I am not a fan of hospitals.
Perhaps my childhood memories crowd in too closely. I am told (and I think I feel it in my bones) that I cried as I was taken to a hospital when I was around two years old. My parents could not stay — I think this was back in the days when visiting was very strictly enforced. A snowstorm came and I was stranded at the hospital. My parents sent in their hired man to bring me back to the farm — they couldn’t get out of the homestead.
Around the age of 9 or 10, my middle finger was pinched between the folding seat in our station wagon. There was blood and a new shape which I couldn’t quite envision was my finger. I was rushed to emergency. There I sat while a worse casualty was attended to. Apparently a tire had blown up in his face and spatters of blood covered his body.
Again, a few years later, a strange virus attacked me. No one knew what this alien was! So, off to the hospital for tests. My mother accompanied me. We wandered through tunnel like halls and sat in stiff backed chairs. Blood was taken and fear seemed to exude from the walls.
My first years of ministry I did the required hospital visits. I learned some etiquette and proper procedures. My heart was with the people, but my guts churned with the smells and sights of the hospital.
Now, I’m relearning. Again, my heart is with the people. And I have personally sat through extended hospital stays. My wife had open heart surgery and for 18 days recuperated. This past year my brother died of cancer. A friend, Mary Muir, exited to heaven after a struggle with cancer. And now, Lloyd Orthner, is fighting deadly cells in his body.
I sense that listening is paramount! Sometimes I need to be sensitive to activities, prayers and quietness that will provide spiritual care — more than merely performing certain pastoral rituals. And in my heart I am praying and crying.
So I walk a hall, to a room, to a bedside — and there trust God to provide . . . for them and for me.