Demas

What do you do when, right in the middle of the whirlwind of your day to day, you come face to face with your Demas?  I thought I’d faded from your life for good, I thought the scars you left had been washed from my skin long ago.

But I walked right up to you, not knowing it was you, and I was halfway through my first sentence before it registered in my mind who you were.

I’ve been very angry at you before.  But I don’t really wish for anyone to come visit me at work.  Not really.

I met your eyes and instantly I knew you recognized me.  I recognized you too, and then I glanced at the patient.  The woman you’d chosen over me.  Over the little ones.  Over all of us.  And your eyes were filled with worry over her. 

I did my job and left, surprised at how the scars throbbed.  My old wounds ached, but I was surprised at how I ached for you, too. 
The inner war began – I was angry that I was sad for you.  Why should I be?  This woman was your sin.  And then I was angry at my own unrighteous anger.  I should be better.  Christ did not die so that I could live in such childish sin.  

So when I passed by again, on purpose this time, I smiled my trademark sad, apologetic smile and asked if there was anything I could do.  All I could see was your exhaustion, your worry, your fear.  You just shook your head, thanked me, and turned away.  I wanted more. 

But I then again, I’ve been wanting more from you since you left.

Finding Denouement

It’s so frustrating not to know how their stories end.  I check them into the emergency room, and sometimes I’m able to pick up on how things end up just because I’m around and paying attention.  But more often, my shift ends.  I go home. Or they’re transferred away to ICU or surgery.  I get to see the dark night of their soul, but never learn whether their story was a comedy or a tragedy.  

Maybe I’m just too tired, maybe there were just too many real emergencies in the last seven days - some weeks are just heavier than others.  But regardless, I walked back trough the parking garage today, amidst oblivious pigeons, and all I could do was yearn to finish their stories for them. 

Sarah, when your husband came in code green, I know I told you that it was just something we do for all motor vehicle accidents, but I was lying. It means “trauma” and they reserve it for serious patients.  Its an all-hands-on-deck page for backup.  What was he thinking - not having a helmet on? Motorcycles are dangerous enough and I know you say he wasn’t being reckless, someone hit him... You’ve been asking me about him every time I walk through the waiting room, asking me if he’s going to die. I wanted to pray with you so badly but never got the chance, even after I clocked out.  But listen, wipe away your tears because he is okay.  He is going to be okay.  The doctors said it was a close call but he’ll pull through and after some surgery, therapy, and some time, he’ll be as good as the day you married him, fourteen years ago.

Dorothy, in your little blue dress, it was all a mistake.  A misunderstanding - they were wrong.  You won’t be defined by this, it won’t haunt you like a distorted shadow with a mind of its own.  Also, this time without a real, loving advocate is temporary.  A family is looking for you, and whe  they find you, there will be no ‘foster’ to worry about.  Group homes and darkness aren’t the road ahead, not even close.  You are brave and good and kind and someone will make you believe this, someday soon.

It’s okay Kelley.  You’re right - 24 weeks is a little too early to deliver.  But you’re not in labor, and ‘fetal demise’ won’t be on your paperwork later today.  The good, extremely capable doctors upstairs will find where this labor-like pain is coming from and they’ll make it go away.  You and your baby are going to be okay, more than okay, you’re both going to live to have a shot at everything good and wonderful.

God, you are good. You are mighty.  You’re the only hope this broken world has, help me to live and love in the light of this truth.  Thank you for sending us salvation, hope, and a better answer to this world’s mess and pain.  When we are weary and heavy laden, you give rest. 

So tonight, I will rest.  Eventually.  I just wish I knew that they could rest, too.