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—1—
And a Child Shall Lead Them
The Meyer family had traveled all the way from Texas, only to be told that nothing could be done for their three-year-old son, Jimmy. Nothing, nothing at all. The child had an inoperable brain tumor that had not responded to multiple trials of chemotherapy and radiation. I imagined the growth inside of his head, spreading its toxic tentacles like an octopus seizing a long-awaited meal.
I came upon Jimmy and his mother in the pediatric playroom. As I was making my rounds on the ward, I heard the sound of clattering toys. I peered into the playroom and was immediately taken with a sight that left me temporarily mesmerized. Jimmy was running in circles around the room, dragging a blue plastic wagon filled with blankets and an oversized stuffed bear. The sturdy cart was normally his mode of transportation, faithfully pulled by his mother on the frequent days when he didn’t feel so well. It was evident that Jimmy took great pride in doing himself what his mother usually did for him.
Mrs. Meyer sat perched on the windowsill, her tear-stained eyes staring off into the distance. I wondered what she was thinking about: what the doctors had said, what it would be like without her son, how much time the family had left together? In any case, she seemed to be avoiding participating in Jimmy’s play, as if it would be too painful to enjoy what would soon be taken from her.
While Mrs. Meyer’s thoughts appeared to be traveling into the inevitable future that she dreaded, Jimmy’s mind remained focused on the only thing he knew—the moment at hand. “Whew!” he sang gleefully, followed by a giggle, watching the wagon temporarily escape the command of his little hand. Jimmy’s ignorance of his terminal illness appeared to be a blessing, his innocent mind not yet subject to the distortions of a world of worries. Unlike his mother, and unlike me, Jimmy seemed to possess an ability to live fully in the joy of the moment. He reminded me of the children who, having witnessed Jesus’ healing power, shouted, “Hosanna to the Son of David!” (Matthew 21:14–16).* While the chief priests and teachers worried about the implications of those words, the children simply celebrated them for the sense of exultation they brought to the very moment. Jesus, citing the words of King David, then proclaimed in response what had already been written: “From the lips of children and infants, you have ordained praise” (Matthew 21:16, Psalm 8:2).
As I watched Jimmy carelessly roam the room like any healthy toddler, I wondered how he could be terminally ill. Surely the same question had crossed Mrs. Meyer’s mind countless times on the rare days when her little one was blessed with such boundless energy. By the grace of God, Jimmy was not at a point to understand his grave situation, only to simply receive whatever it brought each day and the next. In his simple trust, I saw the kingdom of heaven. In his very being, I was encouraged to grow up in my own faith and become like a child.
While part of me felt a tremendous sense of peace in watching Jimmy, another part of me felt ill. I was angry that the precious little boy that the Meyer family had been granted was likely to be taken away just a few years after his birth. One day soon, Jimmy’s head would no longer be able to accommodate the ever-increasing tumor, leaving his life-preserving brain tissue vulnerable prey to the insatiable appetite of the growth. According to the doctors, it was only a matter of time. “Why Jimmy? Why Jimmy?” I raged at God inside my head, recognizing that my anger was probably miniscule compared to that of Mrs. Meyer. But then, in the midst of my frantic questioning, another perspective seemed to settle into my thoughts with the clarity of a flashlight shown into a dark hole. “Why not Jimmy?” I heard. “Why not Jimmy?” Yes, Jimmy was young and cherished, but who was I to say that his life was more valuable than another’s? Who was I to decide who could rightly die and who couldn’t? To be angry at God was an understandable response, but to try to play God was a waste of time and energy.
I was suddenly arrested from my sea of thoughts by a loud crash. I immediately looked up to find Jimmy restoring the toppled wagon and picking up Bear, the fuzzy brown stuffed animal that had been thrown out during the collision. He carefully placed Bear back on the blankets and then resumed towing the wagon as if nothing had happened. For Jimmy, the calamity simply seemed like an integral part of his play, just as suffering had most likely always played a regular role in his life.
Aroused from her trance by the discord, Mrs. Meyer looked to me expectantly. I walked into the room and introduced myself, initially greeted by Jimmy. The toddler stopped his play momentarily and stared up at me with a friendly grin. In his glowing face, so full of genuine hope and void of harmful presuppositions, I felt the warmth of God shine on me with the intensity of a heat lamp. “And whoever welcomes a little child like this in my name welcomes me” I could hear Jesus speaking to my heart (Matthew 18:5).
Jimmy’s delightful expression served as a powerful complement to his bald and swollen head, which resembled a giant cantaloupe, big enough to knock the rest of his little body off balance. In his unique appearance, I saw the poles of suffering and joy, of death and new life, converge into a harmonious whole.
Mrs. Meyer responded nervously to my introduction. “Hi,” she said in a shaky voice, looking down at the floor as if to hide her grief-stricken face. Interestingly, Jimmy appeared not to be affected by his mother’s display of emotion, at least on a conscious level. Perhaps he had grown accustomed to tears now, realizing that they were simply a part of life.
“We better go meet Daddy in the cafeteria,” Mrs. Meyer suddenly blurted, gathering her belongings. It was clear to me that she didn’t want to talk or even spend time with me. Perhaps she saw me as additional confirmation of her son’s dreary fate, another messenger of the bad news. I flexed accordingly with her plans, knowing that only she could dictate the process of her own grieving.
“Pastoral care services are always available to you if you have any need,” I mentioned as she made her way toward the door, lugging several bags in one hand and the wagon handle in the other. “Thank you,” she responded in a brief yet sincere tone. Jimmy and Bear sat contentedly in the wagon, the little boy waving to me as they rounded the corner into the hallway.
©1999 Michael O’Neill McGrath, OSFS
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—2—
Beyond Pity
A gentle knock sounded on the conference room door. I collapsed into the back of my chair and let out a deep sigh of frustration, for just when I had managed to find some free time for my writing, I was immediately interrupted. But then through the grace of God, I remembered that my time is not my own, but rather God’s to be used for His own purposes. “So what will you have for me now, Lord?” I thought to myself as I got up to answer the door.
A short and plump middle-aged woman appeared before me, looking up at me with a heaviness that spoke of shame and despair. Her eyes were partly covered by a black hat that sealed her head like a pen cap. I wondered if her hat gave her the security that her tattered heart could not. She was dressed in a ratty Orioles sweatshirt and untied tennis shoes, both worn from what I imagined were endless days of wandering the city streets for something that couldn’t be found there. I sensed that her ragged appearance was a reflection of the brokenness she felt inside. Perhaps she was on the verge of realizing that she could no longer take care of herself. Little did she know she was headed in the right direction.
“Hi. My name’s Linda,” she muttered. “I just really need to talk to someone here.” She looked up at me in a plea for help.
“Come on in, Linda,” I replied, wanting to provide a safe place of hospitality for her. She quickly made her way to the nearest chair, eyeing the challah rolls on the table reserved for that day’s Sabbath service. In a strange way, I wanted to offer her one, knowing that it was indeed bread for the needy. Instead, however, I decided that we were free to seek God’s nourishment in its countless other forms.
“I was thinking we could pray and then maybe … maybe go to the cafeteria,” she quickly yet hesitantly petitioned, anxiously scanning the room around us. “I mean, I don’t really have any money, but maybe you could get me just a little something.”
“Okay,” I responded with a gentle smile and a nod, wanting to offer her a bit of control amid her chaos. At the same time, however, I wondered if my willingness to accommodate her was simply serving as a deposit into a bankrupt account of manipulation. Just how many people had she approached with such pleas, thinking that, like shots of cocaine, their temporary provisions would solve all of her problems? Disappointed over and over again, she would lock herself into a circle of empty promises. Despite my uncertainty, I decided to give Linda the benefit of the doubt, remembering that no matter where she was on her journey toward God, she still needed the light of His grace to lead her way.
As I watched Linda squirming in the seat next to me, I thought of Jean Valjean, the released prisoner in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. Marked as a convict forever, he finally found shelter in the home of a compassionate bishop. In the middle of the night, he robbed the kind man of his silver and fled just before daybreak. The police eventually caught Jean and brought him back to the bishop. In his mercy, the bishop simply gazed into the eyes of his offender and cheerfully asked him why he had forgotten to take the candlesticks, as well. The policemen released him from his shackles, and Jean’s life was forever changed through the power of grace. I only hoped that one day Linda, too, would receive the grace that would be forever extended her way.
It didn’t take long for Linda to unload her story. Tragedy after tragedy gushed from her lips, as if our meeting were the only context in which they could be spewed forth. “Well, my boyfriend of twenty-three years, he gone with some other woman. And my children, I got three, but they don’t love me anymore. One got taken away, adopted. One fell out of a window. The other, I just never see him. I’m just so pitiful.” She laid her load of troubles on the table before us and then paused, as if she expected me to pick them up and repackage them into a tidy arrangement that she could store away forever. Little did she know that the peace she sought was in the midst of her pain, that the answers she looked for were buried amid the complexity of her questions.
“I was in here for two weeks for depression, you know, but now I’m out and I don’t know what to do,” she continued, seemingly trying to push herself further into the illusion that someone else had all of the answers to her questions and solutions to her problems. “I’m just so pitiful, so pitiful,” she continued, caught in the rut of a destructive self-image. It occurred to me that the evil one had her right where he wanted her.
Hoping to shatter her notions in order to give way to Truth, I simply acknowledged her pain and asked her what she would like to include in prayer. She looked at me, as if somewhat confused by my question. “Aren’t you supposed to know that?” I could hear her saying to herself. Yes, I could speculate, but such prayers usually end up as attempts to fill my own needs rather than those of the patient.
After a brief prayer “for everything,” we made our way to the cafeteria. Linda hastily picked out a soda and a cream cheese pastry. Again, she was seeking nourishment from sources that tasted good for the moment, but had no lasting value. I wanted to say, “How about a bagel and some orange juice instead?” but then I realized that I could only provide a place for her to choose, not make the choices for her.
Linda sat down at the nearest table, the food seemingly more important than the company during the meal. I watched her wolf down her pastry in a matter of seconds, and then commented, “Linda, you are really hungry.” She just nodded, her mouth too full for words. Little did she know that I was speaking of a different hunger, a far more intense hunger that only manifested itself in pastries, people, things, places, everything—everything except God. Unfortunately, I sensed that Linda was too frantically full of her own temporary solutions to allow God’s lasting solution to fill her.
“Do you have any spare change?” she asked after her last bite of pastry, seeming to already need another fix. I mindlessly reached into my purse and pulled out a dollar. As I handed it to her, I heard the Voice inside me say, “That’s not what she needs!” But the moment had passed and it was too late. I, too, was weak, and in my ignorance I sought comfort in the illusion that I could be her savior. Linda and I were more alike than I wished to believe. I only hoped that she, too, would be set free with the knowledge that only God holds the keys to the desires of our hearts.
As we made our way to the cafeteria exit, Linda seemed rushed and anxious. I wondered just where she was planning to go next. Moreover, I wondered just how long she would choose to forfeit the gift of God’s mighty home for her own useless shelters.
“I wish God listened to my prayers. I don’t think He listens to prayers from people like me. I bet he listens to you, though. I’m just so pitiful,” she muttered with each hasty step.
I stopped in my tracks and leaned up against the side of the hallway, deciding that I was not going to reinforce the harness of pity in which she was imprisoning herself. I, too, had been down that road before, presenting myself to others as helpless in an attempt to get their reassurance, in an attempt to get them to do for me what I needed to do for myself. How challenging and humbling, yet freeing and renewing it was to realize that if I was willing to see myself as God’s beloved, then my self-hatred would be transformed into a newfound humility.
“So you think you’re pitiful,” I reflected.
She nodded and then shook her head in shame.
“And?” I queried, inviting her to remove the blinders she had tied in knots around her head. Linda just looked at me in a blank stare. Apparently, she didn’t get it.
“What do you mean, ‘And?’” she asked, wrinkling her nose as if my question stunk. I hoped that one day she would smell the sweet essence of God’s grace in the memory of my words. I asked her what she thought I meant, and she continued to look confused.
“Well, the God I know came for the sick, not the well,” I bluntly offered to Linda. “And I don’t think I’ve ever met a single person who doesn’t suffer from some sort of illness. So when I say ‘And?’ I’m asking you what you will choose to do with your situation.” I looked directly into her eyes, hoping to convey that the decision was hers to make. Linda then looked down at the floor, as if she were attempting to skirt the pivotal question.
“Can I give you some food for thought?” I queried, sensing a piece of scripture descending into my mind. She nodded, as much to accept the offer as to escape the discomfort of the moment. In our refuge lane amid the traffic of the hallway, I pulled out a copy of the Gideon’s New Testament from my bag and opened it to the book of Hebrews.
“‘For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses,’” I began reading, “‘but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin. Let us then approach the throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need’” (Hebrews 4:15-16).
“Hmm,” Linda muttered. I wasn’t sure whether her response indicated that she was reflecting on the scripture or just attempting to make it look that way. In any case, God’s word had been offered, and I trusted that Linda would receive it or not receive it in her own time.
“Here, you can have this,” I said, handing to her the Gideon’s New Testament. Finally, I sensed I was giving to her a tangible item that she did need. She took the little book and whispered a thankyou under her breath. She looked up at ...
