The Tunnel (Part II)

Many times my patients and their families exclaimed, after we prayed: “So beautiful!” And while I don’t quite know what made them say that, often times I sensed that the surprising element was the freedom I displayed in addressing God directly, as one who truly IS, who is up there, and down here, and who is love and grace – yes, even in the midst of our unbearable suffering. I have experienced witnessing in ways I had not practiced much before. In a context where proselytism is legally inappropriate, what is there for me to do? A lot, I discovered. And maybe it was precisely this limitation that allowed me to explore more ways to bring God’s comforting presence, and thus to expand my understanding of ministry and of God’s resources, as well as our own.

When appropriate, I have had deep conversations with patients who hungered for spiritual food. It often felt like a two-ways street: I’ve learned from them, and they learned from me. They witnessed to me, and my presence witnessed to them. I’ve prayed for them, and sometimes they blessed me with their desire to pray for me!

I’ve seen people from many backgrounds, and I’ve learned to recognize God’s image in them, even as they felt broken physically, emotionally, or spiritually. Their feelings have poured into my ears times and again, and with every encounter I felt privileged to be called to such a time and space, and hear them. I’ve prayed holding a prostitute’s hands. I’ve shivered over the woman splintered at the knife of a man. I read the story of Job to a man visually impaired. I’ve been with the mother going crazy for losing her two little ones in a car accident – all in one night.

I’ve talked with the criminal whose room was guarded by police officers. I’ve acknowledged the loneliness and feelings of worthlessness suicide survivors had been through. I’ve challenged my boundaries as I bore witness to individuals struggling with mental health issues, or with addictions. I’ve hurt with the woman molested by her cousin at age five. And in all these, I’ve come to understand and appreciate more the ministry of Jesus on earth – the Jesus who walked among the sick, the broken, the simple, the sinful. And I’ve come to understand myself more in these roles: it wasn’t just them; it was me, over, and over again: the sick, the broken, the simple, the sinful. And so in ministering to them, I was blessed with a grasp of God reaching out to me. And I discovered the grace in all of these, perhaps even the need for them.

I’ve learned the crucial importance of sound hermeneutics. I’ve seen at work the gift of free will, teaching me the grace to listen to other theologies and practices, yet at the same time the joy I take in a strengthening identity and adherence to the Adventist teachings.

I have faced many challenges, both from within, and without. Often it was as a result of those challenges that I grew most.

Besides all of this, I have grown in my identity as a woman, a Seventh-Day Adventist, a professional. I have begun to grasp the concepts of pastoral formation, authority, and competence, and I celebrate seeing it at work - in me, as well as in others. I’ve sought to find the balance between lending a listening ear, empowering people, and calling them to more responsibility, all the while looking for the presence of God in their lives, and reminding them of His love, His grace, and His power of forgiveness.

Somewhere in between all these, I’ve taken joy in writing poetry, which pretty much decided to invade my world one day, settling in almost instantaneously. We’ve become good companions, and shared a lot with each other – my poems and I, and it does not look like we’re going apart anytime soon. :)

If I were to convert the time of this year into a spatial metaphor, I would resemble it to a tunnel I walked on foot, as cars shone their lights in their glide towards the other side of it, showing me the way out. And it was precisely because of the darkness that the lights were visible - lights bearing me unto this path, allowing me one-time experiences in the lives of those who passed me by in a moment, in a hour. Lights of grace from above, offering me the privilege of an empathetic presence near a young man breaking apart as his mother passing with cancer; the prayer over a child unfully formed, too early in this world; the calm and strength to not fall apart when walking among families grieving in tears or anger, gathered around an unsuccessful CPR, around the cold body of their loved one in the Death on Arrival room, in the morgue, in the trauma bay.

And as I near the end of this tunnel, and I approach the next milestone shaping clearly at the horizon bathed in light, I anticipate with a cheerful and grateful spirit the coming of a new experience with God, and the comfort in the surprises of a life abandoned in His hands.

I would not trade this experience for any other in the world. And if I had but one year to live, I would chose to live the year I just did. For I can’t imagine more growth packed into just one trip around the sun, one trip in which I treasured the light and warmth of the Sun Who never fails to show up, even in the most unexpected places and events.
Perhaps even more so in unexpected places and events.