The hurricane and the henhouse

“...Hidden in the storm, I answered you...”

--Psalm 81:7

 William Faulkner told an interviewer that writing a novel is like trying to “nail together a henhouse in a hurricane.”  He said: “You haven’t got time to be thinking about images and symbols.  You’ve got all you can manage without that.”[1] I know what he means.[2]  And what he is saying applies not just to writing, but to life as well.  In the midst of the storm one doesn’t have time for symbols and images and lessons and profundities.  In the midst of the storm you are too busy trying to keep the henhouse together to look for symbols and imagery; for grace and lessons. In the midst of the storm you are holding on for dear life –your own and those of the people you love. But, I think what I heard in Psalm 81 this morning was: if you open your ears –if you really listen—if you train yourself to be open to them –you will discover that they are there.  In the storm He answers us.

When we were at the hospital –in the midst of our storm—I had little time for thinking about symbols or images or meanings.  I was too set on trying to stay awake and by my daughter’s side.  And too worried about what might come next.  Also, I was worried about my wife and my other daughters and about my job and about getting lost in the halls, about the parking garage and what happens if I lose my parking ticket and back in the ICU there were all those monitors and those numbers that kept changing and the beeping and the IVs and the nurses who would come and go at all hours and I couldn’t remember anyone’s name and...  I felt frightened and helpless and overwhelmed.

To be there, by her side, feeling helpless and afraid, was to be in the midst of a terrifying storm; and sitting there by her side –especially in the middle of the night—I felt terribly alone.  And all I could do was keep praying over and over: Lord, help us. Please God, help us. Without realizing I had stopped praying or knowing how long I had been sleeping, I would awaken to see a nurse checking vitals or noting something on a chart or changing an IV bag –tenderly caring for my daughter—and without knowing it, I would fold back upon myself, eyes drooping closed, head slipping exhaustedly down upon my chest, mouth murmuring prayers and in my half-consciousness wondering whether God would ever answer.  Wondering whether the storm would last forever? Would we feel this helpless, this alone forever?  The storm beat us down, physically, psychologically, emotionally.  Even spiritually.  It stopped us in our feet. Everything we were doing, our lives, our work, our plans... all of it stopped. The storm came, and all that busy-ness stopped, and we were forced to put everything else aside and attend to one thing. And the strain, the effort required to focus ourselves in such a way, it was terrible. Exhausting. Utterly consuming.

And yet, looking back, as the storm fades, I can see there was signs.  There were symbols.  Images. 

I wasn’t alone.  There was the friend who spent that first night in the waiting room with my wife, the same friend who invited me the second night to come take a shower and take a break at her house.  After my shower, she and her son sat with me, talked as she peeled a kiwi and sliced it and put it on a plate in front of me. Refilled a glass with water and listened and laughed with me as I repeated stories about the hospital and my daughter, then --for some reason—the conversation wandered off to Dostoevsky and Camus and Marilynne Robinson and carrots. Invite a librarian to come take a shower at your house –see what you have to put up with.  

That was my first break from the hospital; from the storm.  And all I can remember from it is the patience and kindness of this friend and her son.

The next day I took a second break and went home to sleep for a while.  My wife and a friend were at the hospital, and they convinced me that I needed a nap.  I went.  Someone else drove.

At home I stretched out on my bed, certain that I wouldn’t be able to sleep.  Until I woke two hours later worrying about what time it was.  As I got ready to go back to the hospital, the doorbell rang.  It was someone delivering groceries.  Apparently, my oldest daughter had been getting calls from our co-workers and friends asking about what we liked to eat and what we might need.  As she was putting away the groceries she opened the freezer to show me all the frozen meals someone had already brought us. It was crammed full. As I was leaving, the counters were still covered with grocery bags and she was promising me she would find somewhere to put all of it.  Not to worry.  She opened a cupboard and a box of crackers tumbled out. 

“Not there...” she laughed.

Over the next week and a half more groceries would come, even meals from restaurants until our house was overflowing with food... In the back of my mind, I kept thinking how kind people were. How generous.  How blessed we were.  But somewhere deeper inside I was haunted by the thought that none of it mattered. All I really wanted was someone to fix my daughter.  To fix our family. To fix this brokenness. To make us whole again. 

By the end of the week we were home. She was home.  The storm was over. Maybe.  At least it had paused.  And I could breathe again.  I could put the hammer down –so to speak.  Take a long look around and see what kind of hen house the storm had left standing....  so to speak.

The first thing I noticed was all the groceries still on the counters.  The refrigerator full, the cupboards full and even as we were laughing at that somebody was pulling into our driveway with dinner from a Tex-Mex joint: fajitas and queso and chips. 

Still worried about my family, I was starting to get overwhelmed by the abundance.  It felt like one more responsibility to be worried about, one more source of stress, anxiety, and I couldn’t bear it.  But with time and a little distance I began to understand it differently. I began to recognize an image in the cupboards and refrigerator and counters overflowing with food... I began to see twelve baskets overflowing with broken bread and pieces of fish... I recognized in my own life the actuality of the miracle described in Matthew 14.  We were in a lonely place and we felt like we had nothing left; less than five loaves and two fish; and the Lord told us to sit down and suddenly there was more than we needed; the food was literally overflowing.  We didn’t have baskets, so we were putting things in boxes and bags.  But it was clearly a loaves and fishes moment! An image of God’s grace and generosity was lived out before our eyes.

But as Mr. Faulkner says: In the moment, in the middle of the storm, who has time to look for symbols and imagery.  Only when I had come to rest and feel a moment’s calm could I begin to see.  Yes.  The answer was in the storm.  And the answer wasn’t: “Everything is going to be fine.” Or: “Let me fix this.”   The answer we were getting wasn’t words or promises, it was a miraculous abundance of food and it was people dropping by to check on us and staying to have tea and share some of our cookies or crackers or carrots.  It was small acts of kindness and generosity. Acts of love.  Out of the storm God answered us: You are loved.  Your family is loved.  The answer was simple and clear.  And beautiful.

Hidden in the storm we may not recognize God, but He is there.  Hidden in the storm there is an answer, and it is simply this:  Love. 

It’s not an easy answer. And it is very hard to recognize when you are exhausted, and the henhouse seems to be falling apart... but when there is a pause in the storm, perhaps just a calm before the next, take a moment and look around at the signs and the symbols.  Take a moment to reflect; close your eyes and open your heart and listen.  They are there. He is there. And I suspect you will find the answer is always the same:  Love.

Can you hear it?

---

[1] This is quoted in Hugh Kenner’s essay, “The Last Novelist,” in his wonderful book on American modernism: A Homemade World.

[2] I’ve been trying to write a novel for years and every time I think I have a nail in place my hammer disappears!

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.