Some days, when I go to the hospital to do yet another clinical rotation, I’m overwhelmed by the tremendous privilege that this is to be able to spend time with people who are hurting, sick, broken, and sometimes dying—to have the freedom to help mend those broken bodies, to have the time to talk with patients about their fears, to have the opportunity to speak hope and pour love into souls that are wounded and searching—this is an amazing thing to me...and an incredibly beautiful opportunity.

But sometimes, when you go into a situation expecting to minister, to pour out, to give, to build up, and to be spent, you find that in an uncanny way, the one who is actually ministered to is yourself.

Last Monday was that kind of a day.

The elderly patient that I was caring for was a former Navy corpsman. In his day, he was a man who commanded respect—when he spoke, men listened, and things happened.

But now, he’s a pitiful heap of bones with skin stretched tightly over top. His frail body is home to an equally fragile mind, a mind which wanders over many places, although none of these places relate to his current reality. His withered body is wracked by disease and spent by the years. He is dying.

Somehow knowing that someone is dying does not always prepare you for the reality of the death process, however.

As I stood in his room, watching his claw-like hands grasp at imaginary intruders at the head of his bed, I was struck deeply by the fact that someday, it’ll be my father in that bed…and then someday…it’ll be me.

How often we forget how brief our stint on this planet really is, I thought, taking the hand of the confused old man in my own and stroking his arm gently.

His tired, sunken eyes met mine, and a beautiful smile lit up his face for a brief second. It was like the sun bursting through clouds after a storm, and I had to choke back the lump in my throat.

His son came later to spend the day with his dad.

Sometimes, as a nursing student, it’s a little bit intimidating to have the family of the patient in the room when you’re providing care, but this time was different.

The son was a soft-spoken, gentle, middle-aged man with kind grey eyes that twinkled out from a friendly round face.

It was a pretty quiet day on the floor, so I spent most of my time just standing in my patient’s room, sometimes holding his hand if he got restless, or fetching things if he needed them.

The ancient Navy corpsman was delirious, and unaware of his surroundings, but he recognized his son’s face. Watching the two of them interact was an incredible thing.

The elderly father was very hard of hearing, and all of the nurses yelled in order to make themselves heard when they were in his presence.

But the son never yelled. Instead, he would lean over the bed, cradling his dad’s head in his arm as he spoke directly into the old man’s ear in a low, calm voice. For hours, he would stand beside the bed, one hand gently placed on his father’s wrinkled head, listening to his dad talk incoherently about myriads of different things from the son’s childhood.

Every once in a while, the son would turn to me, grinning slightly, and share a story from when he was little—things he remembered about his dad.

“He was an incredible man,” he murmured once, gazing fondly at the gaunt face on the pillow, “and there was nothing he couldn’t do.”

The old man opened his eyes slowly, looking around with a confused expression.

The son sat down on the bed beside his father, placing one arm gently around the old man’s shoulders.

“Dad, it’s me,” he said, leaning in close so his father could hear him, “I’m here. It’s ok. Just rest…I’m not leaving.”

He stayed there, seated on the bed, his hand placed tenderly but firmly on his father’s forehead.

The tears welled up in my eyes as I watched. I thought of the many years during which this father was there for his son…the hundreds of times when he came alongside and put his arm around his son and assured him that everything was ok…because he was there…because he wasn’t leaving.

And now the father and son had traded places…and it was the younger with his arm around the elder, assuring him that everything was going to be alright…because he was there…and because he wasn’t leaving…because he understood the importance of being there to help his father die…because he understood that goodbye is something that you say with your actions, with your time, with your touch…not a few words that you mutter as you pause in front of the casket at a funeral.

It was a heart-wrenchingly beautiful thing to watch.

I wish that more children understood this version of love. I wish that more of us understood the importance of giving of ourselves—of giving back, of being available…even if it means just being there to hold someone’s hand as they die.

Because sometimes...it's the little moments that nobody will ever really know about that truly matter the most. And some of the sweetest lessons in life come through giving to those who can't say thank you.

Today, as I was preparing lunch for the elderly couple with whom I live, a couple of the grandchildren stopped in. Being delightfully inquisitive little people with quick minds, they all congregated in the kitchen to supervise as I worked and share tidbits about their aspirations for the future. There are three children: Marissa is 11, Caleb is 8, and Isabelle is 4.

Isabelle, who is a charming little girl with big brown eyes and soft brown ringlets (which she finds keenly annoying due to the fact that they insist on falling into her eyes) was animatedly telling me about where she and her siblings are going to live "when they all grow up."

“Yes,” she said, nodding enthusiastically, “we’re going to have a big mansion, because Caleb and Marissa are going to make lots of money. Because they’re not going to get married. They’re just going to make money.”

Marissa nodded. My curiosity was piqued.

“So you’re the only one that’s going to get married, Isabelle?” I asked absently, dropping diced potatoes into a pot on the stove.

“Yes,” she said emphatically, “and you know why? It’s because Caleb and Marissa don’t like kissing on the lips.”

I had to try really hard not to laugh.

“Oh,” I said, “they don’t like kissing on the lips?”

“Yeah!” Isabelle’s face was oh-so-serious.

“What if they just didn’t kiss on the lips? They could get married then, right?”

Isabelle’s lips pursed as she pondered this. Finally, her face brightened, and I could see that her keen little mind had hit on something brilliant.

“Oh!” she said energetically, “I know! They could just kiss on the cheek! Or maybe the forehead. Or just the head.”

“Or they could blow kisses,” I said, shrugging, still trying really hard not to laugh.

“Yeah!” Isabelle was getting more and more excited.

“Plus,” I said thoughtfully, “Marissa might change her mind about kissing once she gets to be about 18 or 19.”

“No,” Isabelle shook her head decidedly. She was quite sure this would never happen. Marissa didn’t say anything.

“So you’re all going to live in the same house?” I asked.

“Yeah…and you…you can live with us too! We’re going to have a big house, with a huge, huge deck—bigger than Annie and Mark’s deck.” I nodded knowingly, although I have no idea who Annie and Mark are, nor how big their deck is.

“And we’ll have a pool!” Isabelle continued, “And a room for the boys, and a room for the girls. And I’m going to have lots of kids.”

“So you and Marissa and all of the girls are going to stay in one room, and your husband and Caleb and all of your boys will stay in the other room?”

She nodded.

“And we can build a separate room for you!” she squealed excitedly.

My goodness! What a tempting offer. I may have to seriously consider this option...in about 20 years.

I sometimes wish that life were simpler...but in my saner moments, I'm incredibly grateful for the fact that it's not, because honestly, how does one learn to surf in an ocean without waves?

Ran across this quote by C.S. Lewis in a book that I was reading this morning, and it challenged me--challenged me because sometimes, in moments of selfishness, I feel like the easy way out is to withdraw, to love people less, to be more guarded, to care on the surface level instead of seeing the hurt under the surface...when in fact, that's a coward's response that refuses to confront the real issues.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable." --C.S. Lewis

There is a frustrating inconsistency in the way we, as Christians, view the history of our faith…one which I see often, and have experienced myself on several occasions.

You see, I have lost count of the number of times that I’ve heard a reference made in conversation to all of the “horrible things” that have been done “in the name of Christianity.”
Sometimes it’s verbalized by a Christian, who hangs his head slightly, and mumbles with a touch of embarrassment as he concedes that such is indeed the case. Other times, it’s an atheist or agnostic friend, who points somewhat self-righteously to the fact that religion clearly is not an answer if it is capable of being so atrociously perverted and utilized for such unjust ends.

I will not deny that atrocious things have been done in the name—or under the auspices—of Christianity. The Crusades are perhaps the most well known of the abuses perpetrated in the name of the community of faith, but for hundreds of years, Christians and non-Christians alike took part in other practices which have today been criminalized in our society, such as slavery, or the open demonstration of anti-Semitism.

Let’s be a little bit realistic, though. If things which our “modern” society now considers to be horrific have been done in the name of Christianity in the past, is this a reason to vilify the belief system itself? Are atheism or agnosticism better philosophical systems, if we base that judgment strictly on the effect which each system has upon mankind?

What legacy –what lasting imprint on the face of humanity—has been left by atheism?

While this is a question we may not often ask, it is a sobering one to answer, because in truth, atheism has left a bigger trail of human carnage in its wake than Christianity ever has or ever will.

There are the scars left by Hitler’s Third Reich…the legacy of the Nazis…the silent horror of the millions of men, women, and children who lived and died in the hells of Auschwitz, Dachau, Belzec, Chelmno, Majdanek, Sobibor, and Treblinka.

There is the ghastly reality of Russia’s Red Army…the anguish in the tears shed by the tens of thousands of innocent Russian citizens starved to death and brutalized under Stalin’s merciless political regime.

There is the legacy of Mao Zedong, the revolutionary under whose leadership 40 to 70 million Chinese men, women, and children were slaughtered.

There is the brutality of the genocides committed in nations like Burundi, Rwanda, Pakistan, and others…mass murders which have claimed unimaginable numbers of human lives, and left millions more homeless, destitute, maimed, and broken.

Have awful things been done in the name of Christianity? Sadly, yes. And worse things have been done in the name of atheism.

But this is not evidence for the defectiveness of Christianity as a belief system. It is rather a testimony to the brokenness of the human soul and the darkness of the human mind. I grieve for the fact that humanity is so badly broken. But I do not apologize for God...and I am not ashamed to call myself a Christian simply because, in the past, broken humanity has done tragic things in the name of a faith it did not understand.

Counting the Costs

It is seemingly a cruel stroke of fate and one of the incongruous realities of existence that it is those whom we most love that we are, in fact, most capable of hurting deeply.

I have thought on this long and regretfully during the past year…and again during the past week. Sometimes I marvel sadly over the fact that we can wound someone more profoundly than we know through something as simple as a careless word, a thoughtless action, or a disrespectful attitude. How is it that, knowing all that I know, I still haven’t learned not to damage those around me? How is it that I still inflict wounds on my fellow man? Still mar those who have been—like me—made in the Divine image?

How we view others is perhaps largely a function of how we view God…and how we view ourselves.

Today I hurt someone that I love…because I lost sight of who God is, and I allowed my focus to shift to myself, my needs, my feelings, my insecurities…my rights. And according to the rules of my myopic, self-focused little world, I was justified in my impatience, in my lack of compassion, in my judgmental attitudes…in my lack of love.

What I so often fail to realize is that in my myopic, self-focused world, there is no room for others…and there is no room for a loving, compassionate, forgiving, and gracious God. There is room only for one flawed, sinful, broken individual…and there is no healing and no hope.

I wish sometimes that I could turn back the clock…that I could undo the thoughtless deed, the hasty word, or the judgmental glance, and replace it with something Christ-like. But the reality of it is that we can’t…that what is once done can never be completely undone, and what is once uttered can never be unspoken.

And so it is with humility and a keen sense of my own inadequacy that I echo the words of David tonight when he says in Psalm 19:14, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, O LORD, my strength and my Redeemer.”

After all, it is our words which expose us for who we truly are…as Christ says Himself, “A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart brings forth evil. For out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks.”

May our words and our actions consistently bear testimony to the treasure which is within our hearts…and may we have the humility to admit when we are wrong, the grace to ask for forgiveness, and the persistence to seek reconciliation of damaged relationships...

The evolution of human development throughout the life cycle is nowhere demonstrated so clearly as in our conversations. I was musing on this the past week as I observed a number of subjects, all of them at different points in the age spectrum.


At one point, it was a couple of toddlers squawking exuberantly at each other, waving their pudgy arms emphatically, and stamping their little legs to add meaning and emotion to their incoherent babblings. Both children were completely unaware of the fact that this sophisticated process was communicating approximately nothing to their audience.


Then there were the groups of giddy, giggling teenage girls. For this particular age group, every conversation must apparently be punctuated by laughter, whispering, or shouting, or it is much less meaningful to them, and naturally, much less fun as well.


Finally, it was the group of old men sitting in the corner at Hardees. They were very seriously discussing something of great interest, such as whether cows would ever have the capability of producing purple milk…but every sentence on the part of one member was followed by puzzled looks and several loud “Huh? What was that now?” comments from the other members of the group as they all reached up to adjust their hearing aids again.


Ah, humanity! What on earth would we do if men were truly islands? Failed attempts at communication are the spice of life.