House Calls with Jesus. Jude Lee
prefer me not to, well, that would be just fine also.
Yes, she nods. I take her hand, she closes her eyes and You, O Lord, bathe us in Your love.
Thank you, she murmurs.
I touch her cheek. May I come back to see you?
Yes.
Deep calls to deep in the roar of Your waterfalls.
All Your waves and breakers have swept over me By day, You, O Lord, direct Your love
At night, Your song is with me.
A prayer to You, O God of my life.
Deep calls to Deep.
(adapted from Psalm 42, NIV)
Jesus, You Know
How are you, sir?
He sits in a wheelchair alone at the edge of the common room, sitting tentatively, shoulders tentative, face tentative, hands, hands held tentatively, poised as if he did not belong. He looks up startled, eyes wide. He has a gentle open face, almost like a deer’s face caught in headlights except that there is no fear, not really, just surprise and tentativeness.
How are you, sir? I ask gently again.
Sitting slowly on a nearby low table, I come alongside him and wait. He stares at me a long time. We sit in silence; we are bathed by a quiet tentativeness. I am full of Your Hope, O Lord, and he, he is tentative. He cocks his head:
You know why I am here? He half states, half asks.
I smile, shake my head no. He is surprised. He stares ahead, then away, and pauses a long time. He begins to speak. I can barely hear him. My glance at the unending noise of the huge TV in the corner catches his eye. He quickly goes to turn it off. The movement allows a shifting of position and poise. He settles into his wheelchair more.
I am not accustomed to being listened to. I was a teacher and I listened a lot but … his voice trails off.
But rarely did anyone listen to you?
He looks at me then full on, eyes intent upon me and nods.
That is right. Where are you from?
We talk a little then about who we are, visitors to the nursing home. He shakes his head.
Nowhere, his head inclines, where are you from?
I laugh. Oh, my background?
He smiles at my answer. He nods and continues to gaze at us, then he gazes at those around us. I wait gently with him.
You were about to say something?
He nods and remains silent. We wait with him.
Something is on your heart?
He looks up and away. There are no tears in his eyes but I sense them in his heart. The silence of his loneliness fills our space.
Bow down Your ear, O Lord, hear me;
For I am poor and needy. Give ear, O Lord, to my prayer;
And attend to the voice of my supplications.
In the day of my trouble I will call upon You,
For you will answer me.
(adapted from Psalm 86, NIV)
He shakes his head. He whispers:
I cannot believe you are sitting here waiting to listen to me.
We sit in silence then, a long silence, punctuated only by occasional soft sounds beginning in the back of his throat. It is too hard. He struggles, it is too much.
It is too hard right now? I ask.
He nods, trembling.
How ‘bout if we pray?
He looks then directly at me, gaze open, heart quiet in stillness and silence. He nods and we pray: Lord, Your Holy Spirit provides the praise and worship and the pleadings of this man’s heart. We lift him up in his agony of loneliness, his fear, his sense of abandonment, his grief and loss. We pray Your hope, Your grace, Your love to bring him to You for Your healing mercy. We acknowledge that by Your dying and rising, taking whatever has broken his heart and nailing it to the cross, he is a freed man in You, Jesus, a freed man in You. And Your call upon him is to:
Come, come, ye who are weary and heavy burdened,
And You O Lord will give him rest.
You ask that he take Your yoke upon him
and learn of You, Jesus.
For You are meek and lowly in heart
And he, he shall find rest for his soul.
Your yoke O Lord is easy.
Your burden is light.
(adapted from Matthew 11:28-30)
At the Amen he gazes long at us, very long and sighs, shakes his head and murmurs:
How did you know? How did you know?
It is Jesus, sir. It is Jesus. He knows.
Your love fills us and he shares his story: of illness, of the loss of his ability to do his work, of taking care of himself, of having to depend on others, of the need to be where he could be taken care of so his daughter would not be so overwhelmed. At the mention of his daughter he whispers:
She will come to see me, won’t she? It is not too far to come is it?
We remind him of Your love, of Your sovereignty, of Your grace, of Your answering prayer with mercy and grace in time of need, his need. We remind him how much You love him. He sighs and rests in You. For Jesus, You know. You know.
She Trembles at Your Word
Knock, knock.
I call out as I head down the hallway of this clean, neat house. It is such a contrast to the place where she lived before. The porch on this home is solid concrete; the other was made of shifting boards. This home is dusted and ordered and filled with light; the other, cluttered, chaotic and dark.
She sits on her bed in a blue nylon gown, hair neatly combed and pulled back. I am welcomed into her space. I catch a glimpse of her face right before our eyes meet, before she realizes I can see her, yet am not in her view. The few seconds before someone meets your gaze are precious seconds: people’s faces, their expressions are often vulnerably exposed before their “here I am presentable “ face settles in. It is during these seconds that the safeguard over deep feeling or conviction is sometimes relaxed; a tiny bit of the person is shared, a precious gift to ponder, to honor.
She is tentative, not sure, almost as if each time she greets someone she is undergoing scrutiny, is being reviewed, is being judged. She seems to expect she will come up wanting; it makes my greeting warm, more welcoming. My delight deepens, as I sense her tension beginning to relax. She is a large woman, a result of having been hurt in spirit, heart and soul to such a point that there was safety and solace in food. Not only has food been comforting but the increased weight protects the sensitive soul within. The beauty of the person is hidden, not exposed, not vulnerable to the onslaught of evil and reproach others often deal out to assuage their own macerated and wounded selves. The protective weight often causes avoidance of one who is thus burdened. The deeper pain of rejection of the inner being, of the sensitive and vulnerable self is temporarily escaped. The expectation of rejection may soften the blow, but the heart still bleeds: drip by drip, tear by tear. Many of these women are sweet, sweet souls, tenderhearted, gentle, willing to meet anyone where they are, willing to go the extra mile, willing to be patient with the other even though they themselves have not been given such a gift. She is such a woman, yet even more.
Her humble and contrite heart grips me. I am reminded of Your words in Isaiah:
“Has not My hand made all these things and so they came into being?” declares the Lord. “This is the one I esteem: one who is humble and contrite in spirit and trembles at My word.” (adapted from Isaiah 66:2, KJV)
She