life opening

"for there is hope for a tree,
if it be cut down, that it will sprout again,
and that its shoots will not cease.
though it grow old in the earth
and its stump die in the soil,
yet at the scent of water it will bud
and put out branches like a young plant."
- Job 14:7-9

it started as a couple sticks protruding through the frozen earth.  so unimpressive that i didn't think to photograph it.  so bland that i stuck a hideous pink flamingo lawn ornament into the soil beside it. 

i didn't notice it begin to open. its growth was shadowed by daffodils, irises, and lilies that bloomed around it. 

yet despite my oblivion, it came to life:

it buds.

and blooms.

until the flowers overflow.

and in my heart, i begin to look for those ignored places of life. the ones shadowed by other things. the places that look like dead branches in an unforgiving earth. and i hope and wait for the scent of water to come and bring life.  

naming the good

she dared me to name one thousand gifts.  and i tried. kinda. twenty photos of spring happening in the back yard.  seventy written in a notebook and tossed into the abyss of my purse. 

in a late (and likely delusional) conversation, i told a friend about this list that still sat in the bottom of my purse. what if we each blog about something good each week, she asked.  to maybe try to find good amid the chaos of our lives?

this is for those two lovely ladies:

i was greeted at the door by buzz lightyear.  cinderella came running down the hall, still adjusting her elbow-length satin gloves. their beautiful mother offered the hugest hug and ushered me inside.  buzz handed me a gift bag.  we got this for you, he said.   cinderella was on my lap before i landed on the couch.  i re-introduced myself to buzz; we last met when he was only weeks old.  i told cinderella how much she had grown.  buzz helped me unwrap the gift that cinderella had clearly helped pick out.  she may have been more excited about the candy-flavored lipgloss than i was. 

i have our night planned, their beautiful mother told me. we are celebrating. are you hungry?  the answer is always yes if you just de-planed.  

over dinner, we reminisced about our college days - the people who had touched our lives, our adventures, our friendship. 

we remembered the dark ages of our lives since then. unplanned pregnancy. broken relationships. chronic illness. 

and we celebrated. two beautiful children. jobs that bring life. completed education. triumphs over seeming disasters. resilence. hope. gratitude for our persistent friendship and for the faithfulness of god in our lives. 

a prayer against violence

"We bring to you all who have been affected by physical, sexual, political, and emotional violence.

We pray for those who have died violently because of hatred, mistrust or wanton destruction: 
Heal the violence that may also have battered our souls.

We pray for those who have suffered abuse, injury or death for reasons of prejudice and fear: 
Open our hearts that we may find joy in our differences.

We pray for the children whose innocence and trust has been shattered by sexual predators: 
Give them strength and courage to face the days ahead.

We pray for all who have been survivors of sexual violence:
Heal their shame.

We pray for those whose outstretched hands have experienced only bruises and broken bones: 
Help us to hold them with hands of love and tenderness.

We pray for those whose self-inflicted wounds and for those who do not hear their cries: 
Send them messengers of your grace and love.

We pray for those who are assaulted by words,
Heal them and make them whole.

We pray for those whose lives are lived in fear and dreaded expectation of the next attack upon them: 
Wrap them in your arms of compassion.

We pray for those who have sought love only to find hatred in return: 
May they come to know your unconditional love.

We pray for those who are too angry or too hurt to give voice to their own prayers: 
Bless their anger against you and hear the pain in their heart.

We pray for those who are neglected, abandoned or hungry: 
May they find a safe refuge and a community who will love them.

We pray for the men and women, both young and old, and in between, who may never again know your gift of intimacy because of the violence they have suffered: 
Help them to learn to trust again.

We pray for the families and friends of those who have been wronged for we know they, too, bear some of the hurt, rage and anger: 
Unite them in love that their bonding may become a source of strength.

We pray for ourselves that we may be aware of the violence within ourselves and within the culture we live: 
Help us to return to your path of love.

Most blessed God,  whose will it is for us to live a life free of violence:
We have brought before you this night those who have suffered through the actions of others; those who bear on their bodies and in their bodies the scars of anger and the wounds of hate.
Be with them in your compassion and strengthen them in your love.
Heal the wounds that afflict them and the fears that hold them captive.
Strengthen, too, all families and friends who care for survivors that through their love and support your healing grace may be made manifest.
We pray your blessing upon us who are gathered here and upon all survivors of violence and abuse, especially those whom we have named and remembered this night.
As we proclaim that another world is possible as we pray the prayer of Jesus Christ, who experienced you as:
Our Father, who art in heaven…"

By The Rev. Patricia Sandra Horton, Birmingham, Alabama, USA

things that give hope

i often imagine the worst for what happens to someone when they leave the hospital.  i wrongly assume the point where i meet them is part of an immutable broken path.  

16 year-old girl, second-time pregnant. rumors float that father of the baby is her father too. 

13 year-old boy, bullet-shattered shoulder blade.  step-mom comforts. birth-mom incarcerated.

45 year-old man, heroin-infected spine. discharged to homelessness and a "business meeting." 

i fill in the blanks of their futures along the trajectory of brokenness.  it's easy to do when you see others with similar pasts continuing to live in places of despair.


at covenant house i learned to imagine hope.  

i knew her from the children's hospital.  an infection left untreated too long.  we suspected abuse and neglect.  no family visited her.  i imagined single motherhood. minimum wage or welfare. domestic violence.  then i saw her at covenant house. a step toward hope.  safe housing. job hunting. educational support.  maybe a future of something other than the worst case scenario.  maybe a chance at life.

i knew him from the trauma bay. bullet in his arm; no major injuries.  i imagined another bullet would find him soon enough.  then i saw him at covenant house, struggling to begin a new life.

i don't know what happened after covenant house for either of them. i do know that because of their courage, i am able to imagine things other than destruction and downward trajectories when i see broken points in the lives of the people i care for. 

things that break us

slow steps up to the out-of-the way call room.  i will my pager to stop beeping so i can get at least three hours of sleep before morning rounds.  

danskos slide off my feet as i pull the blanket i stole from 3 West over my tired body.  out the window, i hear a siren.  it is brief, a quick cry, as if its operator isn't sure if the situation is an emergency or not.  my heart sinks, knowing what is next.  pager rings.  

feet slide back into danskos while i walk back down the stairwell.  i enter the code to enter the emergency room, and stumble into the trauma bay.  

beautiful athlete lies on the table.  a small hole in his chest, ringed with a black burn that can only be caused by a bullet.  the trauma protocol has already started as i pull plastic booties up to my knees.  i know the blood will flow soon enough.  

everything happens quickly.  a scalpel. a saw.  soon beautiful athlete's ribs are detached from his body.  blood pours onto the floor as skilled hands search for the source of the bleeding.  a hole in the heart.  staples quickly close the hole but the life blood of beautiful athlete is on the floor and no staple can reverse that.  a defeated trauma team calls time of death for beautiful athlete.  

a large needle is placed in my hand.  med student, sew him back together.  a baseball stitch will do.  impatient nurses hurry me along as i imprecisely reattach ribs to belly.  the skin under my stitches will never heal.  i stitch simply so his family can see him reassembled. 

a final knot is tied.  again i trudge back to the call room, again i will the pager on my waist to silence.  inside an open door i see beautiful athlete's family listening as trauma surgeon tells them the news.  i feel petty for craving sleep while beautiful athlete's mother grieves the short life of her 22-year old son. 

local newspapers never give details of the shooting.  simply name and age of beautiful athlete, and the cross-street where he took his last breath.  

at home the next morning, despite the overwhelming exhaustion, sleep will not come.  over and over i see my stitches, running like a baseball, across beautiful athlete's chest.  i wonder what hope looks like in the face of street violence. a fatigued grasping for meaning, i google some variant of hope, street violence. the first hit brings up words written by paul two millenia ago: i am convinced that neither death nor life...can separate us from the love of God.  my eyes flood with tears.  i hope desperately that this is true.  

in the retelling, a friend offers words of comfort. maybe your stitches were part of the redemption of the world.  maybe, if we believe our bodies are raised someday, it is your stitches that made him ready for that day. 

a chart review

i know her name.  
i know her age. 
i know she came to the hospital to have a baby, and she found out she had HIV.
i know they sent the hospital social worker to see her, to see how she handles the news.
the social worker's note documents tragedy. 
father of the baby died 4 months ago.  (street violence?)
two more little ones, ages 1 and 4 at home. 
year-old babe should get HIV testing.
patient's mom and stepfather died in the past year.
no other social supports. 
patient seems depressed...is she safe to take home this new life?

the babe's chart is somewhere else, but i remember the hospital's collective sigh of relief when he came back negative for the virus.  

i know all these facts. but i don't know her. 
i don't know the joy she feels when her new babe wraps his hand around her finger. 
i don't know the agony of figuring who gave her an infection science has only figured out how to suppress but not cure.
i don't know the guilt that builds, realizing she could have passed the virus to this new life.
i don't know if there is anything in life that has made her resilient, that gives her hope, that strengthens her in the face of these injustices, if there is a god she clings to.  

i hope for her.  
that someone would come alongside her in this now increasingly difficult journey. 
that year-old babe would be virus-free. 
that echoes of hope, bouncing off unknown walls, would strengthen her soul.  
that she would know she is loved. 

and, as always, that hiv would end.

from far away

it's difficult to be distant from places of suffering, to know a close friend is grieving the death of a sister on the other side of an ocean, to know that in a world where i wasn't sick myself that i would have been there already.

i know how the funeral will go.  it will start at midnight.  it will be dark; the family's homestead has no electricity. the dim light from candles will shine through the windows. no streetlights will lead the way to the home.  the milky way will hang overhead but offer little light. everyone will gather in the main room; the casket will rest in the front. the voices of those grieving will escape through the door - singing songs of praise to god.  just before the sun rises, the singing will stop.  a pastor will speak a eulogy.  friends and family will read pieces of scripture.  precious in the sight of the lord is the death of his saints.  i am convinced that neither death nor life...can separate from god's love.  the singing will restart as the room empties, and will continue down the winding road to the malanda cemetery.  the pallbearers will dig a hole as the rest of those grieving collect rocks from the side of the mountain.  the sun climbs over the edge of the mountain.  the singing remains. there is no one like jesus. i walk, i search, i turn around, but there is no one like him.  the casket is lowered into the ground, and earth covers it.  the collected stones form a pile, marking the grave.  and then those grieving sing their way back to the house where they feast and celebrate the life of the lost. 

across the continent of africa, the sun rises over those grieving the lives hiv has taken.  funeral directing has become a lucrative business as the death rate soars.  and we wake up this morning to yardfuls of easter eggs.  i wonder what it means that jesus has risen.  i wonder what the good news is for the continent of africa.

i light candles and send my SOS's to the heavens, begging for hiv to please end soon.