The phone rang. I heard the voice of Claudia, a good friend. “I am at the ER with Wayne. He cut his wrist badly with the table saw. He is probably going to need surgery.”
“I will send out a request for prayer support to the list right now. Keep me posted.”
Wayne—her husband—is also a good friend. Although I had laundry in, food on the stove, and was still in sweats, I soon felt the draw to go offer what support I could. I turned down the stove, quickly slipped into street clothes, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and headed out the door.
A brief call on my way found them still in ER, but waiting transport to Kalamazoo. Claudia rode in the ambulance with Wayne, and I drove her car.
Your sense of giving support is intimately linked with support you have previously received. In 2011, when I found myself on a wild ride to surgery and then an even wilder ride to cardiac intensive care (post surgical complication), I was on the receiving end. Claudia sat with me in the hospital restroom, willing my intestines to wake up. She spent the night with me. She shared her skills of reflexology and aromatherapy.
Neither Wayne nor Claudia are strangers to pain. A couple of years ago he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease.
Wayne still faces surgery, but that night he was released from ER—dressed in paper scrubs and nonskid socks. I drove them home, and it was my turn to stay the night. We had not anticipated the experiences we would share that day, but hidden blessings are tucked into the actions of giving and receiving love and support.
The shop where Wayne’s injury occurred needed to be cleaned up. The estimate (all blood has to be treated as a biohazard) was $600. Wayne’s long-time close friend, Bob, and I decided to give it a try. Bob went to buy supplies while I organized the necessary tools.
On hands and knees, the work was an act of prayer.
We spoke of our gratitude Wayne is alive.
Sharing times of personal pain in our pasts, acknowledging the miracle of friends who are able toreally be there for one another.
Pouring the peroxide out of the bottles became sacred ritual. Wiping up the blood of our dear friend took on profound meaning for both of us.
“I have helped bring babies into the world, and held people as they were dying. I feel that same intimacy with you now. I am honored to perform this act of care and I cannot imagine having been able to do this with anyone else…”
Truth needs to be spoken. Life is too fragile to meet it with anything less than honesty.
When the last of the “biohazard” had been safely disposed of, I ceremoniously slipped out of my latex gloves to snap this selfie with Bob, just one of the many hidden blessings…
