Held

Receiving the kindness of others is a path to peace

A year ago I was sitting in the neurological ICU, awaiting some sign of positive change from my life-supported wife. It was now the third full day with the only sign of life being the rhythmic sounds of the ventilator. Numerous electronic beeps and blips marked the slow movement of time, hour by hour the expressions of concern deepening on the faces of the attending nurses and physicians. Their words to me began to shift, from “It’s too soon to tell,” to “the sedation should be out of her system,” to “we should be seeing some signs by now.”

While outwardly stoic (a product of my north-central Minnesota upbringing), I was internally frantic, my mind traveling the highway of what-if’s (“What if I had found her earlier?”) and what-now’s (“What will I do now if she never comes back?”) The ICU nurses were consistently attentive and thoughtful, doing their best to be present for me while caring for Claudia. The doctors, always more distanced than the real heroes in the room (the nurses), did their best to be factual, offering no false hope and murmuring amongst themselves. It became increasingly clear that the life support system was maintaining the life of a body that on its own would not survive.

As a pastor, I have spent many hours in ICU rooms with those dancing on the edge of life and their overwhelmed families, so it was not an unfamiliar location for me. What was unfamiliar was my changed role in the room. No longer the care giver, the Word bearer, the prayer offer-er, I was the one who needed the kindness of others. It was an uncomfortable role because it was one I had never been in placed in before. To receive rather than to give is a humbling — though not humiliating — experience.

I was so very fortunate to have received so many visitors, phone calls, texts and emails while waiting with Claudia those ten days. People from all four of the Virginia churches I had pastored took the time to visit us. Some brought food, others prayers, all of them their concern for Claudia and their support for me. There were people from Claudia’s work place and colleagues from across the counties in which she worked. Hundreds of people from earlier years in our life signaled their alliance with us. One of the organizations Claudia worked for paid for the airline tickets, hotels and transportation costs for any of our adult children who wanted to see their Mom. I was then and now overwhelmed by so much generosity.

When the time came for the decision no one ever wants to make, I chose to do what I knew Claudia would want, the removal of life support systems so that her wearied body and traumatized brain could find the peace that her liberated soul had already found. Because she was also an organ donor, an Honor Walk was scheduled, and on the way to the OR my children and grandchildren who were able to present, joined me as we walked with Claudia’s unconscious body down the corridors of the hospital. As we walked, medical staff stood quietly and respectfully in the hallways, along with what seemed to be hundreds of Virginia friends and colleagues.

It was my Via Dolorosa (“walk of suffering”) and one of the most profound spiritual experiences of my life. The air was heavy with grief but suffused with Love’s vital presence, as I glanced at faces etched with compassion and concern. Entering the OR, facing the next ninety minutes in which Claudia’s respiration would gradually ebb away into that stark moment of finality, I was buoyed by the spiritual presence of those who joined my children and me by Claudia’s side. We were not alone. Bereft, yes, but not alone.

Stumbling through the next weeks and months there have been continuing expressions of love. Rarely a day goes by when someone does not email or text, asking how I am or refreshing my memory with a good “Claudia story.” There are simply no words to express gratitude to all who have ensured my own survival in the wake of my dear wife’s death.

I’ve been trying to think of a way to encapsulate what this experience has been like, because while Claudia’s death has been the worst thing to happen in my life, what I received from others has been the best thing to ever happen. I can’t quite find the words to describe adequately what this has meant to me.

But I finally have a picture that captures much of it. Last night I was reading in the sun room when Otis began bumping my legs from his spot on the floor. While I’m reading he can something of an annoyance, because he’s constantly moving, trying to lick my face, nudging the book out of his way and generally too puppy-active to co-exist with a book. Reluctantly, I reached down, picked him up and plopped him in my lap.

He sniffed around, identified the pillow I had been using as a book rest, and spread his little body out, wiggling a few seconds to find the most comfortable position. And then, with a little sigh, he closed his eyes, dropped his tail and began to sleep restfully near my welcoming hands. He remained that way for the next hour as I continued to read, contentedly held as his weariness melted away in the security of my lap.

When I eventually closed my book and transitioned toward the bedroom, it hit me. This is the image I’ve been trying to find for months. This is what I’ve been trying to picture to describe what I’ve experienced from so many hundreds of Love’s messengers.

I have been held.