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.

 

   

The discipline of reading

“He had a daughter, Sheerah, who built Upper

and Lower Beth-Horon and Uzzen-Sheerah.”

--1 Chronicles 7:24

In chapter 11 of 1 Chronicles there is a list of names; one more list. The story was just getting started when the author gave us another list of names.  So far this book has felt like one long list; name after name. In fact, the first 10 chapters are really just a series of genealogies. Many of the names are utterly meaningless to me, names like Abishua, Gera and Shephuphan… They were sons of someone or fathers of someone and the author of this book felt it important to list them here, but rarely offers supporting evidence or an explanation why.  On the other hand, the genealogy does go back to the very beginning, so I do recognize some of the names: Adam, Cain, Nimrod “the first mighty warrior[1],” Noah, Shem, Abraham, Isaac, Israel [aka. Jacob]…  And I understand all of this is important as a kind of build up to the Kingship of David.  But it really is (for the most part) just a bunch of names, just genealogical lists tracing paternity; for example: “Sons of Reuben, first-born of Israel: Henoch, Pallu, Hezron, Carmi. Sons of Joel: Shemaiah his son, Gog his son, Shimei his son…” etc. etc. (cf. 5:3)  Every once in a while we get clues about where someone lived or what they did; for instance we learn that there was a clan of linen-workers at Beth-Ashbea and there were potters who lived at Netaim (cf. 4:21-23), and temple singers who worked around the clock (cf. 6:16) but almost nothing else in the way of details. And almost totally the list is of sons and fathers… a patriarchal genealogy.

On occasion, and it stands out because it is so rare, we hear of a woman.  Usually only because she is the mother of a son.  But, very strikingly, in chapter 7 we hear of Sheerah, daughter of Ephraim. And about her we are told not that she was someone’s mother, but that she “built upper and lower Beth-Horon and Uzzen-Sheerah.” (cf. 7:24). Coming so abruptly amidst this flood of male names with little or no details, this odd –and seemingly important-- detail stands out even more. It makes me wonder about this woman, and it makes me wonder about these long-forgotten towns she built and about the author. Who was she and why was she so important to the author that he/she would include such details? And then I wondered about her name, and whether the creator of He-Man and She-ra was inspired by this powerful builder of towns.

And then I wondered why nothing was made of her in the footnotes in my Study Bible?  Surely one of the editors must have realized that readers who get this far will be curious about her. Why does this woman stand out in this way? But there is nothing in my study Bible. I would have appreciated even a note that acknowledged my curiosity by noting that the towns are unknown and their builder is mentioned nowhere else in scripture (which is basically what I found on Wickipedia).   

But as I continued reading Sheerah fades into the endless flood of more and more names. Many readers might choose to skip over these first 10 (or 11) chapters because of the lack of narrative.  They seem like an extended (almost endless) footnote to the story of David & his kingdom. But not me. I have made a commitment to read every word of the Bible, and so I trudge on. I intend to read every the and and and thus and such—and even every name of every begotter who ever begotted or was begotten by such or thus or…well, you get my drift.  My approach is this:  If this is the Word of God, then every single word of it must be worth reading; not a comma or a consonant to be skipped.  And yes, before you say anything, I understand that this is not necessarily the correct or scholarly or even most efficient way to read the Bible; but it is part of my spiritual exercise (or discipline) to read it and to read it all. I also know that this doesn’t make me special; I am informed that there are many people who have read every word of it multiple times and to them I say wow[2]!  My approach is to surrender to the text; whatever God gives me to read each day, I read it.  If it is beautiful and inspiring, I read it.  If it is a simple (and tedious) list, I read it.  My plan is to just follow Him, page by page, chapter by chapter.  At my reading rate, it will certainly take a while (years and years), and I know it will take patience and will-power (which I sometimes lack) and humility; I had to humble myself and read all those laws in Deuteronomy, and all those census tallies in Numbers, and all those details about the ark and the tent and the altar and the bowls and lampstands and ephods in Exodus… Or was that Leviticus?

Barely a ¼ finished, already I am looking toward reading it all again and hoping more sticks the second time around.  But for now, I am just submitting; I am just opening the book each day and reading the next verse, the next chapter, the next page.  Meeting whatever or whoever the Lord puts before me… And learning what I can from it.  My plan is to simply follow the Lord wherever He leads.  And isn’t that a good lesson in itself? 

---

[1] At least Nimrod gets a kind of epithet.

[2] I’m impressed.  For me, this effort/exercise is taking a lot more time.  After about 2 ½  years I just arrived at 1 Chronicles (about ¼ of the way through).