Peace at the Last

Just back from that crazy little fraternity of human suffering, the Emergency Room. The place where the middle-aged man with his ailing mother, the pretty young athletic-looking woman who seems always to be weeping when you glance at her (what is she crying about?), and the man who arrives in a wheelchair with a Black and Decker space heater box on his lap (why does he have it?) all have parity. I would have no patience in this situation, but the nurses and doctors we talked to were all polite, professional, helpful, and even, I would say, caring. Yes, it took seven hours to accomplish what probably could have been done in one, but I can't complain too much about that. What you want in this situation is the feeling that someone knows what they're doing and cares at least a little bit about what you're going through, and we got that.

Meanwhile, I'm back at my mom's house, and my mom is at Memorial Hospital getting a tube stuck up her nose. Far up her nose. I tried to warn her somewhat that this was going to happen, but then I thought I ought not to make too much of it. I had to separate my own feelings about how uncomfortable the procedure sounded from what she needed to hear at that time, which was reassurance: I'm here, I'll be back in the morning, we're all thinking of you. I didn't know what to say when I left beyond "I love you," and then I thought she might like to say a prayer. We said the old, familiar words, "O Lord, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen ..." Etc. etc. What a comfort there is in language that is strong, that somehow cuts to the heart of the matter. Its power always surprises me. I was glad I suggested it.

Now there is a thunderstorm brewing. Thunderstorms always seem bigger here, more threatening. I'm going onto the back porch to listen to it and watch it. Sleep well, everyone. O Lord, support us all the day long, until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes, and the busy word is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done. Then in thy mercy grant us a safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last.