House Calls with Jesus. Jude Lee
into a home filled with blessing. It has given her a hope and deep joy. It has given back a part of her soul where being respected, honored and loved is part of her everyday life. Kind words and acts are not so rare anymore. And she has in turn, become grateful, so grateful and grace-filled.
We talk and tend to that which her physical body needs. I realize she is losing weight. In the encouragement that spontaneously erupts, I sense tears sitting at the threshold of her heart. We talk of her medicines, of small changes that would help her feel better and lessen the burden of her body’s suffering. She is so grateful for the smallest effort. I feel unworthy of her gratitude. It is You, Lord, who are working miracles. She catches my eye and tears tremble and fall.
I hope so, she whispers. This place…
Her eyes register her room, her home and her heart remembers her family that welcomed her in:
They are so good to me. Jesus has so blessed me. He has given me so much.
Then we must praise Him.
She nods as she gathers my hand into hers. I kneel then before her, the place where I should be, not before her so much, Lord, but before You in her, for the mightiness of Your grace and mercy are so visible. At the calling out of Your name, she trembles. She trembles. My voice falters; the tears well up and my heart overflows with the resonance of both the depth of past sorrow and overflowing joy in this woman. Only in You, Lord, can the depth of sorrow and suffering coexist side by side with deep joy in beauty. We are touched by Your grace. We are overwhelmed by Your mercy. We are brought to our knees in adoration because You are love. You see through our outside selves which are so imperfect, so filled with blunderings and recrimination, so filled with burdens and sorrows that have packed their way around us and around our hearts, sheltering us, providing insulation against future hurt and future love. But in this woman, in this place, in Your presence, light has dawned:
You, Lord turn darkness into light. (2 Samuel 22:29, KJV)
You Lord, enlighten our darkness. (Psalm 18:28, KJV)
In You is life, and Your life is the light of men.
And the Light shines in the darkness…
That is the true Light which gives light to everyone.
(adapted from John 1: 4-5, 9, NKJV)
Without Your light, without Your love my Lord, our burdens are so heavy, our sufferings ponderously grievous. But You who spoke and said: Let light shine out of darkness (2 Corinthians 4:6, NKJV), made Your light shine in our hearts, made Your light shine in this woman’s heart, to give her the light of the knowledge of Your glory, in the face of Christ. You speak to her and say:
You were once darkness, but now you are light in Me. (Ephesians 5:8, NKJV)
Live as a child of light, my beloved. Live as a child of light.
For you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood,
a holy nation,
A people belonging to Me that you may declare
My praises.
I have called you out of darkness into My wonderful light.
Once you were not a people but now you are Mine.
Once you had not received mercy
But now you have received mercy.
(adapted from 2 Peter 2:9-10, KJV)
She trembles at Your Word, O Lord, in Your presence. She is humble and contrite in spirit.
Ahhh, dear one, you are becoming so beautiful.
I hug her cheek to cheek. We stay quietly together in Your presence. Her sobs fill our space. Your presence fills our hearts and joy overflows, Lord. Joy overflows.
More Time
Four dead in ten days. Half are prepared.
Half are not.
We want to think there is more time.
More time.
He is thin, very thin, with a face contorting into tears upon hearing my words:
I am glad God kept you alive because I had to see you one more time.
He is unaccustomed to such words. All his life, he has chosen the path of being a loner. No deep relationships except a very few. He has never married. He says he can do with or without people. He says there is no one that really matters to him. On uttering these words, his face strains desperately to contain his feelings. When asked, he says, it is nothing. But it matters I say gently and the tears well up again. The long silence that follows is not to be interrupted. He quietly gathers himself, then thanks me for coming. In the same way, he refuses my offer to pray for him, but he says it is okay that I pray for him in my car.
So thin, so haggard, so weary: lung cancer with metastasis to the brain and bone; a diagnosis given less than two months ago. He has been ill a long time, turning from being tall and thin to cachectically thin, a concentration camp thinness that is painful to see. His refusal to see a doctor, to have anything done, speaks of a subliminal suicide desire. His friend called in hopes we could convince him to get help.
On that first visit, he sat in the big easy chair, sunk deep in its soft bowels, his legs bent, long, skeletal before him. Cigarettes to his left, TV on, the curtains drawn, the room dark and smoky. He was hesitant to let me into his room. It was a rocky start when he nervously tapped a cigarette and shakily lifted it to his mouth.
Please, please would you not smoke now?
He stopped cigarette mid-air and looked, stunned that after he had already been asked and turned off his TV, now this? No smoking in his own space at this time? Incredible. “What do you think you are?” his face said. His silence was cold, distant. Then he shrugged and placed the cigarette in the ashtray.
It, the shrug, would become his most often said comment. Shrugging off sorrow, worry, faith, relationships, struggle. But deep down inside, it would eat at him much like this cancer was eating, eating, eating him. His only acquiesced concern was pain, physical pain. The rest of his heart was locked away under years of shrugging and silent hurting. He shared little of his past. As a young boy he was always quiet, thin in the background. He was cared for by an aunt, not his own parents. She had died not too long ago. That admission caused a long pause and hesitation. Tears stood at the edge of his thin, sunken eyes and stayed there; they did not fall.
He would share one or two memories or thoughts for each visit. Then, as if having been exposed enough, he would draw into himself and become silent, shrugging through the rest of the conversation.
He almost died. He quit eating suddenly and his friend as steadfast and methodical as he was about most of life; kept right on giving him his blood pressure medicine, his sugar pill, and his pain medicine. On seeing him that day, he was still sitting in the easy chair, sunk back into it. Every now and then, he would jerk, straining to not fall asleep or tip over. He refused to get in the bed. It was easier to sit upright in the chair and rest. A cigarette recently put out was in the ashtray. The room smelled of smoke. It was filled with a stagnant weariness heavier than usual because the man before me could not even shrug.
His blood pressure was barely audible, his pulse thready, his respirations very shallow. I was not sure he was going to make it. We adjusted medicines and I prayed silently for him. I prayed for him to make it so he would come to know You. The hospice nurse was there and out in the living room; the friend talked and talked. He shared how his friend’s illness had affected him, worried him, how much loss he had suffered through recently. Several family members had died in the last month. And then the cat, the cat had been run over by a car. His voice broke. He cried. The tears fell.
He, unlike his friend, shared a lot, his vulnerability achingly visible, his need for comfort openly spoken. We listened, comforted. I asked if I could pray for him and his friend. He offered that it was okay but that was not really something he was ever interested in much. I assured him that we did not have to pray. But he was insistent that I do, giving the impression that it could not hurt and it might help his friend. Might help. Indeed, You answered prayer,