WRideout
10-17-2016, 11:55 PM
Matthew 25:40
My wife, Betsy, interrupted my musings with a request. “Wayne, I got permission for you to visit Mary in the hospital, if you would like to go.” I am always ready for a mission of mercy, so I quickly agreed. Betsy is an ID supports coordinator at her agency. That is the field that used to be called MR, until that became a bad word. I am constantly amazed at the love and care that she shows to her clients, whom she considers to be almost like family after years of working together.
When we arrived at the hospital we walked quickly past the nurse’s station and down the disinfected hall to her room, which was marked with a large sign “Isolation Precautions.” Mary (not her real name) was in very bad shape. She had suffered from physical and mental disabilities for years, and had lived in a group home for disabled people. A kindly volunteer had spent hours with her, and had discovered that she had a desire to know God more deeply. The volunteer suggested that she might like to be baptized, and the staff at the home arranged for that to take place.
But by the time I was there to visit, she was in the hospital with an infection that could not be cured by any means currently available. We went through the door of her room, dressing in yellow paper gowns and latex gloves as we entered. Mary looked exhausted. Her limbs were crooked and stayed in one position. Her hair was plastered down as it does when one is in bed for days. When we spoke she did not answer, but her eyes showed the light of understanding. We talked to her, assuming she could hear and understand, and then I prayed for her aloud. After a few more moments, we discarded our isolation garments, and departed. A month or so later, she had gone back to the home under the care of hospice nurses. One day, when Betsy drove there for a monitoring visit, she knew that something had changed when she saw all the cars parked in front of the house. She went in to find Mary surrounded by her staff, waiting for the moment she would leave this world. Betsy stood with them, and prayed her home.
When we went to the funeral home for her memorial service, the room was packed with people; mostly care givers who had worked with her for years. They wept openly as the priest gave his eulogy. The priest, who had known her only briefly, spoke of her beautiful spirit, the loveliness of her heart. He said that in the months before she died, she had felt the urging to be baptized, and he had been able to perform this rite for her, and bring her into the fellowship of all believers.
When the service came to a close, the group broke up into knots of people standing around and reminiscing, as people do after a funeral. I thought about Mary, who perhaps had not accomplished much that this world would find worthy. She left no inheritance, patented no inventions, had no children of her own. But she did one thing; she loved, and was loved in return. And that is enough. It is more than enough.
Wayne
My wife, Betsy, interrupted my musings with a request. “Wayne, I got permission for you to visit Mary in the hospital, if you would like to go.” I am always ready for a mission of mercy, so I quickly agreed. Betsy is an ID supports coordinator at her agency. That is the field that used to be called MR, until that became a bad word. I am constantly amazed at the love and care that she shows to her clients, whom she considers to be almost like family after years of working together.
When we arrived at the hospital we walked quickly past the nurse’s station and down the disinfected hall to her room, which was marked with a large sign “Isolation Precautions.” Mary (not her real name) was in very bad shape. She had suffered from physical and mental disabilities for years, and had lived in a group home for disabled people. A kindly volunteer had spent hours with her, and had discovered that she had a desire to know God more deeply. The volunteer suggested that she might like to be baptized, and the staff at the home arranged for that to take place.
But by the time I was there to visit, she was in the hospital with an infection that could not be cured by any means currently available. We went through the door of her room, dressing in yellow paper gowns and latex gloves as we entered. Mary looked exhausted. Her limbs were crooked and stayed in one position. Her hair was plastered down as it does when one is in bed for days. When we spoke she did not answer, but her eyes showed the light of understanding. We talked to her, assuming she could hear and understand, and then I prayed for her aloud. After a few more moments, we discarded our isolation garments, and departed. A month or so later, she had gone back to the home under the care of hospice nurses. One day, when Betsy drove there for a monitoring visit, she knew that something had changed when she saw all the cars parked in front of the house. She went in to find Mary surrounded by her staff, waiting for the moment she would leave this world. Betsy stood with them, and prayed her home.
When we went to the funeral home for her memorial service, the room was packed with people; mostly care givers who had worked with her for years. They wept openly as the priest gave his eulogy. The priest, who had known her only briefly, spoke of her beautiful spirit, the loveliness of her heart. He said that in the months before she died, she had felt the urging to be baptized, and he had been able to perform this rite for her, and bring her into the fellowship of all believers.
When the service came to a close, the group broke up into knots of people standing around and reminiscing, as people do after a funeral. I thought about Mary, who perhaps had not accomplished much that this world would find worthy. She left no inheritance, patented no inventions, had no children of her own. But she did one thing; she loved, and was loved in return. And that is enough. It is more than enough.
Wayne