Poetry, laughter & the Trinity

“…and they hid from the Lord…”

--Genesis 3:8

The other night I was visiting a friend’s wife in the hospital.  She had been in the ICU for 2 weeks and he just needed a break. He asked me if I would just come and sit with her for a few hours while he got away.  He assured me that she would probably be asleep, but he just didn’t want her to be alone.  So, I grabbed my Bible and a book of poetry and headed up—expecting to have some time to read.  But, as fate would have it, the patient was awake and though she couldn’t speak above a whisper (her breathing tube had been removed but had left her throat very sore), she wanted to talk—or at least wanted to hear talking.  So, I sat, held her hand, and we whispered back and forth for a while; about everything and anything: her husband, my family, the weather, the discomfort of hospital beds, and feeding tubes, and the blessing of family and friends who wouldn’t let her alone.  When our conversation dwindled down to a series of silent pauses punctuated by the beep of medical equipment, I offered to pray a rosary. In part, I thought it might give her comfort, but I also half imagined it might help her fall asleep. 

When I finished she seemed to be asleep, but as I put my beads away she opened her eyes.  She looked afraid.  I assured her I wasn’t going anywhere and offered to read to her and picked up my Bible.  But then I remembered a poem in the book I’d brought and offered to read it to her. She shrugged and nodded okay, as if to say: well, if that’s all you got to offer…

But, I thought she might enjoy it and assured her we could read a Gospel next, if she liked.  Anyway, the poem was by W. S. Merwin, and it was about Adam and Eve leaving the Garden of Eden.  In the poem an angel is told to give them something before they go.  The angel doesn’t know what it is, or what it is for, only that (despite the fact that they can’t keep it) he is supposed to give it to them.  The poem is called “The Present,” and it ends with Adam and Eve simultaneously reaching for the gift:

“… they both reached at once

for the present

and when their hands met

they laughed”

When I finished, she asked me to read it again.  I did.  And then as she looked at me, expectantly, I felt a need to talk about why I liked the poem so much.  It’s because of that laughter at the end.  “Their hands met,” and “they laughed.” There is something profoundly simple in that little bit of theological insight. A picture of community: their hands met—and renewal: they laughed.  For me, what I keep thinking about is the Genesis image of Adam and Eve hiding from God. They isolate themselves, separate themselves from His presence and finally even from each other: It’s her fault. She made me do it!  But, the snake made me do it! The complete unity of the garden, the harmony of Eden, breaks down because of sin; sin that isolates and divides. Yet in this beautiful little 14-line poem there is hope held out, a gift from God that can help Adam and Eve survive, and what is it? It is community.  Their hands come together, and they laugh. 

What I hear in this poem is an implied lesson about Eden, original sin, and the consoling power of community.  Of just being together. Though I did most of the talking, she nodded, she smiled, she asked me to read the poem again.  And as we talked, even laughing at one point, I felt the truth of Merwin’s words lived out right there in that hospital room: the consolation and comfort of community—of friendship, of love, is truly a healing gift from God.   

And I realized that the opposite is true too, and is implied in the poem’s allegory: division, separation, isolation, loneliness are somehow linked to the very nature of sin, from the very beginning.

And I began to wonder if there wasn’t a lesson here about God’s very nature: about the Trinity, even.  If sin is to turn away from God, to separate ourselves from Him, divide ourselves from Him by choosing what is not God, then perhaps the unity of the Trinity isn’t so much a mystery as it is an example.  “Be perfect, as your Father in Heaven is perfect…” Jesus says (Mt. 5:48). And maybe that doesn’t just mean: follow all the rules; but maybe it really means something like: love one another, take care of each other, you were made to be community --Just like Your Heavenly Father.

A lonely place

“...God left him alone to test him

And discover what lay in his heart...”

–2 Chronicles 32:31b
 

“...This is a lonely place...” 

--Matthew 14:15

After a day in the ER, followed by three nights in the ICU and an anxious walk through the empty halls of a 4 am hospital; I think I understand a little better now what it means to be in “a lonely place.”  But I am still struggling with the why.

It all started with a strange voice calling out to me:  Mr. Sutter!

It was early Sunday morning (three weeks ago), and I had gone for my morning walk down at the park.  Being my normal too friendly self, greeting all the other sleepy morning walkers (I still call myself Jorge, the Happy Jogger –even though I stopped jogging years ago), I am used to calling out greetings to everyone I meet, and rarely getting any response.  So, hearing my name startled me.  I was looking around when I caught a glimpse of a young woman with purple-ish hair coming from a car calling again:  Mr. Sutter.

That was how I found out my daughter was in the emergency room.

According to the visitor’s badge I still have, we arrived at the St. Joseph’s ER at 7:44am. For a time we had to sit in the waiting room not knowing if she was alive or dead. Not knowing anything. Helpless. Waiting for someone to speak to us, to allow us to see her; our daughter. Sitting there holding each other, praying and waiting and anxiously looking about –we were helpless and frightened. Alone.  The uncertainty was the worst part. No. The fear was. No. The waiting...

Out of desperation, I kept glancing back at the TV on the wall behind us.  A rerun of some unfamiliar sit-com; a Christmas episode involving a Nativity pageant and discovering the true meaning of Christmas.  I kept thinking how strange it was and wishing someone would turn it off.  But a small family on the other side of the room seemed to be watching; so did one of the security people.  My wife and I held hands and waited. Praying. Glancing about. Waiting.

Finally, someone called our name. We were led back.  She was resting for the moment.  But that ended pretty quickly. A seizure and sudden violent thrashing, followed by another bout of quiet. During the calm, the nurse talked to us. Asked us what we knew. Then told us what she could. Nothing encouraging.  No assurances that she would be fine.  Just the solemn declaration that what happened was very serious; but she was young and she was in the best place possible. 

My wife sat down on one side of the bed and I sat on other. We took her hands, held them, clutched them.  Clung to them.

We were stuck in there about 8 hours.  Anxiously holding her hands through each seizure, watching the monitor with each spike in her heart rate, each incomprehensible cry for help or hope or escape... we couldn’t tell.  All we knew was that this poor struggling creature was our baby and that even the experts didn’t seem to know what to do. 

By 10:30, phones started beeping and moaning.  I think it started with my brother calling me to ask about our mom. Or maybe it was a friend checking to see if I had ever seen some British comedy from the 40s that was on TCM that afternoon.  I can’t remember.  It didn’t matter. I just wanted it to stop. The phone calls. The texts. The beeping monitors. The sudden seizures... the nurses. The doctors. The man wailing from the other room. People walking by –looking in, never speaking to us. Just watching. Just waiting. I just wanted it all to stop.

When people started calling, my first reaction was to throw the phone away.  Not answer. Or lie. Say everything was fine; I would call back later.  But I couldn’t. I answered and spoke and when help was offered I just said yes.

Soon friends were there: a priest we know came to pray over her; a friend from work came with his wife –just to be company. He convinced me to get out and get food.  Again and again we were told that this wasn’t going to be a quick sprint. It was going to take time and we were going to need to be strong. We had to take care of ourselves, so we could take care of our daughter.  But it all felt meaningless. And regardless of whether we ate or not, regardless of who was there, we felt helpless. Useless. Alone.

Around 6 or 7pm that night she was moved to the ICU.  Suddenly we were being told the rules of who could be where and when; and implicitly encouraged to keep out of the way.  My wife and a friend left for the waiting room and the nurse took a chart and stepped out of the room and suddenly I was alone with my daughter and her monitor started beeping again and the numbers kept rising and I called out and no one came and the numbers kept rising and I was standing there alone about to watch my daughter die and there was nothing I could do about it.  Then the nurse was there calling for a crash cart and before the cart could arrive the numbers started going down and though we didn’t know it then, I think that was probably the turning point.  Though we were there for 2 more nights, nothing so dramatic happened again. The numbers never went so high nor did the beeping ever get so frightening.

Though the nurses didn’t like it, they finally agreed to let one of us stay with her overnight. I slept on two chairs pulled together right next to her bed.  My wife and a friend of hers slept in the lobby. One of the nurses brought me a blanket and a pillow and warned me that if anything happened I had to get out of the way. The patient was their main concern. I nodded. Yes.  She was my main concern as well.

For three nights I slept there in those two chairs.  The doors to the ICU were always locked. Any time I had to leave (go to the bathroom, get something to eat) the doors would close behind me and I had to call someone to let me back in. The first night this felt strange, and made me anxious; what if no one answered the phone? What if I couldn’t get back in?  The second night I felt a little safer.  I had the phone number memorized and knew where things were.  And by the third night, it was becoming routine.  I was becoming comfortable sleeping sitting up in a freezing cold room with a hum of monitors and the constant sound of hospital work quietly going on all about me.  I knew when they woke me at 3am that they needed to do something with her IVs and give her a sponge bath and so it was time for me to stretch my legs and take a break.  Groggily I wandered out to the waiting room with my Bible and my Rosary and my journal... my holy relics? 

Sitting there, shivering, half awake, I felt grateful for a moment’s reprieve.  For a few minutes I could sit and read or pray or try to write a word or two... anything.  For a few minutes I might escape the constant fear that was my sole companion as I sat there day and night watching her suffer, waiting and wondering if it would ever stop.  But in truth there was no escape.  I sat in the waiting room and discovered that even at 3:15 in the morning I was no alone.  There was a woman sitting off to my right –her head tossed back and over to the side, mouth wide open—she was dead to the world –snoring with abandon.  And huddled in a corner over to my left was a man about my age wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He had pulled his arms into his shirt and pulled his legs up in the chair, curled up almost fetal-like, and was leaning over into the corner under a flickering light snoring also.  I sat there with my notebook open trying to write something –but nothing came to except the stereophonic sound of exhaustion and escape.  I watched the woman and the man, and wondered who they were waiting on; what was keeping them here at this hour. And I wondered about the ability to sleep in a public place. Never have I been someone who felt comfortable sleeping in public. Napping –even on my own couch at home—makes me uncomfortable.  I think I have always feared being observed unawares; becoming the comic figure in someone’s anecdote.  The man with his arms pulled in his shirt and wrapped around him, seemed a pathetic figure; but there was something sincere and unconcerned in the woman’s deep untroubled open-mouthed breathing.  I am not that free, I thought. I could never be.  I envied her the respite—the escape.

A nurse came up in the elevator, scanned her badge and headed into the ICU.  And I thought about going back in, but knew they wouldn’t be done yet.  But hearing the elevator open and close, I remembered that there was a vending machine with ice-tea down on the 2^nd floor.  I had a couple of dollars and thought –what the heck. I needed something to keep me going until I could get back in –otherwise I might make this somnolent duet into a trio. 

After getting my ice-tea I walked around the 2^nd floor a bit. There is chapel down there.  A waiting area. And hallways heading off in a few directions.  I circled the lobby, looked at the stain glass of the chapel, wondered about who might go in there.  My legs were stumbling, shoes catching on the carpet; I was so exhausted I could barely bend my knees and lift my feet.  My third night without real sleep.  It was like when the girls were babies and wouldn’t sleep. I would take them out in the stroller at 2 or 3 or 4 in the morning and walk the street, half asleep on my feet. Waking up to find myself bumping into the curb.  Here I was again.

I went back to the elevator. Pushed the up button.  And nothing happened. I pushed it again. Looked at the light for the elevator behind me. Nothing. I pushed the button a third time. It wasn’t even lighting up.  That was when it occurred to me: the nurse with her badge.  After visiting hours, you have to have a badge to make the elevator work, too.  But... I needed to get back up to the ICU. I had to get back to my daughter. Surely they were done by now and I needed to get back to her. But how?

I found the stairs. The door wasn’t locked. I headed up. But when I got to the 4^th floor (ICU) it was locked.  And no window. I couldn’t see where I was even.  I went back down. I thought: if I can get to the lobby, surely a security person will let me back on the elevator and send me back to my daughter. But when I got down to the bottom there was a warning sign saying an alarm would go off if I opened the door.  And I could see that it led out to the street –not the lobby.  I was panicked. I had left my daughter alone and now I couldn’t get back to her.  And why? To get a bottle of ice tea!  Good, Lord. How could I have been so stupid? So foolish? So selfish?

Back on the 2^nd floor, the door still wasn’t locked. I got back in to the empty lobby –near tears. My heart was racing.  The bottle of tea in my hand disgusted me, but I couldn’t let it go. It was the reason I was here –a sign of my weakness.  I looked around for a phone. Nothing.  It was silent. Like a mausoleum or an empty hospital.  I felt utterly alone. I have never felt so alone.  My wife had gone home exhausted.  She entrusted me with the care of our daughter and I had failed.  How could I tell her that I had left our child alone so I could go get something to drink?  I was so frightened and exhausted I couldn’t even formulate a prayer. I was struggling just to tay awake. Words weren’t coming. No one was coming. I felt abandoned. Alone.  Abandoned even by God.  Abandoned to my own stupidity. I looked at the chapel. I whispered half of a Hail Mary but couldn’t remember the rest... I tried again. I was desperate.  There was nothing left in me but desperation.  All I wanted to do was throw that stupid bottle of tea at those stain glass windows and scream.  Or sit down and cry.  But I didn’t. Instead I told God I needed help.

There was a plate glass window on the wall near the chapel.  It looked out on another wing of the hospital.  It was then I noticed there was a hallway leading to that wing.  I had been so afraid of leaving those elevators that I hadn’t paid attention to the fact that there were hallways heading off in 2 or 3 directions; someone has to be here, somewhere.

Before long I caught a glimpse of a woman pushing a buffing machine into a supply room.  I told her my situation and she shook her head and said something about those darned elevators.  Then she told me to come with her and lead me through some winding halls into an empty operating area where there was a large silvery elevator for transporting patients to and from surgery.  She scanned her badge and within seconds I was back in the ICU.  She wished me well and went back to her work. 

In my desperation I thought I was alone, I felt abandoned; but the fact is –I wasn’t alone.  What does that tell me about God leaving us alone? Testing us?  What is the test?  I don’t know? Did I pass? I don’t know.  Did mine involve the temptation of the vending machine? Being too prideful to risk sleeping in a public space? Or was it simply this:  a test to learn my own insufficiency. To learn some humility. To remind me that I can’t do it all on my own.  To discover what was really in my heart...  I don’t know.  What I did learn was this: we are never alone.  Not even in our darkest hour. Not even when we have brought it on ourself.  Even when the elevators don’t work and the stairs only lead you away... don’t give up. You aren’t alone. You are never alone.  Reach out. Even if all you have is half a prayer. You may be afraid, but don’t give up.  He is there. Walking with you.  Maybe even pushing a buffer.  That was the lesson I learned that horrible night in that almost empty hospital. That very lonely place.

p.s.

When I got back to the room my daughter was awake. She smiled. A little embarrassed. I kissed her head and sat down and held her hand.  I don't remember falling asleep. But I did.  A hour or two later a friend texted me. Instead of throwing it, I looked at my phone. He was in the lobby with coffee and breakfast from McDonalds.  Like I said... I was never alone.

 

   

Today I set before you two choices: life and death--which will you choose?

As a result of this, many of his disciples
returned to their former way of life and no longer
accompanied him. Jesus then said to the Twelve:
Do you also want to leave?   --John 6: 66-67

How often does life come down to commitment? One question: are you committed or not? Are you all in or just dabbling?  Are we committed or not?  Or the alternative question might be: What are we committed to?  In the words of the old folk song, “Which side are you on?”

First, I will say that I am –I think—someone with commitment issues.  I am always (and much too easily) tempted to just blow things off; it’s kind of my go to reaction to almost any interruption or snag in my plans.

“Dad, we’re out of dental floss!” 

“Honey, cancel those airline tickets; looks like I’ll be heading to HEB this weekend.”

Thursday evening I was planning to go the hospital and volunteer, but by the time I got home from work, I was tired and looking for any excuse to “have to stay home.” This isn’t something I’m proud of, but it is something I live with. I don’t know how much of it is simple laziness and/or how much is a deep-seated psychological problem with commitment. Regardless, it is not always easy to get myself going. But it is always good for me when I do.

When I got to the hospital, I found that the chaplain had forgotten to leave me a list.  My first thought was that this must be a sign from God: Return thou to thy grilled cheese and Dr. Pepper and regular Thursday evening TV viewing habits.  But, something inside me said: probably not. SO,  I walked over to the business office and asked the cashier, showed her my badge, explained the situation and after a brief wait, she gave me a 6-page list of about 40 names (and room numbers). Of course, I couldn’t do them all, but I could do some. So I sat down and looked the list over to see if there were any names I recognized; people I know, or people I have visited before. Nada.  After whispering a prayer, I crossed myself and headed to the elevator. First stop, 3^rd floor; ICU.

Walking through the ICU, you see faces of exhaustion, fear, confusion, resignation; family and friends standing around the edges of a bed, watching a sleeping body, uncertain what to do. Hungering for a word of reassurance.  And in the beds the almost lifeless look of the sleeping patient with the tubes and cables strapped to them, blinking and flashing monitors hovering close by.  As they awaken you a kind of frightened emptiness fills their eyes; an emptiness that seeks only to be filled with comfort, consolation--hope. I have a lot of respect for ICU nurses.

The first two rooms I visit are empty. The beds have been cleared and remade and they await the next round of fear and hope and help.  But in the third, the patient is turned away from the door with her back to me.  She is motionless. Maybe asleep.  And then I notice a sign on the door asking visitors to speak to a nurse before entering.  Of course, this too could be a sign from God. So, I go find a nurse. Instead of telling me that I need to turn back and go home (that Dr. Pepper is still waiting for me…), she smiles and says: It’s okay. Go on in. 

In my heart I was still thinking: it is possible this woman is asleep.   At this rate I could get through all 40 names in less than an hour. Coming back to her door though, I found the patient had turned over and she was looking straight at me. Entering the room, I introduced myself and that was when I noticed the tube coming out of her throat.  Stopping at her bedside, I put my hands on the rail and spoke her name, intending to ask if there was anything I could do for her. But, before I could finish she had reached up and taken my hand in hers and held it so tight it hurt. Her nails digging into my palm, she clutched my hand and waved it slowly in small circles above her. I stood there, just gazing into her eyes, stunned by their fear, their desperation.  She clung to me and I let myself be clung to –there was nothing else I could give her.  We were like that for several minutes. Just staring at each other, holding onto each other; just being there—together—so that we weren’t alone.  And of course, that was when I knew –this is where I am supposed to be. This is exactly where I am supposed to be. Right here. Right now. With this frightened and lonely person, letting her cling to my hand and not saying a word. I was made for this.

As the intensity of her grasp subsided, I could see a calm fill her eyes and asked if she would like me to say a prayer.  In response, the circling became more intense and her head nodded slightly.  So, I did. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but I know I asked the Lord to let His healing and His blessing be ever present through the hands and the words and the touch of the nurses and doctors and all who entered that room. And I asked that the Lord open our hearts to the grace of His love; His will. And then we prayed the Lord’s Prayer together. I saw her lips moving silently softly forming the words.  We were together maybe 20 minutes. I had never met her before, and will probably never see her again; and she never said a word –but she spoke to me like a prophet with her anguished eyes and that desperate grip and those fierce nails.

Too often when life gets hard, or inconvenient, I retreat to safety, sink into the couch of routine: what I know and what makes me feel comfortable.  Too often, I turn away from the challenges and the difficulties; the places where Christ hopes to meet me.  That night I didn’t.  And thanks to that woman, and her wordless message, I hope to change not just my habits, but my heart.  I hope to…

Over the past couple of weeks the Church’s sex abuse scandal has returned to the news.  And now for two Sundays in a row I have waited for the priest to say something about it, and for two Sundays –nothing; instead we have heard bad jokes and spiritual platitudes… I understand that priests are human, and they get anxious and fearful and even lazy at times; much like me.  But, I think when there is a scandal of this magnitude, we --the people in the pews—are in a kind of ICU moment.  We are confused and frightened –like we are awakening from a nightmare—and we need someone to offer us a hand to hold, to offer us a word of comfort, to tell us that they too are confused by it and they too are frightened, but that they aren’t going to avoid it. They aren’t going to go back to their former life and their old ways and pretend like nothing happened.   As Pope Francis made clear, the best way to heal such a wound is not to cover it up but to open our hearts, our lives, our eyes and get it out into the open and let the sunlight and the Lord begin the healing.

For me, that is the real challenge in life –to face it, to open your heart, to open your eyes and to go forth and face the life God gives you, to receive and be nourished by the bread that God gives you to eat each day, and to find in it the Love of God.  Don’t turn away and go back to your former life; that road leads to the couch, and a kind of living death… 

As Peter said when Jesus asked the apostles if they planned to leave Him:

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” (John 6:68)

We are called to be alive; not to be safe, not to be cautious, but to be alive. Yes, life can be hard, the times can be tough.  But a life worth living requires a little effort, and a lot of commitment. Get off the couch and go out into the world and be alive; be a living witness to the love of God.  Don’t hide.  Don’t take the easy way… Don’t play it safe. Each day we have set before us two choices: life and death, blessing and curse…  I say take a risk; make a commitment; choose life. (cf. Deuteronomy 30: 19)