Sunday, March 31, 2013

The Meaning of Miracles

I sit here this Easter morning reflecting, as I have always done on Easter morning since Joseph died. This is my church. This is my sunrise service.

I have the benefit of a beautiful bay window at the front of my house. I can see through it clearly from Joe's chair, where I sit while he snoozes. The dawn filters through in hazy reflections of blue-violet light, seeming to highlight the fresh green growth that will be this year's set of leaves. It is overcast and humid and birds are singing their morning Hallelujiah. I cannot imagine any church service feeling more close to God than this right now. It is like reflecting on a coming journey home, like missing a place I have known and quietly accepting I will not be there for some time to come.

This year has me reflecting on miracles. Obviously, for those of us of Christian faith, this is a day of the acknowledgement of the potential for miracles right here in this world we live in. For some time after Joseph's death I found this day to be something mighty to cling to, bittersweet, almost desperate. This year is quieter inside. There is more a sense of "yes, I believe" than a sense of "Dammit, this had BETTER be true".

This was a challenging week for me at work. I found myself caring for a family who had suffered an incredible loss and were facing a very uncertain future. Some members of the family were quietly coming to terms with the situation as it was. Others were fervently decking themselves and the patient's room with religious symbols and girding their loins to battle for their miracle with every ounce of energy in them. I found myself struggling - struggling on how to best support this family. The miracle would be very unlikely. The truth would be very painful. It felt like a spiderweb of critical negotiations, being supportive without offering false hope. Offering hope but not imply promises that would lead to broken hearts and a feeling of betrayal later on. Being practical without seeming to condemn or criticize. It is a tight rope and it wraps around my heart with a tension that is at once unbearable and yet essential. It is the very depth of God's work. It is heavy, exhausting, fraught with emotional landmines that could blow both them or me apart.

One of the most difficulty and yet most necessary parts of being an RN - the ability to evaluate oneself so as to provide the best care in the moment for one's patients with clear recognition of personal beliefs and prejudices that might impair the ability to give the patient and family what they need at the time. It is not unusual to have families react during illness in dramatic ways and it is not unusual at all to be pushed out of one's comfort zone in providing care during these extreme times. What is a normal work day for me is may at times be, in fact, a massive shift in the universe for the patients and families I care for. Remembering this fact is not always easy and at times living it is completely draining. And witnessing the family going through the bittersweet dance of goodbye is like wading into a quagmire of personal memories. Those memories pull and suck at me and I constantly guard against the undertow that turns this away from being about the family I am helping, that whispers darkly back toward my own experiences. I find the fight fulfilling, the flexing of a muscle that grows stronger every day. But in these situations, I flex it to exhaustion.

What is the meaning of a miracle anyway? For many years I have a deep, unseated anger tucked behind a curtain in my mind. I hate hearing people credit God for saving their loved one. It automatically implies He chose not to save mine and the jealousy that roars inside me is a dark, all encompassing fire. I have learned to get around this by learning to pray for peace. For understanding. For acceptance. For grace. Oh how often I have prayed for grace!! I pray for this more than anything else anymore, because I find it is almost always granted to me. I may not be able to influence the outcome of any one situation. But if I carry grace within me, I always have something to give. And the only balm I have found for the loss of my child, that raw internal hole, is the ability to give. How amazing it is to me, that this ultimate loss is what fueled my ability to break free of total selfishness and catalyzed in me both an ability and a desire to do something better with myself. Is that not a miracle, in its own way? Was I not healed, in a sense?  The darkest and least grateful parts of me have been rearranged into something that feels right inside myself. Humble and yet strong. Tentative and yet sure.

Who am I to judge whether another person should pray for their miracle? I cannot always be a vessel to make that happen, and it grieves me inside. When people are at the desperate door of loss and change, anything that does not forward their broken, last ditch efforts to prevent the loss or change comes to be seen as part of the cause. This is a part of my job I find hard to swallow and always will. It does not matter what my intent is to a broken, desperate soul. All that matters is whether I have saved. And I sadly do not have that power. I am not a savior. I am learning to forgive myself for that and doing so has required that I learn to define myself by myself, not by the vision of others. I can love them, do the best I can with all I am, give them my broken, tender heart through my actions and my burgeoning skills and competence....never have it be enough, simply because there isn't enough...not in all the world. The end comes to all in its time. The best I can do is stand ready to serve.

I do not know how hard I will fight when my own time comes. I like to contemplate in these modern days of my soul something beyond this to which I may return - something familiar and beckoning, a destination in the future that I am traveling toward. A long journey home. Until then, I pray for wisdom that I may assist others through the crossroads of their lives that land them in my lap. I pray for peace. I pray for courage. I pray for self forgiveness and I pray for self knowledge, self reflection. I pray for grace. I pray. That in and of itself is a miracle.

Happy Easter everyone.

3 comments:

Karen said...

sending love and hope to you... you have a difficult job, and I am amazed that you could do it so courageously after your son's death. that's a miracle, too, isn't it.

Karen Gerstenberger said...

It seems a miracle, to me, that Joseph's life has led you to a new life of your own...to fulfilling abilities, desires and service that God clearly gifted you with. Though I wish fervently that Joseph were still with you in body, I do see that his life and spirit revealed these gifts to you - what a legacy he left! And I do believe that he (& Katie) brought us to know each other. I will always be grateful to him - to them - for that.

Happy Easter to you. He is risen!

KristyS said...

An incredibly gifted writer you are Sheri. You should publish your blog. I am still reading.