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.