningful belief that all humanity reflects something of our Creator. I’m reminded of a phrase from my paper: “For the ones the nurse cares for are the fragile vessels of the God who weaves a meaningful cosmos out of the chaos of nothing.”
But reality is good at testing theology.
“The trees look so beautiful today.” Her voice gently but forcefully pulls me from my musings. The sincerity in her tone strikes me. No cliché. No desperation for another’s agreement. “I’m so thankful I was able to get out today to see the leaves changing colours. By the time I’m better they will probably all have fallen.”
I ponder her words, spoken so matter-of-factly.
“You’re good at seeing the bright side,” I say to her. She replies, “Well there’s usually more good things than bad things.” A slight pause. “Unless there’s a tornado or something.” I smile, not daring to laugh in the face of such a pure, no-nonsense conclusion. Apparently she really doesn’t like tornados.
I’m enjoying her, so I ask, “What’s your secret to living to 91?”
“Be happy in the space you’re in. Be satisfied with few, rather than a lot. Go live in a poor country for six months and see how grateful they are for the little they have. Listen. And be kind to others.”
Arlene* is her name. She goes on, talking about some practical ways to be kind to others, like filling shoe boxes and packing them with your friends to send to others in need. “It doesn’t cost you much, just a little time and effort.” I start writing the things Arlene is saying down, not because I’ve never heard them, but because I’m believing them.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I hear from God.
Gravity will have its way with us. Entropy will win over this fragile body. We all deteriorate and die and I see it every day: we get no say in the matter. But choosing gratitude is up to us.
It’s His desire for me to choose gratitude, and I’m hearing it through Arlene.
The only reason Arlene got out to see the fall leaves in the first place was because of a test she needed to assess just one of the many ways in which her body is failing. She is so sick. And while you could make a case for Arlene’s external image reflecting God, there’s a very apparent reality: she is not doing well.
And yet.
And yet she has cultivated a garden of gratitude in her heart; something I could have easily missed at first glance. Truly seeing people — seeing the unseen in them — helps me see God.
