The phone rang. I heard the voice of Claudia, a good
friend. "I am at the ER with Wayne. He cut his wrist badly with the table
saw. He is probably going to need surgery."
"I will send out a request for prayer support to the
list right now. Keep me posted."
Wayne—her husband—is also a good friend. Although I had
laundry in, food on the stove, and was still in sweats, I soon felt the draw to
go offer what support I could. I turned down the stove, quickly slipped into street
clothes, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and headed out the door.
A brief call on my way found them still in ER, but
waiting transport to Kalamazoo. Claudia rode in the ambulance with Wayne, and I
drove her car.
Your sense of giving support is intimately linked with support
you have previously received. In 2011, when I found myself on a wild ride to
surgery and then an even wilder ride to cardiac intensive care (post surgical
complication), I was on the receiving end. Claudia sat with me in the hospital
restroom, willing my intestines to wake up. She spent the night with me. She
shared her skills of reflexology and aromatherapy.
Neither Wayne nor Claudia are strangers to pain. A couple
of years ago he was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease.
Wayne still faces surgery, but that night he was released
from ER—dressed in paper scrubs and nonskid socks. I drove them home, and it
was my turn to stay the night. We had not anticipated the experiences we would
share that day, but hidden blessings are tucked into the actions of giving and
receiving love and support.
The shop where Wayne's injury occurred needed to be
cleaned up. The estimate (all blood has to be treated as a biohazard) was $600.
Wayne's long-time close friend, Bob, and I decided to give it a try. Bob went
to buy supplies while I organized the necessary tools.
On hands and knees, the work was an act of prayer.
We spoke of our gratitude Wayne is alive.
Sharing times of personal pain in our pasts, acknowledging the miracle of friends who are able to
really be there for one another.
Pouring the peroxide out of the bottles became sacred
ritual. Wiping up the blood of our dear friend took on profound meaning for
both of us.
"I have helped bring babies into the world, and held
people as they were dying. I feel that same intimacy with you now. I am honored
to perform this act of care and I cannot imagine having been able to do this
with anyone else…"
Truth needs to be spoken. Life is too fragile to meet it
with anything less than honesty.
When the last of the "biohazard" had been
safely disposed of, I ceremoniously slipped out of my latex gloves to snap this
selfie with Bob, just one of the many hidden blessings…
